by Emilia Finn
“She does a little bit,” I rumble. “For right now, she does. Max?” I shout his name and search for the slightest movement. A shift in the darkness. A flurry of smoke. “Mazzi, come out, bud! This isn’t a game.”
“Max!” Cootes searches the space beside me. “Come out, kiddo. You don’t have to be scared.”
“He probably won’t call out,” I tell her. “And there’s the possibility he’s listening to music too, to help his nerves.”
“Jesus,” she hisses. “So he might not hear us calling? And even if he does, he probably won’t shout back?”
“Yep,” I grit out. “So don’t overlook any place. Idalia was right to start up here. It’s his home. His safe space. But we need to be fast, because we have five more floors after this.”
“Alright, Lew.” Cootes’ eyes narrow in the darkness and peer into the corners. “One floor at a time, fast but thorough.”
“This is more than a regular search,” I growl. “This is my family.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I know.”
For just a moment, our eyes meet, terror and helplessness pulse between us. Because this isn’t just a regular job, and Max isn’t a regular person stuck inside a building.
But knowing that giving in to the helplessness will only make the search harder, my crewmate nods and forces a tight grin. “We’ve got this. You can count on me.”
“Good. Let’s get it done.”
22
Idalia
Hatred Pulses Deep
I scream at my captors until my throat bleeds, and when they let down their guard for even a moment, I bolt from my place at the back of Mitchell’s ambulance, and race straight toward the Oriane’s front doors.
I can’t be out here while Max and Nixon are inside. I can’t sit outside in the fresh air and wait. I can’t be a spectator tonight; not when my entire world is inside these doors.
I sprint in heels, run straight out of them, and because of my long strides, the split in my skirt tears further. My hair sticks to my face, to my tears, and though my throat aches, it still allows the passage of the oxygen I need to make the trek at lightning-fast speed.
And yet, my feet lift into the air when a strong pair of arms swings me around.
“Let me go!” I tear at my abductor’s arms. His hands. I draw blood with my nails, and bruise legs when I kick out. I resemble a snarling, snapping, mongrel dog who’s spent its life killing other dogs… because the alternative would be to die myself. “Let me go!”
“You can’t go in there!” Mitchell’s gruff voice filters through my ear. He’s stronger than he appears, determined to keep me safe. “You’re not allowed.”
“That’s my family in there!”
“It’s mine too!” he roars and turns to carry me back to the ambulance. “You think I’m okay standing out here while he’s in there? Do you think I fuckin’ like it?”
“Obviously,” I scream above the thunder of hoses… of trucks… of firefighters shouting orders at each other. “You let him go in there every day. You don’t care!”
“I care.” Mitchell tosses me into the back of his ambulance with an exhausted huff. He’s bleeding, his shirt is torn, his jaw bruised… From my head? But he stands at the back of the van and folds his arms. “I care so fucking much that I know if you go in there, you kill all three of you.”
Another paramedic comes to stand beside Mitchell. Stony-faced and sorry for doing what he has to, he folds his arms too and imprisons me inside a brightly lit bus.
“Nixon needs his head in there,” Mitchell snarls. “His job is dangerous. We both know that! He has to concentrate on keeping himself safe so he can find Max. What he doesn’t need is a screaming fucking mom running into more danger.”
“That’s my son in there! I’m not a screaming mom, I’m his mom! Max needs me.”
“Max needs to be found! And he needs to be found fast. You going in there will only slow things down.”
“But I’ll be able to find him.” Sobbing, I press a hand to my stomach. “In my gut, I know I’ll be able to find him.”
“And in my gut, I know if you go in there, you’ll be the reason my brother dies. Stay put, shut up, and let us do our job!”
“Mitchell!”
My head snaps around at a familiar face, then my crying starts anew when Nadia throws herself past the two men guarding me, and into the ambulance.
“Idalia.” Nadia drags me against her chest and crushes me into a hug. “Are you okay?”
