I was so pleased with remembering the evening’s events that I sat for a bit without moving. My memory wasn’t quite right, though. I hadn’t come to the Indiana Arms but an abandoned hotel across the street from it. It was only the acrid smell of smoke that made me think I was in Elena’s old building.
I leaned against the foul remains of upholstery to rest my eyes. The acrid smell didn’t diminish. I hadn’t thought the wind was so strong tonight as to blow ash across the street, and anyway, how intense would the fire smell be a week later? Something else was burning, some other part of the Near South Side going up in smoke. Not my problem. My problem was to feel well enough to get out of here.
I’d brought a flashlight with me. Pushing back my nausea, I got down on my hands and knees to hunt for it. Crawling on the malodorous floor, I stumbled against a piece of hard metal. My gun, I realized after a moment or two of blind groping. I picked up the Smith & Wesson. In the dark my fingers automatically checked the safety before fumbling it into my shoulder holster.
I couldn’t find the flashlight, only pieces of chewed-up cushion. When I touched a warm little body I couldn’t keep back a scream. I stumbled upright, my head spinning. I couldn’t force myself to get back down on the floor to hunt further. We’d have to make our way out in the dark.
I blundered around the room, tripping on nameless forms, running into some bedsprings with enough force to jolt my ribs and make tears stream down my face. Good. That’s good, V.I. The pain in your side will keep you from harping on your stupid head. It’s doing you no good so just disregard it. Better still, unscrew it and leave it on the couch.
When I finally found the door I couldn’t open it. I pulled with all my might but couldn’t get it to budge. Maybe I had it wrong, maybe it opened outwards. But all my shoving didn’t move it. I was locked inside.
I wanted to sit on the floor and cry in frustration, but the thought of the warm little fur balls kept me on my feet. It’s okay, Vic, it’s a fixable problem. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself because your head hurts.
I pulled the Smith & Wesson from my holster, turned off the safety, held it against the keyhole, and fired. The recoil went up my arm, jarring my shoulder. The sound in the small room echoed frenziedly in my sore head, making spirals cartwheel in front of my closed eyes.
When I tried the door again it shook but didn’t open. “Come on, dodo brain, think,” I urged aloud. If blowing the keyhole didn’t open the door, it was because it was nailed shut, not locked. I was too tired to figure out how to find where the nails were and shoot around them. I plowed four shots into the hinges where they attached to the wall, bracing myself each time for the recoil, for the sound. By the last shot the air was so smoky and my head ringing so badly that I had to go down on my knees. I vomited more bile and rested, gasping for air, trying to force my vibrating head to stillness.
When I finally got back to my feet I pushed against the door. I was so feeble at this point that I couldn’t put much into my thrust, but I felt the paneling give a little. I tucked the gun back into my holster, sucked in a deep breath, and flung my right shoulder against the edge of the door. Something splintered on the other side. I pushed again and felt the whole thing give. I put out an arm to explore and found that the rotted wood had fractured, leaving a large jagged opening.
Leaning against the jamb to catch my breath and steady my head, I thought the smoke seemed more intense in the hall than in the room. It wasn’t gun smoke, but fire.
The reason I’d been smelling smoke since I came to was because the damned building was on fire. Not left over from the Indiana Arms. Fresh, new fire created just for me. The building I was in was on fire. Someone had knocked me out, locked me in a room, and set fire to the place. The Prairie Shores Hotel, that was its name. In my mind’s eye I saw the dead neon sign swaying a little in the night air.
That’s so helpful, your last thought can be congratulations on dragging the name from your slug brain. Instead of that, maybe try to do a little work. Otherwise, Robin Bessinger is going to be picking through debris for your charred bones in the morning.
I went back to my aunt, trying to figure out a way to move her. My whole head hurt from the effort of thinking. I had to fight an overpowering impulse to lie back down and rest, to take my chances on waking up again in time.