Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis Page B

flames reaching out from either side as well as the ceiling.
    Strange, I don’t give out. The heat begs every drop of moisture from my skin, but my legs find a way to swap every bit of energy from each muffled breath. The faintness recedes, and I swear I can see farther than I could before.
    At the end of the hall I enter a common area. A T.V. and two couches burn into smoldering semblances of themselves. Still no stairs. I press onward, scanning for flailing arms or other movement in the murky air.
    Past the commons, the walkable path narrows as the fire increases in intensity. The roar, snap, and pop of it fills my ears with an angry white noise. My heart continues to pump and my lungs continue to exchange whatever oxygen is left.
    I barely make out the kitchen and cafeteria before I get to the stairs. The floor beneath is ablaze, as are the rails and underside as they twist around to the second floor. It’s too high of a leap to get across the flames, but otherwise I could hustle up and down the middle of the steps for at least a few more minutes before they’re totally overtaken.
    The kitchen—I race back fifteen feet into a cloudy mix of smoky haze and flames. If I can find a water source to dampen the bottom of the stairs, I might make it up. I stream back and forth for what seems like forever, but it’s really only seven or eight seconds. A hose? No. Buckets? No. Water jugs—yes.
    Near a cooler lie three water jugs, all full. I grab two and somehow they’re lighter than I expect. Back in the hall, I drop them, strip a pocketknife from my belt, and slash around the tops and dump them, splashing across the sizzling floor.
    The flames subside for a moment and then regain half their strength. I leap over them, crashing into the stairs knees first. Scrambling upward, I’m not even aware of my breathing anymore.
    At the top, the hall to the left is impassible. The fire has consumed that portion of the building. I veer to the right, peeking in every room. A motionless body lies on the floor halfway down the hall. I stop to check.
    It has no pulse. The sound of coughing up ahead draws me into the next room.
    Melissa and two others huddle in a corner of the room, eyes floating. None have the strength to stand.
    I don’t stop to talk. I crouch, grab, and heave the first of them over my shoulder. Spinning around, I revert back to what feels like a sprint, but I imagine is a fast walk. I stumble down the stairs, not bothering to leap over the flames at the bottom. The legs of my jeans catch, but I don’t stop. There’s no pain as I move eastward, looking for another exit.
    Pushing farther, the flames lessen and I find myself in a laundry room. The only exit is a window above the countertop. Laying the resident on the floor in a hurried dump, I vault onto the counter and kick my way through the glass, bending the old metal frame in vicious thrusts. Returning to the floor, I heave the resident I now see is an elderly woman onto the counter and then roll her out the window into the bushes.
    I leap out after her, black smoke expelling from my nose and mouth. I shoulder her again and hustle her out far enough from the building that she’ll be safe. A few onlookers sprint over as I turn and head back for the window with my jeans smoking.
    The rush of clean air invigorates the charge inside me as I climb back into the window, leaving the calling voices behind. I race with a renewed sense of purpose back down the hazy hallway with two blankets from the laundry room in hand. These I toss across the bottom of the stairs to suffocate the flames. It works only enough to get me up the stairs again.
    Paint peels and bubbles; I half-expect my skin to do the same as I vault up the steps three at a time. I round the corner and bound down the second floor hall, passing the dead body from before.
    In the last room on the left, Melissa and another orderly lean against the outside wall. They’re both ineffectual in their attempts to