Victor Methos - Arsonist

The Subaru sped through a stop sign and then angled right, just barely missing a couple that was crossing the street. The tires were screeching and it looked like it was about to tip but the brake lights never came on.

Gunn made the same turn and went up on the sidewalk as the couple was still in the street. Several people had to jump out of his way before he could get the car back onto the road. The Subaru was still racing ahead. It ran another red light and caused a collision between two sedans. Gunn swerved around them.

“He’s heading to the freeway,” Stanton said. He called dispatch, giving the make and model of the Subaru and the direction they were heading. He asked for a chopper and dispatch told him that both choppers were occupied but they’d get one there as fast as possible.

The on-ramp was clear and the Subaru sped up and quickly merged, getting over two lanes before Gunn had even made it past the on-ramp.

“Get to the left lane,” Stanton said.

A semi was behind them and Gunn kept trying to get over and the semi would speed up. Gunn blared his horn and flipped him off. The driver kept speeding up so Gunn took out his firearm and held it out the window. The semi immediately slowed down and Gunn got over two lanes.

The freeway was busy but not congested. The Subaru was up ahead maybe sixty feet. It was darting in and out of oncoming traffic. It was in the far left lane and it suddenly twisted violently to the right as it tried to maneuver into another lane and it spun all the way around before crossing three lanes of traffic and crashing into a barrier.

“We got him,” Gunn said.

The door opened and Henry got out, blood leaking down from a cut on his forehead. He ran into traffic and nearly got clipped by a mini-van before jumping over the railing and down a slope.

Gunn hit his brakes in front of the Subaru and the two men leaped out and started running. Gunn was over the railing without looking and Stanton took a moment to catch sight of Henry who was racing down the hill. Stanton hopped the railing and followed them. Gunn was yelling, “Police!” but Henry wasn’t slowing down.

Out a hundred feet or so were some abandoned buildings. They had been used as factories and warehouses and went bust years ago when the real estate market bottomed out. Now they sat vacant, too expensive to rent and too much of a hassle to buy.

The first building was maybe six stories. It was rusted and broken down with graffiti and boarded up windows. Henry swung open the door and ran inside, Gunn right after him. Stanton pulled out his Desert Eagle and followed.

The interior smelled like burnt oil and dust. Henry’s and Gunn’s footfalls were so loud that it felt like they shook the building. It was too dark to see where they were; the only light was the moon coming in through the broken windows, but Stanton could hear them a floor above him now. He took out a penlight and saw some stairs at the far side of the room he was in.

The stairs creaked and shook as he took them two at a time. He saw Henry on the far side of the space running up another set of stairs to the next floor. Gunn was right behind him, no more than twenty feet. Stanton sprinted for them but by the time he got to the next set of stairs they were already heading to the next floor. But he could hear the wheezing and the swearing. Henry was tiring.

“I got you motherfucker!” Gunn bellowed through the warehouse. A loud crash and a scream.

Stanton raced to the other set of stairs and to the next floor. He put his penlight in his teeth and went gun first along the railing. He saw a mass of movement in front of him and saw Henry on his back as Gunn was punching him in the face.

“That’s enough,” Stanton said. “We got him.”

Gunn struck him several more times and then stood up, shaking his fist, which was now covered in blood. “Faggot bit me.”

“Let me see.” Stanton shone his light on Gunn’s hand. There were indentations of teeth, but they didn’t break the skin. “You’ll be okay.”

Before Stanton could stop him, Gunn kicked Henry so hard he twisted to his side and vomited. Stanton grabbed him, pinning him against the railing.

“That’s enough. He’s down,” Stanton said.

“Motherfucker,” Gunn said, out of breath, his eyes pinned on the man writhing on the floor. “You cuff him and get his ass to the car. If I do it, he ain’t gonna make it the whole way.”

Nehor Stark went around the small house and made sure the clear liquid had doused the frame. The windows were soaked as were the doors. The interior was covered and the vapors were only a soft hint; they were seeping out of the house and tingling his nose. Only one more place to douse before the show.

He walked around the perimeter of the house. It was red brick with white trim and a nice fence surrounding it on all sides. The neighborhood was upscale and he had to hide in the bushes when a group of teenagers peeled out of their parents’ driveway across the street in a new Mercedes. The car came back for some reason and one of the girl’s ran inside. He watched her; her legs silky and smooth underneath the lamplight. As she came back out she glanced up, and their eyes locked.

Nehor immediately turned to his right and looked down to the sidewalk, pretending to be passing through. The canister was dropped from his hand into some bushes. He walked for a few moments before looking back and saw the taillights of the Mercedes up the street. He ran back to the house.

There was a shed in the back that held the lawnmower and other equipment. He sprinted for it and jumped, swinging his legs onto the roof and standing up. He glanced around to see if anyone was out, but the neighborhood was quiet. He climbed up the roof of the house.

The sky was dark with the exception of two stars and the moon, gray-black clouds slowly drifting by and covering its light before the icy glow returned a few moments later. Nehor watched the moon a long time and then undressed. Blood spatter was on his clothes and it looked black in the moonlight. He thought it oddly beautiful that it appeared darker than anything he had ever seen.

Nude, he began to douse the roof with the small canister he had brought with him. He went in geometric shapes; circles first, and then a pentagon. The pentagon would show through the fire; it didn’t mean anything to him, but the neighbors would be unsettled every time they looked over to the house. Maybe some of them would even have to move out later on.

When the canister was empty, he threw his clothes on the front lawn and then climbed down using the shed in the backyard. He went to the front of the house and stood on the lawn, listening to his breathing. He reached down into his duffel bag and brought out the match. He held it lightly in between his fingers and twisted it to the left and the right. He was quivering and sweat was beginning to show on his skin. It glistened in the moonlight.

He struck the match.

The front door was open and he flung the match on the porch. The porch instantly lit in three-foot-high flames, which raced around like a caged animal trying to find a way to escape. They dashed inside the house and the flames began to grow. Within thirty seconds, smoke billowed out in large clouds, darker than the night, and he could hear the screaming coming from inside. The flames grew and the roof caught fire; there was, in a single instant, a powerful, thunderous, glorious, explosion. The house now barely stood as the fire engulfed it.

Nehor stepped close to the house. He was erect now. He wanted to inhale the wondrous smoke, but he wouldn’t last longer than a minute before he lost consciousness. One day, when he found somewhere secluded enough, he would indulge himself. But for now he approached the little house cautiously.