Lady in Flames Read online

  “He jammed the gun beneath her chin, straddled her, and said filthy things. He promised that all he said would come true. That’s when he heard the deep burble of motors growling together at various revolutions.

  “Sinclane twitched, not wanting to give in to the fear trying to wedge its way into his mind. He smacked the wife once more to get her to be quiet while he listened.

  “The roar grew steadier and fiercer as Sinclane’s fear gave way to a sweaty panic. He didn’t believe in the Night Drivers. He couldn’t. They were just made up. He swore and stood when soon the walls of the house shook with bellowing exhausts.

  “Sinclane barreled through the front door and stomped out to the front lawn. Eight ominous black cars rippled and bulged under the last shreds of dusk.

  “Sinclane stood there, calling down curses on them and taunting them to do something. Then his left knee exploded. He wasn’t sure whether he saw the muzzle flash first, or whether he heard the crack of gunfire. All he knew was the searing, jagged pain in his mangled knee.

  “Collapsed, Sinclane howled in throaty, raspy yelps. He foamed at the mouth and gnashed his teeth, cursing once again. His nervous system went into overdrive and he forced himself up on his elbows.

  “A shotgun blast came next, ripping his chest and the lower half of his face to shreds, twisting him backward. Sinclane lay on the damp grass, his consciousness splintered, when he heard car doors open and then slam shut.

  “The muffled plunk of footsteps carried across the lawn and then two dark figures stared down at him. They grabbed him with rough hands and dragged him toward the street. One of them tied a chain to his bumper. The other end he tied around Sinclane’s ankles.

  “Sinclane couldn’t voice ‘No’ like he wanted to. He could only wait as car doors slammed again, motors revved, and the Night Drivers accelerated into the night with his bloody, ragged body dragging behind.”

  Grimley and I sit in silence for several minutes. He peers at the ground, forehead wrinkled as if he’s thinking things over.

  “Can I have the soul now?” I’ve wasted too much time as it is. I hope he relents; reasoning with a wanderling often proves a maddening descent into the unreasonable.

  Grimley sighs. “Yeah, OK.” With gentle hands he leans to pass it to me.

  I accept it and a faint tickle flits across my palms—the extent of what I can feel. “Thanks.”

  We both stand and Grimley begins to walk away, little feet mashing down the grass in deliberate steps. Then he turns back, face shied away as if he’s afraid of what I’ll say. “Are there other bad men like Sinclane in the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you kill them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Grimley sets his mouth firm as if he’s reluctant but satisfied with that answer. Then he turns and walks off toward the road.

  I proceed across the front lawn to where the car waits. Cradled in my arms, the soul burns calm. For now it will have to hide in the duffel bag in the back seat. It’s been two days out-of-body; it will be OK for another day or two until I can construct a new body for it.

  After securing the soul, I start the motor and hustle the Camaro back the direction I came. Grimley’s sad little form fades in the rearview.

  By this time events have come to a head in Halgraeve. There won’t be any turning back for anyone involved there; each will have to walk the path he’s chosen. Where those paths cross is the problem.

  The washed-out, sunny waterfront streaks by in hazy blur. Soon I’m past Summerland and into a dull, poorly defined, decaying dreamscape.

  Chalky hills loom in the distance; soggy, water-logged brush hangs morose on either side of the pitted road. It makes for a jarring ride, each defect in the asphalt communicated through the wheels and frame.

  There’s a sleeve at the outermost reaches of this lonely void, a pathway to the physical world. I steer for it like I’ve done so many times before. The sleeve’s foggy lining will draw me into the vacuum within and then slingshot me into the living.

  I hope I’m not too late. Halgraeve is as near hopeless as can be, but there are still good people there. Early on I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t let good people die if I could help it.

  The scorching paradox this produces is one I’m quick to ignore. My function is to usher the murdered into the Upper Territory; innocent or not, I’m not supposed to interfere.

