Page 2 of Flint’s Strike

Felton’s words in my ear are almost soft now. “Eliot. The south side’s gone.”

“No! Zack! Fuckin’ hell, Zack!” I claw at the grating. Twist. Fight with everything I have. Because if I can get to him, maybe…

A low rumble, then a whoosh, and flames lick at my left side. Move!

I wrench my arm as hard as I can. Dark spots blur the flames. The smoke is so thick, the respirator can’t keep up. But my leg is almost free. One…more…

Fuck!

The fire finds a hole in my suit. Crawls over my back, my ribs, my chest. The scream isn’t mine. It can’t be. It can’t…

Zack.

For an eternity, there’s only pain and screaming.

Until a tidal wave of water sweeps over me.

The weight pinning my leg lifts. I’m moving. Can’t see anything. Can’t say anything. Can’t save him. Can’t even tell him how proud I was—am—of him.

The air starts to clear. Sunlight slashes across my face. “Get him to the ambo!” Felton shouts.

I’d fight them if I had the strength. Try to go back in. Find Zack. But the world turns quiet and dark. And eventually… I let go.

After five days, I know every tile, every stain, and every imperfection in the ceiling over this hospital bed by heart.

The nurses change shifts at six—morning and night. The steady drip of pain medication turns the hours in between soft at the edges. But it doesn’t take them away. Doesn’t stop me from thinking about Zack at nineteen, standing on the corner with his baby sister in his arms, staring at his burned-out shell of a home. The kid decided to become a firefighter that afternoon. Nothing and no one was gonna talk him out of it, but I was the one who planted the idea in his head.

I’ve had one hundred and twelve hours—give or take—to think about everything I should have done differently, from the first words I said to him all the way to the last. How I could have kept him alive.

My left leg itches. I can’t do a damn thing about it. Can’t sit up on my own. Can’t piss on my own. Can’t even eat properly. The NG tube snakes through my left nostril, delivering enough calories for my body to function, but every swallow reminds me how helpless I am.

The first two days, I kept clearing my throat around the damn thing. I don’t do that anymore. Because every time I tried, the pain sent me to my knees. Figuratively, anyway.

Mornings are the worst. The nurses come with a cart full of supplies, and the iron grip I keep on my emotions shatters. Debridement is an agony I wouldn’t wish on Satan himself. It’s even worse when they have to roll me over to take care of my back, jostling my shattered femur in the process.

Morphine can’t touch the pain. Nothing can. For the hour or so they work on me, I lock my jaw shut to stop myself from screaming and cry like a baby.

Dressing changes are just as bad. That’s when the second-degree burns hurt the most. Skin that’s almost okay shouldn’t be worse than what was nearly destroyed, yet it is.

I’m still working through the aftershocks from this morning’s torture session when someone raps on the open door.

“Eliot.” Captain Felton drags a chair over, drops into it like he owns the place, and sets a greasy bag on the table over the bed. The one that’s somewhere north of my knees, but might as well be in fuckin’ Alaska for how well I can reach it flat on my back.

The scent of an egg sandwich from Dot’s makes my stomach turn. Not because I don’t want it. Fuck, I want it more than life itself at the moment. But because eating is its own kind of hell right now.

The nurses angling my head so I won’t choke. Cutting my food into tiny bites. Feeding me. It’s like a kick to the gut after I’ve gone ten rounds with a prize fighter.

Felton tries not to stare—at the bandages covering me from the waist up, at my leg in traction, at the feeding tube—and shakes his head. “You look like shit.”

“Been told,” I rasp.

“Zack’s service is Thursday.” He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “His mom wanted you to know. She understands you can’t come— Fuck.” He takes a deep breath before he continues. “She wanted you to know Zack talked about you all the time.”

I don’t look at him. It’s that magical hour of the morning when a thin shaft of sunlight catches the texture of the tile in a way that’s almost…relaxing. Or would be, if that particular emotion were one I could muster these days.

“Eliot, you’ve gotta⁠—”

“No.”