MILA 2.0 0.5 - Origins: The Fire Read online

  Contents

  The Fire

  Excerpt from MILA 2.0

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  THE FIRE

  In the back of my head, a voice urges me to wake up. I fight it off and snuggle deeper under my cozy down comforter. This dream is too wonderful. I’m floating in the ocean without trying, without paddling, just drifting and basking in the heat of the sun that beats down on my skin. A seagull cries overhead, diving so low I can almost touch it. Everything feels peaceful, and even though I can’t see my parents, I sense their presence nearby, twirling in the sand.

  Funny. I can’t imagine a single scenario in the world that would involve my two-left-footed Mom dancing in public.

  But I know, even as they dance, that they are watching me closely. Just like always.

  “You know, my life makes a really lame documentary.” I utter our usual joke while refusing to open my eyes. Over the crackle of the waves, I hear Dad’s rumbling laugh but tune out Mom’s heartfelt sigh.

  The ocean roars as it embraces my limbs, which are strangely heavy, but in a perfect, lazy way.

  Not only is the sun hot, but the water…the water is so blissfully warm.

  Warm, even inside my lungs. Only the air holds a bitter taste. The more I float, the more I feel it slowly, slowly smothering me like a thick blanket.

  Bitter. Acrid. Hot.

  Smothering…

  With a gasp, I open my eyes.

  No dancing bodies. No warm ocean.

  Just darkness at first. Then, as my eyes adjust, a strange, murky haze, floating like wisps of fog within the dim glow that seeps through my window. I shake my head, trying to clear the remnants of the dream from my mind. Fog? But my window is closed. I can still hear the loud, constant whoosh of ocean in the distance. But that doesn’t make any sense.

  My gaze moves from my window to my door, and my lungs seize. Instead of the darkness I anticipate, the door is outlined with a thin, orange glow. A glow that flickers.

  Not fog. Smoke.

  Not the roar of the ocean. Fire.

  Fire.

  I throw back the covers and spring to my feet. “Mom? Dad?” I land on one of my discarded ballet flats, stumble, and smack into my bedside table. A rectangular object thuds to the floor.

  My alarm clock, green numbers flashing 10:42. I open my mouth to shout for Dad again, then stop short. 10:42, 10:42. They aren’t home yet.

  It’s the first time I remember being thankful for one of their long work dinners.

  But it also means… I’m on my own. I have to get out on my own.

  With that thought spurring me on, I shove my shoes onto my feet and race for the door, reaching for the handle—

  Hot.

  I yelp and pop my fingers into my mouth. The fire must be right outside.

  No escape that way. And no way to call for help, I realize as I picture my cell phone where I left it charging on the hallway bathroom counter. No, the window is my only option. I back away, my heart pumping much too fast, my breaths coming even faster. The smoke sears down my throat, hot and foul.

  Three times as many people die from smoke inhalation as from burns, and most only have three minutes to get out once the smoke alarm goes off.

  I half laugh, half sob as the facts from the last documentary I watched with my parents surface. I guess their weekly geekery of dragging me in front of the Discovery Channel, cozy in our Gumby Snuggies with a bowl of popcorn to share, has finally paid off.

  Around me, the smoke glows white like a creeping mist.

  Three minutes.

  Smoke alarm…

  My frantic gaze finds the unit on the ceiling in the center of my room. Nothing. Not even a red light. The batteries must be dead. But how is that even possible? Mom changes them like clockwork, every six months.

  I cough my way to the window, past the white shelves that hold all my favorite books. My old horseback-riding photos, my baseball mitt—autographed by Dad’s favorite Phillies pitcher.

  I ignore the leather glove and latch onto a picture instead. A family photo of Mom, Dad, and me—taken at the beach. My favorite. Mom’s hair is windswept and her smile is bright, and Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, which is still brown with the evidence of our sand fight. I reach the window and fumble until I unlatch the lock. The photo gets shoved into the waistband of my pajama pants before I straddle the sill and slide down onto the tiny balcony.

