Chapter 11 The Night the Sky Caught Fire #2
She didn’t hesitate. She bolted toward the porch, toward the bomb, toward the house where her people slept. Her gaze shot to his retreating hand—a small device clutched in his fist. A remote.
Her foot hit the ground once more, and she took a breath that felt impossibly deep, as if her lungs meant to hold onto life a fraction of a second longer.
“COLIN!” she screamed—loud, guttural, full of terror and command. “WAKE UP! GET OUT! BOMB!” Then her scream shattered the stillness, an anguished cry hurled into the dark.
Oh god.
White fire filled the world.
Then, nothing.
Daniel
Daniel Lopez was halfway along the rear perimeter, flashlight slicing quietly through shadows, when Sarah’s voice crackled urgently in his earpiece:
“Daniel—front yard. Now!”
His heart jolted. He pivoted sharply, breaking into a run, legs pumping hard across the damp grass.
Somewhere beyond the neighborhood, the faint wail of sirens began to rise, growing sharper with every stride.
Before he reached the corner of the house, her voice rang out again—this time not through the radio, but from the front yard itself, full and raw and real.
“COLIN! WAKE UP! GET OUT! BOMB!”
Daniel ran faster, heart pounding, eyes locked on the front yard.
“SARAH!” His shout fractured the silence a beat too late.
Her shrill scream tore through the night—urgent and impossible to misread.
And then the world erupted.
A roaring explosion punched him backward, slamming him to the ground.
Debris rained over him—splinters, gravel, biting flecks of glass.
The breath tore out of his lungs in a violent rush.
Darkness swallowed him, ears screaming with a high-pitched whine that drowned the world.
Seconds stretched, blurred. Then consciousness slammed back, sharp and sickening.
He rolled to his side, coughing, his shoulder screaming in protest as he pushed onto hands and knees.
Dust coated his face. Something warm trickled from his temple.
His vision swam, head pounding, but he forced himself forward, crawling over jagged debris he barely felt.
“Sarah!” he shouted, voice muffled and distant as though underwater.
The scene before him was chaos—the house—torn to pieces, smoke, broken glass, splintered wood littering everything. His eyes landed on a figure sprawled motionless on the lawn, horribly still.
“No. Oh, god, no—Sarah!”
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled to her side, dropping down beside her limp form.
Her eyes stared blankly upward, empty and unseeing.
Her radio lay shattered beside her, its twisted metal glinting in the wavering firelight.
He reached toward her instinctively, then stopped, his hand shaking. Nothing could be done. Not now.
Daniel bowed his head, the smoke stinging his eyes.
His voice broke as he whispered, “I heard you, Sarah. I was coming.” He sobbed once, then lifted his head, heart slamming against his ribs.
Fire bloomed behind shattered windows—curtains ablaze, flames licking hungrily up the dining room walls.
The blast must’ve ruptured something—gas line, maybe.
Flames were already chewing through the dining room. Adrenaline surged again.
Colin! Joshua! They’re still inside!
Stumbling to his feet, Daniel lunged toward the burning house, shouting their names into the choking smoke.
Colin
Upstairs, Colin stirred. He was dreaming about rain. The soft kind, tapping the windows, wrapping the house in a gentle hush. Joshua’s breathing beside him was deep, steady. A peaceful night.
Then a scream ripped through the quiet—raw, urgent—his name.
A woman’s voice. Sarah. Desperate. Frenzied. But real.
Colin gasped, heart hammering, eyes snapping open as he jolted upright—
And then the world ended.
A thunderclap tore through the night—no, not thunder. Louder. Closer. Wrong.
He barely had time to suck in a terrified inhale before the blast hit.
A white-hot flash burned behind his eyelids, and a pressure wave slammed into his chest, stealing his breath, followed by the concussive thud of shattering glass and heat so sudden it didn’t feel like heat at all—just pressure and pain.
The air filled with dust, pain, noise—roaring, deafening, relentless noise.
He fought to remain conscious. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see.
“Josh!”
His own voice sounded far away—dull, echoing, lost beneath the terrible whine clawing at his ears.
“Joshua!”
Something warm trickled down his temple, and his cop instincts kicked in. Glass, he thought. Glass from the windows. A bomb! The room lurched sideways, warped, and unfamiliar. Debris rained down, and through the wreckage, he caught a horrifying glimpse of the night sky.
He wheeled toward Joshua, desperately searching, hands scrabbling over the bed. “JOSH!”
Then, he heard it. Just barely. As though his ears were a million miles away. A muffled cough.
