Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  I push up on the lid. Hard.

  It barely budges.

  Bourenhem has nailed or maybe even screwed the coffin lid shut. I kick with my legs and feet. But it’s the same story. I’m packed into this box tighter than a sardine in a can.

  Then it dawns on me that I have a gun. Maybe it will be possible to shoot my way out. Or, at the very least, blow a few holes through the pine. If I can manage that, I can make the fire work for me, rather than against me. Maybe between the fire and the bullets, the wood will weaken enough for me to punch and kick my way through it.

  It isn’t easy, but I manage to wrest the pistol from the waistband of my pants. Cocking my wrist so that the barrel is pointed up at the casket lid, I fire a three-shot volley. The bullets blast three big holes in the wood. Big enough for me to make out the fire on the other side.

  I have maybe a few seconds left before I burn. Stuffing the pistol back into my pants, I begin punching the burning lid. I punch hard and fast against the weakened wood, and it begins to break and bulge. Then it shatters into so much scrap. Brushing the burning embers from my face, I gather up all the strength I have left and leap out of the burning coffin.

  Chapter 71

  Heart pumping, brain on fire, I take the stairs two at a time, until I arrive at the top of the landing.

  “Lisa!” I shout. “Anna!”

  The upper floor isn’t burning yet, but the smoke is getting thick, telling me the fire is creeping its way up the walls, and just a moment away from consuming the bedrooms. The revolver poised before me, I pass by the bathroom and then enter Lisa’s bedroom, where I release a breath and lower the .38, try to comprehend what it is I’m looking at.

  I don’t see three people sitting on Lisa’s bed. I see four.

  Lisa, Anna, Victoria, and one more.

  David Bourenhem.

  An unbound and unconcerned Bourenhem peers up at me with wide eyes framed in rectangular lenses, his gasoline-filled Super Soaker resting in his lap. The three females laid out beside him are bound at the wrists and ankles with duct tape. They aren’t reacting to my sudden presence. They seem to be out cold. Dead to the world that burns all around them.

  My beating heart despairs.

  “What the hell have you done to them?” I say, once more raising up the .38, aiming the short black barrel at Bourenhem’s smiling face.

  “Easy does it, bro,” he says without showing even the slightest sign of fear. “First of all, allow me to congratulate you on your heroic escape from the burning-coffin portion of tonight’s program. What a great circus act we are. Second, as for the girls, I’ve injected them with a sedative so that they won’t feel the pain when the flames come for them.” He smiles brightly. “Least I can do.”

  He’s wearing black leather gloves that look similar to my own. The gloves explain why Bourenhem keeps swearing that it won’t be his prints that are found all over the house once the police begin to investigate, but my own. I was here just a few hours ago. My fingerprints can be found downstairs and up.

  Reaching into the breast pocket of his short-sleeve button-down, Lisa’s ex produces an iPhone. He thumbs several commands, then turns the phone around so that I can see what he’s playing. It’s the video I made a short while ago. The video that apparently has just gone viral. I see my face and I hear the words that come from my mouth. I’m talking about David Bourenhem and I’m calling him a criminal. I’m telling the world how he has kidnapped my family, how he’s holding them hostage in Lisa’s parents’ house, how it’s possible he’s already killed my ex-father-in-law with fire and how he could very well kill my daughter. I’m talking about his obsession with Lisa and how all he wants now is to destroy me.

  “You went and did it,” he says with a smile. “You betrayed us all again and, like the true heretic that you are, told the world a pack of lies. Now the police will be here at any moment.”

  “And they’re going to bust your sorry ass.”

  “But don’t you see, my bro? It’s you they will be arresting. When they discover the truth about what you’ve done, what you’ve stolen from me, and how in the end you went crazy because of it, they won’t have any choice but to lock you up forever. Hell, they might even slap you with the death penalty. If only they still burned heretics at the stake.”

