By Zachary Holbrook
Though I was eager to rush into a burning building once, now I sit on the sidelines watching friends risk their lives to quench the flames, knowing they will hate me if they discover the real reason I’m in this wheelchair.
Bill stumbles out of the building with a pale-faced boy in his arms. Smoke billows out from the orphanage behind him, and his shirt is riddled with holes. Fireproof suits are still too expensive for all the firefighters in this district to wear. I should have changed that. I didn’t.
Coughing, Bill falls to one knee. I move my wheelchair forward to help him, but there’s nothing I can do. A firefighter takes the child from Bill’s arms and carries him to the other orphans, who are gathered in a frightened huddle. I sit on the outside of the group, just close enough to see through upper windows of the orphanage.
“Count them,” Bill gasps. “There should be thirty-three. Oh God, let that be the last one. I can’t go back in there.”
The heat from the orphanage’s lower floor is so intense I roll myself backward. The fire hasn’t engulfed the second floor yet, but the building’s structural integrity has been irreversibly compromised. Soon the whole thing will collapse into an inferno.
Usually, when I volunteer to help my former coworkers, I fetch water or something useful. This time, I watch the blaze and thank God I’m not in danger. I hate the idea of burning to death, but I couldn’t seek a career outside of firefighting. Four generations of firefighters adorn my family tree. A heritage like that can’t be ignored.
The chief screams orders to his men, telling them to build a firebreak to stop the blaze from spreading. I itch to get up, to do something, but I hold myself back. They don’t need me yet, and getting up would cost more than I’m willing to pay. The government pension I receive for my invalid status is the only thing allowing me to pay my debts. Without it, I lose everything—my friends, my home, the last minuscule shred of self-respect I can maintain. Everything but a shoddy fire-suit made of an expensive fiber I shouldn’t have gone deeply in debt to buy.
And I thought my doomed business venture would make fire-suits cheaper. Pathetic.
A child wails. My head whips toward the sound—it’s coming from the boy Bill just saved. He gestures frantically upward, and a collective gasp spreads through the other orphans. It is difficult to make out his words over the screams of the children and the roar of the fire.
“Sister! My sister!”
I follow his pointing finger to the upper floor, where a girl no more than four waves out a window.
A pit opens inside of me. The firefighters have scattered, knocking down the flimsy wooden shanties surrounding the orphanage. No one can help—no one except for me.
The boy looks at me, eyes full of desperation. “Save her!”
His naivety is almost funny. Has he never seen a wheelchair before? I can’t bring myself to lie to him, so I shake my head. “The fire is too hot.”
“But you have fireproof suits,” the boy says, crying in earnest now.
He’s right. No one here has a suit—except me.
It’s not a standard model, and it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. I feel the night air through a charred hole in its shoulder. I wear it as a kind of penance, I guess. Never thought I’d have reason to use it.
I attempt to push myself up, out of my wheelchair, but my will fails me. I’m so used to being a coward, to hiding the fact that I gambled everything on a wild venture and failed, that I can’t change even when I want to.
The girl screams.
The boy’s sobs grow louder, but when the other firefighters notice what’s happening and rush to save her, they realize there’s no hope. The fire is too dangerous, the building too damaged.
I’m frozen, caught between the desire to stand up or to continue to hide.
The flames rise higher.
I rise with them.
Kicking away my wheelchair, I pick up Bill’s discarded oxygen mask and strap it on. The other firefighters gasp when they see me stride toward the orphanage.
I enter the flames.
The smoke is so thick I can’t see a foot ahead of me. I don’t have much time.
The stairway has been reduced to a skeleton. The wood creaks, then collapses beneath my feet as I climb. I leap, and my desperate hands grab the edge of the floor, my feet dangling above the blaze. Sweats pours off my skin as I pull myself up. A flake of ash falls onto my shoulder, searing it. The fire has reached the roof.
Guided only by the sound of the girl’s crying, I make my way to her room and burst through the door as the flames erupt behind me. She cringes away from me. With my mask, I probably look like some monster.
I pick her up and hold her close to my body. She calms down. Either she trusts me, or she’s dying of smoke inhalation. I move to look out the window.
I have a habit of overestimating things—my entrepreneurial ability or the functionality of my fire-suit. I only hope I’m overestimating the height of this building. If I’m not—well, I won’t have to worry about whether Bill’s expression is primarily anger over my lies or awe at my bravery.
The girl’s heart races even faster than mine. I wish I felt her fear. Then I could pretend I have less of my own. My legs lock up. The flames behind me, the men shouting ahead of me—all is still.
I jump.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Such an engaging story! It fits April’s theme perfectly, and I love how you give such a great sense of backstory with so few words. Very well done!
That was so intense and I LOVED it. Such a unique idea that you totally gave justice!
That’s nice to know. I didn’t think my premise was all that unique when I was writing this story. But like most authors, I can sometimes doubt my own work too much.
Originality is over-rated. All the stories have been told a dozen times. What makes this a good story is how you made it yours and dragged us into it.
Great tension throughout the whole story! And I liked how you chose to leave the fallout for readers to imagine.
Thank you! Although that was mainly because I ran out of words; I actually had a slightly different ending planned. But I’m happy with this one.
Completely unexpected. You drew me in with the first line. I had to know why he was in the wheelchair, had a preconceived idea, and you blew it to shreds. Perfect flash fiction. Well-done.
Thanks! Foreshadowing is one of my strengths as an author, but it’s difficult to strike a proper balance between hinting at a plot twist and making it too obvious. It’s nice to know I succeeded this time.
Ahhhh this is SO GOOD *flailing*