Chapter 12
S he couldn't breathe.
Cara opened her eyes, then blinked trying to clear her vision. The room was full of fog, orange fog, and it was choking her. She coughed violently, trying to clear her lungs, struggling to make sense of the swirling haze.
She couldn't move, something heavy was holding her down, partially blocking her vision.
Above her, she could see nothing but the fog. Light flickered through it, almost as if it were alive. She fought for another breath. It was hot. Really hot.
She tried to clear her mind, to remember what happened. Everything was eerily quiet, too quiet. The light continued to dance against the fog. Her brain scrambled to find logic where seemingly there was none. Suddenly it clicked.
Fire. The dancing light was fire . She sucked in a breath, the acrid stench of smoke filling her lungs and stinging her eyes. Oh God, the fog was smoke.
She tried to stay calm, to hold her panic at bay, but she could feel her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her chest. Closing her eyes, she forced her breathing to stay shallow and even, trying to remember what she was supposed to do.
Stop. Drop. Roll. Stop. Drop. Roll.
The words ran through her brain, a sing-song phrase, taunting her with the impossible.
Stopping and dropping seemed to be fait d'accompli , but rolling was evidently out of the question.
Unless someone could move whatever it was that was pinning her down.
Where the hell was the bionic man when she needed him?
Hysteria welled inside her, threatening to take away the small thread of sanity she had left. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she fought to calm herself. She had to think. Think .
A sharp popping noise, followed by shattering glass broke the stillness.
The light intensified, and with a low whoosh, flames shot out above her head, building quickly until a canopy of fire billowed across the ceiling.
Fascinated, she stared as it spread, and then almost instantaneously vanished again.
Perversely, the fire itself calmed her as nothing else had and she forced herself to take inventory of the situation. She could feel her toes. And if she strained she could even see her left arm. Her fingers wiggled reassuringly.
One of the crates was lying on her arm. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against it as hard as she could. It rose a little and then toppled over, leaving her arm free. She lifted it gingerly, flexing the muscles, relieved to see that it wasn't injured.
She pushed her hair out of her eyes, surprised to see her hand come away covered with blood. Even little head wounds bleed like the dickens, a voice in her mind soothed. She crinkled her forehead. It didn't hurt. Surely that was a good sign.
The canopy was back. She watched mesmerized as the flames writhed above her.
A small explosion somewhere behind her, brought her sharply back to reality. She had to get out of here.
She tried to push against the weight on top of her, her hand recognizing the smooth metal of a filing cabinet.
It was warm to the touch, but not hot. Not yet, the little voice whispered.
She coughed again, grimacing. Her throat was raw from breathing the rancid smoke.
At least she was trapped on the floor. There was more air down here.
She tried to look at the filing cabinet, but all she could make out clearly was the tip of her nose, the effort making her cross-eyed. She gave up. The thing must be jammed against something else. If it had landed on her directly, surely it would have crushed her.
Something was braced against her head. When she tried to move, she could feel it shift. Better to hold still. The smoke seemed thicker now. She worked to keep her breathing shallow, her eyes darting back and forth, watching for the fire, waiting for it find her, devour her.
Fear threatened to consume her again. She watched as a burning ember dropped from the ceiling onto the wooden floor.
It smoldered, but didn't catch and she felt an absurd rush of relief.
She tried to move her right arm, but it was securely pinned at her side.
She was trapped. The only thing she could do now was wait, and hope that someone would come.
Michael.
His face filled her mind, and she felt immediately calmer, almost as if he was actually there with her. Surely fate hadn't sent him all the way through time, only to let him watch her die.
She shook her head, biting down on her lip, the resulting pain pulling her from her morbid thoughts.
This kind of thinking just wouldn't do. She had to hang on.
Michael would come. He'd saved her before and it looked like he was going to have to save her again.
She closed her eyes, blocking out the menacing fire. All she had to do was wait.
Flames shot between broken shards of glass in the front window. Michael was aware of people in the street, of shouts and cries for help, but all he could focus on was the fire raging inside the gallery.