“No!” I shove her back and point a hand toward the hotel. “My son is in there, and they won’t let me inside!”
“You have to stay out here.” She brushes hair back off my face with shaking hands. Tears stream over her cheeks, and her jaw quivers. “You have to let them do their job.”
“You’re just like them.” I push away from her hold and again approach my guards. “There are other people here who need your help. Let me go!”
“You’re the only person here with the power to kill half a dozen firefighters,” Mitchell snarls. “If you stay right here, safe and quiet, then those firefighters,” he points toward the Oriane, “will be fine. But if you go in there and get lost, then my brother dies, and his crew dies. Then I die. Then Nadia. And Arlo. And Troy, and Corey, and everyone else we know, all because we’re looking to get our family out. You’re not going in there.”
Helpless, I glance around the inside of the ambulance in search of a weapon. A threat. A way out.
“It’s not happening,” the other paramedic, Luc, says. “And if you continue to be a problem, then they’ll have to arrest you. Putting first responders at risk is a crime, Ms. Mazzi. Sit down, calm down.”
My heart hammers, faster than I ever thought possible without it exploding. My eyes see everything, but nothing at all. My lungs fill to capacity, and yet, somehow, I’m still breathless.
My vision dims from the surges of worry and adrenaline, from the pain of needing my son, needing him safe. But when a loud boom comes from the Oriane and shakes the ground, tears fill my eyes, and vomit splashes into my hands.
“Shit.” Mitchell jumps forward and presses a sickbag over my mouth. He rubs my back while I throw up, while rivers of red and stomach acid fill the bag. But he watches the Oriane too, and the mushroom of fire that erupts from the top floor.
That’s my home, my son, and my love. All wrapped up in one blaze of red and orange.
23
Nixon
“Cootes?” I shout into the darkness. “Cootes, where are you?”
“I’m okay, Lew.” I catch sight of her reflective uniform flashing off my swinging light. “Over here!”
“We gotta keep moving.” I push to my feet and ignore the ache in my side after falling. An explosion on the level above us—Idalia’s level—dropped us quicker than when we fell from a plane with the hotshots. “That was gas, right?”
“It was somethin’!” Cootes jumps to her feet, sways to the left, but manages to straighten herself out and come to me. “There were no flames, Nixon! Where the fuck is this coming from?”
“The walls?” I ponder. “It must be in the walls.”
“So… electrical?” She speaks into her radio. “Command, is it in the walls? There’s too much smoke, but before that boom, there were no flames.”
“Copy that, Cootes. It’s an old building. Could be faulty wiring.”
“She just had the place redone,” I counter and restart my search.
There’s no reason Max should be in any of the guest rooms, but not searching them would be stupid. So squaring up at a door and testing the handle, I kick the wood in and splinter it at the lock with my boot.
“Checking guest quarters on the west side,” I report into my radio. “Where’s Idalia?”
“I’ve got her,” Mitchell rumbles. “She’s not coping.”
“She’s gonna have to. I’m doing my best.”
“She’s gonna get herself arrested,” Luc says next. “She’s not gonna s
tay put.”
“I don’t care if you have to toss her into the back of a police cruiser. If I find out she got away, which’ll mean I have two people to search for, then I’m gonna kill someone. Lock it down out there and keep her the fuck away.”
“Doin’ our best,” Mitchell argues. “Have you never met her? She’s a fuckin’ viper.”
“Yep, I know. Which is why you need to stay on guard. Command, checking the bathroom now.”
“Copy that, Lieutenant.”
“Cootes?” I call out. My eyes search the darkness, the closets, the towel hamper, and even the bathtub. “You gotta go to the next room. We need to move faster.”
“Gotta stay on your six, Lew. It’s procedure.”
“Procedure ain’t gonna cut it today! We can both search the same space and take twice as long, or we can halve the work and get the fuck outta here with a little boy who hasn’t died of smoke inhalation.”
