Sacrifice

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “No!” said Chris. “Michael—we have to get—we have to get them—”

  “I’m going to. I’m telling you to hide.”

  “But—”

  “Goddamn it, Chris!” His own voice broke. “I’m not losing all of you! Go!”

  Chris’s face went whiter, if that was possible.

  So did Hunter’s, but he took hold of Chris’s arm and started dragging. “Come on. We can hide.”

  Chris jerked free—but he followed.

  For a moment, Michael wanted to call them back. He wanted to form a human chain and drag them all into the house behind him.

  But he didn’t know what he’d find inside.

  He realized he was standing in the open, lit up by roaring flames.

  A rookie sniper could take you out without a scope.

  Everything suddenly sounded like a premonition. Michael sprinted onto the porch and grabbed hold of the door handle without thinking, throwing the French door wide and rushing into the kitchen.

  Smoke hit him in the face, and Michael jerked back, coughing. The smoke detectors were screaming, three times as loud now that the door was open. He dropped to his knees and spent a minute relearning how to breathe. The air in here was hot and dry and tasted like ash. Pulling his damp shirt up over his mouth and nose helped, but not a lot.

  He crawled forward. Darkness cloaked him immediately. He lost track of the door in less than five seconds. Every inhale tasted of smoke, along with something acrid and sour as he got farther into the kitchen. He put his hand down on something unfamiliar that crumbled under his fingers and wished the flashlight weren’t in the garage.

  Michael stopped. The garage. Full of landscaping equipment—including fertilizer and chemicals.

  Was the house still on fire? Was he crawling through a ticking bomb?

  He inhaled to yell for his brothers again, but his lungs didn’t want to inflate all the way. Michael coughed and pushed forward, trying to rush now.

  His shoulder hit the cooking island hard, and Michael swore—but at least it helped orient him. The doorway to the front hall should be straight ahead.

  Gabriel could survive in an inferno, but Michael knew smoke made it hard for him to breathe. Nick could handle a loss of oxygen—but he couldn’t take a fire’s heat for long.

  Please be together, he thought.

  Then he amended that.

  And alive. Please be together and alive.

  Michael wished he had Hunter’s gun, so he could shoot these screeching smoke detectors. With their persistent beeping, he couldn’t hear anything in the house. No movement, no voices.

  Everything seemed very still in the darkness.

  His hands found the slate flooring of the foyer. Every forward movement brought another handful of grit, both a blessing and a curse. He hadn’t found his brothers collapsed in here, and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.

  Maybe he should have used his cell phone to try to call them.

  He choked on the thought, unsure whether he was laughing or crying. He put his forehead on his hands and inhaled again. When had he gotten so tired?

  Glass shattered somewhere up ahead.

  Michael jumped and felt as if he were waking up. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor. He fought to get to his hands and his knees, but his limbs felt too heavy. His shirt had come off his face.

  More glass shattering. Then a loud crack.

  Someone was in the house.

  Michael got his hands beneath his shoulders, and he managed to push back, toward the kitchen. He needed to hide.

  Left hand. Right hand. This was more difficult than he remembered.

  The house was so dark.

  He needed to find his brothers. He needed to warn them. He hit the cooking island with his hip, and it almost stole his balance. His head slammed into something, and flickering starbursts filled his vision.

  He couldn’t tell which way was up. He couldn’t find his hands.

  More starbursts. This felt like drowning again.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Michael flung himself back. Was this a Guide? Had they come after him? The smoky house, the lack of fire—all of a sudden this felt like a trap. Michael couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but his attacker wouldn’t be able to either. If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t shoot him.

  Every motion still felt slow, as if it took too long for messages to make it from his brain to his limbs. He barely had an opportunity to move before someone else grabbed him. Or was it the same person? He had no idea.

  Something metal clicked, and Michael tried to swing a fist.

  But then he inhaled, and his entire world clouded over.

  Hannah heard Irish swear, and she swung her flashlight, trying to find him. The beam of light barely penetrated more than a few feet, and lit up nothing more than smoke in the hallway. But still, she didn’t need to feel along walls to navigate through the thick darkness.

  She knew this house.

  She knew this staircase. This wall. This archway. This kitchen, where Michael would make her coffee and ask her quietly about her day.

  She’d known the door they had to break through to get in here. The windows she’d had to smash to release trapped heat and smoke.

  She and Irish weren’t going to find anyone conscious in here.

  They’d be lucky to find someone alive.

  Her breath shook for a moment, loud behind her mask. Stop it. If she lost herself in thoughts, she’d never be able to get through this job.

  Thoughts like how Michael and his brothers hadn’t been sitting out front, waiting anxiously for the fire trucks.

  Thoughts of Michael’s hand pushing the hair back from her face. Or how he could be gruff and rough around the edges with everyone else, but his voice would go soft and gentle, just for her.

  Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.

  “Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”

  “Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab his feet.”

  Her heart stopped.

  Then her brain caught up, letting her training kick in. A patient needing assessment, just like any other rescue.

