Page 52 of Inferno

Chapter 13

Thick clouds of smoke billowed from the roof of the small white clapboard house on Kedron Street.

Stan charged up the porch steps, adrenaline and fear pumping hard through his veins. He heard no wail of approaching sirens, no shouts from other firefighters arriving on the scene.

He was on his own.

After pausing to secure his helmet over his hood, he rammed his shoulder against the front door, forcing it open with a loud, splinteringcrack!

Barreling across the threshold, he was assaulted by the scorching blast of an inferno that knocked him backward. Gasping sharply, he dropped to his knees.

The living room was engulfed in thick black smoke. Flames danced up the walls and swept across the ceiling.

Breathing hard behind his oxygen mask, Stan lifted his head and peered through the curtain of smoke.

That was when he saw them.

Two bodies seated side by side on the old sofa. Unconscious, eyes closed, heads resting limply against each other’s.

The moment Stan recognized the middle-aged couple, his heart rushed into his throat. Lunging to his feet, he forced his way through the acrid smoke, heedless of the searing flames and plaster falling from the ceiling.

Reaching the sofa, he crouched down before the couple, his panicked gaze shooting from one to the other.

“Mama!” he called out hoarsely.“Dad!”

Neither stirred.

Choking back blind terror, Stan reached toward his mother with the intent of tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her outside to safety.

But before he could grab her, she suddenly disintegrated to ashes.

He recoiled in shocked horror, watching as his father also turned into a charred corpse.

“NO!” Stanshouted,a sound of raw anguish. “Please God,nooo!”

Hearing a loud roar overhead, he looked up quickly.

The roof was collapsing!

As a fiery beam plummeted toward him, he opened his mouth and screamed—

Stan bolted upright in bed, lungs burning, chest heaving violently as he fought to catch his breath.

After several frantic seconds, he glanced down at himself. Instead of wearing his heavy turnout coat and bunker trousers, he had on black shorts and an old T-shirt dampened with clammy sweat. When he looked up at the dark ceiling and saw that it was very much intact, he exhaled a ragged breath and dragged trembling hands over his face.

Jesus.

He’d been dreaming about his dead parents again.

Grief and nausea churned in his stomach, curdling the digested remains of the chili he’d cooked for dinner.

He tossed the covers aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed, then stood and staggered into the bathroom. Twisting on the sink faucet, he splashed cold water onto his face.

Shivering uncontrollably, he gripped the edges of the counter and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the horrific image of his parents’ charred corpses. But it was seared into his conscience as indelibly as if someone had taken a branding iron to his brain.

It had been eighteen years since his parents died in a house fire. Stan and his older brother, Sterling, had been away that fateful summer, visiting their grandmother in Savannah. One devastating phone call from home had turned their lives upside down, and they’d never been the same again.

Swiping water from his face, Stan tossed aside the hand towel and trudged out of the bathroom. Since he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon—not without Prissy’s warm body to curl up with—he left the bedroom and made his way through the dark, silent house to the kitchen.