The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 17

The fire races over the surface of the charring fabric and digs deeply into the cotton batting underneath. Burning lintels fall to the tiled floor. Flames burrow beneath the mats, charring the interiors. The air above the mats shimmers as smoke and heat rise from the flames.

The temperature of the metal shelving over the mats climbs -first a mere ten degrees, then another ten, climbing until the battleship green of the underside of the shelf turns olive, then dark brown. Bubbles of gas form under the paint, pushing it out in glowing blisters that char even as they grow.

The paint is leprous now, bubbling outward, charring and flaking away to fall on the mats below.

On the shelf itself, a metal can suddenly pops its seams as its flat sides distend in the heat. The liquid squirts out from the vapor pressure inside. Nearby, the paper label of a gallon jug, half filled with a murky opalescent liquid, begins to brown. Glue flakes away from the underside of the label and falls in brittle fragments as the label curls off the side of the bottle. The curling label chars, blackens, and abruptly dissolves in sparks. The next instant the bottle cracks apart like a shattered egg and liquid gushes from its interior onto the shelf, running along the retaining edge that acts as a dam. Then the liquid reaches the end of the shelf and thin streams spatter down on the matting below, almost extinguishing part of the fire before the liquid itself vaporizes. There is a brief pause as the flammable vapors spill down over The matting, then a small whooshing sound as the liquid blazes up.

In the machinery room near the top of the Glass House, several panels light up with red strips and there is the siren of the smoke sensors. There is no one on duty to hear. In the basement, Griff Edwards curses his age and weakening kidneys and the blackness of his coffee and goes to the washroom down the hall. When he finishes, he hesitates a moment then climbs to the lobby in hopes that the bulldog edition of the morning paper is now out; the crossword puzzle helps pass away the long hours of the night watch.

The stream of diners to the Promenade Room has lessened for the moment and he stops to talk to Sue. She is a pretty girl with personal problems and Griff is a sympathetic listener; she has little to fear from him and he is flattered by her confidences. In the basement, the heat panels light up a brilliant red and the smoke sensors whine for attention. The direct connection to the Fire Department has buzzed briefly. Then a faulty solder connection has parted and the signal has died.

The trouble light on the panel has been inoperative for a week without detection. The man on monitoring duty who had glanced up at the first signal has gone back to jotting down figures from an endless row of meters, the momentary signal forgotten.

In the room, the beast grasps at the thin streams of liquid and climbs them like a boy going hand over hand up a rope. The pool of liquid on the shelf ignites with a small roar of triumph. Other metal cans make loud banging sounds as their contents overheat and the cans themselves explode. Two more bottles shatter and liquid cascades down over the flaming mats below.

The surface of the shelf is completely aflame now and metal cans are rupturing in a deadly sequence. The shattering of gallon and quart containers sounds like corn being popped for a birthday party. Which, of course, it is.

The beast is now three hours old.