  Fresh air and darkness rush to greet me—so cold, my already irritated lungs spasm in protest. I double over, hacking. As I fight to regain my breath, the frantic rhythm beneath my ribs calms a little. I’m outside. All I have to do is grab onto that branch overhead, shinny down the tree, and I’ll be free.

  Nothing stirs on the street below, and the houses across the way are quiet, lit only by porch lights and an occasional upstairs window. Clearly, no one is aware of the fire yet. As much as Dad annoys the neighbors by allowing the contents of our garage to spill into the driveway like a never-ending rummage sale, none of them are mean enough to turn their backs while those same belongings burn to the ground. No, all I have to do is get down and bang on the Rogerses’ door until they let me use the phone.

  I step up onto the bottom rung of the wrought-iron fence that outlines the balcony. But as I reach for the thick, leglike branch of the tree, my gaze snags on something. My hand slips from the limb, and crumpled brown leaves rain down like charred snowflakes. I freeze, a tight band squeezing my heart. No.

  Backlit by a full moon, my parents’ silver Volvo gleams in the driveway.

  They’re home. Inside. Possibly asleep and totally unaware.

  Smoke inhalation…

  Three minutes…

  I can’t cross the street to the neighbors’. By the time a fire truck arrives, it will be too late.

  I have to get them out. Now.

  I whirl to face the roof and follow the slanted eave with my eyes. Up. I have to go up. Fire always goes upward in search of oxygen, so if it’s already outside my door, then it’s probably raging downstairs. No, my best bet is climbing around to the hallway window on the side of the house and praying the fire isn’t there yet.

  I reach for the eave with one hand and curl my other around the iron ball that decorates the top of the balcony fence. The roof is slick with moisture, making it hard to hold. I steady myself, then pull the foot closest to the window to the top.

  One, two, three… I release my lower hand and grab for the roof. My fingers skim the edge just as my free foot searches for the top of the fence.

  Slam! My bare ankle hits wrought iron. The unexpected jolt shakes me, and my fingers slip. My entire body pitches backward, and I’m falling.

  Stars blur across the night sky as my head rushes back, as my fingernails skid to the very edge.

  With a last, desperate push on my stable foot, I surge upward. My nails scrabble for purchase. My free foot dangles wildly in the air for a gut-wrenching instant before finally finding the top of the bar. To the frantic drumbeat of my pulse, I pull myself upward tile by tile until I get one knee up. The other knee follows, and then I’m on the roof.

  The slanted angle is steep, which makes crawling awkward. I glance at the ground below but quickly retrain my eyes forward with a hard swallow. No falling. On the slippery roof, the distance over to the hall window feels infinite. Almost there, almost there, I chant, pushing my fear-stiffened limbs forward.

  Fi
nally, I round the corner. When I reach the hall window, there’s no balcony. Just a tiny sliver of tile underneath. I keep my eyes off the long drop to the ornamental iron spikes that enclose the brick patio below and edge my way onto the narrow patch of tile. Using one hand to keep my balance, I use the other to yank at the window.

  It won’t budge.

  With a deep breath for courage, I grab the overhang with both hands, gather my strength, and kick with all my might. Glass shatters inward with a sharp tinkling. I reach in and unlock the window, careful to avoid the jagged edges.

  I’m finally back inside.

  Smoke furls in big, gray plumes. The heat bites at my throat again, so I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose. The smoke is thick, but to my left I see the glimmer of orange flames peeking through the black cloud surrounding the doorway to my room.

  I shudder and turn away, wading through the smoke. I stumble-drag my way toward my parents’ room. Through the haze inside the doorway, I can just make out their bed.

  The covers are rumpled and lumpy. Like two bodies are sleeping there.

  The bed is still. Too late is my first thought, the one that almost brings me to my knees. I’m too late.

