The Rebuilding Year

by Kaje Harper

  He was bending over his monthly budget report, when he heard a sound from the hallway, his door clicked, and then he was grabbed from behind. He smiled and turned in Ryan’s arms. “Hey, you’re here late today.”

  “Yep. I needed some library time, and I figured you could give me a ride home.”

  “You bought that new car, and it sits in the driveway.”

  “I like riding in with you in the mornings. And the car eats gas.”

  “So does my truck.”

  “Yeah, but you pay to fill up the truck.”

  John glanced at the closed door, and then kissed Ryan firmly. “I like having you around too.”

  “Funny how that works.” Ryan returned the kiss, slowly and more thoroughly. “Does that door happen to lock?” He rubbed his pelvis against John.

  “I’m not having sex in my office,” John said firmly.

  “No?” Ryan’s mouth was warm and rough on his neck, teeth scraping over stubble.

  “Um, no.” Okay, that didn’t sound very convincing.

  “You’re sure?”

  He wriggled loose and stepped back. “I told Mark to call if his band practice ran late. He might come by.”

  Ryan smiled. “Okay. I can wait. Some.”

  John pulled out his cell phone to check for missed calls, and to help himself resist the temptation to wipe that smile off Ryan’s face in the best way. I wonder if this floor is too hard for him to kneel on. There were no messages on his phone, but it rang as he was pocketing it.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Hey, Mark.”

  “Dad.” His son’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I need help.”

  John glanced over at Ryan and toggled the phone to speaker. “What’s wrong?”

  Ryan stepped to his side to listen.

  “He’s out there, with a gun. And he’s burning stuff!” Despite the words, Mark’s voice was hushed.

  “What! Who? Where are you?”

  “Dr. Crosby’s lab. I think it’s him. Dad, I’m scared.”

  “Look,” Ryan said clearly. “If someone has a gun, you need to call 911, now!”

  “He might hear me.” Mark barely breathed. “I think he shot Patrick.”

  Ryan snatched his own cell phone out, and was dialing 911 even as John said very softly, “What building are you in? Where’s the lab?” He glanced at Ryan, and they hurried out of the office.

  “I think it’s Smythe,” Mark whispered. “I’m on the sixth floor.”

  “That’s probably right. Smythe has seven floors.” John yanked open the stairwell door, with Ryan right behind him. “Mark, we’re coming

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mark moaned. “He’s lighting the walls on fire.”

  “You need to get out of the building, Mark,” Ryan said urgently toward the phone in John’s hand.

  “I can’t. He’s right out there.”

  John flicked another look at Ryan. They were climbing the basement stairs, and he’d automatically slowed to Ryan’s pace. Ryan put his own phone to his other ear, and said, “I want to report an emergency, fire.” John ground his teeth. Smythe was two buildings over.

  “Go,” Ryan said to him. “I’ll catch up. I’m on with 911.”

  John ran, taking three stairs at a time.

  The back door to get outside from Croft Hall had been bolted for the night. He had to pause to wrestle it open, and left it swinging behind him for Ryan. The paths were ice-free, and he charged flat-out toward the looming bulk of Smythe Hall.

  It was late enough that the sky was fully dark, and the streetlights were on. The windows up in Smythe were all dark, at least on this side. No one working late in a lab. No fire to be seen, either.

  “Stay safe,” John told Mark into the phone pressed to his ear. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Patrick ran out, and Crosby went after him,” Mark said on a soft breath. “I heard popping, like shots, and then he…Dr. Crosby came back. I’m behind the lab counter by the windows. He’s out in the other room, between me and the door. He’s got, like, a fireplace lighter or something. He’s muttering to himself and setting things on fire.”

  It didn’t make any sense. Doesn’t matter for now. John focused on the essentials. “Is there another door you can use to get out?”

  “No.”

  “The window?”

  Mark’s whisper was panicked, “I’m on the sixth floor. And I don’t think they open.”

  “You can always break one.”

  “He’d hear me. It’s too high!”

  “I’m coming,” John said. “I’m almost there. Where on the sixth floor? Where’s the lab? What do you see out the window?”