  The fire is getting thicker as the flames rising up from the downstairs intensify with each passing second. In the back and front of my mind, I know the garage on the other side of the house is eventually going to ignite and perhaps even blow sky high. But when?

  Burn him! Burn him! Burn Bourenhem!

  Bourenhem pockets his phone, then sets his free hand on top of Anna’s head. He pets her gently.

  “Gonna be a shame to see her burn,” he says, taking on a frown. “You know, I consider her my one and only daughter. I was twice the father you could ever hope to be. You were off half-drunk, or half-crazy, or staring at a blank screen while incessantly flicking your Bic lighter.”

  I thumb back the revolver hammer. “Shut up,” I say. “Shut up or you’re dead.”

  “Sure, shoot me, Reecey Pieces. But you don’t want to shoot me. You want to see me burn so badly you can feel it. Taste it. Burning things is like sex to you. Either way, it won’t change a thing. You stole my book and now you’re going to steal the lives of these precious people. And for what? Your career? Your fortune and fame?”

  “If I stole your story, then why not go public with it years ago? Why go through all this madness?”

  “Who would have believed me? By the time the damage was done, you were the great Reece Johnston, best-selling author of The Damned, and I would have been just another crazy wannabe spreading a false story about how you plagiarized from me. You know how many famous authors have had to appear in court to defend the originality of their precious gems? Even the great one, Papa Hemingway, had to show up in court once.”

  “So you resort to murder.”

  “Not me, cowboy. You.” Cupping his right hand behind one ear. “In fact, what’s that I’m hearing right now? Could that be the sound of police sirens? I think it is.” He slides off the side of the bed, that Super Soaker still gripped in his hand. “Darling artist!” he calls out. “Maybe it’s time we took our leave before this place burns to the ground and the police pull in the driveway. Whichever comes first.”

  Darling artist?

  I hear boot steps on the hallway floor. Turning, I recognize the face and body of a woman I once knew intimately. Rachael, my ex-girlfriend. The woman who broke up with me over my unceasing love for Lisa. Over my burning obsession.

  The question has finally been answered.

  Rachael and David have teamed up to kill me and my family.

  Chapter 72

  “Hello, Heretic,” Rachael says.

  She’s staring into me with piercing blue eyes. Eyes I fell in love with, once upon a time, when getting back together with Lisa seemed like a long-lost dream. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair drapes her narrow face, and the thick gray turtleneck she wears with her jeans makes her already tight, pale face even tighter. Like it’s about to implode at any moment.

  “How’s it feel to be paying for your sins?” she adds.

  “Never took you for the religious type, Rache,” I say, my .38 still aimed at Bourenhem, the heat, smoke, and noise from the fire creeping its way up the walls from the first floor and growing stronger by the second. She raises her red-gloved left hand and points an automatic at me. Another surprise, since Rachael abhors guns of all kinds. But like an old firearms pro, she keeps the muzzle leveled at my torso as she brushes past me on her way to the spot where Bourenhem sits beside my girls. “And would you look at that?” I go on. “A proud new member of the NRA. Wow, you’ve really changed, Rache. You still painting? Or you give that up for target shooting at the gun club?”

  “On the contrary, Heretic. I’ve been painti
ng lots and lots, now that you aren’t around to suck the life from me.”

  Rachael never could get used to balancing a love affair with her desire to make art. She always felt that by spending too much time in her studio, she would be leaving me alone to my devices, which, in her mind, had to include my seeing other women. But nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Rachael the artist.

  It hits me then. The chalkboard drawing at Lisa’s house.

  “That was your work on Lisa’s chalkboard,” I say, recalling the earring I found stuck inside Anna’s piano lesson book. Rachael’s earring. “My head getting blown to smithereens. My God, Rachael, you haven’t lost your touch. Christ, I should have recognized your style.”

  “Cut the chatter, Reece,” she says. “Case you haven’t noticed, the house is burning down all around us.”

  “Fire doesn’t bother me. Remember?”

  “Yes, how could I forget? Fire gives you a major hard-on.”