  A body didn’t have to be Michael. It didn’t have to be one of his brothers.

  Yeah, like there’s some random guy lying in the middle of the kitchen.

  But she was moving now, and that’s all that mattered. She couldn’t see for crap, but she caught hold of ankles and lifted when Irish said he was ready.

  Ankles. Good. Ankles could mean anyone. They’d get this guy outside and assess his condition.

  She wasn’t fooling herself.

  The body hung limp and heavy between them. Hannah’s flashlight bounced and arced along the smoke as they made their way through the foyer, never quite lighting on the patient’s face.

  Then they were through the broken front door, into the frigid night air, into the bright lights from the fire trucks and ambulances.

  Michael.

  No surprise. No shock. She’d known, from the minute she’d picked up his ankles.

  She choked on another breath and was glad she still wore the mask, feeding oxygen into her face. She was lucky to recognize him, his face and clothing were so filthy and caked with soot. His head lolled back, his face slack, with dark smudges around his nostrils. Smoke inhalation, for sure—how long had he been in there?

  They got him on the ground. Irish was speaking into his radio, calling for an RSI—a paramedic trained to insert a breathing tube.

  Holy shit—that meant Michael wasn’t breathing at all. Hannah yanked her helmet and gloves off and flung them into the grass. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

  “Call for more on rescue,” she said in a rush. “Four other people live in that house.” She shifted her fingers, searching. “Come on, Mic
hael,” she whispered, putting her face down close to his, feeling for breath. “Come on.”

  Nothing.

  She was distantly aware of Irish beginning chest compressions. Of firefighters rushing up the steps behind her, preparing to search the house.

  When Irish called out the count, her training kicked in, and she bent to press her mouth to Michael’s. She should be using a bag and a mask, but she didn’t care. He didn’t have the two minutes it would take for her to run to the truck.

  His lips were ice cold. She tasted soot on his skin.

  He wasn’t moving.

  “Damn it!” she yelled between breaths. “Where the hell is the RSI?”

  Oscar Martinez, a guy she’d gone through fire school with, spoke from beside her. He was a full paramedic, but he couldn’t intubate. He was trying to thread an IV needle into the back of Michael’s hand. “Next house over. Some teenagers got the whole family out the back, but they’re in bad shape. We’re waiting on another ambo from station fourteen.”

  Michael couldn’t wait that long. How long had he gone without a pulse? How long had he been in that house?

  He’d sent her two text messages today. She hadn’t bothered to read either of them because she’d been too pissed at the way he’d been blowing her off.

  Two text messages. Two frigging text messages. How hard would it have been to read them?

  Hannah choked on her breath again. “Come on,” she whispered. She pressed her hand to his cheek. “Come on, Michael. Wake up.”

  No response. She blew another breath into his mouth, but his chest barely rose.

  “Your brothers need you,” she said.

  Irish glanced up. She met his eyes and saw the resignation there.

  This might be a lost cause.

  Her own eyes blurred.

  And then she heard the rumble, as the ground started to shake.

  CHAPTER 4

  At first, Hannah didn’t understand what was happening. The sound wasn’t loud; more like a slow roll of thunder. The vibration of the ground under her knees felt more like a large vehicle starting up than anything else.

  But then it grew stronger, until she had to put a hand on the ground to keep her balance. Someone somewhere was shouting. It took her a moment to make out the word.

  Earthquake.

  Irish didn’t stop the chest compressions, but she could see he was struggling to maintain his balance too.

  A loud crackling echoed from her left, and she snapped her head up.

  “The sidewalk!” said Oscar. He’d dropped to a knee, and now had a hand on the ground.

  He was right—the sidewalk was splitting, slow cracks crawling along the pavement.

  Firefighters were shouting, both live and from the radio on her shoulder. The team that had rushed into the house a minute ago came flying through the door, stumbling on the steps.

  She’d thought nothing could overpower the cacophony of the trucks and radios and discordant fire alarms, but the new sounds brought on by this earthquake were deafening. Metal shrieked from everywhere, and Hannah could swear she saw the porch supports at the front of the house start to buckle. From the street, more shouts, more splitting pavement. Metal on metal as fire trucks began to slide and collide with each other.

  “What the hell is going on?” said Oscar. He must have lost the needle; Michael’s hand was bleeding.

  Wind ripped between the houses, sudden and cold, pulling smoke and debris from across the court. More shouts from the hose teams as water blew back, away from the flames, showering the rescue team with ice-cold droplets. Fire was in the air now, bits of flaming ash flying wildly.

  One of the porch supports groaned, then cracked fully. The roof over the porch sagged.

  “We need to move,” said Irish.

  But they couldn’t. The ground bucked again, and Hannah watched the grass split and separate. The gap spread in a line from Michael’s body all the way to the road. She swore and shifted to the other side of his body, beside Irish.

  It gave her a better view of the destruction around her. At the house next door, wood cracked and split. The house swayed for an eternal moment, as if buffeted by the wind.

  And then it collapsed.