“Shit! Fine.” Grunting, Cootes swings away so I’m left all alone in the darkness and smoke… and I peer into every tiny corner in search of a pair of Paw Patrol shoes… or a Walkman… or a soccer ball. Any fuckin’ thing to show me he’s been here.
“Max!” I toss the bed in the main bedroom, peek inside the closet, then rush to the living area and flip the couch. Kitchen cabinets. Dishwasher. Fridge. “Max, where are you?”
“Next room is clear,” Cootes’ voice comes through my radio. “He’s not in here.”
“Be thorough!” I shout back. “Don’t miss something obvious.”
“Doin’ my best, Lew! Max. Come out, kiddo. It’s the fire department. We’re here to help you.”
“Max!” I rush out of the room and dash into the hall for the next. Boot up, knee high, I crash through the door, only to rush away again from hungry, licking flames. “We got a room already lit up here, Command. There’s no life in here. It’s not impossible.”
“Move to the next level,” Rizz orders over the radio. “Don’t waste time on a room where it ain’t possible.”
“What if he’s in here?”
“Then he’s already gone!” Rizz shouts back. “If you go in there, you’re gone too. Move it along. Search the rest.”
“Get some hoses on this side! Bring them around.”
“Already moving them,” he answers. “We’ve got two more engines en route. They’re coming in from next door.”
“We need to soak this place and find the source of the smoke. It’ll keep spreading if we don’t.”
“You work on finding the kid,” Rizz demands. “We’ll work on the fire. Copy that?”
“Copy.”
With one last glance for the lit room, I mark the wall so everyone knows we’ve already been here, then I close my eyes and turn away.
If anyone was in here, they’re already dead. And with the door already locked when I arrived, the chances of Max choosing this one room to hide in are low.
That’s what I have to tell myself to have the strength to walk away.
“Level four,” Cootes announces. “Looks like a function room. Should make it easier.”
“Kitchens in the back,” I tell her. “Don’t overlook the kitchens, the bathrooms, or the industrial fridge.”
“Got it, Lew. Keep pushing. We’re getting closer.”
Yeah. But closer to what? Finding out we’ve missed him somewhere upstairs? Finding out we’ve walked right by him? Finding out that he’s gone to sleep on a bed somewhere, with his headphones on and his blanket pulled up high to hide from the scary fire?
“Lieutenant! This is Command. You need to slow your breathing.”
Closer to finding Max at the bottom of the stairs, having run from the fire, but stumbling on his way down? Closer to finding him suffocated in a fucking fridge, airtight, and impossible to open from the inside?
“Lieutenant! Slow it down, or we’re gonna pull you.”
“Lew!” Cootes stops in front of me, only a foot away, though still hidden amongst thick smoke. She grabs my shoulders and shakes hard enough to bring my gaze to hers. “Wake up or tap someone else in.”
“What?” I look around in a daze. The ballroom, the tables and chairs, and at the front of the room, the podium Idalia once stood behind to announce the grand opening of her hotel.
This is the room I first saw her in, the room I first spoke to her in, and in turn, where I heard her speak. It’s the room I made an idiot of myself in, and later, watched her walk in a gown that made my mouth water.
This is the room it all began in, and now it’s all gone. It’ll burn to the ground before morning, no matter how hard the crew outside fights the flames. This room will never again host a party… or a meeting of two souls. It’ll never again be a space for a couple of Rosas to look like douchebags in an attempt to gain the pretty server’s attention.
It was soon after that this became the room I followed Idalia from, and discovered she had a child. From my interest circling only a single, beautiful woman, to it then enveloping mother and child. A package deal, a duo that won’t be separated.
“Where are you, Max?” Tears burn my eyes and make it harder to see. “You can’t leave us now. We’re not ready.”
“You’re gonna have to send someone else up,” Cootes says into her radio. “He can’t focus.”
Angrily, my eyes swing to hers and narrow. “What was that?”
“We’re swapping you out, Lew. Getting some fresh eyes up here.”
“The fuck you are.”