  “I’m hiding on the floor. I don’t want to stand up. I don’t see anything. I don’t even know which side of the building this is.”

  “I’m at the front door.” John reached out. He expected the door to be locked, but it opened to his pull. For an instant he hesitated, wondering if he should make a quick run around the building, to look for the lighted lab. Fuck it, I’ll find it from inside. He stepped in. The lobby was dark, even for after hours. Only the emergency lighting was operating. The air felt heavy and still, as if the power was off.

  The elevator was just to the left of the main entrance. John stabbed at the button, and then paused. In case of fire, do not use the elevator. In any case, the button stayed dark. He whirled and headed for the nearest stairs. The heavy metal door creaked as he pulled it open. The staircase was dim, lit by red exit lights, and as he pounded up the first flight, there was a faint scent of smoke. But there was also silence, no alarms, no sprinklers.

  “Mark, talk to me,” he said, swinging around the post and up the next flight. He had to press the phone to his ear, as suddenly the klaxons of a fire alarm began to go off.

  “Dad.” He could barely hear Mark. “The alarm started. I can’t tell if he’s still out there.”

  “Do you have sprinklers?”

  “No. No water. Just noise.”

  “Can you peek out and see if he’s still there, carefully?” He passed the third-floor landing and headed for the fourth.

  “I think he’s gone, but there’s so much fire.”

  John was concentrating on his son’s voice, and barely stopped in time to avoid tripping over a crumpled form on the landing between the third and fourth floors. “Damn!” He knelt beside the body to look closer. It was the kid from the band, Patrick. He lay face down, dark blood pooling on the floor under him.

  John bent over the boy. The dim light made it hard to see, but Patrick lay still as death. His eyes were closed. John was reaching for a pulse when the kid groaned and moved an arm.

  “I’ve found Patrick,” he told Mark over the phone. “He’s on the stairs.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.” Not yet. Move him? Don’t move him? Patrick flailed his arm and slid a knee, arching as if trying to turn and get up. John caught him, easing the boy down onto his back. Blood soaked the front of his sweatshirt, and trailed down the legs of his jeans. John lifted the hem of the shirt gently. The skin of Patrick’s abdomen was torn open in two ragged holes, steadily dripping blood. Jesus.

  “He’s been hurt, Mark. You stay safe.”

  Patrick’s eyes opened. He looked up at John and muttered something.

  “Don’t talk,” John told him. “You’ll be okay.” He shot an agonized glance up the stairs, but set down his phone and struggled out of his jacket and shirt. He wadded up the shirt and pressed it over the wounds on Patrick’s body, trying to control the bleeding.

  Patrick said, “Hurts,” and then coughed, and his eyes rolled up, as his body went limp.

  “I know.” John found himself coughing too. He looked up again. The door to the fourth floor stood propped open, and dark wisps of smoke were drifting through. Most of it spiraled up the staircase in a nebulous cloud, but some was seeping down. From beyond the door, he thought he saw an ominous flicker of light.

  That’s the fourth floor. He held the m
akeshift dressing with one hand and grabbed his phone again. “Mark, you said sixth floor, right?”

  “Yes, sixth.”

  “Damn. There’s fire on the fourth floor too.”

  “Dad?” Mark’s voice was high and thin over the speaker. “How do I get out?”

  From behind John, Ryan’s voice said loudly, “Stay by the window and stay low. The first responders will be here any time now.” He turned to John. “We have to grab this kid here and get out. Seriously. Right now.”

  John turned to him in disbelief. “That’s Mark up there. I’m not leaving.”

  “Shit.” Ryan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “John, you know what we used to call guys who ran into a burning building without gear?”

  “Stupid?” John bent to try to wrap the makeshift bandage more securely around Patrick.

  “Dead,” Ryan said in a harsh voice. “I know it’s Mark. But it does him no good to have you dead in some hallway when the guys arrive to get him out through the window.”

  “Do you hear any sirens?” John clamped his phone between his shoulder and ear as he tied a knot in the shirt sleeves, already wet with the boy’s blood. “I don’t hear any. I’m not leaving Mark alone up there.”

