Down in the hideout, Russell and Sheridon quit talking and stared up at the ceiling. They could hear the floorboards squeaking under the footsteps that pounded throughout Sheridon’s living room, and the deep, muffled voices definitely didn’t belong to Treen and Ariel.
Sheridon crept over to the ladder and climbed to the top, where beneath the trap door, he heard what sounded like clanging tin cans. Suddenly, he sprang off the ladder, pounding his injured shoulder when he thumped onto floor.
“What the heck are you doing?” asked Russell, kneeling next to him. “You coulda broke your neck!”
“That’s a lot better than burnin’ up!”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“I smell gasoline!” he said, springing up. “We gotta find the key to that back door before they torch this place!”
Russell quickly began dumping the baskets of yarn. Sheridon yanked out the messy drawers of the computer desk and flipped everything onto the floor. Frantically, he sorted through the scattered staples, stale mints, papers, coins, and other out of the pocket items.
“I smell smoke!” Russell shouted, balls of pink yarn unraveling in his hands.
Sheridon stood from the mess, dashed over to the ladder, then climbed back up. Russell was right; the smoke was coming from the living room and seeping between the cracks of the trap door. Without the back door key, the only way out was upstairs.
Sheridon unlocked the trap door. If whoever had started the fire was still in the house, he’d have to fight them off. No way was he — or Russell — going to burn alive without a fight.
However, as motivated as Sheridon was to get them out of there, the wall of flames that greeted him when he raised the trap door quickly watered down his aggressive attitude. The fire had consumed the living room and blocked every angle out of the floor. He let the door drop then leaped off the ladder again.
“We ain’t got much time,” said Sheridon coughing as black smoke began to fill the room.
“I looked everywhere for that key!” said Russell flinging his hands up.
“We gotta keep lookin’!” Sheridon shouted, flipping the couch and shaking out the pillows.
After several minutes of furniture hurling, they still hadn’t found the key. Above them, the flames had begun to crackle through the floorboards, causing the hideout to heat up and fall apart.
“Watch out!” Russell shouted, when a section of the ceiling collapsed. They darted to the other side of the room as the flaming floorboards smashed down right where they’d stood. The couch, coffee table, and other burning furniture from upstairs slammed to the hideout floor. Sheridon snatched up a screwdriver from the desk mess, then hurried to the steel door. He jammed the tool between the crack and tried to force it open.
Bulky black smoke swirled out of the flames that squirmed and sizzled throughout the room. Soon, more sections of burning ceiling crashed down and trapped Russell and Sheridon against the wall that housed the steel door. Russell had coughed himself down on one knee, then fell over. Sheridon dropped the screwdriver, grabbed his throat, then collapsed next to him.
Through squinted, watery eyes, Sheridon glanced over at Russell’s silhouetted face; it looked as if Mallyboy had simply fallen asleep in the hideout turned hell. As Sheridon began to fade, a thunderous bang suddenly blared over the other noise and morphed into an excruciating drone. Thinking it was probably the final section of ceiling crumbling down on them, Sheridon glanced over at Russell one last time, sealed his eyes and braced his body for the impact.
Rrrreeeeboom!
However, the only pain Sheridon felt was the sunlight that seeped between his lashes when he cracked his eyes to see what the racket above his head was. The steel door had been ripped from its hinges by Ariel’s rope — and the Humvee that was now dragging the clanging metal slab up the concrete steps!
With the door out of the way, Treen rushed down into the inferno. Sheridon was already trying to stand; she helped him up, guided him out to the stairs, then hurried back and dragged Russell out. Ariel dashed down the steps, tossed Russell over his shoulder, then sprinted back to the top. Treen grabbed Sheridon’s arm and hustled him away from his blazing home toward the Humvee, parked about thirty yards away.
Russell lay stretched out in the backseat. Sheridon staggered to sit up front, but before his neck could limp back to the headrest, he sprang out, scampering near the headlights to vomit. Treen joined Ariel who’d opened a bottle of Hildon mineral water to sprinkle on Russell’s face.
“Will he be okay?” asked Ariel, as Treen felt Russell’s forehead, cheeks and neck. He was so hot that the water warmed as soon as it touched his skin.
“Depends on how much damage was caused by the smoke inhalation. Let’s hope oxygen is the only medication he’ll need.”
“Glad it’s all I need,” Sheridon rasped, wobbling up behind them.
“You feelin’ better?” asked Ariel, patting his back.
“Y’all saved my life — I gotta feel better.” Just then, the remaining section of his house crashed down. Sheridon was so happy to be alive that he didn’t pay much attention to the rubble. “Come on. Let’s get over to Dale’s and take care of Russ.”
Ariel sped toward Dale’s lot. The crisp air swirled through the open windows, relieving Sheridon and Russell’s polluted lungs and circulating the smoky scent from their charred clothing. Treen sat in the back seat with Russell’s head resting on her lap. She continued to pat water on his blackened face and hair, until he finally started to cough and move his head around. When he finally opened his eyes, Treen leaned over to hear what he mumbled.
“Am I dead?” he whispered.
She smiled and shook her head. “No, you’re not dead.”
“Then, gimmie a cigarette.”
“Here’s your cigarette,” she said tilting the Hildon to his lips and pouring it slowly into his mouth.