  “No,” I sob, stumbling closer. The haze clears, just a little, and through my dampening eyes I see what I missed before.

  The bed is empty.

  I look to the right, on the floor near Dad’s bedside table, where he tosses his dirty clothes every night.

  Bare. No sports jacket, no pants. Not even a dress shoe.

  No, the only article of clothing is draped across the back of his chair, where he always keeps it. His lucky Phillies jersey.

  My legs shake. They’re okay. They aren’t here.

  I turn to escape out their sliding glass door when a noise catches my attention. I freeze, strain to hear. No. Surely not…

  “…ah!” This time the voice is unmistakable, even if the word is garbled.

  Dad’s voice. Coming from downstairs.

  I sway like I’ve been sucker punched. My parents are inside the house.

  “Dad!” I try to scream, but heat clutches at my throat, constricting my vocal cords and making the word emerge in a faint, wheezing whisper. “Mom!” I try again as I run back to the door—but the sound is swallowed by the roar of the flames.

  My hand flies in front of my face, a useless shield from the heat. The fire advances down the hall hungrily. It’s spread with unbelievable speed, like an insatiable beast, one that will only be happy once everything is destroyed.

  That path is gone, but I have to get downstairs. I have to.

  Shoving the door closed, I flee for my parents’ bathroom. I head straight for the shower and race inside. I flip the faucet on full blast and allow the water to drench my entire body, gasping as the cold pelts my skin.

  A few seconds, that’s all I can risk. Once I’m soaking wet, I dampen a shirt I pick up off the floor and tie it around my nose and mouth. In their mirror, my eyes are wide and red streaked above the white fabric, my hair plastered to my head. Water drips down my forehead. Hopefully, the water will be enough to protect me.

  BOOM! I jump at the explosion in the distance. What was that? Part of the house, collapsing? An image of my mom’s face flashes to mind, bleeding, unconscious, buried under rubble and a sea of flames.

  I bolt for the door, which connects down the hall, on the other side of my parents’ door. Good thing it’s closest to the far set of stairs, because already the fire is rushing into my parents’ bedroom in a huge orange wall.

  I run with my eyes watering from the smoke. So hot, it’s so hot. When I reach the top of the stairs, there’s a terrible crunch overhead. I look up…in time to see a chunk of the flaming beams in the ceiling separate from the rest. The fiery wood plummets right for my head. I dive, the temperature skyrockets, and then a loud crash fills my ears.

  The air around me fragments into black and orange particles.

  I cover my eyes, feeling simultaneous burning on my left calf, my hand, my arm. I roll against the carpet in an attempt to smother any remaining embers.

  I stand just as I hear my father’s stifled scream. Sweat that has nothing to do with the fire beads across my body. Flames crackle in front of me—a writhing orange mass, rearing up from the fallen beam, while behind me the wall of fire steadily flickers my way.

  No way forward, no way back. Besides, Mom and Dad need my help.

  Without giving myself time to think, I turn and race forward. The flaming banister sears my hand, and I can smell the acrid stench of my burning hair, where the flames grab at a few drying strands. My hand erupts into a blaze of agony, so intense that nausea twists my gut, rolls up my throat. But I don’t stop. I vault over the banister and through the orange wall—a solid mass of scorching heat; so hot, I’m sure my skin is melting from my bones. I close my eyes…before plunging into nothingness.

  My stomach dives into my feet as I free-fall into space. Like on one of those roller coaster rides, only knowing there is no safe landing at the end. Smoke, flames, everything is a blur. Please, please, please is all I have time to think before I crash hard.

  My feet hit first, and then I pitch onto my hands and knees. The force knocks me forward, and my right shoulder slams hard. My temple is next.

  Pain explodes before everything goes black.

  I come to moments—minutes?—later. My vision clears, only to show that the gray smoke and crackling flames still rage around me. The place where I landed is safe, but for how long?

