The smoke grew thicker and the shouts grew louder. This was how Mike was going to die.
He was going to burn.
Everything was caving in.
Devin could see, down at the other end of the warehouse, the ceiling beginning to buckle amidst the angry flames. Feel the heat, the smoke scratching his lungs.
The workers had tossed toolboxes and folding chairs through the windows, and were beginning to pile boxes up in an effort to reach freedom. The windows were far above the ground—at least fifteen feet—but death has a funny way of motivating a man, and Devin watched as everyone moved at speeds unseen on the conveyor belt.
Soon, a precarious tower of junk had been assembled, and the first workers were clambering to the top and disappearing out the window. A fight broke out at the base, as people accused others of cutting, freeloading or not waiting their turn.
Devin walked over and someone pushed him to the ground.
“You go last.”
“Yeah, fatty will fuck up the entire thing.”
“It can’t sustain your weight. No way he’s going before me.”
From the ground, Devin saw people disappear, man-by-man, as the smoke grew thicker and the flames came closer. His polo had already been drenched hours earlier, but now it felt like he’d jumped into a swimming pool.
The last man leapt through the window, and Devin pushed himself up, looking at the assortment of precarious junk piled up near the window. He had his doubts that it would hold Mike’s girth, but he had to try. The whole place was going to come down.
Lifting a thick foot onto the first box, Devin heard something.
Someone crying for help.
On the end of the warehouse already enveloped by flames.
“Anyone there? Who’s there?”
“Help me,” the person said, voice obscured by the crackling flames and crumbling structure, “help me, please.”
Devin took his foot off the box and headed into the jaws of the blaze. If the heat was intense near the window, it was now inhuman, unlike anything he’d experienced. People didn’t survive heat like this.
“Keep talking,” Devin said, winding his way through the burning crates and smoke, “you need to keep talking.”
“I can’t breathe.”
The smoke was thick enough that Devin couldn’t see more than a couple inches in front of him. He tore the soaking polo from his torso and put it over his mouth. It wasn’t much, but it might buy him a couple minutes.
“Can you move?”
“I think my leg’s broken.” The voice came through, clear, nearby.
Sarah Parsons.
Devin rushed as fast as he could towards the sound, and discovered the girl lying on the floor, up against a corner of the warehouse. He almost couldn’t tell it was her, with all the smoke swirling and the dirty soot on her face.
“Sarah,” he said.
“Thank God, Mike,” she said, and he could see the tears streaming down her face now that he was close, “you’re a good man.”
“What the hell are you doing back here?”
“Cigarette break,” she said with a rueful grin that suggested, should she survive, she wouldn’t be such a rule-breaking jackass in the future.
That was a big if, judging from the way the blaze was moving.
Devin took stock of the light fixture, twisted and busted, not far from her leg. Must’ve fallen down, cracked her leg while she was lounging.
Devin extended his bare arm towards her. “Take it.”
She reached up and tried to climb to her feet, but collapsed hard onto the ground, letting loose a high-pitched shriek.
“I can’t walk,” she said. “I can’t get up.” She sniffled, and for a moment, locked eyes with Devin in the haze. “I’m going to die, aren’t I? We’re going to die in this horrible warehouse.”
“No one’s dying,” Devin said. “There’s an exit maybe a couple hundred feet away. You just gotta get up.”
She tried to put weight on her leg again, but after much gritting of the teeth, stumbled to the ground into a pile.
“Don’t leave me,” she said. “Don’t leave me here alone.”
“No one’s leaving you alone,” Devin said, and tried to think of anything. His eyes turned to a nearby package trolley. His hand gripped the melted rubber, then recoiled.
There was a reason it had melted.
Devin fanned his hand out, hoping that it would help the pain. It didn’t, but the motion did distract him enough to think straight. Another light crashed down a few yards away, and Devin made up his mind.
There was no other way.
He bent down, huffing and puffing, and put his arms underneath Sarah’s slender body.
“Put your hands around my neck,” he said. “And hang on.”
His knees wavered as he brought the girl up off the floor, slow, inch-by-inch, but then she was up off the ground, and they were looking eye-to-eye.
“Look out,” she said, and Devin darted out of the way just before a series of crates crashed down, splintering around where Sarah had just been.
He didn’t look back.
Just ran through the smoke, holding his breath, and then breathing in the smoke when he couldn’t hold out any more, the toxins and chalky ash burning his lungs with each inhale.
He ran blind towards the safer end of the warehouse, eyes searing with pain, using the burning crates and objects as a guide, bumping up against them, the pain torching his ankles and hands, an indication that he was on the right path, back to the window.
The smoke began to clear a little—not much, but enough that Devin could see the Jenga tower of boxes near the window, the escape hatch.
He took the makeshift stair-step of junk two boxes at a time, fire nipping at his heels, his heart pounding, wanting to give out from all the exertion, but Devin managing to will Mike’s tired body forward just a little more until he was at the top.
Devin edged closer and looked out at the drop below, freedom just one step away.
