Panic(33)

He stood up, then thought better of it, remembering that smoke rises, and dropped to his knees. There was shouting: screams and footsteps sounded from other parts of the house.

Too easy. He remembered what Heather had said earlier. Of course. Firecrackers exploded here on the Fourth of July; there would be a prize for the players who stayed in the house the longest.

Fire. The house was on fire.

He reached over and shook the girls roughly, not bothering to distinguish between them, to locate their elbows from their shoulders. “Wake up. Wake up.”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her eyes, and then immediately began coughing. “What—?”

“Fire,” he said shortly. “Stay low. Smoke rises.” Heather was stirring now too. He crawled back to the door. No doubt about it: the rats were abandoning ship. There was a confusion of voices outside, the sound of slamming doors. That meant the fire must have already spread pretty far. No one would have wanted to bail right away.

He put his hand on the metal door handle. It was warm to the touch, but not scalding.

“Nat? Dodge? What’s going on?” Heather was fully awake now. Her voice was shrill, hysterical. “Why is it so smoky?”

“Fire.” It was Natalie who answered. Her voice was, amazingly, calm.

Time to get the hell out. Before the fire spread further. He had a sudden memory of some gym class in DC—or was it Richmond?—when all the kids had to stop, drop, and roll onto the foot-smelling linoleum. Even then, he’d known it was stupid. Like rolling would do anything but turn you into a fireball.

He grabbed the handle and pulled, but nothing happened. Tried again. Nothing. For a second, he thought maybe he was still asleep—in one of his nightmares, where he tried and tried to run but couldn’t, or swung at some assailant’s face and didn’t even make a mark. On his third try, the handle popped off in his hand. And for the first time in the whole game, he felt it: panic, building in his chest, crawling into his throat.

“What’s happening?” Heather was practically screaming now. “Open the door, Dodge.”

“I can’t.” His hands and feet felt numb. The panic was squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe. No. That was the smoke. Thicker now. He unfroze. He fumbled his fingers into the hole where the door handle had been, tugging frantically, and felt a sharp bite of metal. He jammed his shoulder against the door, feeling increasingly desperate. “It’s stuck.”

“What do you mean, stuck?” Heather started to say something else, and instead started coughing.

Dodge spun around, dropped into a crouch. “Hold on.” He brought his sleeve to his mouth. “Let me think.” He could no longer hear any footsteps, any shouting. Had everyone else gotten out? He could hear, though, the progress of the fire: the muffled snapping and popping of old wood, decades of rot and ruin slurped into flame.

Heather was fumbling with her phone.

“What are you doing?” Nat tried to swat at it. “The rules said no calling for—”

“The rules?” Heather cut her off. “Are you crazy?” She punched furiously at the keyboard. Her face was wild, contorted, like a wax mask that had started to melt. She let out a sound that was a cross between a scream and a sob. “It’s not working. There’s no service.”

Think, think. Through the panic, Dodge carved a clear path in his mind. A goal; he needed a goal. He knew instinctively that it was his job to get the girls out safely, just like it was his job to make sure nothing bad ever happened to Dayna, his Dayna, his only sister and best friend. He couldn’t fail again. No matter what.

The window was too high—he’d never reach it. And it was so narrow. . . . But maybe he could give Natalie a boost. . . . She might be able to fit. Then what? Didn’t matter. Heather might be able to squeeze through too, although he doubted it.

“Nat.” He stood up. The air tasted gritty and thick. It was hot. “Come on. You have to go through the window.”

Nat stared. “I can’t leave you guys.”

“You have to. Go. Take your phone. Find help.” Dodge steadied himself with one hand on the wall. He was losing it. “It’s the only way.”

Dodge barely saw her nod in the dark. When she stood up, he could smell her sweat. For a crazy second, he wished he could hug her, and tell her it would be okay. But there was no time. An image of Dayna popped into his head, the mangled ruin of her car, her legs shriveling slowly to pale-white stalks.

His fault.

Dodge bent down, gripped Nat by the waist, helped her climb onto his shoulders. She drove a foot into his chest by accident, and he nearly lost it and fell. He was weak. It was the goddamn smoke. But he managed to steady himself and straighten up.

“The window!” Nat gasped. And Heather, somehow, understood. She fumbled for the wrench she’d spotted earlier and passed it upward. Nat swung. There was a tinkling. A rush of air blew into the room, and after just a second a whooshing sound, as the fire—beyond the door, edging closer—sensed that air, felt it, and surged toward it, like an ocean thundering toward the beach. Black smoke poured underneath the door.

“Go!” Dodge shouted. He felt Nat kick his head, his ear; then she was outside.

He dropped to his knees again. He could barely see. “You next,” he said to Heather.

“I’ll never fit.” She said it in a whisper, but somehow he heard. He was relieved. He didn’t really think he had the strength left to lift her.