Death's Half Acre

CHAPTER 25

Clutching dear life so thin

The stubborn holding on . . .

—Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson

Choking and coughing as smoke swirled around me, my first impulse was to retreat to the bathroom again, to slam the door shut and cram the cracks around it with wet paper towels. Instead, I got as close to the floor as I could, where the smoke was slightly thinner, pulled my wet jacket away from my arm, and tied the sleeves behind my head so that my mouth and nose were covered.

The wound began to ooze blood again and smoke burned my eyes, but somehow I forced myself to crawl toward the fire, which must have begun up closer to the front. I was disoriented and couldn’t remember exactly which way I had come until I saw the trail of my blood on the concrete floor. I followed it on hands and knees. The crawl seemed to take forever, and I could feel the heat building toward me as I finally rounded the wardrobe I had cowered behind only a short time ago. Another few feet and I reached the dollhouse.

The flash drive was gone, of course, and so was my purse. I almost whimpered in fear and desperation, but as I turned to crawl back to the toilet, I caught a glimpse of the leather strap under the edge of a chest where I must have kicked it in my haste to get away from the bullets. I yanked at it and it caught on the foot.

The fire was getting ever nearer. I felt my skin drying and somewhere close by something exploded with a shower of glass that sprinkled down on me, shards catching in my hair. Every instinct screamed at me to leave it and go, but I couldn’t give up.

A lateral tug and the purse popped out. I slung the strap over my head and made like an inchworm trying to break the world speed record.

Once I was back inside the toilet with the steel door closed and my wet jacket plugging the crack at the floor, I heard sirens from outside. Someone must finally have given the alarm.

I almost dropped my phone in my haste to turn it on and push the speed dial for Dwight’s number.

He answered on the first ring and before I could speak, he yelled, “Deb’rah? Where the hell are you? Will’s warehouse is on fire and he says your car’s there.”

I told him as concisely as I could, trying not to babble hysterically, “Look for a small high window and oh, Dwight, please hurry!”

“Stay on the phone,” he said. “Don’t hang up. We’ll get you out.”

More sirens outside, and now I heard them through the phone wherever Dwight was. I could also hear him barking orders and then he was back on the line.

“We’re almost there now. I can see the warehouse.”

The front part must have been engulfed with flames by then, for I heard him groan. “Oh, my God! Deb’rah! You still all right?”

I was trying not to panic but now that help was so close I was terrified that they would not get to me in time. The walls were built of concrete blocks. Built to last. Like a brick oven. And me the loaf of bread dough.

“Talk to me, Deb’rah,” he said and his voice was suddenly calm and reassuring.

“I’m scared, darling. Really scared.”

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise. We’re here. Get as far from that window as you can and turn your back. They’re gonna smash it open.”

No sooner had he said that than bits of glass showered down. I looked up and there was the face of a fireman who called to me and said, “What we’re gonna do, ma’am, is pull this wall down, so you stay back as far as you can and put this over you.”

“This” was a bulky insulated fireman’s coat that he pushed through the broken window. I grabbed it and cowered beneath its comforting weight, my arm throbbing with pain.

A grappling hook on a cable caught the bottom edge of the opening and soon a chunk of concrete blocks broke away. Pieces of mortar fell and bounced off the sink, but the heavy coat protected me from the few chips that reached me.

As fresh air poured in, smoke rushed in from cracks at the top of the door. Then the hook was back and another small section of blocks tumbled away.

“One more ought to do it,” said Dwight’s voice in my ear. “How you doing, shug?”

“Hanging in,” I managed to say before another fit of coughing took my voice.

Seconds later, a fireman appeared in the now-sizeable opening. This one wore a face mask against all the swirling smoke. He slid a ladder over the wall and lowered it to the floor on my side. “Can you make it yourself, ma’am, or—?”

Before he could finish his sentence, I had shucked off that coat and was halfway up the ladder, choking and gasping till I reached the top. He grabbed me and guided me over the broken wall to his own ladder and down into blessed fresh air. My purse was still around my neck and one grimy hand still clutched the phone to my ear until Dwight took me from the fireman and gently loosened my fingers.

“It’s okay, now,” he said, as I hugged him wordlessly. “It’s okay.”