  My eyes shift in turn from Bourenhem to my family laid out on the bed to Rachael.

  “What is it you want,” I ask her, “besides being convicted of multiple first-degree homicides like your psycho friend, David, here?”

  She laughs bitterly. “Psycho? That’s turning the tables just a little now, isn’t it?”

  “My psychosis is entirely under control. Unlike yours, apparently. So how are your hands feeling after beating the crap out of him this afternoon so that it looked like I went ballistic on him?”

  She lifts up her free hand, makes an arcing, sweeping gesture with it.

  “My hands are just fine,” she says. “Brass knuckles will do wonders when utilized properly. But this burning house proves that your pyromania is alive and well and not so fine.”

  I could argue that the equally pyromaniacal Bourenhem just torched Alex to death, but the war of words is getting old and the fire is growing deadly.

  “I’ll say it again, Rachael. What the fuck do you want from me? Quickly. Before we all die in a particularly uncomfortable way.”

  “I want an apology.”

  Jesus, not again. Not another apology. Have she and Bourenhem scripted their dialogue together? Maybe that’s what they were doing up inside his apartment earlier this evening.

  The sirens are in the near distance now. The smoke that’s been rising up from the downstairs is growing so thick it’s getting nearly impossible to breathe. Lying on the bed unconscious are three generations of Reynolds women. If they breathe in enough of the toxic smoke and fumes, they will die in their sleep, just like Bourenhem said they would.

  “That’s what you want? An apology?” I say. “That’s what your friend wanted.”

  I shoot David another glance. He smiles, runs the tips of his fingers up and down the smooth plastic of the Super Soaker, like it’s his little baby. Turning back to Rachael, I see that she’s staring at me, unblinking. Staring into me.

  “Apologize for betraying me,” she insists. “You already apologized to him. Now it’s my turn.”

  “We’re all going to die together inside this house,” I say.

  Sirens. Sirens, smoke, and now flames rising up the wall to my left, which tells me the fire has crept up the vestibule staircase and entered the second-floor hallway.

  “Then we all die in this house,” she says. “Apologize for betraying me, Heretic. Betraying us all.”

  I steal another glance at Bourenhem, my gun trained on him while Rachael’s is trained on me, that big smile still planted on his face like he’s looking forward to burning to death. I feel the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes along with the smoke, making them sting. The smoke invading my mouth and nostrils is causing the back of my throat to feel like it’s disintegrating in acid. Behind me, out in the hall, the fire is rumbling, sizzling, singing, getting ready to roar. What the hell choice do I have?

  “I’m sorry, Rachael. I never meant to hurt you.”

  That’s when the garage explodes.

  Chapter 73

  The entire Reynolds mansion shudders.

  Rachael falls backward into a giant fissure that’s suddenly appeared in the portion of floor directly behind her as the wooden bearing beam underneath splits in two across its center. My feet slip out from under me and I go down onto my back, the .38 dropping out of my hand on impact. The entire garage side of the house disappears like a giant claw has ripped it away. Rachael vanishes into the smoke-filled, burning rubble while the bedroom floor assumes a sharp angle downward. Bourenhem rolls out of the bed, but somehow the three girls are still planted on the mattress.

  Bourenhem is down on his knees. He lunges for the gun, grabs it with his left hand. Reaching out with my right, I grab hold of his left wrist. But it’s all wrong because the muzzle is pointing at me, its blackness filled with death. I shift my head sharply to the left at the precise moment he triggers off a shot.

  Rising up onto my knees, fighting for balance against the severe angle of the floor, I slam his hand and the gun it holds onto the floor. The gun pops out. He lunges forward, head-butts me in the face. I rear back, spin around, and drop down onto my chest, my head pounding and spinning, electric-white stars flashing before my eyes. He’s on me then, sticking two fingers up into my nostrils, yanking my head around and punching me in the face. One driving punch after the other. His hands must be breaking as his fisted, gloved knuckles make contact with the bones in my face and head. I never would have guessed he had so much fight in him.

