Dana Mentink - Flashover

Help me, somebody help me get my sister. The flames rose around them in angry tongues, unforgiving, unrelenting.

Jerking back to the present, Ivy tried again to roll over. A collage of dark smoke and gray shadows danced in her vision. She had to reach the radio in her pocket, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The space grew hotter with every passing second. She knew it, she could feel it, the junk all around her inching closer and closer to ignition.

It would be simultaneous.

And deadly.

Flashover.

Again, Ivy struggled to wriggle loose, to free herself from the enormous weight that smothered her. Pain coursed through her head and shoulder. Somewhere from the vicinity of her pocket, she heard a shrill alarm sound on her radio. Then there was nothing but heat as the blackness enveloped her.

Dana Mentink lives in California with her family. Dana and her husband met doing a dinner theater production of The Velveteen Rabbit. In college, she competed in national speech and debate tournaments. Besides writing novels, Dana taste tests for the National Food Lab and freelances for a local newspaper. Dana loves feedback from her readers. Contact her at www.danamentink.com.

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Therefore as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

—Colossians 3:12–14

To the everyday heroes who silently strive to lift

others up, not for their own glory, but for His.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Black smoke swelled in graceful scallops as it climbed in a thick column against the midday sun, mirroring the excitement that rose in her gut. Two-story structure fire, flames showing. Perfect.

Ivy could see the thrill in Jeff’s face, too, accentuated by the strobing lights of the fire truck. “Finally, some action. My wife says I’ve been moping around because things have been so quiet. She offered to go out and set something on fire for me.”

She laughed, tucking her razor-cut bob of sandy hair behind her ears as they both hopped down from the truck and jogged with their captain to meet Battalion Chief Adrienne Strong, who was already barking orders to the guys on the first engine. She looked small under her helmet and turnouts, but her brown eyes shone fiercely beneath a fringe of hair.

“Got a report of a victim trapped inside.” She stabbed a finger at a member of the crowd that was massing on the sidewalk. “A witness says he saw the owner enter the building an hour ago. He’s short, a little nuts, goes by the name of Cyril. Nobody saw him come out.”

Why did the name Cyril ring a bell? Ivy looked closely at the structure, which now had flames flickering through the upstairs windows. She could see outlines of boxes and furniture, stacked floor to ceiling. If the view was any indication, there would be only a small trail of usable space weaving throughout all the garbage. She sighed. “Oh, man. It looks like a Habitrail. He’s got enough junk to start his own flea market.”

She buckled on the ax belt, waiting for the captain to turn off the utilities. Her muscles tensed in anticipation, fingers itching to put on the mask and get inside. Instinctively she looked around for Antonio, larger than life in his turnouts. Then she remembered. Antonio moved on, Ivy. You better do the same.

When the captain gave the thumbs-up, Ivy started toward the structure.

“Wait, Beria.” Strong talked again into the radio. “This is going to be ugly with all that garbage in there. Let’s get it ventilated first. Help them work the front door. Jeff, see if you can get any of those witnesses to confirm we have a victim in there.”

Ivy joined the two firefighters who were attacking the front door with a pry tool. The door was heavy oak, and though they heaved with all their strength, the wood gave up only reluctantly. They alternately pushed the bar and kicked at the wood with their booted feet until the wood gave with a final groan. Clouds of blackness surged out, forcing them back.

She returned to the chief in time to hear Jeff’s report.

“No one can corroborate the story. The owner is apparently some kind of eccentric.”

“No kidding,” Ivy muttered.

Jeff raised his voice to be heard over the hum of the pumper and the whoosh of water thundering through the hose. “His schedule is erratic. No one saw him come out, but they weren’t looking, either.”

They watched as a firefighter, barely visible except for the flash of the fluorescent tape on his turnouts, moved past them at the nozzle end of the two-hundred-foot hose, his captain behind, sweat already coating their faces under the breathing apparatus. Ducking as low as they could manage, the two made entry.

Ivy looked past them as she and Jeff pulled on their own masks and picked their way to the door to peer inside. As she did so, she thought she saw movement from the trees next to the house. It was a glimpse really, a split-second look, but she could have sworn she saw Moe, her neighbor at the apartment complex. But what would he be doing here?

She jogged over. It was Moe, and he was shivering. “What’s wrong?”

“Cyril,” he said, pointing to the house then bounding away. Who was Cyril?

She refocused her attention on the house. The place was indeed a maze of junk, piled against all the walls and in towering columns in the foyer and front rooms. She strained her eyes to get a glimpse of a human form but blackness obscured everything.

Strong’s radio crackled to life and she called to them. “Engine Twenty-Five is en route from a spill in Pine Grove. Their ETA is five minutes. Beria and Jones, you wait. I’m going to pull the other crew in another minute.”

Ivy huffed as they trotted back. Wait? What if this Cyril guy was inside? What if he was trapped, shouting for help, and she was out here, useless? A horrifying memory fought through her control. She swallowed hard and shoved it down. “Let us go in, Chief. The victim could be in there.” Ivy looked at the flames licking at the windows and her stomach clenched. “We can do a quick assessment and get out.”

She shook her head. “Wait until we can get it ventilated. Twenty-Five is less than four minutes out.” Frustration was painted on the chief’s face, probably the consequence of being a small fire department with older equipment and only two stations to provide personnel. Her struggle was clear in the lines on her forehead and around her mouth. Potential victim versus potential injury to her people.