The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 34

The great thing about coming up to Consolidated Distributors Krost thought, was that you could really pick and choose. And the very least any good drinker should be allowed was a choice.

He leaned back in his chair and, bleary-eyed, inspected the ten bottles he had lined up before him on the desk. He had intended only to steal a cheap bottle of brandy; it would never be missed. He doubted that they kept any kind of inventory check on their office samples. But a Whole new shipment of liquor had come in, including a number of brands Krost had never heard of before.

Naturally, the situation needed investigating.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it but it wasn’t much use.

He was drunk, he thought. Too drunk. Daisy wouldn’t let him in the front door and Donaldson would fire him. For a moment he felt tearful and mad: it was a cruel world for Michael Krost.

The moment passed and he glanced down the row of bottles again with a feeling of anticipation. He was very pleased with himself. He reached for the water tumbler, wondering which it should be now…

The Irish whiskey, an off brand with an intriguing amber color, a Kentucky bourbon ill a holiday decanter shaped like a log cabin, or an eight-year-old imported scotch that he bet would cost a fortune in a liquor store.

Well, why not the Irish? He sloshed some into his glass, then realized with dismay that he had been trying it all evening, and now the bottle was empty. No matter; he could hardly put empties back in the display cabinet.

Here’s to me, Mr. Krost, he hummed, then downed the inch or so of whiskey in a few quick gulps. If only old pink-scalp Donaldson was there to see him now…

He had his face in his hands. Conjuring up an image of Donaldson stumbling on him right now really took the edge off the evening. He should be getting back to work; he didn’t like the thought, but Donaldson might very well be looking for him. He glanced at his watch and whistled soundlessly to himself. Donaldson probably was looking for him. Well, if he called, Krost could always think of some excuse.

But then there was the possibility they might meet face to face.

He abruptly felt like crying. Meeting Donaldson face to face wouldn’t be fair, the damned Scotsman would know what he had been doing. It wouldn’t matter what he said…. His mood changed again.

Thinking of Scotsmen, he hadn’t tapped the bottle of scotch yet, had he? Well, he had, but only a little. It deserved at least equal time with the Irish. The bottle was out of reach on the table and he stood up to get it, then immediately sat back down again. That had been a mistake. The whole room had shifted sideways. He’d have to edge over, little bit by little bit.

His fingers closed on the bottle and he dragged it back triumphantly to pour himself another shot. His hands shook so badly that some of the liquor spilled on the table top. Have to get a rag, he thought, glancing around the room. All the Christmas decorations were up and he felt his spirits soaring. ‘Tis the season, he thought.

The one time of the year when he and Daisy declared a truce in their constant bickering. It was the best season of the year, he thought, misty-eyed.

Snow on the ground and a crispness to the air and everybody was happy and there were half a dozen grandchildren to lavish presents on.

And there were Christmas carols on the radio and the Salvation Army people ringing bells and the church chimes … not like the damned sirens he had been hearing half the night.

There were more of them right now. He didn’t like to hear sirens; he didn’t like to think about them at all. They reminded him of something he had been trying to forget, something he didn,t want to remember. Sirens and the sound of people shouting far below and noises like something breaking, actually more like Fourth of July firecrackers, big ones …

He sighed. He better take a look but he had a hunch it would mean more work and that meant running into Donaldson and if there was anything he didn’t want to do right then, it was to run into Donaldson.

He stood up, clutching the edge of the desk for support, then weaved over to a window and looked out.

Smoke was billowing out of windows several floors below; the street was jammed with fire engines and police cars. His hands tightened on the sill; he could feel himself sober for a second.

Memory flooded back now, the incident he had never wanted to think about again… .

The fire in the Melton Building , so long ago. They tried to pin that one on him, but Leroux had stepped in and saved his neck.

He still didn’t know why, at least he wasn’t sure.

He squinted through the smoke and falling snow; he could make out ambulances far below. He caught his breath. There had been people hurt. He started to remember more then, and the panic started to build deep within him.

He turned away from the window and staggered to the office door.

He had to get out, and get out fast. He hurried as quickly as he could down to the elevator bank, occasionally clutching at the corridor wall to steady himself. The smell of smoke grew as the memories that he had tried for a year and a half to repress boiled inside his head.

Damnit, where was the elevator? He leaned against the call button, sweating, trying desperately to think of nothing.at all. Finally one arrived and he half fell into it.

He pressed the button for lobby, then leaned against the wall of the cage, sobbing.

He was almost sober now; the memories rushed back in force. The Melton Building fire was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. He had been relaxing in his combination office-storeroom, his feet up on the desk, reading and absently flicking the ashes from his cigarette on the floor. The storeroom had been dirty-Donaldson had been after him about it-and a streak of oily spill had ignited.

It had gone up fast after that. Almost everybody had gotten off the floor but a . secretary and her young daughter, who was a frequent visitor to her office, had been trapped. The mother had lived; the little girl hadn’t.

Krost had hit the bottle a lot more after that.

Krost leaned back, watching the floor numbers light up across the indicator. The air, he noted subconsciously, was growing uncomfortably warm and the elevator was unaccountably slowing. Nineteen, eighteen-what the hell was wrong? He had punched the lobby button.

The elevator was stopping at seventeen. The cage jarred to a.

halt; the doors whooshed quietly open.

Krost looked out on hell.

Beyond the elevator doors was a solid furnace of flames filling the corridor, black streaks of oily smoke boiling through the sheets of fire. He stared in horror for a second, then frantically hit the “close” button; at the same moment the flames roared into the cage. The blast of heat struck him just as he started to inhale; the air was like hot lead pouring into his lungs. Then, abruptly, there was no more sensation.

The elevator doors oscillated back and forth; the smoke billowed past the electric eye beam holding them open.

Krost tried to scream but there was no air in the dried sacs that had been his lungs. He felt the skin of his cheekbones and nose blistering, his eyelids and lips swelling.

Thick mucus started to dribble from his nostrils.

He pressed the buttons on the control panel one more time, then started pawing at his blinded eyes with swelling hands as his hair and eyebrows burst into flame. He turned his back to the holocaust and sank to the bottom of the elevator, curling up into a ball of agony.

The back of his workshirt and pants browned, then blackened, but Krost no longer felt the heat or the pain of the blisters.

His last memory was that the little girl’s name was Bonnie and he had been very fond of her.