The dog swayed in the middle but didn’t move. Heavier than she thought, he apparently wasn’t going anywhere. Fine. Someone needed to save herself.
She made three steps toward the door when she looked back and saw the dog was nudging the man on the floor. That’s why he remained. The shepherd would stay with his owner, despite the risk. She was sure of it.
As if cued, the video she’d had to watch about fire safety as part of her lease agreement came to mind. It said a person only had only four minutes to escape a fire once it began.
Four minutes! She needed only five more of those two hundred and forty seconds to clear the door.
“Crap.”
She ran back, poked the man with her foot. “Hey, you! Get up! Fire. Do you hear me?” She leaned down and yelled near his ear. “Fire! Fire!”
When he didn’t respond, she pushed his shoulder hard with both hands. The man beneath the shirt felt solid and warm. Alive. “Wake up! Please! You’re going to die!”
She bent to peer down into a face that in the dark seemed to have no features. Not even his eyes opened. Hopeless.
She forced herself not to glance at the flames climbing the far wall. But from the corner of her vision she saw smaller flames making crazy progress across the floor. What could be burning in an empty store?
The dog was whimpering and shaking, running in and licking his owner but dancing away, evidently as aware of the flames as she was.
Giving up on rousing him, she grabbed his arm and tugged. “Oh Jesus! You weigh a ton.” Frantic, she bent down, lifted one of his shoulders and shoved, trying to turn him over. His upper body twisted at an awkward angle. She pushed harder. She doubted that a back spasm would be nearly as painful as being barbecued.
When she had managed to flip him, he moaned in protest but at least he was on his back.
“Come on.” She shook his legs as sweat popped out on her forehead. “You’ve got to help me. Move! Do you hear me?” Nothing.
She grabbed one ankle in each hand and began hauling him feet first toward the door. It was only twelve feet away. But that distance seemed like twelve miles. Thankfully, her Doc Martins helped her keep traction. Another day she might have been in stilettoes.
Two hundred and forty seconds. How many of those seconds were left?
The room around her began to roar, as if a wind had suddenly sprung up. But it wasn’t wind, it was heat. Flames crawled up the wall on the far side. Others snaked across the bare concrete floor in a weird pattern she couldn’t stop to think about because it was coming toward the man. Scratch that. Toward her.
She tugged harder, cursing his bulk and her recent absence from the gym. Not that she could bench press two hundred pounds of man at any point. For a derelict, he was amazingly well fed and muscular.
Sweat streamed into her eyes. Something unseen but suffocating snaked further down her throat with every breath. Every impulse told her to abandon her burden and run. Save herself. But her hands wouldn’t let go of the body. Only her thoughts were free to run on.
I’m not a Good Samaritan. I’m so not! Please get me out of this, Sweet Baby Jesus, and I promise I’ll never do a bad deed again. Ever!
Where were the police? The EMTs? The help she’d called for what seemed like an hour ago hadn’t materialized. Why had no one come in answer to her call?
And then the dog was there beside her. He grabbed a mouthful of his owner’s pants leg and began tugging, too. The shepherd was strong, stronger than she was. His owner’s body began to slide a bit more easily across the floor.
Carly was too scared to be grateful. Too winded to even utter a word of encouragement. It was the door or die.
Fumes stung her throat and eyes but she didn’t pause to wipe away the tears blurring her vision. It was as if the flames were chasing them as she and the dog pulled the man along behind them in a mad dash for the door. It was only six feet now. Five feet. Four …
Carly tripped as she back-stepped over the threshold. It was metal, to keep refuse and water from the alley from easily entering the store. But it was enough of a speed bump to stop their progress.
Abandoning his legs, she reached forward with both hands to grab fistfuls of his jacket to try to haul him into a sitting position.
No good. He might as well have been a sack of wet cement.
She knelt down and straddled him at the chest. “Damn you! Wake up!” She struck him in the face, desperate to get a rise out of him.
She screamed as heavy hands fell on her shoulders. For a second she thought someone had come up behind her. Then she realized the man had reached up for her.
“Get off! Get off me!” Frightened, she struggled against his grip. But his fingers were like vises, making it impossible for her to get away.
The shepherd, realizing his owner was coming round, barked brightly and stuck his head in under Carly’s arm to lick the man’s face.
He was cursing under his breath and gripping her so hard she moaned. Then he lifted his head and spoke. “I don’t want to die.”