Beneath him, the boxes and pile creaked, swayed, adjusting to the heavy weight and the fire ruining its structural integrity from below.
“Jump,” Devin said.
“I can’t,” Sarah said, her voice calmer, but still drenched with fear, “I can’t do it.”
“You can do it,” he said. “You will do it.”
“I won’t.”
“Or you’ll die,” Devin said. “Trust me.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Do you have your phone?”
She nodded, her blonde ponytail swishing in the orange light, casting a lengthy shadow on the smoky wall behind her.
“If you need help, call Devin Travis,” he said, and then wondered why he’d said it. Something about this fire, it wasn’t right. No doubt it was arson, sure, but the timing was curious, the pick-up, leave, burn all the crops and evidence feeling.
This wasn’t random, but Devin couldn’t quite figure it out. Sarah might need some help.
“What?” she said, looking back, on her knees, perched above the drop. “Why?”
“Just if you need help,” Devin said. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
He gave her a helpful push as she crawl-jumped out the window, and heard her land with a pained cry below. But she was still alive, hurt or not.
Devin stood up.
“Watch out,” he said. “I’m coming.”
The boxes shifted, one of the foundational crates splintering, and Devin stumbled, lost his balance, slipped off the tower.
Crashed down to the warehouse floor, the whole world going black.
And then, nothing.
28 | Mistakes
Mr. Parsons looked at his smartphone in the back of the Town Car.
It was noon, and his daughter was calling him.
“What do you need?”
“Hello? Anyone there?”
“Who is this? Put Sarah on,” he said, angry that one of her no-good friends was wasting his tim
e. Angry that she was interrupting him during an important business meeting.
“This is her nurse,” the woman on the other said, “are you her father?”
“Speaking.” Mr. Parsons rubbed his forehead. A nurse. Whatever trouble Sarah had gotten herself into, her timing was impeccable.
“I’m calling to tell you that Sarah’s in the hospital.”
“Look, I told her to stop drinking when she wanted to drive—”
“It wasn’t a car accident,” the nurse said, “she’s being treated for a broken leg and burns on her extremities.”
“Burns?” Mr. Parsons sat up straighter.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew about what?”
“Your warehouse on the edge of town. There was a fire.”
The fire. Of course Mr. Parsons knew about the fire. He’d ordered it. But he just said, “Jesus, what’s that got to do with my daughter?”
“Paramedics found her in the warehouse parking lot, unconscious. She’d crawled there on her hands and knees.”
“She was inside?”
“Judging from her burns and clothes, yes. Although she’s very lucky. It will all heal.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Parsons said and hung up the phone.
The two grifters in the back of the Town Car exchanged glances as the call ended.
“Woah, man,” the one with stringy black hair said, “We didn’t know there was anyone inside.”
“You said they’d all be gone,” the second one said, clutching the brown paper parcel in one of his hand, “that no one would be around.”
“What time did you set the fire?”
“When you said, man. Just like when you said, man.” The guy with the black hair tossed his head from side-to-side, his leg shaking, tweaking out.
“And what time was that?” Mr. Parsons reached into his pocket, placing the cell phone back, his fingers searching for something else.
“You said they’d be done around five,” the second guy said, “said to set it at five.”
“And what date?”
“Today.” The second guy looked confused, like he wasn’t sure if it was a trick question.
“You know what I dislike more than anything, gentleman?” Mr. Parsons focused his gaze on one of the meth-heads, then the other. Figures this would happen, hiring drug-addled bums to do a job like this.
“I don’t know,” black hair said, and didn’t look like he wanted to find out.
“Incompetence,” Mr. Parsons said, “is acceptable. Sometimes people aren’t very good at what they do.”
“That’s real nice of you, man. I knew you were a decent guy. See, I told you he was a decent guy.” Black hair nudged his buddy, and the two of them flashed grins exposing yellowed, sharp teeth.
Mr. Parsons held up his hand to silence the man, indicating that the first long pause had not been an invitation to chime in.
“What I hate, however, is negligence.” Mr. Parsons brought out a small silver revolver and fired two shots, spraying the bullet-proof dividing glass with slashes of blood. “And I do believe the date was tomorrow.”
But when you’re tweaking, the days tend to become unimportant, blending together in one big bender.
Mr. Parsons rapped on the glass, and the divider came down.
“It’s been awhile,” he said. “But do you boys still handle situations like this?”
“Headquarters is on it, sir,” the driver said. And then the partition went back up and Mr. Parsons’ phone rang.
He took a deep breath and answered it.
“Hello, Mr. Ena,” he said. “We’ve had a little situation here, but it will be dealt with. The withdrawal from Rever’s Point will soon be complete.”
The Town Car pulled away, on to the hot two-lane road.
It wasn’t headed to the hospital.
It was headed out of Rever’s Point, back to Chimera’s Headquarters.
Mr. Parsons extracted a handkerchief from his suit’s front pocket and mopped his brow. He starred at the red dots streaking the checkered pattern and shook his head.
Twenty years, and for what?
29 | Call Devin Travis
“We’re here, Miss.”
