by Emily Bishop
I dig my fingers into the gaps in the ice-cold chain-link metal and claw my way up. I scale until I reach the top and flip over, plummeting down to the other side. I glance back for a fraction of a second, my body desperate for a moment’s rest. It’s a bad idea. The man clinks against the chainmail and climbs behind me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I breathe. I sprint off again, hyperaware of the scrape of his boots on the concrete.
‘Become a journalist,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.
I curse the last few months of my life and every bit of information I discovered. In truth, though, journalism – finding out information the bad guys want to stay hidden – has been my life’s dream since I can remember. If I die tonight, I’ll never regret the decisions I made to bring me to this point.
I don’t care if they torture me.
I trip on a soda can, fall, and skid across the ground, the skin on my palms screaming as I slide along frozen concrete, my blood hot against the freezing ground. I roll onto my back, my palms pressed into the pavement, and stare up at my attacker. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. He swings his arm back, the knuckles of his fist facing me.
The back of his hand whacks into my cheek.
My head crashes into the pavement, adding to the excruciating pain that is now pulsing through my skull. I’m ready to die. I hope he makes it quick.
Instead, I fly into the air. My midsection slams against his shoulder, releasing any air I had left. He’s carrying me somewhere. Why won’t he get it over with? I consider asking him as much, but I’m having a hard enough time as it is finding my breath.
He walks on, carrying the body of a future dead girl.
Can I escape? I could try to kick his balls from this angle. I’ve always been tall, but I’ve never been the muscular type. My nickname in school used to be “willow.” It doesn’t exactly exude battle-ready confidence.
A door opens and slams behind us, an echo drifting into frigid silence.
My attacker walks on in the dark, and even I have to admit it’s impressive that he’s not tripping all over himself. It’s pitch black, and the night air adds a chill to my already shivering body.
I tense – I don’t want this asshole to think that I’m intimidated or afraid, which is bullshit, because I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
He stops, and I hold my breath.
He heaves me from his shoulder and places me in a chair. My eyes adjust to the darkness as he shuffles around. I can’t tell what he’s doing, and that only makes it worse.
How am I going to die?
I blink furiously, desperately trying to find purchase in a night that wasn’t supposed to end like this. While the street lights allowed me to see the ski mask, all I can do in this enclosed space is feel.
Sweat: he reeks of body odor, the stench of him sailing to me even as he stands some distance away.
Gross.
He grabs my legs, and I jerk. A wave of despair washes over me. He’s tying them together, binding me. I thrust my feet out, try to kick his face.
Another fist crashes against the bones of my cheek, and I grunt in pain, slumping back down.
“Why?” I ask, into the night. It hurts to talk but I don’t care. Maybe I can distract him. Words have always been my best weapon.
He doesn’t respond. Not helpful.
“Why are you doing this? Who are you working for?”
I’m about to name names, to see whether or not the man gives away any clues when he grabs my hands and crams them together behind my back. My wrists are slippery, and my palms are pulsing as I bite back against the pain.
Scratchy cord cuts into my pale skin, and I pull my fists apart as much as I can without making it obvious. The man clearly has an advantage over me as far as size and strength go but if he’s intending to leave me tied to a chair, I have the cunning to find a way to get myself free.
Shit, hopefully he doesn’t identify that fact.
He finishes tying the rope, giving the knot a final squeeze and tugging at my hands to ensure that I can’t get free. I want to question him again. It makes no sense that he didn’t kill me back in that alley when I slipped.
That means that my death must be personal to someone. They want me to suffer… maybe they want to talk to me first. I don’t know. This is my first kidnapping. I can only guess what happens from here.
Once his knot is secure, he steps back, and I can still smell him. My God does he stink. After a pause he walks away, his footsteps echoing into the cavernous… whatever I’m in.
“Hey! Don’t you have the balls to tell me who you work for?”
It’s a stupid move, I’ll grant that. I have to get an answer.
If curiosity killed the cat, then call me a pussy, because I can’t let things go. He responds with silence, though there’s a scratch and a hiss in the distance. A door opens and slams shut again, the sound echoing as loudly the second time, even from a distance.
I tug at my bonds. The bastard did do a great job. Must have been a sailor at some point.
Asshole.
My eyes catch sight of something… an adjoining room. It’s light. It’s flickering, orange light. It takes my beleaguered senses a moment to realize what kind of light that is.
“Oh, fuck. No, no, no. No.” They want to burn me alive.
A fire does make the most sense. Most of the time, the victims are unrecognizable in the end. The mess cleans itself, fingerprint free. The light grows. I’ve got a clearer view of the room. It’s a warehouse, covered in highly flammable cloth that is catching like kindling as it crawls its way closer.
Yeah, I’m about to burn alive.
I clench my fists as I struggle against my bonds. The fire is moving faster than I ever thought possible, the warehouse filling with smoke.
I gag and cough, my lungs igniting as they force smoky air in and out. My wrists bleed freely now, the feeling in my fingers numb as I pull for my life.
One fist pops free.
I’m coughing heavily now. The fire burns, the flames licking the outer walls of the warehouse, bringing light to a dark situation and making it even darker.
