16. Please
Chapter sixteen
Please
Sal
I push through the gathering crowd of onlookers, my heart thundering to the same rhythm as the Save Haze, Save Haze mantra running through my head. Two fire trucks scream into the driveway, pouring out firemen like ants. The firemen are shouting directions and working fast. Powerful streams of water spray out of thick hoses manned by men in yellow, fire-retardant suits. Two of them are at the front door. I don't have time to wait for them. The only reason Haze wouldn't answer Martine was if something were wrong.
I cut through the neighbor's property, leaping over hedges and flowerbeds until I reach the fence separating the yards. The closer I get to the house, the stronger the tug in my gut becomes. With a grunt, I hoist myself up and over, dropping down onto Haze's property.
Smoke pours out of the windows, thick and black. I pull my T-shirt off and tie it over my nose and mouth, trying to filter out the worst of it. Then, I grab a paving stone from the garden path and bash in the nearest window.
Glass shatters, tinkling to the ground as I climb through the opening. Shards of glass dig into my flesh, but I barely notice. All I can think about is finding Haze. Inside, the smoke is even thicker, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. The heat is so intense my skin feels like it's bubbling and crackling.
Stacks of boxes loom out of the smoke, piled high in every room. Fire licks at the edges, up the walls, and across the ceiling. Spitting and hissing, flames devour the house like a volcanic deity bent on revenge. The house groans, and I know I've already run out of time. "Haze!" I yell, knowing he can't hear me over the roar of the flames. Sweat is pouring down my face. I dash it away with my arm, clearing my vision enough to recognize some of the boxes… my things... packed up and ready to be moved out. A pang of grief hits me, but I push it aside. I have to find Haze.
I stumble a few more steps into the house, coughing hard as I call his name as the blistering temperature rises. "Haze! Haze, where are you?"
My foot catches on something, and I go sprawling, landing hard on the floor. I twist around, trying to see what tripped me, and my heart stops.
It's Haze. He's lying face down on the ground, motionless. A broken picture frame lies a few inches from his hand.
"No, no, no," I mutter, crawling over to him. I bend, retching and coughing, and roll him over, quickly hooking my forearms under his shoulders. I’ve got to get him out of the house. "Haze! Can you hear me? Haze!"
Haze's chest rises and falls in shallow, labored pants. Smoke inhalation. He needs oxygen, fast. I shake him hard, but the only response is his head lolling to the side. "Haze! Wake up, you bastard!"
The roar of the flames and the crackle of the burning structure fill the air, but I can hear the wail of sirens, signaling more emergency services, approaching in the distance. I drag Haze toward the French doors. I rotate his body to the side and kick hard at the door handles. They’re locked. I lay Haze down, frantically looking for something to wrap around my hands to flip down the locks and push the lever latch. Fuck. There isn’t time. A scream bursts out of my mouth when my skin makes contact with metal that’s so hot my palm and fingers hiss like frying chicken skin. The pain short-circuits my brain, but I don’t stop. I swing the door open, hook my arms under Haze’s, and drag him out of the house. Over the patio, into the yard, as the house groans and shudders. Coughing and hacking, I collapse onto the grass, Haze's limp form sprawled beside me.
By the time I catch my breath, the backyard is swarming with firefighters and paramedics. Two of them rush over, immediately dropping to their knees beside Haze.
"Sir, you need to step back and let us work," one of the firefighters says, his voice muffled behind his mask.
I shake my head, pushing up to my knees and then my feet, wavering as I stand. Pressing my panic down, I try not to let panic thrum through my voice as I beg for their help. "He's barely breathing. There was cough so much hack smoke. Help him, please," I pant, choking so hard I can barely get the words out.
The other paramedic nods, quickly slipping an oxygen mask over Haze's face and activating the flow of pure oxygen. "We've got him. Let us handle this."
A small measure of relief floods through my veins at the hiss of gas. They begin assessing Haze's condition, checking his vital signs and listening to his breathing with a stethoscope. I sink back on my knees, trying not to hover as they frantically work on him. An EMT tries to strap a mask on my face, but I rip it off and yank my arm away from her, wholly focused on Haze. The paramedics work quickly, efficiently. One of them starts an IV, while the other starts a nebulizer treatment to help open Haze's lungs. I can see the soot and ash on his skin, the way his breathing remains labored and strained.
"How is he?" I ask, my voice rough and hoarse.
"His airway is swelling from the smoke inhalation," the paramedic replies, not looking up from his work. "We need to get him to the hospital for further treatment. We may have to intubate him."
They carefully lift Haze onto a gurney, securing him in place. I follow closely, my hands trembling as I watch them load him into the waiting ambulance. I have to be there, to make sure he's going to be okay.
As the ambulance doors close, I catch one last glimpse of Haze's pale, soot-smeared face, the oxygen mask obscuring his features. Martine steps to my side, quietly examining my burned hand as we watch the doors shut. Sirens blaring, the ambulance heads west. Paramedics from a second truck clean my hand, spread some type of ointment on it, and then wrap it, advising me that I should go to the Emergency Room and get examined.
My other hand clutches at my neck for the medallion I used to wear, a habit I thought I'd broken as an adult. Although the necklace isn't there, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to St. Anthony that Haze doesn't become a lost soul that needs finding.
I mutter that I’ll go, but only so they’ll leave me be. I’m not worried about myself. All I can think about is Haze.
Please, don't let this be the end. Not like this.
As Martine takes my arm and guides me to her car, I swear to anyone who might be listening that I will find a way to save Haze.