Fire spat out of every window I could see, including the broken glass porthole in the front door. There was no way to get into this place. There was no way anyone could be alive. I ran around to the back, just to be sure.
The rear of the house was in better shape than the front, but smoke was billowing out of the second floor. I thought I’d leave, but then I heard more glass breaking and looked up to see a window shattering and a pale hand reaching out. Then a face.
Someone was inside—about to die.
Without thinking, I leaped onto the trellis on the side of the house to climb toward the skinny roof over the sunroom. If I could reach that roof, I could get to the window.
Although I wasn’t light, the trellis held as I climbed, and I scrambled onto the roof as a window above my head burst and flames and glass showered over me. Ducking and covering my head, I crunched over the glass shards to reach the window, where the hand no longer waved.
I wrapped my hand in my jacket and punched out the rest of the glass. Gray smoke poured out as I vaulted myself inside and dove to the ground, where the air was better. Kneeling under the window was a girl. Violet. I hoisted her up, she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I scrambled to the window and deposited her onto the roof, gently, so she wouldn’t roll off.
I ducked back down and crawled around the floor, my lungs feeling raw and strangely cold. I bumped into another body, this one heavier and more solid. Mr. Allen? I found his arms and pulled him to the window, then climbed out and dragged him through from the roof, where Violet was lying and coughing.
How to get them down? It was too far to jump. I thought for a moment, then leaped back through the window as Violet protested weakly. Having knocked into a twin bed moments earlier, I yanked off the mattress, folded it as much as I could, and shoved it through the window, taking care not to knock Mr. Allen and his daughter off the roof in the process. Once outside again, I dropped the mattress to the ground below us, a ten-foot drop. It would have to do.
“I’ll let you down!” I shouted to Violet, who nodded as I grabbed hold of her arms. She lay on her belly facing me and let her legs dangle over the side, then inched herself backward until her stomach was against the roof’s edge. Gripping her tightly by the wrists, I lowered her down slowly until there was about a five-foot gap between her and the mattress. She landed feetfirst, her hand hitting the ground. She was okay.
Mr. Allen remained unconscious, and time was tight; I didn’t want us to be up there when the next explosion or collapse came. I positioned him as I had Violet, but I had to push him slowly over the roof’s edge with my feet while hanging on to his arms.
“Dad!” Violet was crying as her father dangled above her.
I jutted my arms forward and let go, and he plunged backward, hitting the mattress with his shoulder blades, his neck not snapping back too far. That was a bull’s-eye as far as I was concerned.
I signaled for Violet to get him out of the way, because here I came, landing in a crouch. I hoisted Mr. Allen around to the front and deposited him onto the street as Violet hovered over him.
“Is he okay?” I could see—more than hear—her asking.
“I think so!” I shouted back.
She hugged me with such force that her pristine purple fingernails dug into the back of my neck. Her sobs were so fierce that I could barely make out the words she was trying to say: “You! Saved! Us!”
Maybe this was my superhero moment after all, though I was too exhausted, wired, and freaked out to indulge that thought. As if I needed any more reminders of how sobering this scene was, I looked back at my house and saw that the entire second floor was on fire. Orange light illuminated the window to my room, engulfing everything I owned.
I did a 360 to take in the destruction around me. What else could I do? Was there anyone left to rescue? Wait, where was Henry?
I looked at the Allens’ barn, which was set back from the house and wasn’t on fire, though it had a dangerous lean, as if it might collapse at any moment. Next to it was their propane tank, which looked unscathed with no fire around it. It probably was okay.
Wait.
I ran back to the Carters’ house. Like most of the farms out here, the Carters had a five-hundred-gallon propane tank, but now it was gone, no trace. That must’ve been it; the tank had exploded. But how? Why? Had a car hit it? It was close to their house but not next to the driveway, so that seemed far-fetched. But so did all of this.
