Terry Brooks - A Knight of the Word

He rubbed his eyes angrily and forced his body into a sitting position on the side of the bed, Stef helping to guide him into position.

`John, damn it, you have to wake up!' she hissed almost angrily, shaking him.

His head drooped, heavy and unresponsive. What in the world was wrong with him?

He slept like this often these days, ever since the dreams had stopped and he had ceased to be a Knight of the Word. He had lived up to his charge and his responsibilities and his search, and the dreams had faded and sleep had returned. But his sleep had turned hard and quick; it frequently felt as if he were awake again almost immediately. There was no sense of having rested, of slumbering as he once had. He was gone and then he was back again, but there had been no journey. Stef marvelled at the soundness of his sleep, commenting more than once on how peaceful he seemed, how deeply at rest. But he felt no peace or rest on waking, and save for the few times he had dreamed of the old man and the burning of the city, he had no memory of having slept at all.

`What's wrong?' he managed to ask finally, his head lifting.

She bent close, a black shape in the room's darkness. Streetlight silhouetted her against the curtained window. `I think there's a fire at Fresh Start'

His mind was still clouded, and her words tolled through its jumbled landscape like thick syrup. A fire?'

`Will you just get up!' she shouted in frustration. `I don't want to call it in unless I'm sure! I called over to the night manager and no one answered! John, I need you!'

He lurched to his feet, an effort that left him dizzy and weak. It was as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He was like a child. She helped him over to the window, and he peered out into the rainy darkness.

`There; she said, pointing, `at the back of the building, in the basement windows:

Slowly his vision focused on the dark, squarish bulk of the shelter. At first he didn't see anything. Then he caught a flicker of something bright and angry against a pane of glass, low, at ground level. He waited a moment, saw it again. Flames.

He braced himself on the windowsill and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. `Call 911. Tell them to get here right away.' He squinted against the gloom, peering down the empty streets of Pioneer Square. `Why hasn't the fire alarm gone off?'

She was on the phone behind him, lost in the dark. `That's what I wondered. That's why I didn't call it in right away. You'd think if there was a fire, the alarm … Hello? This is Stefanie Winslow at 2701 Second Avenue. I want to report a tire at Fresh Start. Yes, I can see it from where I'm standing. .'

She went on, giving her report to the dispatcher. John Ross moved away from the window to find his clothes. He tried a light switch and couldn't get it to work, gave up, and dressed in the dark. He was still weak, still not functioning as he should, but the rush of adrenaline he had experienced on realising what was happening had given him a start on his recovery. He pulled on jeans, shirt, and walking shoes, not bothering with socks or underwear, anxious to get moving. There should be someone on duty at the centre. Whoever it was should have detected the smoke–should have answered the phone, too, when Stef called over to see what was wrong.

She was hanging up the phone behind him and heading for the door. `I've got to get over there, John!' she called back to him as she swept out into the living room.

`Stef, wait!'

`Catch up to me as quick as you can! I'll wake as many people as I can find and try to get them out!'

The door slammed behind her. Cursing softly, he finished tying the laces of his shoes, stumbled through the darkness to the front closet, pulled on his all–weather coat, grabbed the black walking stick, and followed her out.

He didn't waste time on the elevator, which was notoriously slow, heading instead for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could manage with his bad leg, hearing her footsteps fading ahead of him followed by the closing of the stairway door below. His mind was clearer now, and his body was beginning to come around as well. He limped down the stairs in a swift shamble, using the walking stick and the railing for support, and he was into the entryway and out the front door in moments.

Rain beat down in torrents, and the streetlights were murky and diffuse in the storm–swept gloom. Second Avenue was deserted and eerily quiet. Where were the fire engines? He left the sidewalk and crossed through the downpour, head lowered against gusts of wind that blew the rain into his face with such force that he could barely make out where he was going.

Ahead, he watched Stefanie's dark figure pause at the front door of the shelter. pounding at it, then fumbling with her keys to release the lock. The building was dark, save for a glimmer of night–lights in the upper dormitories and front lobby. Inside, everything was silent and still.

Then the front door was open and Stef was inside, disappearing into the gloom. As he drew nearer, he saw rolling grey smoke leaking from the basement windows and the front entry, escaping the building to mix with the mist and rain outside. His chest tightened with fear. In an old building like this, a fire would spread quickly. He shouted after Stefanie, trying to warn her, but his words were blown away on the wind.

He reached the front door, still open from Stef's entry, and rushed inside. The interior was murky with smoke, and he could barely see well enough to make his way across the lobby to the hallway and the offices beyond. The stairway door to the upper floors was open, and he could hear shouts and cries from above. He coughed violently, covered his mouth with his wet sleeve, and tried to find some sign of the night manager. He couldn't remember who had the duty this week, but whoever it was, was nowhere to be found. He searched the length of the hallway and all the offices without success.