  Our living-room floor is scorched, its pale stain replaced by an angry black char. This part of our house used to look big but now feels claustrophobic, dwarfed by writhing orange and billowing gray smoke.

  There isn’t much time left.

  Gingerly I attempt to crawl to my feet. I scream when my burned hand hits the floor and double over, fighting not to black out again. Every bit of my body hurts. I push to my feet, and my right ankle gives. While I struggle to steady myself on one foot, I realize my clothes are almost dry. The shirt I have tied around my mouth is gone. My own shirt, once white, is gray with soot.

  I look to my left, then my right. No sign of my parents—just fire, both ways, devouring the remains of our furniture. The dining table where I did my homework every night. The couch where we watched those ridiculous documentaries every weekend—a habit I’ll never complain about again, if we can all just make it out. As I stare hopelessly into the flames, I think I see a flicker of color behind them. Pale skin topped with blond hair. Mom? Is that Mom, heading for the French doors? Another flicker, of forest green. Is that Dad’s coat? Is he coming back for me?

  I wave my uninjured arm. “Dad!” I try to scream, but once again my voice fails me. “Dad, over here!”

  The fire’s crackle is my only reply.

  Did he see me? Was he even there? Or was I hallucinating everything?

  Panic pulses an ever-increasing rhythm through my body, even as my lungs protest the lack of oxygen.

  Three minutes. Three minutes. Three minutes.

  Then, through a break in the flames, I see his face, his brown eyes wide with panic. A relieved sob swells in my throat. He’s okay. Dad is okay.

  He’s stepping toward me when, overhead, there’s a sharp clap, followed by a loud, creaking groan—a sound I’ve grown to fear in a very short time. I turn too fast and my foot slips. I collapse to my knees, hitting hard, but my eyes never leave the shimmering banister. It is tipping, tipping, slowly losing the battle with the flames. Anytime now the structure is going to collapse…and take me out with it.

  I crane my neck, try to look back to where I saw Dad, but though I fight to pick him out behind the curtain of flames, he’s gone. Vanished. Or maybe it’s just the smoke growing thicker, darker. In the distance, behind the crackle and roar, sounds the high-pitched wail of a siren.

  Too late.

  When I push to my feet once more, I realize just how weak I am. Fatigue has turned my legs into dead weigh
ts. My lungs feel full, much too full to suck down any air.

  The room is growing gray. I know realistically that the French doors can’t be far, but at the rate I’m moving, they seem a world away.

  I manage to hobble one step forward, then two. But my energy is fading as fast as the fire is growing. More heaviness seeps into my limbs, a sleepiness that, somewhere in my head, a voice is screaming at me to fight.

  But it’s so peaceful…and breathing is so hard.

  I shake off the weariness. No, I have to move.

  I make it one more step before an explosive CRACK! deafens me. The next moment, something strikes me across the skull, like a slap from a giant, and I go down. As my eyes fight to stay open, I’m encased in a tomb of black smoke, billowing across my face, filling my nose, blinding me completely.

  “Dad?” I whisper. Why hasn’t he come for me?

  My head hits the floor. Behind the curtain of black, there’s dancing orange. With the last bit of my energy, I lift my good hand and search for the picture I stashed in my waistband, but all I find is skin.

  Gone. It must have fallen out along the way. My heart twists painfully—or maybe that’s an injury. By this point, it’s impossible to tell.

  My vision grows hazy as the flames flicker closer.

  No, not haze—static. Buzzing. Then the room separates into four, eight, sixteen tiny boxes, all in one. Sixteen tiny flames, dancing closer to me.

  The images fade in and out, interspersed with stark black…like a dead TV screen.

  More static hissed through my ears. Then infinite darkness. I felt removed, detached.

  No more heat, no more pain. Just red words that sifted in front of me.

  Memory banks compromised…defragment.

  System shutting down in five, four, three, two, one—

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