Sarah looked out at the faded lawns and one-story ranch homes. This wasn’t how she imagined it. Then again, she wasn’t sure how she imagined Devin Travis’ home. She’d never thought about it before.
She handed the driver a crisp twenty, told him to keep the change, and slid out of the cab.
Crutched over to the front gate and looked at the house.
Seemed normal enough.
She hadn’t thought much about Devin Travis until a week back, when it was clear her dad wasn’t showing up at the hospital. Wasn’t even going to leave a note.
His warehouse burns down—someone burns it down—his little girl gets banged up, and he doesn’t even come by.
And she got to thinking, all doped up on morphine, about Mike’s last words, telling her to call Devin Travis. Like that guy had answers or something.
She’d have called, but her cell phone was shot from the fall. Landed right on it. Came to in the hospital, arms covered in gauze, leg in a cast. Told that she was lucky. Some luck, getting stuck in a shit job and then having the place come down on you.
Two weeks of being in the hospital, she was starting to go crazy. So she’d checked herself out, the nurses telling her no, she should stay, the burns could get infected or scar, but Sarah, for the first time in her life, didn’t give a shit about scars or a couple nasty looking spots.
Just flipped them the bird, signed the insurance forms and staggered out on these damn awkward crutches. Got a friend to drive her home, drop her off, then went to work on the computer.
She’d find Devin Travis, all right.
And the Parsons Shipping & Processing website was gone, like it never existed. No trace.
So she searched his name on the internet, didn’t come back with anything, then thought for a long while, remembered his brother, Tommy, always sneaking glances at her from down the warehouse, like a goddamn creeper. A decent looking creeper, but a creeper.
Plugged his name in the old search bar. Called the line, but it was disconnected, not in service. But there was an address.
And well, now here she was.
At the Travis residence in all its dusty glory, in search of those answers.
She hobbled up the cracked stairs and rang the bell.
No answer.
She tried again.
No answer.
Her hand grasped the knob. Unlocked.
The door creaked open, and she hopped inside.
“Hello? Devin? Mike said to call you. Hello?”
She shut the door and took another step into the house.
A gloved hand came from behind, covered her mouth, and she crumpled to the floor.
30 | Don’t Blink
“We have everything we need,” Dr. Stanton said. He scribbled some notes onto his pad and wheeled the office chair across the smooth marble. Devin watched the wheels glide, zoning out. “You don’t seem very excited.”
“What?”
“I said, you don’t seem very excited.”
“About?” Devin’s gaze came up off the floor. He stared at the doctor’s bandaged nose. The shiners underneath his eyes had disappeared about a week ago. Devin had popped him pretty good during the eye exam. He smiled at the recollection.
“Something funny, Devin?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“We have everything we need.”
“I heard you the first time,” Devin said.
“Then why—my time’s valuable. Don’t waste it on nonsense.” Dr. Stanton stood to go.
“And what happens to me now?”
“You?” Dr. Stanton’s tone made it sound like he’d never considered his subject.
“Yeah, as in the guy you’ve been treating like a human lab rat for more than six weeks.”
“That’s not long,�
� Dr. Stanton said. “A month and a half for science?”
Devin snorted. “For science? That’s good.”
“What else would it be for?”
Devin could sense a rhetorical question when he heard one. Dr. Stanton hadn’t told him anything, and none of the lab techs knew anything.
“We hope it hasn’t been too invasive,” Dr. Stanton said. “And we hope you understand that you could have left at any time.”
“That so?”
“That is so.”
Devin mulled it over. He had never asked to leave, but his demeanor had never suggested he was all that happy to be here, either. Still, a morbid curiosity would have probably kept him around these strange labs, even if Dr. Stanton had told him about this option earlier.
“Well?” Dr. Stanton pointed towards the door. “I suppose you’re eager to get back to it.”
“What?”
“You’re free to go.” Dr. Stanton went over to the chrome plated desk and inserted a keycard into a drawer. A compartment popped open underneath. Dr. Stanton reached under the death and extracted a manila envelope.
Devin got up and walked over. Grabbed the envelope.
“The hell’s this?”
“We’re a multi-national corporation, Devin,” Dr. Stanton said. “We pay for our services.”
Devin tore open the envelope and stared at the check, well into the seven figures.
Then he started reading the enclosed contract.
“A standard non-disclosure and licensing agreement,” Dr. Stanton said. “Consider the check a down payment on the royalties you’ll soon be receiving.”
“Royalties?” Devin considered mentioning how this was all supposed to be for science, but decided the barb wouldn’t go over.
“For the products we derive from your blood and neural work.”
“Which are?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Dr. Stanton said. “We plan to serve a variety of markets. Civilian and military.” He placed a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “There’s a key to the best hotel in the area. Penthouse suite. Think it over and give us a call in the next week when you’re ready to sign.”
“Do I have a choice?” Devin said, his hand on the door handle.
“Of course.” Dr. Stanton smiled, but the edges of it were frayed with worry, concern. “Please, follow me. There’s a car waiting.”
The Last Dreamer Page 9