My mom and Charlie were standing in the street, watching our house, which had been in our family for more than a century, up in flames. I looked down the street toward the Moores’ house but couldn’t see Maggie or much of anything else. Smoke was everywhere, a billowing dirty cloud rising above our neighborhood.
When I looked back at our house, I saw movement.
Someone inside was smashing a fist through our living-room window.
I didn’t move, too dumbstruck to think straight.
This figure was engulfed in flames yet moved with all the urgency of a lookie-loo at a Sunday afternoon open house. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, kid or adult. This person was punching the glass out of the window frame, then stepping out headfirst and tumbling down onto the grass. But instead of doing your standard stop, drop, and roll around to, you know, put out the flames, he (or she) stood up, looked around, and began to run away.
What the hell?
Having seen a scorched canvas tarp on the grass not far from the Carters’ barn, I grabbed it and chased after the burning figure, upon whom the fire seemed to have no effect at all.
Flaming pieces of clothing dropped to the ground as he crossed the street and headed for the tree line.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Stop!”
As I ran, I felt the impact of all that smoke in my lungs, and I began to choke. When I looked up, this dude’s shirt was falling away. Or was it flaming pieces of flesh? What was that nasty char smell in the air?
I could see ribs.
Made of metal.
On fire.
Even if this creature had gotten artificial ribs, his internal organs would all have been toast by now. Yet he kept running.
I dropped the tarp—because it was slowing me down, and, really, what good would it do?—and resumed my chase. As fast as I had become, this skeletal figure was faster, never pausing as flaming debris dropped off its body. I was caught up in the urgency of the moment, but let me just note: Yuck!
As he reached the trees, the flames surrounding him had dimmed to embers, though the air was filled with a smell like marshmallows dropped into a campfire. My eyes were watering and stinging from the heat and smoke, which was messing with my vision. I wiped away tears and tried to catch up, but it was a losing battle.
“Hey!” I yelled again as I reached the edge of the woods. I stopped, coughing, and leaned a hand against an oak tree.
This time the figure stopped as well and turned back toward me. His legs looked like regular human legs, covered with dark pants even, but his abdomen was full of fire, as though his stomach and intestines were burning, the flames filling the rib cage and engulfing the heart and lungs. His head appeared to be little more than a skull, though I saw a flash of silver in there, too.
I slapped my palms against my cheeks. I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t dreaming. I hadn’t ingested any psychedelic drugs. I was seeing something in real life that I might’ve imagined only as CGI.
And now this creature was running toward me.
I grabbed a long stick off the ground just as he reached me, and I thrust it into his chest. The point appeared to go between his ribs and hit a lung, yet there was no squish, pop, or reaction. The stick snapped—half in my hand, half protruding from his chest, apparently harmlessly.
He reached for me with a flaming hand, which smelled like a well-done burger, and I ducked and unleashed a quick, savage kick into his knee. Welcome back, crazy fighting instinct!
He stumbled backward, and I swung what was left of the stick
at his head. He was still faster than I was and grabbed the stick and shoved it into my chest, knocking me over a fallen log.
As I lay helpless with him looming over me, I realized this could be it. He could gouge me with the stick or jam his flaming fingers up my nose or find some other way to finish me right there.
But he didn’t. Instead, he turned again and ran.
By the time I was upright, the burning corpse or whatever the hell it was had run too far, too fast for me to consider catching up with him. I wasn’t sure more exposure to that dude would be good for my health, anyway. I watched him sprint nimbly through the woods, leaving behind sparks, flickering ashes and more of that burnt-marshmallow smell. I followed the trail of debris for a while, but as I got deeper and deeper into the forest, the charred remnants became less numerous until there were no more traces of this disgusting, frightful thing.
What the hell was it?
And why had it been inside our house?
