She said I was watching the indicator. We were between 14 and 15 when it stopped. He registered that the fact that she'd been watching and counting and tracking. Good. That matters.
He stood up, one hand braced against the wall. I need to check the hatch. Are we going through the ceiling? Not unless we have to. But I want to know what our options are.
He climbed up onto the brass handrail along the sidewall. Tested it with his weight first. Found it solid and reached up to press against the emergency hatch in the ceiling. It moved, not locked, not blocked. He pushed it open a few inches and a rush of cold air came down from the elevator shaft along with the sound of the storm.
Much louder now, structural vibrations moving through the steel cables overhead. He looked up through the gap. The shaft was dark. Above him, maybe eight or 9 ft. He could see the outline of the 14th floor elevator doors.
A thin rectangle of dim emergency lighting bleeding through the crack between them. 8 ft was manageable. He lowered himself back down. Floor 14 is accessible from the shaft. 8 maybe 9 ft of ladder climbing on the maintenance rungs built into the shaft wall.
It's doable. How doable? She asked. He looked at her. She was wearing a charcoal blazer, dress trousers, heels that were probably worth more than his monthly truck payment.
She was watching him with those steady, calculating eyes, and he got the impression she was asking. How doable for me specifically without wanting to ask it that way? You'll need to take off the shoes, he said. The ladder rungs are about 4 in wide. The climb is physical, but it's not complicated.
I'll go first and I'll be right there. She looked at him for another second. Okay, she said. Then you said the transfer switch was manually overridden. When you were down there, did you see anyone?
No, but someone was there before you. Had to be. That kind of override doesn't happen remotely. She nodded slowly like she was fitting a piece into a puzzle she already had the edges of. And the communications.