I fumble with the tied cord around my legs but my numb fingers slip and slide around the prickly rope. The blood on my hands make it even more difficult. That asshole had the presence of mind to loop the rope around the chair, effectively anchoring me to the spot. Otherwise, I could simply crawl to my freedom, which is yards away.
My muscles are shot. I try to pull the chair but it barely moves.
I let out a frustrated screech. I tear the bottom of my blouse, remove a shred of my shirt at the bottom, then press it to my nose and mouth. Instantly, I can breathe a little easier but my head swims, and I know I’m not going to stay conscious for much longer.
I fumble around my feet, my vision shimmering in the burning heat. I tug the wrong way and my chair tumbles to the ground, taking me with it.
The smoke overcomes me. I feel the urge to rest, to sleep.
Darkness takes hold.
1
Isaac
“I fold.”
I throw my shitty hand on the table, then take a swig of water as I narrow my eyes. I dust my gray t-shirt with an open palm. I’m dirtied by this shitty game.
Not a drop of sympathy emanates from my compatriots.
Being a firefighter isn’t all rescuing cats from trees and dragging people from burning buildings. Sometimes the worst part of the job is the fact that down time exists. The last thing I need is time to think. Lucky for me, the siren screams around us, and everyone at the table is on their feet, cards forgotten.
The location of the fire blares over the intercom. My lieutenant, Josh, barks at us as we slide our suits on, the material scraping against my muscles. My heart pounds with the promise of a new save.
Nobody is going to die tonight. Not on my watch.
“It’s a warehouse in Somerville, not far from here. It’s after hours so there shouldn’t be any v
ictims. Most likely an arson case. The cops are headed that way to do their part.”
He’s talking as everyone moves. Within minutes, all six of us are suited up and loaded onto the truck. The siren blares, piercing my ears as my blood roars alongside it. I am never more alive than in the face of a fire. Then Chris steps in front of me, blocking my way.
“Hey, probie, why don’t you take a hike?” I say.
He glares at me.
It’s a dick move on my part. Both of us joined the Somerville Fire Department a few weeks ago at the same time, so I’m in no position to call him a newbie or assume seniority in any way. Still, at twenty-eight, I’m senior, and he knows it. I’ve also been in the game longer, even if it wasn’t in Boston.
He moves aside, and I plant myself, the cold December air sliding along my face as I crouch like a tiger, waiting to pounce.
My blond hair ruffles in the wind, and I push it back. Even in the face of danger, my hair has always been well groomed, combed to the side as my father always taught me. He jumps to my mind then, and I send out a prayer that he is safe at home, watching Wheel of Fortune or some shit.
He deserves a retirement fit for a king after the life he’s had, and I wish he was by my side, even as I’m glad he isn’t.
My thoughts wander to places they shouldn’t, and I train myself once more to come back to the present, the job of the moment. They say that its arson, that no one will be in the building. That is an assumption that never passes muster with me. I prepare for the worst, because I know what happens when you don’t.
It’s always worse than they say. Assumptions are the mother of all fuck ups.
The truck turns a corner, and the smoke curls up into the night sky – a black plume. The driver pulls up to the nearest hydrant.
“Isaac, hit the plug!”
My lieutenant gives me a direct order. He wants me to attach the hose to the hydrant, so we can start watering down the flames. Something inside me refuses, an urge to plunge in and make absolutely sure that there is no one trapped in the flames. I can’t resist the feeling, and I don’t want to. If they want me to clean toilets for a fucking month, I’ll do it.
I’m not plugging the fucking pipe.
“Sorry, boss,” I say, my tone entirely unapologetic. “That’s a job for Chris.”
“Isaac Wright, I don’t give a shit who you think you are. If you think that being from New York gives you the right to disobey orders when the job is still hot, then you can find another–”
“Sorry, can’t hear you. People to save!”
“There are no people in there!”
My lieutenant spits. His saliva glistens in the flames that dance over us in the night. I know I should care. I left New York to get a new start. It’s not a good idea to piss off my boss on the reg, like I tend to do.
There’s a pull inside my gut that is stronger than my desire to keep my job.
What if there’s a life in there that’s about to perish? What if I don’t make it in time because I’m too busy plugging in a pipe? A hose is the last of my worries at the moment. There are other men to do that. I know what I’m capable of.
More importantly, I know what I need to do.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” I ask.
The man’s bulging eyes are the last thing I see as I pull on my mask and dive into the inferno, my uniform brushing against hot debris as I shoulder my way through blazing pieces of some kind of cloth. I don’t know what this warehouse was used for but whatever it is, it’s a fucking fire hazard.
A piece of flaming debris tumbles toward me, and I duck out of the way, keeping my eyes peeled for any trace of human life.
“Hello!” I bellow.
A door collapses beside me, and I shoulder it away with a menacing grunt. Sometimes it pays to be built like a WWE wrestler. My thick shoulders press through the inferno. I reach the center of the fire and squint through the smoke, trying to discern any movement.
In the middle of the floor, a chair is turned over – one of the few things not yet on fire. It’s not the chair that gets my attention, though.