CHAPTER 18
Maggie
THE FRONT DOOR of the Moores’ house had been blown off its hinges, and smoke billowed from the interior, though I couldn’t see any flames aside from the ones I’d glimpsed tickling the roof before I decided to enter. I pulled my bloodstained shirt collar over my nose to filter the smoke, exposing my stomach in the process. The gouge on my forehead still bled a little.
“Hello?” I shouted, getting down on all fours to see under the smoke, though little was visible beyond an empty living room strewn with broken glass.
This wasn’t my first time inside the Moores’ house. They were an older couple, and Mrs. Moore and I sat on the front porch and drank sweet tea while Jordan mowed their lawn and trimmed their bushes. They weren’t quite seventy, I thought, and seemed to be in good shape. I had the impression they were making up jobs for Jordan to do so he’d have some spending money.
“Anyone in here?” I shouted as the shirt slipped off my nose. I readjusted it, but not before I coughed at the smell of melted plastic and burning upholstery.
When I reached the hallway, I got up on my feet but kept my waist bent.
“Hello?” I shouted again. “Mrs. Moore? Mr. Moore?”
The house was creaking and popping loudly. I knew I was being stupid in here. The roof was burning, and just because the ceiling looked okay, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come crashing down on me. I saw a closed door to my right and put my hand on it to test for heat. It was cool. I opened it to reveal a dark bathroom.
My mom would be livid to know I was in here, but I didn’t care. Jordan had run off to a building that was much more engulfed than this one, and someone needed to try to help the Moores.
Then again, Jordan was crazy and thought he was a superhero.
I paused and cocked my head. I heard something—not the fire, not people talking. It was a baby crying. Oh, jiminy. I couldn’t tell where it was. Was it deeper in the house? Or outside already?
I placed my hand on the next door in the hallway. It was warm but not hot. Hmm. I touched the knob with the back of my hand in case the metal might burn me, but it was okay. Crouching low to the floor, I pushed the door open and peered inside. It was dark and full of smoke, and there it was: the baby’s cry—plus someone else sobbing.
“Hello?” I called out, my eyes stinging from the smoke.
“Grandma?” came a small voice from the darkness.
“Where are you?” I asked, smoky tears flowing down my face.
“I’m here,” she said, sounding all of three or four years old.
I couldn’t see anyone, though I could hear them both. “Come to me,” I said. “Follow my voice.”
“I have Hannah.”
“Good girl,” I said over the baby’s howls as I crawled deeper into the room, holding a hand out in front of me and hoping to make contact.
“Grandma, is that you?”
“No,” I said. “My name’s Maggie. What’s yours?”
“Where’s my grandma?”
“We’ll find her.”
“I heard the beeping,” she said, choking on smoke. “I couldn’t get out, so I came to be with Hannah. Nobody would forget Hannah.”
“Nobody would forget you, either,” I said, sweeping my hand around until my finger brushed skin. “Is that you?”
A little hand grabbed mine. “I’m Evie,” she said.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Don’t forget Hannah.”
I felt for the baby where the cries were coming from—in Evie’s lap. She was a little peanut.
“We’ll all leave together, promise,” I said. “Now I’m going to stand up, Evie. Don’t move.”
I tried to take a deep breath but started coughing. I stood up amid the dense smoke and felt for the wall, which was Sheetrock. I stepped to the right, feeling my way with my hands.
“Don’t leave!” Evie cried, her hand on my shin. “We need to find my mommy and daddy!”
I ignored this. I needed to save us first. “Just looking for a window, honey.”
There was a large crash from elsewhere inside the house. The roof was coming down. We needed to hurry.
I took another step away from the girls, trying to tune out their cries. Something was in my way, I think a dresser, but I could feel a window above it. I patted my hand against it till my fingers hit a lock. The window appeared to be small and high up on the wall.
I tried shoving the dresser out of the way, but it was caught on something, so I pushed it over, letting it crash to the floor.
“What was that?” Evie screamed.
“It’s okay,” I said, then coughed, long and hard.
