Carol O’Connell - Winter House

„Fire!“ The homeless man banged on the glass door of the apartment building. He was in tears. „Fire! People are dying! Don’t you believe me?“ No, probably not. It was one of those upscale places where tenants walked toy dogs that ran on batteries for all he knew. The rich were a different species, and he had never suspected them of sanity or humanity. The doorman, with his white gloves and fake gold buttons, had been among these people too long. When he turned to the glass, he did not see the shabby madman crying outside in the cold, banging the door in frustration, trying to save a few lives. No, this man looked right through the bum, then turned his back, well insulated from the sounds of the street, the chill of the night air – the smell of derelicts and smoke.

„Bastard!“

The temperature was dropping, and the homeless man pulled up the collar of his threadbare coat as he ran back to the house next door. The tiny woman sprawled on the steps was rolling on her side. A cell phone fell from the pocket of her dress and clattered to the steps. The derelict grabbed it up to punch in the emergency number that would bring out the fire engines.

And now he was believed.

A small tan car pulled up in front of the house with a screech of brakes, followed by the slam of a door. A long-legged, green-eyed blonde was bearing down on him.

Oh, lady, what cold eyes you have.

In a split second, he identified her as a cop. For so many years he had been kicked awake by cops while huddled in doorways uptown and down, and, no mistake, this woman was one of them.

Big trouble.

He knew what an odd sight he was, a raggedy bum with a cell phone. He held out the phone to surrender it, yelling, „I didn’t steal it, okay? It fell out of her pocket.“ And this was followed closely by a silent prayer that he would not be hurt.

The cop was staring at the dark front windows. No flames were visible, but the reek of smoke was strong. And now she looked at him, actually saw him – spoke to him. „You called nine-one-one?“

„Yeah.“ He looked down at the woman who lay at his feet. „There’s more people in there. An old lady carried this one out, and then she ran back inside. She said to tell the firemen they were all upstairs. Don’t know how many – “

He watched the cop pull a penlight from the pocket of her blazer as she marched up the stairs to the door. A puny penlight. He knew it would be useless where she was going.

He called after her. „I tried to stop the old lady. Then I closed the door behind her. You never wanna feed oxygen to a fire.“

A fireman had told him that.

And now he watched the cop’s back as she disappeared into the house, and he gave her up for dead. He knew the odds against her ever finding her way back. It was the smoke that killed and not the flames. He had learned this the hard way in a flophouse fire, barely escaping with his life, but not all of his hair and skin.

Another smoke alarm went off – loud and piercing mechanical shrieks. Calling out to survivors would be a waste of air and effort. Mallory pulled her T-shirt up to cover her nose and mouth. She entered the dark front room on the run, heading for the staircase, guided by the thin beam of a penlight that lit up a stream of gray fog on the lower floor. She aimed her light at the stop of the stairs. The pathetic beam could not penetrate the thicker smoke flooding the second floor; it only bounced off a roiling, black, boiling upside-down sea, and she was going into it. Eyes tearing, shut tight, she pocketed the penlight and gained the second-floor landing as air exploded from her lungs. She hit the floor and sipped from the inch of air above the floor, then crawled along the carpet. She found the first body by touch, a man by the feel of him, and he was dead. Like a sack of sand, the corpse lacked the yield of an unconscious victim. This flesh was only a bag for meat and bone. And Mallory moved on.

How many survivors? How many rooms in this house?

Lungs bursting, she ducked her head to sip more air from the floor, strained through her silk T-shirt. The smoke alarms were deafening. More of them were going off in sequence as the smoke climbed upward through the house.

And this was happening in seconds that were hours long.

She would never find the others. The alarms were maddening her with their screaming urgency. She wished – they – would – just – stop!

And they did.

The smoke alarms were shutting down one by one. Were their plastic covers melting in the heat? Now she could hear the flames, the crack and dull roar, but not see them. Above her, there was a shriek that was not mechanical – not human.

The pet bird.

That creature could not have lasted six seconds in this lethal atmosphere. Someone had to be sheltering it from the poisoned air. Mallory crawled toward the sound of the screaming cockatiel, and her groping hands met the next flight of stairs. Coughing, choking, she rose to a stand, found the rail and took the stairs three at a time, stone blind, to the next landing. Back down to the floor, crawling again, drinking air from the ground and finding it poisoned. Coughing, coughing. On her right side, a door opened into the hall, slamming into her shoulder, and two bodies tumbled out. Mallory sucked better air from the closet floor as her hands passed over the two women wrapped in one another’s arms – one living, Nedda by the long braid, and one dead, Cleo. Mallory pulled the sisters apart, then yanked up Nedda’s coat to shelter the woman’s face from the smoke. Crawling on all fours, she dragged the unconscious Nedda, feeling her way, following the margin of wood floor between the carpet and the railing.

Which way? Was she turned around? Where was the dead man’s body?

Down below, where the music was.

Someone had turned on a radio. She heard the slurry static of changing channels, and now a saxophone was calling her down, luscious siren notes. She moved away from the rail, dragging her burden with her, and found the first stair. Rising, she lifted Nedda onto her back in a fireman’s carry and made her way down, falling, kneeling at the last step on the second floor. Diving down to the ground again for air, all smoke now, coughing, coughing, choking, starved for air, muscles weakening, then shot. The music swelled up all around her, the stab and jab of horns rising to the high notes. Wake up! Get up! Get up! On hands and knees, she crawled with Nedda on her back. Moving toward the music, she found the landmark of the dead man’s body.

She put her mouth to the carpet and sipped all the oxygen there was, then pulled back the sheltering coat and covered Nedda’s mouth with her own.

She kissed her with a breath of air, then rose to stand, lifting the woman again, so heavy – too heavy. Mallory fell, and Nedda rolled off of her and away. The heat was sapping strength from arms and legs.

It would be over soon. She was already half dead.

The single notes of a clarinet were falling down the scale, laughing, taunting. Trumpets screamed high, and the slap of a bass beat with the rhythm of her heart. A sly trombone sang, Go, girl! The sax was back, luring her away from the heat. This way. Then a shout of horns. This way out! This was the sound of adrenaline. She was rising, lifting Nedda onto her back. Down the stairs. So many stairs. The fire was behind her. She could hear it spit and crack. The heat was at her back. Pitching forward now, and falling. One wild hand found the railing, and she leaned all of her weight against it. This eased the heavy burden on her back. Down-stepping, now, half sliding.

Only seconds going by.

Hours of stairs.

She lost the precious air in her lungs before she touched down on level ground. She fell on her knees, and the sharp pain revived her. The music was loudest here. The most lethal air was above her, but she was drinking smoke from the ground, coughing, choking, lungs on fire. She could not get up one more time. Music all around her, no direction. Up was down, and there was no longer a concept of forward or back. The way out was lost. The door was on the moon. She opened her eyes, stinging, burning, hoping for a sliver of street light from the front windows to orient her position in the room. Instead, she saw the glow of flames, a small fire that lit up the brass knob of the door. A signal fire to light her way? Yes, and she was up on all fours, crawling toward it, the heavy weight on her back pressing her kneecaps down on knife points. Paying dearly for every foot of ground.