Cara. He had to get to Cara.
As he ran for the front door, a wave of heat rolled across the sidewalk, enveloping him.
Swearing, he backed away, hands in front of his face.
A shrill wail filled the air. He wasn't certain what a modern day fire wagon would look like, but he recognized a siren when he heard one.
He released a breath. Help was on the way.
Turning back to the building, he watched as smoke and sparks fill the night sky, obliterating the stars. The wailing was nearer now, and down the street, he could see flashing red lights.
With a shattering crash, a window exploded, sending bits of glass tinkling down on the street like rain. He whipped around, fear lashing through him. He had to act now. There wasn't time to waste. Sprinting around the corner of the building, he prayed that the gallery had a back door.
The backside of the gallery glowed with firelight, but the fire had yet to gain a death hold here.
A single streetlight lit the area around a small ramp leading up to a back door.
Sending a chorus of thank-yous heavenward, he ran up the ramp and grabbed the doorknob, relieved to find that it was cool.
He pulled. Nothing happened. The door was locked.
Cursing, he rammed a shoulder into the door.
It didn't budge. He stepped back, his mind racing.
There had to be a way in. A bush next to the ramp waved in the draft from the fire.
Something behind it sparkled in the light.
A window. There was a window . Bending down, he picked up a discarded piece of wood, and swinging it with all the force he could muster, slammed it into the windowpane.
Glass flew, and mindless of the remaining shards, he forced his way through the gaping hole.
Dropping to the floor on the other side, he removed his jacket and held it over his face like a shield. The air was heavy with smoke and he could see flames shooting from the ceiling and walls. "Cara." He called her name, then waited, ears straining for an answer.
"Cara, can you hear me?" Not now, his heart pleaded. Oh please, not now. They'd only just found each other. Surely they wouldn't be separated again so soon. Not like this. "Cara." He screamed, trying to pitch his voice above the roar of the fire.
A small noise separated itself from the bedlam around him.
Heart pounding, he ran in the direction of the sound, skidding to a stop in front of a smoldering mound of debris.
Cara's desk leaned drunkenly against the wall, a metal cabinet of some kind balanced against the edge.
Two empty packing crates lay next to the desk, one upended and the other slanting against the cabinet.
The end of a screen protruded from beneath the cabinet, holding it off the floor.
"Cara?" He waited, his heart fluttering in his throat.
"Michael?" Her voice was low but audible.
He grabbed the free standing crate and tossed it aside. An arm extended from beneath the cabinet. "Cara, honey, can you move your arm?"
Her fingers wiggled and he strained to see her face in the shadows underneath the cabinet. He moved the other crate and knelt down, his face close to the floor. Her lips lifted in the tiniest of smiles. "I knew you'd come."
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Hold still, I'm going to try and move the cabinet."
A sound like thunder filled the air as a section of the ceiling caved in, sending flames shooting down from the floor above. Michael felt a rush of fear. There wasn't much time.
"Hurry," Cara whispered, echoing his thoughts.
He stood up and wrapped his arms around the cabinet. Bracing himself, he sucked in a breath and pulled up, stepping backward as the heavy cabinet lifted. Once he was certain it was clear of Cara, he dropped it, the resounding thud shaking the floor.
Kneeling beside her again, he lifted the screen off her. It had probably saved her life. Her face was covered with blood, but a quick examination reassured him that she only had a small cut at her hairline. "Can you move?"
"I think so."
He put a hand behind her to brace her back, and she sat up slowly. He ran his hands along her torso and legs, searching for injury, relieved to find none. The fire was growing hotter, feeding on the gallery in frenzied gluttony. The screen beside them burst into flame.
Michael, scooped Cara into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"
"I'm with you." Her whispered words held a hint of bravado.
He pulled her closer, feeling her hands lock together behind his neck.
She was one hell of a lady. Dodging a burning beam, he headed back the way he had come, only to find that the wall was now ablaze, the window completely engulfed.
Again fear clutched at his belly. He spun around, frantically searching for another way out.