“Mommy!” the voice cried. It was a clear voice, not choking from the smoke. Not yet.
“If you’re going in there, wrap this around your face.” Somehow Astrid had come up with a wet cloth, borrowed from someone and soaked.
“Did I say I was going in there?” Sam asked.
“Don’t get hurt,” Astrid said.
“Good advice,” Sam said dryly, and wrapped the wet fabric around his head, over his mouth and nose.
She grabbed his arm. “Look, Sam, it’s not fire that kills people, it’s smoke. If you get too much smoke, your lungs will swell up, they’ll fill with fluid.”
“How much is too much?” he asked, his voice muffled by the cloth.
Astrid smiled. “I don’t know everything, Sam.”
Sam wanted to take her hand. He was scared. He needed someone to lend him some courage. He wanted to take her hand. But this wasn’t the time. So he managed a shaky smile and said, “Here goes.”
“Go for it, Sam,” a voice yelled in encouragement. There was a ragged chorus of cheers from the crowd.
The entrance to the building was unlocked. Inside were mailboxes, a back door to the flower shop, a dark, narrow stairway heading up.
Sam almost made it to the top of the stairs before he ran into an opaque wall of swirling smoke. The wet cloth did nothing. One breath and he was on his knees, choking and gagging. Tears filled his stinging eyes.
He crouched low and found more air. “Kid, can you hear me?” he rasped. “Yell, I need to hear you.”
The “Mommy” was faint this time, from down the hall to the left, halfway to the other side of the building. Maybe the kid would jump out the window into someone’s arms, Sam told himself. It would be stupid to get himself killed if the kid could just jump.
The stink of the smoke was intolerable, awful, everywhere. It had a sourness to it, like smoke plus curdled milk.
Sam stayed on his knees and crawled down the hallway. It was strange. Eerie. The ratty hall runner below him seemed so normal: faded Oriental pattern, frayed edges, a few crumbs, and a dead roach. An overhead lightbulb was on, filtering pale light down through the ominous gray.
The smoke was swirling slowly lower, pressing down on him, forcing him lower and lower to find air.
There had to be six or seven apartments. No way to know which was the right one, the kid wasn’t yelling anymore. But the apartment on fire was probably the one just to his right. Smoke was shooting out from below that door, thick, fast, and furious as a mountain stream. He had seconds, not minutes.
He rolled onto his back. The smoke pouring from under the door was like a waterfall in reverse, falling upward in a cascade. He kicked at the door, but it was no good. The lock was higher up; all his kick did was rattle the door. To break it open he would have to stand up, straight into that killing smoke.
He was scared. And he was mad, too. Where were the people who were supposed to do this? Where were the adults? Why was this up to him? He was just a kid. And why hadn’t anyone else been crazy enough, stupid enough to rush into a burning building?
He was mad at all of them and, if Quinn was right and this was something God had done, then he was mad at God, too.
But if Sam had done this…if Sam had made all this happen…then there was no one to be mad at but himself.
He took in all the breath he could manage, jumped to his feet, and slammed against the door all in one frantic motion.
Nothing.
And slammed again.
Nothing.
And again, and he had to breathe now, he had to, but the smoke was everywhere, in his nose, his eyes, blinding him. Again and the door opened and he fell in and hit the floor, facedown.
The smoke trapped in the room erupted into the hallway, exploded out like a lion escaping its cage. For a few seconds there was a layer of breathable air at floor level and Sam took in a breath. He had to fight to keep from coughing it back out. If he did that, he was going to die, he knew it.
And for just a second it was partly clear in the apartment. Like a break in the clouds that gives you a little tease of clear blue sky before drawing the dark curtain once more.
The kid was on the floor, gagging, coughing, just a little kid, a girl, maybe five at most.
“I’m here,” Sam said in his strangled voice.
He must have looked terrifying. A big shape wreathed in smoke, face covered, black soot in his hair, smearing his skin.
He must have looked like a monster. That was the only explanation. Because the little girl, the terrified, panicky little girl, raised both of her hands, palms out, and from those chubby little hands came a blast, an explosion, jets of pure flame.
Flame. Shooting out of her tiny hands.
Flame!
Aimed at him.
The blast narrowly missed Sam. It passed his head with a whoosh and hit the wall behind him. It was like napalm, jellied gasoline, liquid fire that stuck to the wall where it hit and burned with mad intensity.
For a second he could only stare, frozen in amazement.
Insane.
Impossible.
The little girl cried out in terror and raised her hands again. This time she wouldn’t miss.
This time she would kill him.
Not thinking, just reacting, Sam extended his arm, palm out. There was a flash of light, bright as an exploding star.
The kid fell on her back.
Sam crawled to her, shaking, stomach clenched, wanting to scream, thinking, no, no, no, no.
He scooped the kid into his arms, afraid she would wake up, and afraid that she wouldn’t. He stood up.
The wall to his right fell in with a sound like ripping cardboard. Plaster was falling away, revealing the wall’s structure, the lathe boards and two-by-fours. The fire was inside the wall.