  I wrestle with this often, but where does it end? Where am I supposed to draw the line? I have the power to act when often no one else can. What would the Father have me do? All I have is his directive, passed down from one member of the Fold to another. I don’t have any way of knowing his mind.

  At the horizon, patchy fog hovers as if it’s an impenetrable barrier. It thickens as I near, deep and dense, as the exhaust howls its manic note. In another minute, the fog envelops the car and my vision clouds over. The sensation of being pressed into a narrow opening holds me.

  When I’m at the verge of what feels like passing out, I manifest into the physical world driving headlong through a farmer’s field. Some entrances aren’t as smooth as others. I hammer the gas, tearing ruts in what would normally be impassable snow as the Camaro and I take on physical form.

  Blasting onto the roadway, I guide the screaming vehicle east. The old folks’ home may or may not be on fire already. I knew it was going to burn. I knew it long enough to plan how I’d keep the key people safe.

  Neglected, clapboard homes melt into the rearview as I pass a dawdling motorist here and there. In two minutes time, the skyline betrays the evidence of a burning structure; black smoke wafts over the trees.

  I beckon near limitless power from the Camaro and streak nearer. Rounding one corner to the left, persecuted rubber squeals before I steer back to the right, tail drifting out. I descend upon the outer edge of the parking lot to see that flames suffocate Potter Oaks Senior Care.

  Scanning the lot, I identify the red GMC I expect to see. The man who owns it is no doubt readying himself to head into the inferno if he hasn’t already.

  I exit the car, blending out of the visible spectrum. Making quick work of those dallying around, I locate this man at the forefront of the anxious crowd, his unbuttoned pea coat blown back in wintry gusts.

  He pants and paces, unsettled as he runs a nervous hand across the top of his sandy head. His friend is trapped inside along with a number of other staff and residents. He knows that he can’t find her among those huddled together in the lot and that precious seconds are wasted the longer he waits for the fire department to arrive.

  I stand near and listen to the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his thoughts, and the raging panic that wells inside him. A fellow onlooker suggests those trapped are on the second floor of the east wing.

  The man decides to wait no longer. He sprints off toward the building; those nearby fail to restrain him. His limbs stride in powerful movements as he bears down on the nearest door—the only one that isn’t spewing flames.

  I follow, knowing full well he’ll never make it. The structure is a tinderbox, old and conducive to a quick burn. It’s too far gone to allow safe passage at this point.

  Inside the door, visibility falls to a few feet. With a lungful of dirty air, the man stumbles and pukes. He shakes his head once and attempts to run again, this time staying lower.

  Light-headedness threatens to bring him down as he courses along the hallway, and the move to cover his mouth with his shirt is in vain. The smoke will overtake him if I don’t help.

  I draw alongside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulder. The other I reach through his side and into his lungs, expelling the inky smoke. Using myself as a filter, I “breathe” for him, help him to stand, and then race down the hall with him, stride for stride.

  Every Last Shred

  February 27th, 2002 2:51 PM

  Vern Salters sprinting into the burning nursing home

  Am I crazy? It’s a simple question, and the first one that pops i
nto my head as I break into a run. Someone tries to hold me back; they must have seen intent in my face or posture. I twist in a violent shrug to loosen their grip, leaving the crowd of onlookers behind.

  Am I stupid? I might be. The heat smacks into me as I near the flaming structure. I’m not even inside yet. And the smoke—it’s as black as pitch, roiling in thick plumes from the windows. How hard will it be to breathe?

  I told Melissa I’d pick her up from work since her car is in the shop. We had it towed to the garage last night, and then I drove her home. She gave me a tired “thank you” and promised she’d pay me back for the tow.

  Never did I expect to see flames licking the edges of the windows, or a mad rush of staff and residents pouring out from multiple exits. I scoured the pockets of bystanders calling out her name, but I couldn’t find her.

  An orderly nearby tells me she was on the second floor of the wing on the far side of the building. Everyone else on that floor was trapped because there was only one way up and that stairwell was cut off by a wall of fire.

