Dead Man's Footsteps

That’s what the endless line of people passing him looked like. Pillars of salt.
    He held on to a metal railing with one hand and stared back. Sunlight dappled the water below him. A million brilliant specks of white dancing on the ripples. Then beyond it the whole of Manhattan looked as if it was on fire. The high-rises all partially shrouded in a pall of grey, brown, white and black smoke clouds billowing up into the deep blue sky.
    He was shaking uncontrollably and badly needed to collect his thoughts. Fumbling in his pockets, he pulled out his Marlboros and lit one. He took four deep puffs in quick succession, but it didn’t taste good, not with all the stuff in his throat, and he dropped it into the water below, feeling giddy, his throat even drier.
    He rejoined the procession of ghosts, following them on to a road where they seemed to disperse in different directions. He stopped again as a thought struck him, and as it took hold he suddenly wanted some peace and quiet. Turning off, he walked along a deserted side street, past a row of office buildings, the wheels of his bag still bump-bump-bumping along behind him.
    Totally absorbed, he walked through almost empty urban streets for a long time, before finding himself at the entrance ramp to a highway. A short distance in front of him was a tall, girdered advertising hoarding rising into the sky, emblazoned with the word KENTILE in red. Then he heard the rumble of an engine and the next moment, a blue four-door pick-up truck stopped alongside him.
    The window slid down and a man in a chequered shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap peered out of the window. ‘You wanna ride, buddy?’
    Ronnie stopped, startled and confused by the question, and sweating like a hog. A ride ? Did he want a ride? Where to?
    He wasn’t sure. Did he?
    He could see figures inside. Ghosts huddled together.
    ‘Got room for one more.’
    ‘Where are you going?’ he asked lamely, as if he had all kinds of options.
    The man spoke in a nasal voice, as if the bass on his vocal cords was turned up to max. ‘There’s more planes. There’s more planes any moment. Gotta get away. Ten more planes. Maybe more. Shit, man, it’s just friggin’ started.’
    ‘I – ah – I have to meet—’ Ronnie stopped. Stared at the open door, at the blue seats, at the man’s dungarees. He was an old guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple and a neck like a turkey. His face was wizened and kind.
    ‘Jump in. I’ll give you a ride.’
    Ronnie walked around and climbed into the front, next to the man. The news was on, loudly. A woman was saying that the Wall Street area of Manhattan and Battery Park were impassable.
    As Ronnie fumbled for his seat belt, the driver handed him a bottle of water. Ronnie, suddenly realizing how parched he was, drained it gratefully.
    ‘I clean the windows, right? The Center, yeah?’
    ‘Right,’ Ronnie said distantly.
    ‘All my fuggin’ cleaning stuff’s in the South Tower – know what I’m saying?’
    Ronnie didn’t, not exactly, because he was only half listening. ‘Right,’ he said.
    ‘I guess I’ll have to go back later.’
    ‘Later,’ Ronnie echoed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
    ‘You OK?’
    ‘Me?’
    The truck moved forward. The interior smelled of dog hair and coffee.
    ‘Gotta get away. They hit the Pentagon. There’s ten fucking planes up there right now, coming at us. This is yuge . Yuge! ’
    Ronnie turned his head. Stared at the four huddled figures behind him. None of them met his eyes.
    ‘A-rabs,’ the driver said. ‘A-rabs done this.’
    Ronnie stared at a plastic Starbucks beaker with a coffee-stained paper towel wrapped around it in the cup holder. A bottle of water was jammed in next to it.
    ‘This thing, it’s just the beginning,’ the driver said. ‘Lucky we got a strong president. Lucky we got George Dubya.’
    Ronnie said nothing.
    ‘You OK? Not hurt or nothing?’
    They were heading along a freeway. Only a handful of vehicles were coming in the opposite direction, on an elevated section. Ahead of them was a wide green road sign divided into two. On the left was written EXIT 24 EAST 27 PROSPECT EXPWY . On the right it said 278 WEST VERRAZANO BR, STATEN IS .
    Ronnie did not reply, because he did not hear him. He was deep in thought again.
    Working through the idea. It was a crazy idea. Just a product of his shaken state. But it wouldn’t go away. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder if it might