Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 10, Out of the Fire

The torch sailed beautifully, end-over-end, its flame furling in the air as it hit the man standing outside my window. I heard the satisfying thump, his oomph of surprise. The burning end of the torch had smacked him low in the gut, but the momentary glow hadn't reached high enough to illuminate his face. Whoever he was, he wasn't as lean as the Dark Man. He must be the spy, or some new CAMFer sent to ruin my life.

The torch fell to the ground, or went out. I couldn't tell for sure, but it grew dark for a moment just before the man's shirt caught fire.

He tried to beat it out with several quick slaps of his hand, but the impact of the torch must have doused the shirt with gas, or the material was fairly flammable. Whatever the case, it didn't work. The flames flared. The man cried out and dropped like a rock out of sight below the window ledge. That should distract him for a while.

My legs felt prickly, and I glanced down to see the cotton rug I was standing on go up in a blaze. I danced away from it. Apparently, it didn't matter how old-school a torch was; it was as effective as it had ever been. The fire at the window had consumed the curtains and was licking its way up the wall to the ceiling. The flames on the rug greedily climbed to my bedspread. I needed something to beat it out, or douse it, or contain it, before it devoured the whole house. There was a fire extinguisher in the kitchen. I ran for it.

The smoke alarm in the hallway was shrieking in disapproval. When I made it to the kitchen, I tried to yank the extinguisher off the wall but it refused to come out of its metal bracket. I yanked harder, but it still resisted. Finally, I realized that I had to lift it up and out, but once I did, it was way heavier than I'd expected. I hefted it in both arms like a fat baby and ran back to my room.

The far end of my bed was a pyre.

I pulled the extinguisher's pin, aimed it, and squeezed the handle. It sputtered, a white glop of foam dribbling out of the nozzle. I squeezed the handle again and again, shaking the thing, begging it to work. For a moment, I considered lobbing the entire red canister into the fire, but I was afraid it would explode or something. Instead, I set it down, and it rolled away like some giant, sentient hot dog.

Fire crept up the walls now, devouring the wallpaper and quickly changing the decor of my room to monochrome black—a color I'd once wanted to paint it, which had caused a huge fight with my mother that I had obviously lost. Lower down, the flames were licking at my backpack, which I'd left on the floor near the bed when I'd run for the extinguisher. I kicked out my foot and snagged one of the straps, pulling it toward me.

When I had it in my arms, I backed out of the room. Out in the smoke-filled hallway, I slammed my bedroom door shut, as if that might keep the monster at bay a little longer.

I had to get out of the house now, CAMFers or not.

The smoke was getting thick. My lungs were burning. Fire and heat and smoke went up. I needed to get below it.

I got down on my knees, but I couldn't crawl in the damn robe. The air was better though. I took a careful, sipping breath between coughs and tried to think. I had to ditch the robe. It was either that or die of modesty. I undid the belt, threw the thing off and slung the backpack on to my bare back. It hummed between my shoulder blades, warning me what I already knew—the CAMFers were out there.

Wearing just my underwear, I crawled down the hall and into the kitchen. The cold, hard tile felt like soothing water flowing beneath my knees. The back door was so close. It was right there. All I had to do was open it, run out on to the porch and into the back yard, and I'd be safe. Or would I?

The house was beginning to make strange groaning noises. If I could just hold out until the fire department arrived, surely the CAMFers would be gone, but I didn't even hear sirens yet. Hadn't anyone noticed my house was a raging inferno?