The basement door was closed. Smoke leaked from its seams, and it was hot to the touch. He ignored his instincts and wrenched it open. Clouds of smoke billowed forth, borne on a wave of searing heat. He shouted down the stairs, but there was no response. He started down, but the heat and smoke drove him back. He could see the flames spreading along the walls, climbing to the higher floors. Wooden tables, filing bins and cabinets, records and charts, and even the stairway were burning.

He slammed the door shut again, backing away.

There were footsteps on the stairway behind him, r_he women and children coming down from the upper floors. He limped over to meet them so that he could direct them to the front door. Then appeared out of the gloom, dim shapes against the haze of smoke. They stumbled down in ones and twos, coughing and cursing in equal measure, the children clinging to their mothers, the mothers clinging back, the women without children helping both, the whole bunch wrapped in robes and coats and even sheets. The smoke was growing thicker and the heat increasing. He shouted at them to hurry, urging them on. He tried to count heads, to determine how many had come out so he could know how many were still inside. But he couldn't remember the number in residence, and he didn't know how many might have been admitted that afternoon after he left. Twenty–one, twenty–two, twenty–three - they were filing past him in larger groups now, bumping up against one another in their haste to get out. Thirty–five, thirty–six. There had to be at least ninety, probably more like a hundred.

He peered through the haze, feeling the heat grow about him, seeing red flickers from down the hallway at the back of the building. The fire was climbing through the air vents.

There was still no sign of Stef.

Sirens screamed up to the front doorway, and firefighters clad in flame–retardant gear rushed inside in a knot. Ross was down on one knee now, coughing violently, eyes burning with the smoke, head spinning. They reached out for him and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to resist, barely able to keep hold of his staff.

Hoses were being dragged through the doorway, and he could hear the sound of glass being broken.

`Who else is in here?' he heard someone ask.

He shook his head. `More women and children … upstairs. Stef is up there … helping them: He retched violently and doubled over. A night manager… somewhere:

They hauled him outside into the cool, rainy night, propped him against the side of an ambulance, and gave him oxygen. He gulped it down greedily, his eyes gradually beginning to clear, his sight to return. Knots of women and children huddled all around him, shivering in the cold night air.

His gaze settled on Fresh Start. Flames were climbing the exterior of the walls, shooting out of the second- and third–story windows.

Stef!

He lurched to his feet and tried to push his way hack inside, but hands closed tightly on his arms and shoulders and pulled him back again. `You cant do that, sir; a voice informed him quickly. `Get back now, please:

Windows exploded, showering the street with shards of glass. `But she's still in there!' he gasped frantically, trying to make them understand, fighting to break free.

More women and children were being hustled out, escorted by firefighters. A hook and ladder truck had rolled into position, and the extension was being run up toward the roof. Police cars had arrived to protect the firefighters and control traffic, and there were flashing lights everywhere. At the fringe of the action, a crowd was gathering to watch from behind cordoned lines. The mix of rain and hydrant water had turned the streets to rivers.

Still struggling, Ross was moved back to the makeshift shelter, overpowered by the combined weight of his protectors. Fear and anger swept through him in a red haze, and he felt himself losing control.

Stef! He had to go back in for Stef!

And then she appeared, stumbling out the smoke–filled doorway of the shelter, a small child clutched in her arms. Firefighters clustered around her, taking charge of the child, moving both of them away from the blaze, the building behind them bright with flames.

Ross broke free of the restraining hands and went to her. She collapsed into his arms, and they sank to the rain–soaked pavement.

`Stet; he murmured in relief, hugging her tightly.

`It's all right, John,' she whispered, nodding into his shoulder, firefighters rushing past them in dark knots, hoses trailing after like snakes. `It's all right:

Fresh Start burned for another hour before the Fire was extinguished. The blaze did not spread to the nearby buildings, but was contained. The shelter was a total loss. All of the women and children housed in the building were safely evacuated, in large part because of Stef's quick action in getting to them before the blaze spread to the sleeping rooms.

Only the night manager did not escape. His ruined body was found in the basement, lying near the charred filing cabinets and records bins. It took only a short time to make a tentative identification. It was a man, not a woman, and Ray Hapgood had been on duty and was unaccounted for.

It was three in the morning when Ross and Stef re–entered their apartment and closed the door softly behind them. They stood holding each other in the darkness for a long time, breathing into each other's shoulders in the silence, saying nothing. Ross could not stop thinking about Ray.

`How could this have happened?' he whispered finally, his voice still tight with shock.

Stef shook her head and said nothing.

`What was Ray doing there?' he pressed, lifting his head away from her shoulder to look at her. `It wasn't his duty. He was supposed to go out to his sister's in Kent. He told me so: