Chapter 7 - Ninety Seconds of Oxygen-7
The air in the office grew heavy almost instantly. It didn't smell like smoke or chemicals; it tasted thin, hollow, and freezing cold. My lungs expanded, drawing in a breath that yielded no actual satisfaction, like trying to breathe underwater.
"Arthur! Help me with this!" Agent Vance shouted, her voice already sounding slightly distant as she grabbed a heavy bronze sculpture from my side table and began hurling it against the reinforced steel security shutter blocking the main exit.
The heavy metal clanged against the shutter, leaving nothing but minor dents. The automated system was designed to contain high-voltage electrical fires; it was built to withstand explosives, let alone manual force.
"It’s no use!" I gasped, a sudden, sharp pain lancing through my temples. My vision was already beginning to fray at the edges, tiny black spots dancing across my field of view. "The shutters... they’re controlled by the central security hub in the sub-basement. We have to override the localized pressure valve!"
"Where is it?!" Vance asked, dropping the sculpture, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Her skin was turning a pale, sickly shade of grey.
"Behind the server rack... in the closet!"
I stumbled toward the small utility closet tucked into the back of my office. My legs felt like they were filled with wet sand. Every step required an immense, agonizing effort of will. I fell against the closet door, bursting it open, and threw myself onto the floor beside the humming electronic server rack.
Tucked into the lower corner was a bright yellow manual override handle—a mechanical failsafe designed for maintenance workers trapped during a system test. It was secured by a heavy plastic padlock.
"Vance! Shoot the lock!" I yelled, my voice cracking into a breathless wheeze.
Vance stumbled into the closet, her movements slow and uncoordinated, like a diver moving through deep water. She raised her service weapon, aimed at the plastic lock, and pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The plastic shattered. I grabbed the yellow handle with both hands, using every ounce of my remaining strength, and threw my body weight downward. The mechanical valve groaned, turning a full ninety degrees.
With a loud, violent hiss of compressed air, the ceiling vents suddenly reversed. A rush of stale, but oxygen-rich, air from the lower floors blasted into the room. The heavy steel security shutters groaned and began to slide upward, opening the office to the hallway once more.
I lay on the floor, flat on my back, sucking in the sweet, beautiful air, my chest heaving violently. Beside me, Agent Vance was doing the same, her hand clutching her chest as her color slowly returned to normal.
"We... we lost her," I wheezed, looking toward the private service elevator. The digital indicator above the door showed that the cabin had already reached the roof. Helipad Alpha.
"Not yet," Vance gasped, pushing herself up using the server rack for support. She pulled her radio from her belt, her voice cracking with static. "All units! Suspect is on the roof! Repeat, suspect is on the roof helipad! Intercept immediately!"
A voice crackled back through the static, frantic and loud. "Negative, Agent Vance! The storm has grounded our tactical chopper! We’re trying to scale the maintenance stairs, but the security doors on the 40th floor have been electronically welded shut from the inside! She’s locked the stairwell!"
"She’s going to get away," I said, a cold, dark fury rising from the depths of my soul, overriding the physical exhaustion. "She has a private pilot. She’s going to take off in this storm."
"Arthur, wait!" Vance yelled as I scrambled to my feet.
I didn't listen. I ran out of the office, down the corridor, and toward the standard maintenance stairwell. I knew this building better than anyone—I had helped design the security protocols during the corporate acquisition of the property five years ago. There was an old, unmapped manual maintenance shaft that led from the executive kitchen directly to the roof’s mechanical room, bypasses the standard electronic locks.
I burst into the executive kitchen, grabbed a heavy iron frying pan from the hanging rack, and slammed it against the latch of the small metal access door marked HVAC Maintenance Only.
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The latch shattered. I threw the door open, revealing a vertical steel ladder leading into a dark, wind-howling shaft that ascended into the belly of the storm.
I didn't hesitate. I threw myself onto the ladder and began to climb.
