Fallen Heroes: Tribute To 9/11

85 Floors

On September 11, 2001, the twin towers fell, and the Pentagon destroyed. Through the spite of the Islamic group called "Al Queda," over 3 thousand lives were lost, and countless lives were changed forever.

It was the phone ringing that woke Alfred up, not the alarm. It was lucky that it hadn't woken him up later, or he would of been even later. It was a whopping 50 minutes that he overslept, and that meant trouble.

Immediately, he leapt out of bed and grabbed his home phone and his work pants.

"Are you okay?!" His friend practically screamed at him once he accepted the call. "I waited for 40 minutes!"

Oh yeah, it was his turn for the car pool. "Sorry," Alfred grumbled as he struggled to get through a cotton black pant leg, "I overslept."

"Again?!"

"Yeah, dude. Think I was dreaming of some hot chick?"

"Probably! Hey, I gotta go. Make sure you get here soon, sweet, or the boss is going to have a hernia," he laughed. After the call ended, Alfred chucked the phone on the bed, grabbed his bomber jacket, and sprinted out the door. There wasn't even time for breakfast! That sucked, because he was super hungry.

Alfred worked in the first World Trade Center, right on the 85th floor. It was a nice job; the pay was nice, there was a McDonalds inside, and it was only ten minutes from his apartment. The only real downside was the awkward elevator rides. Well, and the boss. There was a "co-worker only" joke around the cubicles that the boss was bi-polar, and it was probably true.

"Mr. Jones, do you know what time it is?" Boss called once he walked in the office. Her dark brown eyes stared at him, screaming disappointment.

"Shit, she noticed," Alfred muttered under his breath, just low enough for only him to hear. Then, after careful consideration of the best course of speech, he decided to aim for the simple route. Silently, he strode to her desk and answered, "8:34, ma'am."

"You know, I like you. You're a good worker," Boss continued, only pausing to dramatically interlock her fingers like a good boss always should, "However, I just can't have you oversleeping like this. How many times has this happened, Mr. Jones?"

"3 times, ma'am."

Every word spoken with the boss was one step into the minefield. Make one wrong word, take one misstep, it's just too likely she'll blow up. And when that happens, it only means hellfire and unemployment.

"And it's going to be last three times. I'll be docking your pay for this week, you hear?" She said choppily.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, and limped like a defeated puppy back to his desk. With a big sigh, he settled in his chair and turned to the computer.

Suddenly, there was an odd swaying motion. It was almost like an earthquake.

Then, everything exploded.

A huge fire broke out of the windows, shooting crackling glass all over the burning carpet. The air had turned hot, unbearably hot. As Alfred madly scrambled to the elevator, he felt something soft smash beneath his work shoes. When he looked down to see what it was, he had to fight to not scream.

It was Mike. His coworker. His charred mass was blown back, his face locked forever into a look of surprise.

Alfred remembered being jealous that Mike got the cubical by the window.

There was screaming and running, but Alfred couldn't move. His legs were poised to run, but they wouldn't move. He was stuck, fearfully staring in the eyes that will never see again.