  Ryan leaned in to speak into John’s phone, their cheeks brushing. “Mark. Is there fire in the actual room you’re in?”

  “Nooo, but the next one.”

  “Close the door in between. You hear me?”

  “He’ll notice.”

  “If there’s open flame, he’s either long gone or too busy. Close the door and block the crack. Then go over to the window and wait. Don’t open it or break the glass unless you can’t breathe. Stay low.”

  “Okay.” There was a pause. Then Mark’s voice in John’s ear said breathily, “I closed the door but I’m scared.”

  Ryan spoke over John’s automatic reassurance. “You’ll be fine. Stay on the phone with me and do as I say. You hear me, Mark?”

  “Yeah.”

  John looked back and forth between the boy on the floor and the stairs that led to Mark. Still no sirens. Where was the damned fire department?

  “Come on,” Ryan said. “Let’s get Patrick out of here. Now!”

  John gritted his teeth. “You go. I’m going to get Mark.”

  “You fucking can’t.” Ryan’s fingers bit into John’s arm. “You can’t help him that way. Trust me.”

  John just shook his head. If he turned around now, and something happened to Mark, it would kill him too. “I have to.”

  Ryan stared at John, his eyes wild. And then said, “Fuck. I’ll get him.”

  John remembered the way Ryan climbed steps, hauling himself with a hand on the rail and his cane in the other. “You can’t,” John said. “Two and a half more flights. I need to…”

  “This kid can’t stand, but he’s still alive.” Ryan knelt stiffly and laid his fingers on Patrick’s pulse, confirming it. “And this building’s going bad fast. I can feel it. Listen, John.” He looked intently into John’s face. “I can’t carry Patrick out. Not down stairs. If we’re going to get him out alive, it has to be you. And if one of us is going deeper, after Mark, then it should be me. I’ve at least got a fucking hope in hell of knowing how to do it, and living to tell the tale.”

  “But…” John whipped around to look up at the streamers of smoke ascending the stairwell, then back down at Patrick. He felt nauseous. He wanted to say no, tell Ryan to get out with him now. He didn’t want both of his guys at risk up there. But Mark is up there. “Please…” It came out as a whisper.

  Ryan’s hand landed hard on John’s shoulder, as he levered himself upright again. “Get Patrick out and safe, fast,” he said. “And then, John, for God’s sake, don’t come back in. That’s a firefighter’s worst nightmare— people who are out, going back in. Direct the rescue guys, tell them about me and Mark. Warn them about a guy with a gun. Have them get ladders and the net for a sixth-floor rescue. Then get clear and stay clear. Promise me. And trust me with your son.”

  If you die doing this then I’ve killed you. But he still heard no sirens, just the alarms. Only knowing Ryan was going for Mark would let John head back down himself, even with Patrick’s life in the balance. “I can’t let you go. Not if it’s that risky. But I…”

  “Hey, unlike you I’m a pro. I’ll be fine.” Ryan gave a short shake of his head. “We’re five minutes out and still no fucking trucks. You’re right. One of us needs to get Mark, and it has to be me.”

  That’s my son up there. Every fiber of John wanted to head up those stairs, now. But this kid, Patrick, was whimpering and trembling again under his hands. If there was ever a moment to trust Ryan, this was it. “Yes,” John said. No choices. “Go. But you damned well keep yourself safe too, you hear me?”

  “Got it.” Ryan switched phones with John. “I’ve got Mark. You’ve got 911. See you on the outside.” He headed up the stairs again, before John could respond. John listened to his fast, uneven footsteps on the treads, even after he passed around the bend at the fourth floor, slammed the door there shut, and headed up out of sight.

  For one more instant John hesitated. At his feet, Patrick whispered, “It was all for nothing. And then out of the dark, but the sign was there too.” His voice wavered, and John didn’t even bother to try to make sense of it.

  He bent and hauled Patrick up in a fireman’s carry. He was heavier than he looked, and long-legged. He made an awkward burden, his random motions complicating the job. John steadied himself against the rail, and then began a slow, careful descent. Patrick wailed and whimpered as he was jostled over John’s shoulder. John gritted his teeth and headed down a step at a time. Above him, the clanging alarms began to compete with a crackling noise and a rush of air. Was the stairwell getting brighter?

