I'll Stop the World (111)

She leaned down to press her ear to his chest, too frightened even to breathe. A comforting, steady thump sent relief sweeping through her. He was alive, just unconscious.

What happened?

There would be time for that later. Now, she had to get him out.

Veronica looped her arms under his, pulling with all her might. Her back strained and ached. He slid a little, but the process was agonizingly slow. Too slow.

Kicking off her heels and tossing aside the stifling red blazer she’d bought for the debate, Veronica hurried around Bill’s prone body and grabbed his feet. Blinking sweat out of her eyes, she heaved his body around so his feet pointed toward the door, tucking each foot under her arms and gripping him tight at the ankles.

This was better. She shuffled backward, dragging him with her an inch at a time. Smoke stung her eyes and clogged her throat, but she kept going, determinedly placing one foot behind the other.

Her eyes streamed, so she closed them. It was a mostly straight shot to the door. She didn’t need to see.

A fire was building in her chest, searing claws tearing through her with every breath. She ignored it as long as she could, trying to hold her breath, but she couldn’t go more than a couple of steps before gasping for air, only to find none.

How far was the door? Surely she had to be almost there.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Veronica doubled over in a fit of coughing, straining for breath. Her head swam, her thoughts fuzzy. She stumbled, then realized she was on her hands and knees, gasping and hacking over her husband.

Get up, Veronica.

She braced her hands on Bill’s stomach, one nylon-clad foot planting itself on the carpet and pushing upward. She was standing again!

But Bill. Where was Bill? She’d dropped his feet. She needed to find his feet.

She bent down, patting blindly along the floor, searching. There! Her hands closed around the rubber sole of his shoe, then his ankle. She couldn’t find the other one, but one ankle was enough. She could work with one ankle.

She tried to get up again, to take him with her this time, but she couldn’t. Her legs were no longer cooperating. Neither were her lungs. She knew what she needed to do, but she couldn’t make her body do it.

The sound of the fire was growing louder. It cracked and spit, eating up everything in its path.

Soon, the office wouldn’t contain it. It would spread to this room. And then beyond. The whole school, and whatever it could reach around it.

Whatever was nearby.

Millie. Millie!

A sob wrenched out of her as she dropped Bill’s foot and turned to drag herself toward the door, leaving him behind. Her thoughts were little more than smoke-clogged sludge. She couldn’t see anything. Everything hurt, like she was burning from the inside.

Inside her head, though, a clear picture:

Her daughter, crying. The fire inching its way toward the car.

She had to get to her. Her nails dug into the carpet, bending and breaking as she clawed her way forward.

It’s okay, Millie, she imagined herself saying. It’s okay. Mama’s here. It’s okay. I’ll fix it.

She didn’t notice when she stopped moving.

She didn’t notice when her cheek came to rest against the carpet.

It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be just fine.

She didn’t notice when she stopped breathing.





Chapter Sixty-Nine


JUSTIN

No wonder Karl is so afraid of these kids.

Winded, I can’t do much more than curl into a ball and cover my head with my hands as they drive their sneakered feet into every part of me they can reach. I don’t feel the tree branch again, but that’s not much comfort when their shoes are smashing like hammers. My back, my ribs, my arms, everything screams for this to stop, stop, stop. But when I open my mouth to form the word, nothing comes out but a wet wheeze. My chest burns from the effort, and I picture my bones rattling around like nails in a jar, ripping and bruising from the inside out.

The boys’ shouts mash together into a cacophonous jumble that births a high-pitched ringing in my ears. It grows steadily louder with each impact, piercing through the pain like rending metal.

Then, abruptly, it stops. The boys are talking, but my brain is too busy cataloging the damage to my body to make sense of what they’re saying.

Move, my body begs me, and I try to obey, but none of my appendages appear to be feeling particularly compliant at the moment. My skin feels like it’s filled with congealed oatmeal that is also on fire, thick and gloopy and burning white hot. I attempt to crawl away, but only manage to flop from one crumpled pose into another, like a fish drowning on dry land.

You’d think that in all his attempts to prepare me for my predestined trip to 1985, Stan might have signed me up for a self-defense class or two. Or at least some cardio. Too focused on his murder board, I guess.

I wait for the onslaught to start again, making bets with myself on where the first blows will land, trying to position myself so that the most painful areas aren’t presented as obvious targets.

But the attack doesn’t come. Instead, the boys take off running, leaving me bruised and bloody on the ground like roadkill.

It takes more energy than it should to roll onto my back, and the uneven pavement pushes against my tender skin like eager fingers, every point of contact sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through me. Staring up at the gray sky, I work to slow my breathing and take stock of my injuries. Dark clouds are beginning to pile up, painted deep shades of red and orange by the setting sun, harbingers of the storms that will help keep the fire from devouring the entire school, but will arrive too late to save Bill and Veronica.