by Bill Hopkins
the wheezing sounds she made. She sounded as if she were on the edge of suffocation.
A few more rounds slammed into the door. Ollie cocked his head. “Doesn’t sound like an automatic weapon. Guy’s just got a fast trigger finger.”
“I’m not sure how that helps us,” Rosswell said. “Dead by one bullet or ten. Doesn’t make much difference.”
The smell of smoke grew even stronger. Something plastic was burning. They would die from inhaling toxic fumes before the fire reached them. That was comforting. Suffocation should always be preferred over immolation. The advantage of suffocation is, of course, that you pass out before you die. Burning to death didn’t strike Rosswell as having a single advantage.
Rosswell said, “Is there a back way out? Some way we can get out without going through your kitchen?”
“That’s it,” Nadine said, pointing to the door. “This isn’t supposed to be a tourist stop. You come in here and you’re safe from the outside world.” She sobbed. “Ha. My plans didn’t work out so good.”
Ollie said, “How did you ever get a building permit for this if you didn’t include at least two ways out?”
Rosswell had noted in the past that sometimes, when Ollie was under stress, his brain took a vacation. This was one of those times. Rosswell wasn’t strong enough to slap him upside the head. And he doubted if Nadine had it in her either.
Rosswell said, “We’re stuck. A fire and a gun between us and safety. Pick your favorite way to die.” He backed up against a wall and slid to a sitting position on the concrete floor.
Ollie said, “What about the ventilation? Does the system bring in fresh air from the outside?”
Nadine gaped at Ollie as if he’d asked her if she kept alligators in her basement. “What difference does it make if the house is on fire?”
More deadened yelling from the kitchen, but Rosswell couldn’t understand the words. The voice at first sounded male, then female. There could’ve been two people. Rosswell couldn’t begin to identify the voice. It could’ve been Frizz or Tina, yet Rosswell wouldn’t have recognized the voice.
Rosswell doubted that whoever was shooting wanted to invite them to tea. A sustained rattle of gunfire peppered the upstairs door. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the stink of burning plastic, the combination giving Rosswell thoughts of sneezing or puking. He couldn’t decide which to do first.
Rosswell said, “I think he found a machine gun.”
Ollie said, “Maybe it’s a she.”
The temperature inside the safe room escalated, according to the thermometer. Although no smoke was yet visible, the stench of it had increased. The next thing Rosswell would see would be puffs of the nasty stuff rolling in under the doors. Then death.
He pointed to the ceiling and asked Nadine, “You don’t have a sprinkler system?”
Ollie squeaked the mouse squeak, possibly the last one Rosswell would ever hear. “The plants are sitting in water. Who would expect a fire?”
Rosswell said, “There are lots of other things down here that could burn.”
Nadine said, “Judge, you have bullets?”
“Plenty. Do we want to shoot ourselves in the head, burn up, inhale deadly smoke, or run out in front of the shooter?”
Ollie and Nadine exchanged glances, then looked at Rosswell.
Ollie said, “I vote we run.”
Nadine said, “Me too. Anything else is certain death. If we run, we might have half a chance.”
Rosswell stood, put one hand on Ollie’s shoulder, and grasped Nadine’s hand in his other one. “Half a chance is better than no chance.”
Rosswell’s esophagus, coated with bile that tasted of copper and vinegar, nearly squeezed shut. Perhaps he’d die from choking on his body’s own fluids. Only one place where he’d stand in this parade.
Rosswell said, “And I’m supposed to be in front?”
Nadine said, “You’ve got the gun.”
Ollie said, “And if he shoots you, then I’ll take over.”
“And,” Nadine said, “if he shoots Ollie, then I’ll take over.”
Rosswell said, “That’s comforting.”
The smoke increased. The temperature rose. Rosswell made his decision. “Does anyone have any famous last words?”
Ollie said, “I’ve got an overdue library book.”
Nadine chuckled. “I’m laughing on the gallows.”
“If you make it out and I don’t, tell Tina I love her,” Rosswell said. He threw back his shoulders in a gesture of bravery that he didn’t feel. “Follow me.”
Hoping the air close to the floor was breathable, he crouched low, reached his arm up to the knob, and opened the hydroponics garden door. They duck-walked to the bottom of the steps leading to the kitchen. Another blast of gunfire, but still the door held. When they gained the top of the steps, Rosswell drew his pistol and reached for the door to the kitchen. The doorknob was warm, but not hot. There was a possibility he could open the door and they wouldn’t get fried. They’d still get shot, but they wouldn’t get fried first.
“Get ready,” Rosswell said.
Nadine said, “We don’t have much time.”
Rosswell turned the knob. Tried to turn the knob. Nothing happened. “Nadine,” he said, “the door knob is stuck.”
She patted herself down. “You need the key. The knob won’t turn unless it’s unlocked.” Seconds like hours passed, but still she didn’t hand Rosswell the key. “It locks automatically when you shut it.”
“We know that,” Ollie said. “We need the key.”
“The key, Nadine,” Rosswell said. “Give me the key.”
“I can’t find it.” She patted herself down more thoroughly. “It’s on that big ring of keys. How could I have dropped it?”
“Ollie,” Rosswell said, “check the floor downstairs.” Ollie scooted down the steps and along the floor until he reached the garden door. Nadine wheezed, then slumped against Rosswell, barely conscious.
“Ollie, you better hurry.”
No answer. At least Rosswell couldn’t hear Ollie over the noise of the fire if he had said anything. Had Ollie already gone back into the hydroponics room to search for the missing keys?
Eventually, Ollie yelled, “The door to the garden is shut.”