Connection: Chapter 2

Robert woke with an acrid smell in his nostrils. The blood rushed back into his hands. The clock read two in the morning. Something slimy was on his chest. Groggily, he looked down and realized his shirt was soaked. Drops of water dotted the keyboard. He was suddenly aware of sweat pouring down his face. Why in the dickens is it so hot?, he wondered looking around. He tried to take a deep breath. A fit of coughing overtook him. Then he identified the smell. Gasoline. Smoke. Fire!

Immediately his heart rate went up. He quickly moved to the door and the heat increased dramatically. The trench coat. He grabbed it and put it on, the sleeves and sides hugging him tightly. He flipped up the wide collar to minimize the exposure. As an afterthought, he reached for his fedora. Bracing himself, he turned the doorknob. A sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm and reflexively he yanked it away. He bit his lip to prevent a corrosive outburst. The surface of his palm was red and tender. He considered getting ice from the fridge but decided time was too valuable. His eyes frantically searched the room and spotted the gloves on the desk. Tentatively this time, he reached for the metal knob and cracked the door.

A wave of intense heat blasted his face through the space. He shut the door. Shit. He looked at the plate-glass window across the room and grimaced. Nine stories was unquestionable suicide. Impossible. There was only one way out of the room and it was through this door. With each passing moment, breathing became more difficult and with it, the ability to think clearly. He had to get out. His damp white washrag hung on a hook inside the closet. He wrapped it around his nose and mouth. Willing his body to calm down, he pulled the door wide open.

Robert almost fainted from the combined sensory assault of the image and the heat. White-hot flames lapped at the doorway. The carpet in the hallway was purportedly fire-retardant but was certainly on fire now. He stepped into the corridor and looked towards the exit, the same stairs he had ascended earlier. Ceiling tiles had collapsed and created small pockets of safety, but he would surely be incinerated before he got to the emergency door. Already he was severely weakened from smoke inhalation. The tip of the trench coat caught on fire and he dove back into the room and flapped it out. Coughing, he closed the door. He was in trouble.

Lying on the floor of his one-room apartment, Robert closed his eyes and fought panic. The room was now visibly cloudy. I'm going to die, he thought. Twenty-one years old, and I'm going to die. His eyes watered, whether from the smoke or from an upsurge of emotion he wasn't sure. The cordless phone was a few feet away. But he had no one to call. An only child, his parents had drowned in a boating accident. His ex-girlfriend had migrated to some godforsaken hole in Canada. He could call 911, but in his gut he knew they could not reach in time to help him. He had to save himself.

He tried to stand up and failed. Time was running out. Moving on automatic, he snatched his bath towel and stuffed it under the door to block the smoke and fumes. To prevent college suicides, the windows in the Foust Towers did not open. The building was air-conditioned and heated to regulate the temperature. But the closed window was about to kill Robert. Grasping his chair and pulling himself to a kneeling position, he groped on the desk for something heavy. His fingers caught the laptop. He snapped the two halves together and stood unsteadily. With a enormous effort, he heaved the electronic ten-pound brick straight at the glass sheet.

The laptop smashed through the glass, leaving a gaping hole. Large ungainly shards clung to the metal frame. The night air rushed into the room, and Robert breathed in the heavenly gift. He removed the rag from his face and moved to the phone to call the brigade. As his hand touched the receiver, the door crashed inward with a roar. The flames had eaten the wooden door to the hinges. Fueled by the fresh oxygen flowing through the window, the fire swelled menacingly. Robert fell backwards onto the bed. Sparks ignited his bathrobe, and a few seconds later, his entire wardrobe was burning. Jesus Christ. Robert wasn't a religious man, but he needed a miracle now.

And there, through the wall of fire, he saw his one chance. The fire hose. There were no pipes connected to it anymore, he knew that. But it just might be long enough to save his life. He wrapped the coat tightly around his stomach, adjusted the fedora, clenched his gloved fists and went for it. He ran over the fiery door into the hall and grabbed the huge nozzle at one end. Despite the danger, the blazing inferno arrested his movement momentarily. It looked like the entrance to the gates of hell. Turning away, he ran back inside.

The fire had spread to his shelves and books. Soon the whole room would be engulfed. He had to act now. He attempted a rudimentary harness with the hose, but the cloth pulled taut at the other end. He would need more slack. Using his foot, he knocked out most of the remaining glass from the window. He took his thick comforter and hung it over the frame to soften the jagged edge. A lump appeared in his throat. This is crazy. He twisted the hose around his wrist and held on with both hands. The sprinkler system finally triggered and a fine drizzle of water coated the room ineffectually. He eased one foot through the window and rested it on the thin parapet below. The flames smothered most of the room except his desk. He winced as the computer sizzled, the liquid spray soaking its innards. With a final look at the room, he swung his other foot outside.