  I didn’t think too hard on that when I started my sprint. Now that I’m nearing the door, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it, but I can’t stop now. How foolish would that look? The hero doesn’t have second thoughts.

  Is that how I think of myself? The hero? It’s kind of a pretentious idea. Maybe that’s the only thing my subconscious could find to motivate me to action. It is a question of motive, after all.

  Yanking open the door, I duck inside knowing full well that some misappropriated adolescent longing has something to do with it. I’ve got history with Melissa; maybe I’ve blown that out of proportion but there’s some sense of obligation I feel is owed for having been so close to her at one time.

  The smoke and stench in the hallway saps those reluctant pangs of debt as quick as my lungs burn. I can’t see more than a few feet ahead and would laugh at how it mirrors my shortsightedness except that I begin to choke.

  I gasp for air, hacking and inhaling the poison. The contents of my stomach find their way up my throat and out onto the marbled tile floor, splattering my boots. Landing hard on my hands and knees, my eyes burn, sting, and gush tears.

  Do I turn and run? No, I couldn’t live with myself. I’ve committed myself this far; I have to try. Standing with my head down, I stumble down the hallway. A faint glow dissolves in the hazy smoke. With it comes the crackle and snap of the flames.

  I lose my balance over and over. Any sense of equilibrium scatters with each lungful. The rippling flames come into view; a fiery gauntlet lies before me. I barely made it this far; it will be hell ten-fold to run through the next length.

  On one knee, I gather myself for what might be my last attempt. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my jacket and then launch myself down the middle of the hall, flames reaching out from either side as well as the ceiling.

  Strange, I don’t give out. The heat begs every drop of moisture from my skin, but my legs find a way to swap every bit of energy from each muffled breath. The faintness recedes, and I swear I can see farther than I could before.

  At the end of the hall I enter a common area. A T.V. and two couches burn into smoldering semblances of themselves. Still no stairs. I press onward, scanning for flailing arms or other movement in the murky air.

  Past the commons, the walkable path narrows as the fire increases in intensity. The roar, snap, and pop of it fills my ears with an angry white noise. My heart continues to pump and my lungs continue to exchange whatever oxygen is left.

  I barely make out the kitchen and cafeteria before I get to the stairs. The floor beneath is ablaze, as are the rails and underside as they twist around to the second floor. It’s too high of a leap to get across the flames, but otherwise I could hustle up and down the middle of the steps for at least a few more minutes before they’re totally overtaken.

  The kitchen—I race back fifteen feet into a cloudy mix of smoky haze and flames. If I can find a water source to dampen the bottom of the stairs, I might make it up. I stream back and forth for what seems like forever, but it’s really only seven or eight seconds. A hose? No. Buckets? No. Water jugs—yes.

  Near a cooler lie three water jugs, all full. I grab two and somehow they’re lighter than I expect. Back in the hall, I drop them, strip a pocketknife from my belt, and slash around the tops and dump them, splashing across the sizzling floor.

  The flames subside for a moment and then regain half their strength. I leap over them, crashing into the stairs knees first. Scrambling upward, I’m not even aware of my breathing anymore.

  At the top, the hall to the left is impassible. The fire has consumed that portion of the building. I veer to the right, peeking in every room. A motionless body lies on the floor halfway down the hall. I stop to check.

  It has no pulse. The sound of coughing up ahead draws me into the next room.

  Melissa and two others huddle in a corner of the room, eyes floating. None have the strength to stand.

  I don’t stop to talk. I crouch, grab, and heave the first of them over my shoulder. Spinning around, I revert back to what feels like a sprint, but I imagine is a fast walk. I stumble down the stairs, not bothering to leap over the flames at the bottom. The legs of my jeans catch, but I don’t stop. There’s no pain as I move eastward, looking for another exit.

