Before Olen came to a full stop Josh swung open the passenger door, hopped out, and sprinted for the entrance. His groin still ached, and his neck felt like he’d been whiplashed, but neither slowed him down. He heard Sheriff Streng bark something behind him, the words getting lost in the roar of burning house. Josh pulled his shirt up over his nose and hunched low under the cloud of smoke hugging the ceiling. Small fires dotted the walls and furniture, and the inside temp had to be over a hundred degrees.
Josh scanned the foyer and spotted three people rolling around on the floor. Erwin, Fran, and—Josh couldn’t believe it—Santiago. No … not Santiago. But someone just as creepy, all dressed in black and sporting a rapturous expression as he tried to hold a flame to Erwin’s face.
Josh rushed over, helping Fran pull the intruder off of Erwin. Even with four arms against the intruder’s one, it was a battle. But then Erwin became aware of Josh’s presence, and he added his weight and strength to the cause. They peeled the intruder off of Erwin, pinning the hand that held the large lighter to the floor.
When Erwin got back to his feet he touched the raw burn on his cheek, grimaced, and made a fist the size of a small ham. He dropped onto the intruder, bellowed out in pain and rage, and began to smash him in the face. As Josh watched, Erwin split the man’s nose, cracked his teeth, and bloodied both eyes. The intruder kept a sick grin on his face the entire time, a grin that stayed on even after he lost consciousness.
Josh pried the lighter out of the man’s hand and locked eyes with Fran. She looked like she’d been in a war. Her hair was a rat’s nest, her clothes were torn, and her skin was a mosaic of soot, mud, and blood. Josh reached out for her hand, but she had already spun away, heading deeper into the house.
“Watch him!” Josh yelled at Erwin. Then he went after Fran.
She knelt next to a closed door, tugging at the knob. He bent down next to her.
“Duncan and Mrs. Teller are in there! It’s a bomb shelter!”
Josh’s hands joined hers on the knob and they both tugged. The door didn’t budge. Josh knocked on it, surprised by how warm it felt. Metal. All firemen hated metal doors. Even worse, the frame also seemed to be reinforced.
“Duncan! It’s Josh VanCamp! Can you hear me!”
“Yeah!” The boy’s voice was muffled and filled with fear.
“We’re going to get you out!” Josh yelled. Then he pulled Fran close and said into her ear, “I have to go to the truck.”
Fran grabbed his arm and dug her fingers in. Her eyes got wide.
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving. I’ll be right back.”
Fran nodded and released him. The smoke had built up on the ceiling and floated at chest level. Josh moved in a crouch to stay under it. He squinted at Erwin, who had been joined by Sheriff Streng. They had tied up the intruder and were tugging him out of the building.
Josh beat them outside. He coughed, spat out black, and took a big gulp of cool night air. Olen had a filthy hose clutched in his gloved hands, spraying the side of the house with human waste. Josh could smell it through the smoke. He wrinkled his nose and hopped in the cab of the truck, grabbing the rifle. The stock had a split in it, but it looked able to fire. He didn’t think a .22 would do much against a steel door, but he had no other ideas.
“Keep it low, at the foot of the flame,” Josh told Olen.
“I am. It’s not working.”
The fire had reached the second floor. Josh realized that with the equipment they had the house was a goner.
“Keep going. There are people trapped inside.”
Olen nodded at him, and Josh went back into the building. Smoke and soot stung his eyes, and the temperature had gone up a dozen degrees. Fran was still next to the door, hitting it with a sledgehammer. Josh touched her shoulder, tugged her away.
“Duncan! Stand away from the door!”
The boy yelled okay.
Josh aimed at the knob, black tears stinging his eyes, and fired. The bullet pinged off the knob, making a shallow dent and nothing more. Josh swore.
“Josh!” Duncan banged on the door. “You have to hurry! The smoke is getting bad!”
• • •
Duncan’s eyes stung like someone poked dirty fingers in them, and his nose was running like he had a cold. The smoke was getting really thick at the top of the stairs. Every time he breathed, he coughed.
“Duncan!” Mrs. Teller called. “Come here!”
Duncan didn’t want to leave the top of the stairs, even though the walls on either side of him were on fire. He was really scared, but his mom was behind the door, trying to get in. He wanted to be there when she did.
He crouched down, trying to get under the smoke, but it was just as bad by his feet. Duncan pulled his shirt up over his mouth, shrunk back against the heat of the flames, and closed his eyes, hoping Mom would hurry.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him. Mrs. Teller.
“We need to get downstairs, child.”
Duncan shrugged away.
“I want to wait for Mom and Josh!”
The old woman coughed. “We’ll wait for them downstairs. Come on.”
She reached for Duncan’s hand, and he fought it, pulling away.
“No!”
“Please, Duncan. Smoke rises. We have to get lower, or we’ll die from the smoke.”
Duncan sucked in more bad air, filling his lungs with scratchy heat, and coughed it out. It hurt. When Mrs. Teller grabbed his hand again he didn’t struggle, reluctantly following her back into the shelter. It had gotten brighter, the soft green light of the glow sticks replaced by flickering orange. Duncan looked up, saw patches of fire on the ceiling, spreading out like an upside-down spill.
It was so hot.
Mrs. Teller took him to the middle of the room, and they crouched on the floor. Woof came over, whimpering. He was scared, too.
Mrs. Teller put her arm around Duncan.
“Remember all the cookies we used to bake together?” she asked.
Duncan coughed, nodded. Sometimes they made different shapes, like squares and triangles. Or giant cookies, as big as the pan.
“You always liked to lick the bowl. Mr. Teller liked that, too. We’ll bake cookies again, when we get out of here. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Duncan answered.
But his mind wasn’t on cookies. It was on the flames, rapidly spreading to the walls and the supplies on the shelves.
Revulsion coursed through Jessie Lee. The lottery commissioner had gotten blood on her arm. Blood had
She dug around in her purse and found a pack of tissue and some moist towelettes that she liberated regularly from the diner. As she wiped her arm and hands, her thoughts of getting sick were replaced by other, more sinister thoughts.
She hadn’t noticed him bleeding. And this was more than just a few drops.
The scenario popped into her head fully formed. They weren’t there to get lottery money. They were there to be killed, one by one. That’s why the electricity was out. That’s why the doors were locked. That’s why the cars from the first people on the list were still in the parking lot. That’s why they were taken into the locker room one at a time. That’s why, once in the locker room, people would scream. That’s why the lottery commissioner looked like