“Colin?” The word reached him as though underwater. Dull. Terrified. But alive.
His hands moved across the bed, fingers brushing broken glass, jagged debris, pieces of wood, reaching toward the sound as smoke filled his throat. His hand found Joshua’s—warm, trembling, gripping him like a lifeline.
“I’ve got you,” Colin whispered, voice raw with smoke and fear. “I’ve got you!”
He didn’t know if the house still stood. He didn’t care. As long as Joshua was breathing, the world hadn’t ended after all.
Joshua
Joshua bolted upright, heart pounding. The blast hit like a hammer to his chest. The thunderous sound vanished instantly, replaced by a piercing shriek, thin as glass. His mouth moved—shaping Colin’s name—but no sound came back to him. The world had gone silent, reduced to a sharp, piercing shriek.
The bed shuddered—moved by unseen force—and debris pelted him from above.
He didn’t know what had broken. Or why. He instinctively grabbed the sheets, gasping, fighting for balance.
Smoke—acrid and thick—filled his throat.
His gaze shot toward the open bedroom door just as a bloom of white fire flared down the hallway, chasing the shadows.
His ears rang, then didn’t. Then rang again. His hands were shaking. Everything was shaking. Smoke curled across the ceiling, thick and gray. He tried to move but couldn’t. Everything felt slow. Dull. A nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken.
Then—through the haze, through the smoke and panic, a hand gripped his own—Colin’s. Firm, gripping hard, pulling him back to reality. Oh, thank god!
Colin
The whole world was shrapnel and smoke. His ears screamed with silence, the sound warped and hollow, like the ocean roaring inside a shattered seashell.
He tumbled from the bed, fumbling along the floor with one hand, scrabbling through the splinters of glass.
His sneakers. Where were they? His fingers grazed canvas, rubber. He shoved one foot in, then the other. No laces. No time.
He still clung to Joshua with his other hand, gripping tight. Afraid to let go. Joshua stared into his eyes, his own wide with terror, mouth moving soundlessly.
Colin shook his head once. Don’t talk. Just come.
Smoke curled from the stairwell, thick and choking—and beneath it, orange light licked at the hallway walls, firelight flickering a deadly warning.
Without a word, Colin pulled him forward. He spun into the bathroom, yanked a damp towel from the rack, and pressed it over Joshua’s mouth and nose. “Hold it!” he screamed, hoping to god Joshua understood. Then he gripped his husband with both hands and dragged him forward.
They stumbled down the stairs, feet slipping on the steps as they clung to each other. On the third step, Colin’s knees buckled. He caught the railing with one hand and Joshua with the other while ahead, he saw flames licking into view through the smoke.
Still no sound. Just the pounding in his blood. Just the frenzied desire to get him out and the gut-wrenching fear that he couldn’t.
Joshua stumbled on the last step, and Colin caught him around the waist, guiding him through the smoke-thick air.
Joshua
Silence roared in his head. But Colin’s hand was there. Anchoring him.
He forced himself upright, feet slamming the floor. Glass tore into his skin, pain knifing up his legs. He tried to scream, but the sound died in a void, smothered by that shrill, relentless whine.
He staggered forward, limping, clutching Colin, mind racing for answers, but he could process only the fire—flickering brighter through the stairwell banister—noise blinking in and out, like a shorting wire.
Colin’s voice was there, then gone, then back again.
But his grip on Joshua’s arm was firm, urging him onward.
He wanted to answer. Couldn’t. Just nodded. Or tried to.
Colin pointed toward the door. Smoke choked the air there, laced with flickers of firelight. Pain tore through Joshua’s feet, but he forced himself forward.
Then Colin veered away—toward the stairwell—dragging him off-course. Seconds later, something cold slapped against his face.
A moist cloth. Pressed hard against his mouth and nose.
“Hold it!” Colin’s scream punched through—fierce, desperate.
He pulled Joshua toward the stairs—one arm braced on the rail, the other locked around Joshua’s waist.
They began to descend, half-blind and reeling, barely processing the smoke, the heat, the pain.
Colin stumbled—caught himself—held them both upright with one hand on the rail, the other locked around Joshua’s waist. He coughed hard, chest burning, wheezing, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue. Colin hauled him closer, shielding him with his body.
Everything hurt. His heart. His lungs. His soul. His feet screamed with pain.
But Colin was there. There with him.
And that was all that mattered.
At the bottom of the stairs, Joshua wheeled to face him, his face lit by flame, the wet cloth falling to the floor. “Kitchen—” Joshua croaked, pulling away, eyes watering, lungs burning. “Extinguisher—”