  Ryan and Mark were above that. God help them. There was nothing he could do except keep moving down.

  At the front door, he staggered into the arms of a familiar campus cop. Caldwell caught their combined weight without falling, and helped him bring Patrick down the front steps. Sirens outside finally competed with the fire alarms beating against John’s ears. There were two patrol cars parked nearby, and another approaching through the gloom. But he didn’t still see the fire trucks.

  “Ambulance?” he asked, coughing.

  “On its way,” Caldwell said. “Let’s get the kid over here. What happened to him?”

  “I think he was shot.”

  “Shot? Jesus!” The lights made the blood on Patrick a lurid red, staining his body from shoulder to knees.

  John helped lay the boy down. “Yeah, you guys need to be careful! My son said there’s a man with a gun around here somewhere.”

  “Your son?” Caldwell looked around them. “Where is he?”

  John turned to stare up at Smythe Hall. The windows were not so dark now. On the fourth floor, the baleful glow of fire lit them. “Up there,” he said. “On the sixth floor. With my boyfriend.” Most of my life is up there, in that inferno.

  ****

  Ryan hauled himself up the last flight to the sixth floor, cursing steadily under his breath. This was crazy; this was suicide. He shouldn’t be in here without his gear. He’d be just one more victim for the guys to haul out when they finally arrived.

  He’d lied about it being the right thing to do. But he’d seen the look in John’s eyes. If he’d kept on insisting it was lethal, John would just have come up here himself. And gotten his damned, stubborn, fine, inexperienced ass burned to a crisp. At least Ryan had the training. He’d know exactly how he’d fucked it up when he died. Better me than John.

  He stayed low, bent over as much as possible. Smoke rolled in a malevolent cloud up the ceiling above him. When he hit the sixth-floor, the fire door was still in place. He went through and shut it behind him. Then he dropped to a crawl below the haze, his stick in one fist, the phone in the other. The air in the hallway below the smoke was hot and harsh, but not nearly as bad as what he’d
passed a couple of floors down. Still, Ryan knew how quickly things could change.

  He paused, and put the phone to his ear. “Mark. It’s Ryan, I’m on your floor. Is the guy with the gun still out there?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mark said. “I haven’t seen him since the alarms went off.”

  “Still no other way out?”

  Mark’s voice shook. “I don’t see one.”

  “Can you yell for me, make noise so I can find you? Just keep the door shut and stay behind something, in case he hasn’t gone.”

  “What if he comes back?”

  “Show him the phone,” Ryan said. “Tell him you’re recording it all and the cops are coming. He won’t want to hurt you on candid camera. But odds are he’s gone.” Only a crazy person would stick around in this. “Now where are you?”

  He heard Mark’s yell of “Here” loudest over his phone and cursed. “Wait and try that again.” A moment to silence the speaker, and then he listened. He thought he heard a faint voice from his left.

  “Keep calling,” he directed. “I’m coming.”

  As he crawled, Mark’s voice got louder. So did the sounds of hungry flames somewhere below. Ryan knew those sounds, knew them intimately. He’d heard them from behind protective gear in a hundred other burning buildings. And once, he’d heard them as the fire burned over him, eating his flesh to the bone, ending that part of his life. Don’t think, don’t remember. He crawled toward the boy’s voice.

  A black plaque beside the door said “F. Crosby, MD”. It was standing open and Ryan went in. The heat hit him like a blast furnace. He could almost feel his hair singeing. He dropped even lower, and looked.

  The lab to his left was on fire. Ceiling panels dropped small embers onto the thank God tile floor. The Bunsen burners were all lit, their small domesticated flames witness to the fact that the gas was still on. Papers scattered across the counters in heaps that flamed and died. Flecks of ash drifted upward in the currents of hot air, edges still red and smoking. The wallboards at the far end were browning nicely. Fucking old, substandard construction. There was a pop and a whoosh as some flammable liquid in a bottle caught, flared and ran in lines of fire across a counter and onto the floor. A ceiling tile let go completely and fell, bright fragments scattering halfway to Ryan’s feet.