Boys in the Valley(90)

Escape.

Freedom.

Life.

David looks one way, toward the smoke-filled attic, where death almost certainly awaits, and then the other, toward salvation.

They’re all dead, he thinks. There’s no way they could have lived through that explosion. Damn you, Poole.

He sighs heavily, having decided.

Then, hunching over to avoid the cross beams, he starts to run.





58


WHEN THE BLAST OF HEAT SUBSIDES, I OPEN MY EYES.

Two bodies squirm beneath mine, and I roll off them, take in my surroundings.

The dorm is ablaze. The beds roast like bonfires and flames carpet the floor, lick up the walls. Half the windows are blown out, and the circulating wind of the storm is twisting and curling the fire burning inside. Flames are dancing.

I see no way out.

I get to my knees, notice the bodies lying next to me. Everyone here seems intact and, for the most part, unharmed. I don’t know if there are others within the flames, but I think I see shadows moving in that forest of heat. I wonder if the blast killed them all, or if some remain to do us harm.

The bodies I landed atop are Timothy and Finnegan. Byron, it seems, had pushed Thomas to the ground and covered him, and they both seem well, if shaken. I look around and see Harry who, despite his servility to Bartholomew, didn’t survive after all. He’s sitting awkwardly, back braced against a wall. His face is blackened, his eyes emptied, leaking down his charred cheeks like cream. I imagine him standing in shock as the flames approached, watching as they tore his flesh and slapped his small body into the wall like a bug.

I want to cry, to scream. To mourn. But there are still five of us. I must save who I can.

But how?

I stand slowly. The heat is intense, but for now the fire seems to be staying away from us. There is only one exit, however, and traversing the room is impossible. We would be dead before we made it halfway, even with the greatest of luck.

Byron steps beside me. He speaks as quietly as he can, not wanting to alarm the others, but it’s hard to hear over the sound of the fire. “Any ideas?”

I shake my head.

I’m still working my tired brain for a solution when a loud thumping comes from above our heads. I look up toward the sound and see, in the corner, positioned near the far wall, a hatch in the ceiling.

Something is banging against it. Once. Twice.

And then it pops downward. A ladder unfolds from above like a miracle.

Then David’s head appears, upside down, from the ceiling. He’s smiling like a madman, and I can’t help but cry out in a rush of joy at seeing his face again.

“Peter!” he yells. “Bring them! Hurry!”

I grab the others by their sleeves, their collars, and begin pushing them toward the ladder.

“Go! Go!”

There isn’t much time.

I take one last look back at the dormitory, the room where I’ve spent a majority of the last ten years of my life. The flames have reached the ceiling. They ripple across it like water, blackening the white plaster.

Time to go.

I follow the others, all but pushing them along. “Hurry!” I yell.

One by one, they start up the rickety ladder.

At the top, David is grabbing hands, pulling them to what I hope is safety.

I try not to think of the flames on the ceiling.

Now Byron is climbing, and I’m right behind him, bringing up the rear. Everyone else, I have to assume, is dead.

I reach the top. The air turns immediately cooler, but is still dense with smoke. David has gathered the others, and they all look at me as I emerge and stand in the crawlspace. It’s dark, but the flames coming through the hatch offer just enough light to see our way.

I’ve only been in the attic once, a long-ago day when Andrew sent me up looking for candles. But that was on the other side of the building, by the chapel, and I have no idea where this will lead, if anywhere.

Thankfully, David seems confident, and the realization strikes me that he must have reached us from somewhere, so we simply need to get back to where he started, and pray it was free of fire.

“Is that . . . everyone?” he says. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking, and it hurts my heart to see the surprise in his eyes. When they first attacked, there were so many of us. He has no idea how many have been lost.

But I can’t think of that now, so I only nod. “I’m the last.”

“Okay,” he says, recovering. “Follow me. Stay close and try not to breathe too much of this smoke. Cover your mouth with your shirt or sleeve or something. Right, let’s go.”

We begin moving forward, but make it no more than a dozen steps when the floor in front of us snaps like a breaking tree, followed immediately by a loud, rustling noise. David stops, steps quickly backward, right into Thomas.

“What . . .” I say, but don’t have time to finish my thought before, only a few feet in front of us, the entire width of the attic floor collapses downward in a shower of sparks and black smoke. Flames immediately shoot up through the gap, gulping the new air, pressing toward the rooftop, hungry and deadly and unstoppable.

David’s head jerks around and our eyes meet. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I can read his look easily.

He’s telling me that he’s sorry.