Shaun Hutson - Captives

He saw two more interns running towards him, both sweating profusely, their faces dark, their uniforms dirty.

'The West Wing is clear,' said one of them. 'We managed to get everyone out.'

'The firemen are evacuating the rest of the building,' said his companion.

Dexter nodded.

It was then that he saw Colston round the corner.

Dexter ran towards his colleague, his face pale.

'We've got to get out,' said Colston, his breathing rapid. 'The whole place is coming down around,us.'

As if to emphasise his words there was a loud creaking noise, a wrenching timber. A shower of sparks burst from the ceiling and covered the two men, who both ducked down. The smell of smoke was stronger now and Dexter could actually see the first wisps of it curling round into the corridor.

'We've got to get to Ward 5,' said Dexter.

'Let the fire brigade take care of it,' Colston said agitatedly, coughing now as more smoke filled the corridor.

Dexter grabbed him by the shoulders.

'And let them find what's in there?' he hissed, his gaze firmly on his colleague.

The realisation seemed to hit Colston and he nodded. Together they hurried up the corridor, relieved that the smoke wasn't too dense as yet. Even so, both men found that the acrid fumes stung their throats as they ran on through the clouds of smoke.

They passed a window and Dexter glanced sideways to see the firemen outside spraying the building with water. A number of people were being helped into ambulances, some supported by uniformed men.

The two doctors ran on, reaching a closed door. It led through into another corridor and Dexter snatched at the handle. He cursed at the heat of the metal in his grip but he pulled the door open, standing back as he did so.

A searing blast of flame swept through the open door and as Colston pushed himself back against the wall the fire scorched his sleeve. Dexter waited a moment then ran on.

The smoke was dense inside the corridor, tongues of flame flaring from both sides.

Doors of cells stood open, some of them blazing infernos. The incessant clanging of fire bells, curiously redundant in the blaze, filled their ears. Colston hesitated, but when Dexter bellowed at him he followed, shielding his face from the heat with one smoking arm. He could smell the burned hair on his arm. His eyes were watering, the back of his throat felt as if someone had turned a blow-torch on it. Dexter seemed unconcerned by the blistering heat; his only desire was to reach Ward 5.

They had two more corridors to pass through.

The first was clear.

The second was an inferno.

The roof had been holed by a lump of falling debris and the grey sky was visible through the clouds of smoke spewing through it. To the right Dexter saw something twisted and blackened, still ablaze, lying in the doorway of a cell.

It took him a second or two to realise it was a body.

'Leave them,' shouted Colston, forced to shout to make himself heard above the roaring of flames and the clanging of firebells.

Dexter turned to look at his companion, his watery eyes narrowed.

'We can't,' he roared back, ducking as a piece of the ceiling crashed down only feet from him. 'If the fire brigade reach Ward 5 before us…' He allowed the sentence to trail off, then shook his head.

Both men sucked in deep breaths and ran on. Colston thought his lungs were on fire too.

Another door and they would reach their goal.

It was ahead of them at the end of the corridor and, as he ran, Dexter pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. As he reached the door he could feel an incredible heat from beyond, even through the thick steel.

He turned the key and wrestled with the handle, ignoring the blisters that rose on his hands. He tugged the door open. The two of them dashed in.

The ceiling was ablaze.

From one end of the corridor to the other the area above them was one writhing, twisting mass of fire. Lumps of blackened plaster and wood fell around them, some striking them.

Dexter moved towards the first door and selected a key.

From inside there were screams. Wild, almost animalistic yells of fear and rage.

'We can't' shouted Colston, shielding his head as more of the burning masonry showered down.

'We have no choice,' Dexter told him. Another piece of the ceiling fell inwards, driving them back, the flames rearing up, snatching at them like venomous reptiles. Colston shielded his face, raising his voice again to make it heard above the raging inferno that now threatened to engulf them.

'We can't get them all out,' he shouted, staring wide-eyed at Dexter.

The older man realised he was right.

He headed for the last cell.

'No,' shouted Colston in horror. 'You can't.' He tried to prevent Dexter opening the door but the other man already had the key in the lock. He pushed Colston away.

The door swung open.

Dexter thrust the bunch of keys into his colleague's hand.

'Open that door,' he bellowed, the heat now almost unbearable. He nodded to the door at the end of the corridor and Colston did as he was told, pushing the key in, straining to turn it, to release the lock.

More sparks showered him; the ceiling seemed to hover, as if suspended on invisible wires.

It was a matter of moments before the entire thing caved in.

Colston twisted the key helplessly in the lock, afraid that the heat might have warped it out of shape.

Inside the cell Dexter took a cautious step towards the occupant. As ever he found that he was shaking slightly as he drew nearer.

'We have to go,' he said, his voice calm and measured, his eyes never leaving the inhabitant of the room. He could feel how dry his throat was. Not all of it, he realised, was due to the fire. When he tried to swallow it felt as if somebody had filled his mouth with chalk.

'Come on,' screamed Colston.

'We must go now,' Dexter said, his tone more forceful.

'Dexter, for God's sake,' Colston bellowed, looking up at the ceiling.

Inside the cell the single occupant moved towards Dexter.

It was then that the ceiling collapsed.

TWENTY-EIGHT

EXILE

The figure moved slowly in the darkness, treading carefully in the gloom, cursing the lack of light but welcoming the cover the blackness brought.

The only sound was the crunch of footsteps on the gravel of the driveway.

An owl sat in the lower branches of a nearby tree, unable to hunt as efficiently without the presence of the moon. It watched the figure that moved from the house to the car repeatedly.

More than once the figure would stand still beside the car as if listening to the stillness of the night, ears attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Then, satisfied that no one else was around, the dark shape would move stealthily about its business once again.

There was rain in the air, the odd gust of wind bringing with it the first droplets that threatened a storm. Banks of cloud were gathering to the west, blown ever closer by the rising wind. It rattled the branches of the trees and ruffled the feathers of the owl, which finally tired of watching the furtive movement and flew off, its wings beating quietly in the darkness.

The figure looked up, following the bird as it soared high into the night sky in search of prey.

After a moment longer spent listening to the stillness the shape returned to the house.

There were no lights burning within the building; the darkness inside was as total as that of the tenebrous gloom without. But the figure moved more assuredly within the confines of the house, scurrying back and forth from room to room, sometimes pausing in one room, glancing around as if to check that everything was in place.

Finally, the figure ascended the stairs, slowly but purposefully.