  “My book!” he screams. “My book. The one thing that was mine.” Another slam to my face. “You stole it from me. You stole my fucking life!” Another. “So I took Lisa. So you’d suffer whenever you thought of me fucking her.” Another.

  He keeps on hitting me; he’ll beat me to death before I burn him to kingdom come. Or maybe not. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fire creeping up what’s left of the bedroom wall. It’s spreading along the now-angled bedroom floor, the carpeting catching fire. The room is going to flash and when it does, all of us are dead. I need to get Bourenhem off of me, but I can’t move myself. He’s beaten me. He’s exacted his revenge, even if that revenge will result in his own suicide.

  But then suddenly he stops punching me. Heaving out a breath, he reaches down with his bloody hand for the .38. I’m paralyzed and powerless to do anything about it as he picks the piece up off the angled floor and presses the short, hot barrel against my forehead.

  “Own it,” he whispers, his voice almost inaudible against the roar of the fire that is now consuming the entire bedroom floor, walls, and ceiling. “Just say it. You stole my manuscript.”

  I look into his black, eyeglass-covered eyes. Eyes that reflect the fire. His thick black hair is sticking up in two separate waves above each earlobe, his mouth gaping open, exposing two sharp incisors. I know he is going to kill me. But I don’t intend on meeting my maker having lied as my final act on earth.

  “Go to hell,” I say, at the exact moment David Bourenhem bursts into flames.

  Chapter 74

  His scream comes from a place buried so deep inside his tortured soul that it sounds almost inhuman. His eyeglasses melt off his face, the black plastic running down his nose and lips. Then his facial skin shrivels and shrinks as it burns and melts from his skull. The gun drops from his hand, the black glove and the skin that covers the bones on his hand still grasping it. His arms retract, his still intact hand forming a fist as he falls to the side and assumes a fetal position while the fire consumes his flesh entirely.

  Leaning up, I gaze upon the bed, and I see that Lisa has somehow sat herself up. She’s got Bourenhem’s Super Soaker gripped in both her hands. The effects of the sedation must have worn off. She must have then somehow come free of the duct tape and fired the gasoline spray directly at her ex’s back.

  The fire surrounds us.

  If we don’t all exit the bedroom
right now, we’ll all burn up just like David.

  “We need to go!” I shout above the roar of the encroaching flames, my energy and will to live suddenly restored.

  “Where?” Lisa screams, looking wildly around us. “The flames!” She’s right. They’re surrounding us. We’re trapped inside a broiler oven.

  “We have to try,” I shout while ripping away the duct tape that binds Anna’s ankles and wrists. “Try and wake your mother, Lisa,” I add, grabbing Anna in my arms and then placing her in a fireman’s hold over my right shoulder so that her chin rests against my back.

  Lisa tosses the Super Soaker to the floor and tears away the duct tape that binds her mother. Using my free hand, I grab hold of Victoria’s left hand and pull her up and off the bed. She’s so unsteady from the toxic fumes and the sedative that she would fall back onto the bed if not for me holding on to her.

  “Grab her other hand, Leese,” I say, “and do what I do.” That’s when I pull us all through the curtain of flame in the bedroom doorway.

  The hallway is burning, but it’s not entirely engulfed in flame.

  “The staircase is on fire,” Lisa cries. “We won’t make it.”

  Like the hallway we’ve just entered, only one side of the staircase is on fire.

  “Hug the right-hand railing and go down fast,” I insist, letting go of Victoria’s hand. “You can make it. You hear me, Lisa? You and your mother can make it. You have to make it. No choice.” Then, sliding Anna off my shoulder and settling her into both my arms, I cradle her like she’s still a baby. She’s semiconscious now and agitated, trying to free herself from my tight hold. “Listen, Anna, we have to make a run through the fire. I do not want you to breathe. You understand? When I give you the order, I want you to close your mouth and your eyes, and don’t breathe in. You got it? Do not take a breath.”