  Pushing farther, the flames lessen and I find myself in a laundry room. The only exit is a window above the countertop. Laying the resident on the floor in a hurried dump, I vault onto the counter and kick my way through the glass, bending the old metal frame in vicious thrusts. Returning to the floor, I heave the resident I now see is an elderly woman onto the counter and then roll her out the window into the bushes.

  I leap out after her, black smoke expelling from my nose and mouth. I shoulder her again and hustle her out far enough from the building that she’ll be safe. A few onlookers sprint over as I turn and head back for the window with my jeans smoking.

  The rush of clean air invigorates the charge inside me as I climb back into the window, leaving the calling voices behind. I race with a renewed sense of purpose back down the hazy hallway with two blankets from the laundry room in hand. These I toss across the bottom of the stairs to suffocate the flames. It works only enough to get me up the stairs again.

  Paint peels and bubbles; I half-expect my skin to do the same as I vault up the steps three at a time. I round the corner and bound down the second floor hall, passing the dead body from before.

  In the last room on the left, Melissa and another orderly lean against the outside wall. They’re both ineffectual in their attempts to acknowledge me.

  I get under the shoulder of the other and scream a parched “I’ll be back” to Melissa. We hobble out the door, this time slower due to the orderly’s bulk. We descend down the stairs into the belly of the furnace. The searching flames barely leave a person and a half’s breadth on the steps.

  We stumble through the flames at the bottom. I stop long enough to put out his burning shoes with my jacket, now saturated with sweat. Catching him before he tumbles us both over, I lead onward to the laundry room.

  The creaking of the warped infrastructure leers behind us; I have to pick up the pace before the building collapses. More or less dragging the orderly into the room, I point him in the direction of the open window. The cold, fresh air seems to revive him and he helps to get himself on the counter, one leg at a time. As soon as he’s up there, I shove him through the window.

  Those outside race toward him as he stumbles away from the building. More of the noxious black stuff streams from my mouth.

  I grab two more blankets and dash back toward the stairs. The fire covers every surface save for narrow patches in the floor. I shield myself with the blankets as I go, the edges of them singed in black tatters.

  At the foot of the stairs, I drop one of them, trample on it, and muster unknown strength from rubbery legs. The sandpaper of my throat rips with each constrictive breath as I pound again u
p to the second floor.

  Melissa has managed to crawl into the hallway.

  I bend low, not knowing whether I’ll be able to stand up again, and wrap my arms under her. Then with every fiber of my being I lift. My legs scream in complaint as do my lungs.

  Halfway up, my knees start to give. I pause to regain my hold and then summon every last shred of manhood I have: the refusal to give up, the resolve to do the right thing, and the answer to a call of duty.

  My will overcomes my body now racked with utter exhaustion. I stumble down the stairs in slow motion. This is it! Move faster!

  The laundry room fades in the distance; it’s as though the flames wrap around my field of vision and hold me in an inescapable tunnel. I trudge on, demanding my legs to run, but they only tumble in a weak shuffle.

  Melissa rests in an awkward heap in my arms. She’s the only reason I initiated this suicide mission. And yet I saved her for last. I have no reason for this and can’t explain it to myself in the murkiness of my mind. I finally have her and now I can barely stand, let alone get us to safety.

  The laundry room is still another twenty feet away. When I think I can go no farther, a shove like a stiff wind pummels my backside. I lean into stride and somehow cover the remaining distance before collapsing into the laundry room, absorbing the brunt of our fall.

  Get up! Simple words echo through my skull. I obey whatever instinct shouted them and pull Melissa to her feet.

  She leans hard into me like she’s half awake.

  I don’t feel my body anymore and so I just lift, not knowing whether I’m ripping the connective tissue in my limbs in the process because it feels like I am. Climbing onto the counter after her, we roll out the window together. Somehow I manage to plant us onto my back.

  There’s a blaring light in my head; it fries the dwindling consciousness that hasn’t succumbed to asphyxiation. I only see fragments of what’s around me. The sound of shouting and boiling flames comes in fractured doses.