I leveraged my fingers under the window and pushed up, but it wouldn’t budge. I could feel layers of paint on the frame, which might have sealed it shut. Leaning over the fallen dresser, I felt around for fabric till my hands landed on something denim. I took a breath of the relatively good air at the bottom of the room, wrapped the denim around my hand, stood up, and punched through the window.
As my fist hit the glass, I flashed on movies in which letting fresh air into a house fire makes the room explode. At least that didn’t happen.
I knocked the broken glass out of the frame as much as I could. I saw Jordan’s mom on the grass, running toward me, and I shouted and gestured for her to come as close as she could. I think she thought she was about to help me climb out, but she reacted quickly enough when a screaming baby came flying her way.
Mrs. Conners placed Hannah on the grass as I hoisted Evie to the window.
“Come on!” I ordered.
“Don’t forget Mommy and Daddy!”
“Okay, now jump!”
CHAPTER 19
Jordan
MAGGIE WAS COVERED in soot, aside from a clean white cloth and bandage covering the cut on her head, and she smelled like sour smoke when I caught up with her. I couldn’t remember being that happy to see and smell anyone, ever.
“Where the hell did you go?” she demanded as she wrapped me in a bear hug.
“I thought I saw someone,” I said into her ear. “Running into the forest.”
She gave me a quizzical look. I squeezed harder.
An ambulance was parked in the yard that had been the Carters’. The town’s two fire engines were on the scene as well, one team spraying water onto my house and the other across the road at the Allens’, focusing on their propane tank lest it also explode.
“So it was the propane, huh?” I said, pulling my head back. My hearing had returned enough that I could make out words above the loud ringing.
“That’s what they’re saying,” Maggie said, keeping her arms loosely around me. Her voice was shaky, as if it were clogged with tears. “You saved two of the Allens. I got little Evie Moore and her baby sister out of their house, but I couldn’t get anyone else. I told her that I would save her parents, and I couldn’t. Jordan, I think the rest of her family died.”
My breath caught. I’d known Evie’s grandparents my whole life. Their son,
Eric, was ten years older than me and had shown me how to change the oil in a car when I was a little kid. And I still didn’t know where Henry was. That they might all be dead was too much to comprehend.
“Those two little girls would be gone as well had you not been so brave,” I said. “Seriously, you ran into a burning building with the roof collapsing. If I’d been there, I’d have held on to you and not let you go in. You’re a fucking hero, and don’t forget it.”
Maggie looked at me, startled—by my swearing, perhaps, but also my conviction. I meant it. She saved two young lives, so I wasn’t going to let her beat herself up.
“Thanks,” she said, and put her head against my chest. I rubbed my chin against her silky, if sooty, hair.
“Listen,” I said softly. “I saw something. It crawled out the front window of my house and ran into the woods.”
She pulled back to look into my face. “What kind of ‘it’? Another wild dog?”
“No, a person on fire,” I said.
She kept her gaze on me. “We have to get you checked out,” she finally said.
“Hey, I’m serious,” I said. “Someone climbed out of our window, and I chased him—or it or whatever—to try to help because he was on fire. But he ran into the forest while parts of him dropped off his body, like a skeleton leaving a trail of burning flesh.”
“Jesus, Jordan,” she said.
“I know, it was gross.”
“No, you need to stop. I’m having trouble processing what I actually saw. I can’t deal with your hallucinations or fantasies or whatever.”
“That may be the first unkind thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m not trying to be unkind, Jordan. I’m just—”
“This isn’t something I wanted to see. You can tell from my tone that I’m not joking. Give me a break, Maggie.”
“I’m sorry, Jordan. I’m sorry. I’m probably just, you know, traumatized from what I’ve experienced. You probably are, too, and it’s coming out in a different way.”
“This wasn’t a reaction to what happened,” I said. “It’s something else that happened. This thing had me on the ground and could have killed me but instead turned and ran into the forest, embers flying off of him all the while.”
The Warning Page 8
