The Storm King(35)

Nate tried to remember if he’d seen any extinguishers in the garage, but it was already too late. The fire had found the roof. He was surprised that the house was going up so easily. Surely the siding had been wet, but perhaps none of that mattered when gasoline was involved. It was important to remember how many things he didn’t yet know.

Ahead of them, Tom shoved Owen again. But the big guy didn’t seem capable of doing anything but stare dumbly at the flames.

The house, being in the foothills, would be visible to the whole town, and it wasn’t late enough to hope everyone was asleep. Nate pulled Tom away from Owen.

“We have to go.” He had to shout to be heard over the deepening stir of the inferno. The heat of it was like a slap to the face.

“But the fire.” Tom pointed wildly.

“It’s too late.” Nate knew they had to get away. They had to get away now. Even so, he found himself drawn to the crackle and blaze of the burning house. The ramshackle home with its broken shutters and stained siding had been ugly and had only uglier days ahead of it. Cloaked in the spikes and whorls of glorious flame, the place had been given a last chance to be beautiful.

In a sudden gust, the wind peeled burning shingles from the roof. He and Tom covered their faces as the flaming wedges showered them. Nate heard a gasp of ignition and saw the grass at his feet come alive with indigo flame. Owen must have spilled the gasoline as he doused the sides of the Deckers’ house. It had pooled into a teardrop on the lawn and Nate stood in its center.

The fire was strange. It rippled like water and lit the stalks of grass from the bottom up, crisped like upside-down birthday candles. Its midnight flame undulated like the lake on a spring day as seen from a great but rapidly dwindling height. Its smell was not very different from the barbecues he and his family once enjoyed along the shore. The scent of it thick around him, Nate could see his father at the grill. One of his hands tended the burgers and the other was on Nate’s shoulder. Nearby, his mother ran the beach behind Gabe as he tried to tease flips from a kite. She shouted instructions to him, but they both laughed too hard to get it right.



Then Nate was on the wet lawn, fallen hail digging into his back, the taste of charcoal and grass in his mouth. Tom had pushed him down and away. He rolled Nate from the puddle of flame as Johnny swatted at his legs. There was shouting, but Nate couldn’t find words in the noise. There were tears in his eyes, but they weren’t from the pain.

“Say something!” Tom screamed.

“We have to go,” Nate whispered. Johnny and Tom pulled him to his feet. His ankles hurt. In the amber glow, he saw his jeans were charred and his socks were black.

“I didn’t mean to,” Owen said. He sounded as bewildered as the rest of them must have looked. “I thought I’d burn part of the wall, you know, like a lightning strike.”

Tom helped Nate to the road as Johnny pulled Owen away from the burning house.

“Psycho, totally insane, pyromaniac—” Tom hissed into Nate’s ear as he helped him walk.

“Wait.” Nate bent to roll up the cuffs of his jeans. They were stiff and still searingly hot. His hands came away from them black.

“They’re ruined,” Tom said. “You’re going to have to throw them away. Somewhere no one can find them. It’s evidence. Jesus, there’s evidence everywhere. We’re going to reek of smoke. I didn’t hear any fire alarms go off, but they can see those flames anywhere in town. We probably only have a couple minutes until—”



Nate rolled his cuffs and let Tom talk. His sneakers were ruined, too. Plastic oozed from them like oil paint. He’d gotten burned only in a narrow band between his shoes and jeans, but it was agony.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Owen said. “Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“Can you walk?” Johnny asked Nate.

They jogged a route to avoid the main thoroughfares. The firehouse siren sounded as they neared the residential streets. A police car, lights whirling, sped through an intersection a few blocks away.

“Oh, God,” Tom said. “What if my dad gets called in? I told him we’d be at Johnny’s house. Should we go there in case he checks up on us? Or Nate, should we go to your house instead? We could tell Grams there was a change of plans.”

“We stink of smoke, Tom,” Johnny said.

“We can’t go to anyone’s house,” Nate said. He turned back to the foothills where flames teased the sky. “We have to stick with the plan. We have to go back to the Night Ship.”

One day he would understand that when you flee one thing, you’re running into the arms of something else.

—

WHEN THEY WERE out of the rain and finally able to rest, the Night Ship felt like home. They’d set up a makeshift camp there soon after Halloween. Nate rolled onto one of the foam sleeping bag pads. His singed ankles were screaming.

“We’re not getting in trouble covering for you, Owen,” Tom was saying. “This isn’t an all-for-one, one-for-all kind of situation.”

Johnny sat next to Nate. “Can I see your legs?” he asked.

Nate had hoped to postpone the moment he had to examine the burns in good light, but he propped himself on his elbows as Johnny got a lantern. Johnny turned the light onto Nate’s shins and hissed. They’d been boiled red, utterly smooth where the hair had been scorched. Blisters spilled from raw skin like clusters of insect eggs. It was appalling, but Nate had survived worse.