  Flames and smoke billowed from the destruction, and the hose team fought to stay on their feet, aiming water at the structure, trying to keep the fire from spreading. Water sprayed wildly in the wind.

  Then the ground rumbled again, and the sidewalk around the hydrant fractured. Water shot from the ground in a massive fountain. The fire hoses lost pressure and died.

  Another rumble. The grass cracked and split again, stretching off into the darkness. The front yard seemed to be shifting in pieces, rolling like the sea. The house behind them creaked and threatened to collapse like the first. The fire trucks on the road bounced and shifted. People were yelling now, fear in their voices. Her radio was going crazy as people called orders and updates. She couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  Another house across the court collapsed. Firefighters ran to escape the flying debris.

  More wind blasted her cheeks, bringing smoke and ash.

  And then, out of nowhere, one of Michael’s brothers skidded to his knees beside her.

  One of the twins. She had no idea which. His clothes were filthy too, his skin darkened with soot.

  She put a hand on his arm to push him back. “Gabriel—”

  “Nick,” he corrected her. He grabbed Irish’s arm. “Stop.”

  Irish didn’t stop—though his efforts lacked the fervor of his initial attempts to save Michael’s life. Hannah could read it in his expression. It had been at least three minutes.

  The ground rumbled and shifted again. Irish swore and fought to keep his balance. “Kid, you need to get out of here before that house falls.”

  “It’s his brother,” Hannah said. Her voice broke. “Nick—Nick, I need—”

  “Stop. Both of you stop.” Nick’s voice was rushed and panicked. He grabbed Irish’s arm again and almost shoved. “I said stop.”

  Irish stopped. Time seemed to hold still, the earth shifting below them, the wind slamming into them.

  “Just stop,” Nick said again, his voice more steady. Wind whipped at their clothes and made Hannah shiver. The house behind them gave another loud creak. “Wait.”

  She stopped. Held her breath.

  For an instant, she thought maybe Nick knew something they didn’t, that all Michael needed was his brother’s presence and he’d sit up and ask what was going on.

  Michael didn’t move.

  Stupid, she told herself. She knew the limits of the human body as well as anyone else. Her eyes wanted to fill, but she could hold it together for his little brother.

  Nick put a hand on his brother’s neck. “Michael,” he said softly, his words somehow carrying over the wind. “Mike. Wake up.”

  Irish looked at her over Nick’s head. He shook his head.

  “Nick,” she said, putting a hand over his. “Nick, the smoke—it works fast. His lungs may be too badly damaged—”

  Nick sucked in a deep breath and pressed his mouth over his brother’s before she could even finish that thought.

  Michael’s chest rose from the pressure and fell when Nick drew back.

  And then rose again.

  “He’s breathing!” Hannah grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse. Irish reached for his neck.

  Michael’s eyes opened. He squeezed them shut and blinked a few times. His arm jerked out of her hand.

  “Take it easy, man,” said Irish. “We’re just—”

  Michael shoved him away and fought to get off the ground. Irish and Oscar tried to hold him there.

  “Let me go. Let me go.” His voice was like crushed stone, rough and painful to her ears. He sounded disoriented and afraid. “Someone was in the house. My brothers—” His voice broke. “I need to get my brothers. I need to get them before they’re found.”

  “Hey. Mike.” Nick put a hand on his shou
lder and got in his brother’s face. “We’re okay. Look at me. We’re okay.”

  Michael went still. The rumbling earth slowed and went still. “Nick. Hannah.”

  “Yeah. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “Everyone is okay.”

  For the longest instant, Michael just stared at them, the wind blowing fiercely between them. His eyes shifted past his brother, to the destruction of the houses on the court, to the fire hydrant spraying water high into the air. Fires still burned everywhere, and emergency lights flickered off everything.

  He glanced at his own house, barely standing.

  Then his face crumpled and he threw his arms around his little brother’s neck. “Not okay, Nick. It’s not okay.”

  Nick let him hold on. “You’ll make it okay, Michael. Just breathe.”

  And just then, thunder cracked overhead. The sky opened up, and rain poured down, putting out every last lick of flame.

  Michael sat on a stretcher inside one of the ambulances, but he had no intention of letting them take him to the hospital. Thanks to the downpour, his clothes were soaking wet again and he was freezing. Someone had offered him a wool blanket, but he’d refused.

  His brothers had taken them, though. They were sitting in the back of another ambulance, waiting.

  He needed to get them and leave.

  He had no idea where to go.

  The rain had stopped the blazing fires around the court, but it still rattled against the roof of the ambulance. Michael could see cracked pavement from here, lines of fractured asphalt weaving between the rescue vehicles left on the court. Rain wouldn’t do much to repair this kind of damage. He’d caught a glimpse of one collapsed home and didn’t have the guts to look at the others.

  His whole life, this was what his parents had been worried about. This was what the Guides were worried about.

  He’d never caused this much destruction. He’d never lost control to this extent.

  Then again, he’d never been so close to death, either. Looking at the damage, he didn’t want to consider how bad it must have been for his powers to take over without his knowledge.