Her own screams echoed in her ears.
Help me, somebody help me get my sister. The flames rose around them in angry tongues, unforgiving, unrelenting.
Jerking back to the present, Ivy tried again to roll over. A collage of dark smoke and gray shadows danced in her vision. She had to reach the radio in her pocket, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The space grew hotter with every passing second. She knew it, she could feel it, the junk all around her inching closer and closer to ignition.
It would be simultaneous.
And deadly.
Flashover.
Again, Ivy struggled to wriggle loose, to free herself from the enormous weight that smothered her. Pain coursed through her head and shoulder. Somewhere from the vicinity of her pocket, she heard a shrill alarm sound on her radio. Then there was nothing but heat as the blackness enveloped her.
Black smoke swelled in graceful scallops as it climbed in a thick column against the midday sun, mirroring the excitement that rose in her gut. Two-story structure fire, flames showing. Perfect.
Ivy could see the thrill in Jeff’s face, too, accentuated by the strobing lights of the fire truck. “Finally, some action. My wife says I’ve been moping around because things have been so quiet. She offered to go out and set something on fire for me.”
She laughed, tucking her razor-cut bob of sandy hair behind her ears as they both hopped down from the truck and jogged with their captain to meet Battalion Chief Adrienne Strong, who was already barking orders to the guys on the first engine. She looked small under her helmet and turnouts, but her brown eyes shone fiercely beneath a fringe of hair.
“Got a report of a victim trapped inside.” She stabbed a finger at a member of the crowd that was massing on the sidewalk. “A witness says he saw the owner enter the building an hour ago. He’s short, a little nuts, goes by the name of Cyril. Nobody saw him come out.”
Why did the name Cyril ring a bell? Ivy looked closely at the structure, which now had flames flickering through the upstairs windows. She could see outlines of boxes and furniture, stacked floor to ceiling. If the view was any indication, there would be only a small trail of usable space weaving throughout all the garbage. She sighed. “Oh, man. It looks like a Habitrail. He’s got enough junk to start his own flea market.”
She buckled on the ax belt, waiting for the captain to turn off the utilities. Her muscles tensed in anticipation, fingers itching to put on the mask and get inside. Instinctively she looked around for Antonio, larger than life in his turnouts. Then she remembered. Antonio moved on, Ivy. You better do the same.
When the captain gave the thumbs-up, Ivy started toward the structure.
“Wait, Beria.” Strong talked again into the radio. “This is going to be ugly with all that garbage in there. Let’s get it ventilated first. Help them work the front door. Jeff, see if you can get any of those witnesses to confirm we have a victim in there.”
Ivy joined the two firefighters who were attacking the front door with a pry tool. The door was heavy oak, and though they heaved with all their strength, the wood gave up only reluctantly. They alternately pushed the bar and kicked at the wood with their booted feet until the wood gave with a final groan. Clouds of blackness surged out, forcing them back.
She returned to the chief in time to hear Jeff’s report.
“No one can corroborate the story. The owner is apparently some kind of eccentric.”
“No kidding,” Ivy muttered.
Jeff raised his voice to be heard over the hum of the pumper and the whoosh of water thundering through the hose. “His schedule is erratic. No one saw him come out, but they weren’t looking, either.”
They watched as a firefighter, barely visible except for the flash of the fluorescent tape on his turnouts, moved past them at the nozzle end of the two-hundred-foot hose, his captain behind, sweat already coating their faces under the breathing apparatus. Ducking as low as they could manage, the two made entry.