clothing, it was still clear she was beautiful and strong. Her accent: Balkan, Eastern European; possibly Russian or Czech.
Zeb understood. This woman was heading back into the inferno with or without his help. The compelling picture of selflessness, unnecessary for him to act, was nonetheless inspiring. He would respond. He always did, as in moments like this his middle name seemed an inescapable barometer of his character.
Mordecai.
In the biblical storyline of the Book of Esther, Mordecai is not obviously heroic. Instead, he appears to be standing by as his people, exiled into Ancient Persia, face the unthinkable possibility of complete genocide. For those who look deeper into the text, though, something more surfaces. A man at work under the glaring eye of evil all around him. A man sizing up the times and circumstances of his fate and acting with courage, while also prodding others into bravery.
Zebulon Mordecai Dalton.
The moniker had given him grief more than once on the playgrounds of his youth, as it was unusual for a middle-class, Baptist American set of parents to choose a singularly Jewish name for one of their children. Yet when it came down to it, in choosing this name his mom and dad knew something about him. Whether a product of parental instinct or divine insight, Dalton himself would uncover its aptness only in time and through trial.
It was no surprise then that Zeb took those first steps against and into the rushing tide of the injured and dying. His outlook on life had swerved hard toward the cynical and sarcastic as of late, this much was true. Yet it was also true that too much soldier remained in him to turn his back on the horrors unfolding in his city today. The first order of business was this woman's stranded friend. If Sasha had survived, Dalton would do his best to get her to safety. At the very least he would bring her corpse out for a proper burial.
Everyone else was leaving the market complex.
Zeb headed in.
The air became unbreathable as the building's construction materials fed on a lethal cocktail of jet engine fuel and other readily-available flammables. The quickly narrowing passageways shrunk even further by virtue of the super-heated fumes clinging to walls and ceiling. Zeb was running, crawling, squeezing his medium build through whatever openings remained unblocked by debris and bodies. He was not the prototypical military guy, relying more on the special skills of his mind than precisely-honed physical abilities. Still, Dalton had been around more than enough danger to be comfortable with this kind of thing. As it turns out, firefights and building fires share much in common.
Zeb's mind had cleared even more now, another release of life-preserving chemicals fueling his body. Yet something didn't add up. Sasha's apartment should be right in front of him. From the directions he was given, her friend's one-bedroom apartment would be on the second floor below street level, halfway down the corridor.
Three-A. Three-A.
You should be here. Right here.
One more step forward through the haze, with sparks from still-active electrical lines leaping wildly and Zeb came upon what he didn't expect, and didn't want to see. Such extensive physical damage to a structure still standing. The engineer side of his training thought it impossible.
Unbelievable.
A cavernous gap in the room lay jaggedly open, easily twenty feet long by fifteen wide. Shattered pieces of former two-by-twelve flooring joists hung limp, like frayed splinters of a giant toothpick. Fractured lines seeped their remaining liquid contents into the void and downward a hundred feet below, silent as they landed due to the distance in between. The streets beneath the market lay exposed, the unlikely space carved out by the crashing hulk of mass and energy. The reality of the circumstances hit him, slamming full force.
This was Sasha's apartment. At least, it had been.
Zeb backed up and dropped to the floor.
Defeat had
Zeb understood. This woman was heading back into the inferno with or without his help. The compelling picture of selflessness, unnecessary for him to act, was nonetheless inspiring. He would respond. He always did, as in moments like this his middle name seemed an inescapable barometer of his character.
Mordecai.
In the biblical storyline of the Book of Esther, Mordecai is not obviously heroic. Instead, he appears to be standing by as his people, exiled into Ancient Persia, face the unthinkable possibility of complete genocide. For those who look deeper into the text, though, something more surfaces. A man at work under the glaring eye of evil all around him. A man sizing up the times and circumstances of his fate and acting with courage, while also prodding others into bravery.
Zebulon Mordecai Dalton.
The moniker had given him grief more than once on the playgrounds of his youth, as it was unusual for a middle-class, Baptist American set of parents to choose a singularly Jewish name for one of their children. Yet when it came down to it, in choosing this name his mom and dad knew something about him. Whether a product of parental instinct or divine insight, Dalton himself would uncover its aptness only in time and through trial.
It was no surprise then that Zeb took those first steps against and into the rushing tide of the injured and dying. His outlook on life had swerved hard toward the cynical and sarcastic as of late, this much was true. Yet it was also true that too much soldier remained in him to turn his back on the horrors unfolding in his city today. The first order of business was this woman's stranded friend. If Sasha had survived, Dalton would do his best to get her to safety. At the very least he would bring her corpse out for a proper burial.
Everyone else was leaving the market complex.
Zeb headed in.
The air became unbreathable as the building's construction materials fed on a lethal cocktail of jet engine fuel and other readily-available flammables. The quickly narrowing passageways shrunk even further by virtue of the super-heated fumes clinging to walls and ceiling. Zeb was running, crawling, squeezing his medium build through whatever openings remained unblocked by debris and bodies. He was not the prototypical military guy, relying more on the special skills of his mind than precisely-honed physical abilities. Still, Dalton had been around more than enough danger to be comfortable with this kind of thing. As it turns out, firefights and building fires share much in common.
Zeb's mind had cleared even more now, another release of life-preserving chemicals fueling his body. Yet something didn't add up. Sasha's apartment should be right in front of him. From the directions he was given, her friend's one-bedroom apartment would be on the second floor below street level, halfway down the corridor.
Three-A. Three-A.
You should be here. Right here.
One more step forward through the haze, with sparks from still-active electrical lines leaping wildly and Zeb came upon what he didn't expect, and didn't want to see. Such extensive physical damage to a structure still standing. The engineer side of his training thought it impossible.
Unbelievable.
A cavernous gap in the room lay jaggedly open, easily twenty feet long by fifteen wide. Shattered pieces of former two-by-twelve flooring joists hung limp, like frayed splinters of a giant toothpick. Fractured lines seeped their remaining liquid contents into the void and downward a hundred feet below, silent as they landed due to the distance in between. The streets beneath the market lay exposed, the unlikely space carved out by the crashing hulk of mass and energy. The reality of the circumstances hit him, slamming full force.
This was Sasha's apartment. At least, it had been.
Zeb backed up and dropped to the floor.
Defeat had
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