Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis Page A

the nearest door—the only one that isn’t spewing flames.
    I follow, knowing full well he’ll never make it. The structure is a tinderbox, old and conducive to a quick burn. It’s too far gone to allow safe passage at this point.
    Inside the door, visibility falls to a few feet. With a lungful of dirty air, the man stumbles and pukes. He shakes his head once and attempts to run again, this time staying lower.
    Light-headedness threatens to bring him down as he courses along the hallway, and the move to cover his mouth with his shirt is in vain. The smoke will overtake him if I don’t help.
    I draw alongside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulder. The other I reach through his side and into his lungs, expelling the inky smoke. Using myself as a filter, I “breathe” for him, help him to stand, and then race down the hall with him, stride for stride.

Every Last Shred
    February 27 th , 2002 2:51 PM
    Vern Salters sprinting into the burning nursing home
    Am I crazy? It’s a simple question, and the first one that pops into my head as I break into a run. Someone tries to hold me back; they must have seen intent in my face or posture. I twist in a violent shrug to loosen their grip, leaving the crowd of onlookers behind.
    Am I stupid? I might be. The heat smacks into me as I near the flaming structure. I’m not even inside yet. And the smoke—it’s as black as pitch, roiling in thick plumes from the windows. How hard will it be to breathe?
    I told Melissa I’d pick her up from work since her car is in the shop. We had it towed to the garage last night, and then I drove her home. She gave me a tired “thank you” and promised she’d pay me back for the tow.
    Never did I expect to see flames licking the edges of the windows, or a mad rush of staff and residents pouring out from multiple exits. I scoured the pockets of bystanders calling out her name, but I couldn’t find her.
    An orderly nearby tells me she was on the second floor of the wing on the far side of the building. Everyone else on that floor was trapped because there was only one way up and that stairwell was cut off by a wall of fire.
    I didn’t think too hard on that when I started my sprint. Now that I’m nearing the door, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it, but I can’t stop now. How foolish would that look? The hero doesn’t have second thoughts.
    Is that how I think of myself? The hero? It’s kind of a pretentious idea. Maybe that’s the only thing my subconscious could find to motivate me to action. It is a question of motive, after all.
    Yanking open the door, I duck inside knowing full well that some misappropriated adolescent longing has something to do with it. I’ve got history with Melissa; maybe I’ve blown that out of proportion but there’s some sense of obligation I feel is owed for having been so close to her at one time.
    The smoke and stench in the hallway saps those reluctant pangs of debt as quick as my lungs burn. I can’t see more than a few feet ahead and would laugh at how it mirrors my shortsightedness except that I begin to choke.
    I gasp for air, hacking and inhaling the poison. The contents of my stomach find their way up my throat and out onto the marbled tile floor, splattering my boots. Landing hard on my hands and knees, my eyes burn, sting, and gush tears.
    Do I turn and run? No, I couldn’t live with myself. I’ve committed myself this far; I have to try. Standing with my head down, I stumble down the hallway. A faint glow dissolves in the hazy smoke. With it comes the crackle and snap of the flames.
    I lose my balance over and over. Any sense of equilibrium scatters with each lungful. The rippling flames come into view; a fiery gauntlet lies before me. I barely made it this far; it will be hell ten-fold to run through the next length.
    On one knee, I gather myself for what might be my last attempt. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my jacket and then launch myself down the middle of the hall,