Page 125 of Hot Shot

Something hits my back, and I slam into the ground, my lungs emptying in a whoosh and locking shut. Stars dance across my vision, my mask jammed into the floor. The guys are yelling, but I can’t understand what they’re saying any better than I can see them, pinned down like I am. Their voices are frantic as I feel the weight on me shifting, but never releasing me. I press my palms into the floor and try to push, but whatever’s on me is too heavy.

“I can’t move!” I yell uselessly, panic scratching at the edges of my awareness, my mask clicking, noisy, nonstop.

They’re still shouting and frantic and shoving before one of the beams slides off my back and onto the floor. Relief floods me for a sweet, grateful moment. Until I try to roll over.

My leg is pinned under another set of crisscrossing beams, on top of which is an iron clawfoot tub with a broken toilet in it. When I twist my leg, it moves without pain, but it’s tangled up, my foot caught in something. I can’t free it because of the beam resting against the back of my knee. One inch. One more inch, and my knee would be shattered. Debris falls from the flaming second floor and into the tub. For a long moment, I stare at it while Jake and Tate work with a broken beam they’re trying to use as leverage. Above them, in the gaping hole, what was a bathroom is on fire.

My PASS alarm goes off, shrill and sharp, just like it’s supposed to anytime we’re still for more than thirty seconds. But this time, it’s not an annoyance.

It’s terrifying.

My air pack jackhammers.

Click-click-click-click-click.

I snap back into myself.

We’re out of time.

I see it all from a distance. I know what’s going to happen.

I can save them, at least.

“Hey!” I shout. They don’t hear me. I wave my hands, finally resorting to throwing a chunk of plaster at them. When they turn to me, I wave them over, grabbing Tate by the front of his coat when I can reach him, pulling him until our masks are smashed against each other.

“You’ve got to get out!” I yell over the sound of our clicking packs.

Tate’s eyes are all whites around the edges. He shakes his head. “I’m not fucking leaving you!” The words are muffled and muddy through our masks.

“Tate!Listen to me. We are out of air. You need to get yourself air, get me air, and get some fucking help.”

He’s shaking his head. “I’m not leaving you!”

“You have to.”

“No! I can?—”

“I jerk him, shouting through my teeth, “Tatum. Get us air and get helpright now!That is a fucking order! Go, or we’re all going to die in here.”

Tate blinks, then understands. His face hardens. “I’ll be right back!”

“I’ll be right here.”

He looks at me for a long moment before clapping my arm and standing, grabbing Jake by the elbow. I watch them follow the hose line until they’re swallowed up by smoke.

My radio is chaos, and I hear it for what feels like the first time in hours. The Carterville engine is shouting that they’re almost here. Chief is asking for my status, and I give it to him as best I can, twisting and pulling pointlessly at my leg to see if I can dislodge it.

Click-click-click-click-click.

I untwist to lay out flat on my stomach and think, skip breathing to conserve air. Above me, I hear the fire chewing and grinding through the maw in the ceiling. I feel the heat rising from the hallway. I see the hose and reach for it, but my fingers don’t even graze it. Why the fuck didn’t I have him give me the nozzle? It all happened too fast.

Click-click-click-click-click.

I try to maneuver my leg again, but there’s not enough space without moving at least one of the beams, impossible from where I lay on my belly.

Click-click-click-click-click…

Futility slips over me, sinking into my marrow, cold and quiet. There’s nothing I can do. There is no way for me to save myself.

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