Page 20 of Hot Knot Summer
I drop to my knees, pressing close to the floor. What do they say about fires? Stay low. Get out. Don’t try to save possessions.
But my laptop is in my backpack by the dresser. I can’t leave it.
On all fours, I crawl across the floor where the air is marginally clearer. The summer dress I’d left draped over the chair is within reach. I drag it on over Chad’s t-shirt, not caring that it’s inside out, needing to cover myself. Every movement sends me into another coughing fit, each one more violent than the last.
My backpack. I lunge for it, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline. The hard edge of my laptop presses against me through the fabric. I shove the charger inblindly, then grab Chad’s jacket from where I’d thrown it earlier to cover myself with. The irony of needing something of his to survive isn’t lost on me, even as I’m choking on smoke and terror.
The temperature in the room is rising rapidly. Sweat beads on my forehead, mixing with tears as I struggle to see through stinging eyes. A horrific groan from above drives a spike of pure fear through my chest. I look up as a spiderweb of cracks appears in the ceiling, glowing orange at the edges.
“Oh God,” I whimper, scrabbling backward as embers begin to rain down. My throat feels raw from coughing.
A deafening crack explodes as part of the ceiling gives way, showering the room with burning debris. The heat is sudden and overwhelming, a sensation of standing too close to a bonfire multiplied tenfold. I can feel my skin tightening, my exposed arms prickling with pain.
I scream.
Dread becomes a living thing inside me, clawing at my insides, stealing what little breath I have left. My heart pounds so hard, I can feel it in my fingertips, in my temples. My thoughts fracture, splinter. I don’t want to die, not like this, not here, not alone.
I press Chad’s sleeve over my nose and mouth, hating that his scent might be the last thing I ever smell, and scramble toward the door on hands and knees.
My fingers close around the doorknob, and it’s hotbut not unbearable yet. I twist it, yanking the door open, and the rush of oxygen creates a whoosh behind me that sends me tumbling into the hallway. The fire roars louder, as if angry I’ve escaped its first attempt to claim me.
From here, I find the full extent of the nightmare. The back half of the cabin is ablaze. Flames climb the walls in rippling waves of orange and gold, beautiful in their terrible hunger. The wooden staircase at the end of the hall is already partially consumed.
I have to get downstairs. I have to get out before the whole place collapses.
Every survival instinct screams at me to run, but I force myself to stay low, crawling toward the stairs as quickly as I can. The smoke is thicker here, forming a choking blanket that hovers about three feet from the floor. I pull the jacket tighter around my face, but it does little to filter the poisonous air. Each breath feels like inhaling sandpaper, my lungs protesting with every shallow gasp.
Halfway to the stairs, I’m overcome by another coughing fit so violent, I collapse fully, my forehead pressed against the scorching hot hardwood. Black spots dance in my vision. My backpack suddenly feels impossibly heavy, but I clutch it tighter. If I die here, at least my words will die with me.
Get up. MOVE.
The voice in my head sounds like my grandmother’s, the same steel-spined woman who taught me Omegas weren’t just soft things to be protected butsurvivors. Drawing on some reserve of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I push myself forward.
The staircase looms ahead, partially obscured by billowing smoke. Parts of it are already burning, the lowest section completely engulfed in flames. There’s no way down, the path is blocked by a wall of fire that seems to taunt me with its bright, dancing light.
I back away from the burning staircase, mind racing. Is there another way down? A fire escape? I didn’t notice one when I arrived, too busy wallowing in self-pity over Chad and Megan to pay attention to emergency exits.
Through the smoke and chaos, I hear the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in. Then voices, shouting commands I can’t quite make out.
Someone’s here. “Help m…” I cough out of control.
I turn to see a massive figure forcing a path through the flames, kicking away burning debris, creating a pathway where there was none.
The firefighter is huge, wearing bulky protective gear, face covered by a mask and helmet. There’s something almost supernatural about the way they move through the fire with such purpose, such power.
I wave my arms frantically to draw their attention, my throat ravaged by coughing.
The firefighter’s helmet swings in my direction. Even through the mask, I feel the intensity of his gaze locking onto me. They gesture sharply, pointing at me, then at the floor, stay down, before resuming their determined advance.
With one powerful leap, he vaults over the most damaged section of stairs, landing with a solid thud on the upper hallway floor. The move is so athletic, so unexpected, that for a moment, I forget the danger we’re in. Who is this person? How can he move like that in all that heavy gear?
The firefighter reaches me in several long strides, dropping to a crouch beside me. Up close, he’s even more imposing—broad-shouldered and solid, radiating strength and calm that makes something inside me unclench slightly.
“We need to get out now,” his voice comes through the mask, deep and commanding. “This whole place could go any minute.”
I nod frantically, another coughing spasm preventing speech. The firefighter’s gloved hands move quickly over me, checking for obvious injuries.
“We’re going back down,” he states.
