Vancouver, West End
White-hot pain singed Dixie Morgan awake. She blinked into the surrounding blackness and tried to remember where she was. The vague memory of cycling past the glittering water of Kitsilano Beach surfaced. Who was with me? Tony? Not Tony. Haven’t ridden with him since the kids were little. She opened her eyes wide but saw only darkness. I’m not blind. It is dark here. But where is here?
Something heavy pinned her right leg and she lay with her face pressed into the gritty tile floor. She coughed, spat out a mouthful of dust, and raised her head. Fresh air seeped in from beyond the darkness and sparked her hope.
Her shoulder twinged and she stretched her arms but found she couldn’t quite straighten them. Instead her fingers fumbled against what felt like a concrete block. When she arched her back, her head struck a metal girder and made a dull thudding noise. She moaned hoarsely and collapsed back into unconsciousness.
Hours later she woke again, determined to free herself. She flexed her left leg and foot and sighed with relief. Now the right one. She tensed her core, exhaled, and tried to wrench herself free. Savage pain swamped her and her leg didn’t budge. Trapped. I’m part of the building now. Terrifying memories rushed back and she shuddered with dread. An earthquake. Yes that was it.
Vancouver, Downtown
When the tremors ended, Linda Patterson heard the other hotel guest count to ten slowly. He crawled out from under his chair and Linda sat, dazed, looking around the reception lounge.
“Mrs. Patterson, are you okay?” The receptionist’s head rose slowly from the other side of the desk. Her magenta lipstick was smeared. Underneath the dark tan her complexion had paled.
Linda stood and brushed herself off. Dust floated out of the walls and ceiling like gritty snow. She gazed up at the receptionist and forced herself to stay calm. “I’m fine. What about you? You okay?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. The tears that rolled down her cheeks made her appear young and vulnerable.
Linda said, “Good. Now I’ve got to get home to my son. He’ll be frantically worried about me.” She was sure the receptionist didn’t care about her or her son but she needed to say something normal to someone.
The man who had helped her was dusting off his pants. “I need to get home, too,” he said. “I live in Calgary. Do you suppose the airport is still open?”
Linda shook her head blankly and pointed her chin at the buckled columns in the hotel lobby. “Whatever we do, we’d better get out of here fast,” she said.
She snatched her purse and overnight bag and ran down the two flights of stairs to the parking lot. The fire door was warped shut in its frame, and a stocky cyclist was trying to force it open with his shoulder.
“Stand back!” she said, and hurled her overnight bag at the glass door with all her strength. The first blow cracked the tempered glass but it bounced off. The cyclist picked up the bag and, with a mighty heave, drove it through the door. Linda thought she’d never heard such a sweet sound as that glass shattering.
“After you,” the man said and stood back. Dazed, Linda stepped into the parking lot. Into the first circle of hell. The ceiling had collapsed. Somewhere in that mountain of busted concrete and twisted steel was her pale blue BMW.