It’s the tumbling red tresses of the woman attached to the chair.
I sprint until I reach her side. Sweat beads at my temples and memories flash through my mind. Not now. I force them away. Now is not the time to face demons.
A quick glance at the woman reveals that she’s been tied to the chair, her black boots strung together with a thick cord.
I pull a knife from my pocket and cut the cords from her feet. Her body sinks to the ground, limp. I turn her over, and my heart runs cold.
Her face is familiar. Her hair is long with sweeping curls, red as the flames around us. Her nose is small with a little upturn, peppered with a smattering of freckles. Her lips are slack, though even in this moment, I can’t help but notice how round they are, how perfectly shaped.
A wave of panic courses through me. I know this woman.
I press her limp wrist between my fingers, holding my breath. A wave of relief rushes through me – she’s got a faint pulse.
In her hand, she holds the piece of shirt she ripped off to stave off the smoke, and I feel a moment of pride for this near stranger that she had the presence of mind to block out the smoke long enough to likely save her own life. Her eyes flutter, and I lean down.
“Hey, can you hear me? Can you stand?”
I glance back at the entryway I came in, then look up.
Above us, the metal bends, molding into the heat. We have minutes, maybe seconds, left to get outside before the ceiling collapses on top of us and we’re both goners.
I kneel, lift her in my arms, and trudge back out the way I came. A beam collapses next to us, nearly knocking me over, and I sweep the woman’s feet out of the way.
The doorway appears ahead, the cool air beckoning from the death trap I’ve run into.
I lower my face and charge, the building groaning around me as I run out the door.
The ceiling finally caves in, slamming into the ground behind us. Seconds delay and we would have been under there – nasty human pancakes.
My lieutenant yells at me, per usual, but I ignore him. Instead, I keep running until I find flat ground, snatching a blanket from the fire truck on my way.
I spread the blanket out with one hand, then I lay the woman down on top of it, pulling my mask off.
With the immediate danger out of the way, recognition resolves – this chick’s my neighbor. She lives in the same apartment building as me. I scan her face, and it comes back to me…
It was the first day I moved in a few weeks back. I was checking my mailbox when I someone ran into me.
“Oof.”
Turning, I saw her on the floor and quickly held my hand out to help her up. She stared at it with a funny expression but, after a moment, she slid her hand into mine and stood, removing it quickly.
I glanced at her hand. She wore a Claddagh ring, and it faced inward. I have a distant memory of my ex-wife telling me that facing inward meant you were in a relationship.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she said.
She smiled, and it was a shy smile. If I hadn’t been through a divorce, I likely would have been interested in her. As it was, love wasn’t—and isn’t—on the docket. I have better things to do with my time. Her eyes were the color of sapphires though, and paired with her bright red hair…
“I find that hard to believe but apology accepted,” I said with a small smirk.
She smiled up at me from beneath lowered lashes, and I remember her laugh was like wind chimes. Mystical and musical all at once.
“Well, I’ll try not to knock you down next time, in any case,” she said.
I wanted to believe at the time that she was flirting but remembering her ring, I figured she was trying to be funny.
“Do that. I’m Isaac, by the way,” I said, holding out my hand one more time.
“Scarlett,” she said, delicately placing her palm against my own befor
e swiping it back. “Scarlett Smith.”
“It’s nice to be neighbors with you, Scarlett Smith. By the way, here’s some junk mail for you.”
I handed her a piece of mail, which she took, carefully not touching me again.
“Thanks. Have a good one,” she said, opening the door to her ground floor apartment and disappearing behind it.
Now, her face is pale and lifeless, her beautiful eyes closed as if in death. Her chest moves up and down, though barely, and I shout back to the team to bring over an oxygen mask for her. My lieutenant brings it over, handing it to me as I place it on her face to get her more air.
“You should be more careful,” Josh says, and I don’t even bother responding. He sighs. “You were right, though. This woman is alive because of you.”
I look at him then, and there’s an apology in his eyes. He doesn’t have to say it. I nod, turning back toward Scarlett… yes, that’s her name. A name that perfectly matches her tresses, even though they’re slightly singed from the heat. Her skin is pink but she appears to have made it out without permanent damage.
And the Claddagh ring isn’t on her finger anymore.
2
Scarlett
The world is a fuzzy white ball.
It’s warm. A little too warm, actually. If this is the afterlife, where can I go to turn the heat down? Then again, maybe I wasn’t as good of a person as I thought…
The sound of beeping penetrates my head, and a sharp pain throbs at my temple. I don’t believe the afterlife allows for pain, at least by any accounts I’ve read. Am I still alive?
I focus in on my eyelids, which feel like anvils. I concentrate all my energy there.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes.
With all my effort, I pry one eye open, then another. The world is still fuzzy, my head still aching. I blink over and over, trying to clear my vision. A dark object appears, and I focus all my attention on that spot, because everywhere else is simply clouded silvery nonsense.
I blink some more. I remember how to lift my hand, and I do, but when it lifts I can tell that something is attached to my arm, limiting my movement.
