and walking dead men and things from other worlds, and here we go,
flame falling, may you.burn in hell, burning down my own house,
wouldn't have to do that in Los Angeles, other people will do it for
you there.
WHOOSH!
The gasoline-soaked carpet exploded into flames that leaped all the way
to the ceiling. The fire didn't spread through the stairwell, it was
simply everywhere at once. Instantaneously the walls and railings were
as fully involved as the treads and risers.
A stinging wave of heat hit Heather, forcing her to squint. She should
at once have moved farther away from the blaze because the air was
nearly hot enough to blister her skin, but she had to see what happened
to the Giver.
The staircase was an inferno. No human being could have survived in it
longer than a few seconds.
In that swarming incandescence, the dead man and the living beast were
a single dark mass, rising another step. And another. No screams or
shrieks of pain accompanied its ascent, only the roar and crackle of
the fierce fire, which was now lapping out of the stairwell and into
the upstairs hallway.
As Toby locked the stairhead door and turned from it, and as Falstaff
growled from the threshold of the other door, orange-red light flashed
through the hall behind the dog. His growl spiraled into a yelp of
surprise. Following the flash were flickering figures of light that
danced on the walls out there: reflections of fire.
Toby knew that his mom had set the alien on fire-- she was tough, she
was smart--and a current of hope thrilled through him.
Then he noticed the second wrong thing about the bedroom. The drapes
were closed over his recessed bed.
He had left them open, drawn back to both sides of the niche. He only
closed them at night or when he was playing a game. He had opened them
this morning, and he'd had no time for games since he'd gotten up.
The air had a bad smell. He hadn't noticed it right away because his
heart was pounding and he was breathing through his mouth.
He moved toward the bed. One step, two.
The closer he drew to the sleeping alcove, the worse the smell
became.
It was like the odor on the back stairs the first day they'd seen the
house, but a lot worse.
He stopped a few steps from the bed. He told himself he was a hero.
It was okay for heroes to be afraid, but even when they were afraid,
they had to do something.
At the open door, Falstaff was just about going crazy.
Blacktop was visible in a few small patches, revealed by the flaying
wind, but most of the roadway was covered by two inches of fresh
powder. Numerous drifts had formed against the snow walls thrown up by
the plow.
Judging by the available signs, Jack figured the crew had made a
circuit through this neighborhood about two hours ago, certainly no