With renewed energy, I push around her and start searching under tables. I whip back glossy white tablecloths and check under every single one I pass.
“Max! Come out right now! This isn’t a fucking game.”
“Don’t sound angry, Lew. No kid is gonna run toward an angry dude.”
“Max!” I whip another tablecloth back, and when I find underneath empty, I tear the cloth from the table and send dishes shattering against the ground. “Mazzi! Come out right now. I need to find you. I’m worried about you.”
“Max?” Cootes does the same as me, whips tablecloths up, then moves on when she finds the space empty. “Come out, little buddy.”
I stomp to the next table, flick the material back, and send plates to the floor when Max isn’t hiding here. “Maximo? Come out. I need your help.”
“Max?” Cootes works in rhythm with me. “Where are you?”
“Speed it up, you two,” I hear over the radio. “The fire above you is gettin’ angry. Do you copy?”
I glance up and watch on as black scores the ceiling. Fire eats away at the floor above, the carpet fueling the blaze as though Idalia laid streamers of gasoline instead of carpet fibers.
“Cootes!” I shout to her from ten feet away. “Watch out above. It’s gonna give soon.”
“Move faster!” she shouts. She tugs up tablecloth after tablecloth after tablecloth. Not there. Not there. Not there. “I’m gonna check the kitchen! You finish in here.”
“Yup!”
I run from table to table. Tear the cloth and all it holds to the floor, then I move to the next. Three tables left. Two.
“Cootes?”
“I’m searching,” she pants. Running from space to space. “I can’t see him anywhere in here.”
My eyes lock on the final untouched table. My heart pounds with anticipation. With want. With hope. I approach it slowly, terrified of what I might not find.
“All clear in here,” Cootes says. “Coming out.”
I stop in front of the last table, my tongue coming out to moisten my dry lips. Holding my breath, I whip the cloth away and toss it to the side, then I drop into a crouch and search for the boy. For my boy.
My heart splinters away from my chest when I find the space empty.
“He’s not here.” The ache is real, the disappointment, and on top of that, grief. “He’s not h—”
“Not in the kitchen either.”
I glance up at Cootes’ movement in the same doorway where I once accosted Idalia. The swing
ing doors. The IN/OUT lettering so no one collides and drops expensive trays of food.
My eyes meet Cootes’ from at least thirty feet apart, across the darkness, the smoke. The impossibility of seeing that far means nothing when, in this moment, the smoke parts enough that our gazes meet. Then movement to my left catches my attention. The podium. The stage and curtains that once shielded Idalia.
Without thinking, I race toward the podium, toward the platform, and skidding onto my knees, I shove the wooden structure around to find the hollow I never knew it had. And inside that hollow, a little boy, folded up at an impossibly tight angle, his arms and legs crossed, his hands covering the headphones he wears on his ears, and his eyes closed.
“Max!” Tears of relief burst from me like an overfull dam. Adrenaline floods my body so my hands shake and my vision turns strange, but I scoop the boy from the floor and crush him to my chest.
His eyes whip open mid-flight, and when I hold him close, his arms swing around my neck and clutch me so that he cuts off my air. But when he gasps, instead of breathing out a sigh of relief because he was found, Max chokes on the polluted oxygen that fills this room.
“Hold on, bud.” I hold him close and shakily reach for a piece of cloth. Any cloth. When my eyes land on a fabric napkin laying on the floor, I swoop in and scoop it up. “Hold this here. Max?” I press it to his mouth and wait for his glassy eyes to come to mine. “Hold this here. Cootes!”
“You got him?” she shouts. “Lew?”
“I got him. Let’s go.”
“Fuckin’ A.” She breaks away from the kitchen doorway and bolts toward the tables, skidding around tossed chairs, and gliding over broken dishes. Cootes’ eyes shine with a smile as she hurdles half the room on a cheer of delight.
I race toward the exit with Max pressed to my chest. He continues to cough, continues to choke, but I can’t help him until I get him out. I can’t do shit except carry him to safety.