Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis

it.
    After securing the soul, I start the motor and hustle the Camaro back the direction I came. Grimley’s sad little form fades in the rearview.
    By this time events have come to a head in Halgraeve. There won’t be any turning back for anyone involved there; each will have to walk the path he’s chosen. Where those paths cross is the problem.
    The washed-out, sunny waterfront streaks by in hazy blur. Soon I’m past Summerland and into a dull, poorly defined, decaying dreamscape.
    Chalky hills loom in the distance; soggy, water-logged brush hangs morose on either side of the pitted road. It makes for a jarring ride, each defect in the asphalt communicated through the wheels and frame.
    There’s a sleeve at the outermost reaches of this lonely void, a pathway to the physical world. I steer for it like I’ve done so many times before. The sleeve’s foggy lining will draw me into the vacuum within and then slingshot me into the living.
    I hope I’m not too late. Halgraeve is as near hopeless as can be, but there are still good people there. Early on I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t let good people die if I could help it.
    The scorching paradox this produces is one I’m quick to ignore. My function is to usher the murdered into the Upper Territory; innocent or not, I’m not supposed to interfere.
    I wrestle with this often, but where does it end? Where am I supposed to draw the line? I have the power to act when often no one else can. What would the Father have me do? All I have is his directive, passed down from one member of the Fold to another. I don’t have any way of knowing his mind.
    At the horizon, patchy fog hovers as if it’s an impenetrable barrier. It thickens as I near, deep and dense, as the exhaust howls its manic note. In another minute, the fog envelops the car and my vision clouds over. The sensation of being pressed into a narrow opening holds me.
    When I’m at the verge of what feels like passing out, I manifest into the physical world driving headlong through a farmer’s field. Some entrances aren’t as smooth as others. I hammer the gas, tearing ruts in what would normally be impassable snow as the Camaro and I take on physical form.
    Blasting onto the roadway, I guide the screaming vehicle east. The old folks’ home may or may not be on fire already. I knew it was going to burn. I knew it long enough to plan how I’d keep the key people safe.
    Neglected, clapboard homes melt into the rearview as I pass a dawdling motorist here and there. In two minutes time, the skyline betrays the evidence of a burning structure; black smoke wafts over the trees.
    I beckon near limitless power from the Camaro and streak nearer. Rounding one corner to the left, persecuted rubber squeals before I steer back to the right, tail drifting out. I descend upon the outer edge of the parking lot to see that flames suffocate Potter Oaks Senior Care.
    Scanning the lot, I identify the red GMC I expect to see. The man who owns it is no doubt readying himself to head into the inferno if he hasn’t already.
    I exit the car, blending out of the visible spectrum. Making quick work of those dallying around, I locate this man at the forefront of the anxious crowd, his unbuttoned pea coat blown back in wintry gusts.
    He pants and paces, unsettled as he runs a nervous hand across the top of his sandy head. His friend is trapped inside along with a number of other staff and residents. He knows that he can’t find her among those huddled together in the lot and that precious seconds are wasted the longer he waits for the fire department to arrive.
    I stand near and listen to the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his thoughts, and the raging panic that wells inside him. A fellow onlooker suggests those trapped are on the second floor of the east wing.
    The man decides to wait no longer. He sprints off toward the building; those nearby fail to restrain him. His limbs stride in powerful movements as he bears down on