Read Online From the Fire III by Kent David Kelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Kent David Kelly
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Creek? Well. You don’t know me. Lady, you got dead people out
here. And this, oh this man. Are you — are you Mrs. Sophie? Sophie S.-G.?”
And how in the Hell does he
know that?
When she did not answer, he lifted a
gray scrap of bloodstained notebook paper and rustled it toward the camera. He
called out, “Because this good man, this good man o’ the law who pass away down
here, well now. He wrote you a note if you are, if you are her, that
Sophie, see? He wrote it out to the last, I reckon. Was balled up in his hand
when I climb down here. Me, I put that hat upon his chest, for he had a good
heart and I can see that, writing you love and apologies and all, and I cover
him best I can. Cut-up plastic tent from the trunk of that police car. Oh,
those poor souls piled up high in there. Didn’t mean to find you, see? I’s just
looking for a place … a place to lie down. To find mine own last.”
Still in shock, Sophie could not reply.
And the man named Silas, he leaned with
both of his hands laced over his fox-head cane and with his toes pointed
outward, rocking back and forth. He was too proud to do anything but grimace
away the pain. He almost looked like a somber, indefatigable Charlie Chaplin. And
he shrugged — he shrugged of all things — and he said: “Well-up. Reckon
I understand. And so? I’s sorry to bother you and all. I’ll be going now.”
And he turned, giving the body of Peter
Henniger the widest berth the shaft’s confines would allow, and he limped his
way back toward the ladder.
What am I seeing? Is this
real? Is he real?
Sophie tried to breathe out a laugh of
humorless disbelief, but her mouth hung open and her jaw worked futilely for
purchase. She was no longer in shock. She was flabbergasted.
The man plucked at the garbage bag over
his right shoulder blade, and winced a little as he pried it free of his
scarred and peeling skin. He crooked his cane under his left armpit, then
smoothed the sweat off of his palms in preparation for the climb.
Pounding on the door, Sophie found her
voice at last. “Wait!”
And the elderly man did not turn, but he
cocked his head to gaze at the vault door over his shoulder. One of his pulpy
hands spread out, its fingertips each covered with some kind of reflective and hardened
glaze. He was waving .
“No, you good,” he called back to her. “Bless
you, you good and I can see that. You best to be letting me go. I realize that
now. Too dangerous to let me in, Mrs. S.-G. I was wrong to come, I was just …
well. I was wrong as wrong can be. I’ve got no right. Don’t you open that
mighty door to me, ma’am. It’s … it’s terrible out here.”
And he began to climb.
Sophie muttered in a blur,
“Unbelievable-oh-my-God-I, I can’t believe he thinks that I would, that
I, I …” And she screamed through the door, as loudly as she could: “You
stop right there!”
The man almost jumped out of his skin. He
raised his hands, as if he were about to be mugged, and his blackthorn cane
clattered down to rest over the ladder-shaft’s bloodstained floor grate.
“Un- fucking -believable.”
Beneath her breath, Sophie continued to
utilize her vast and comprehensive sailor’s vocabulary as she pumped the vault
door’s pressure wheel counter-clockwise. An alarm klaxon wailed, she punched at
a blinking red light that flashed upon the door. She shook the wheel back and
forth, then kept turning away. The wheel at last relented, rapidly slipping
through her fingers as it continued to spin on ever faster. Droplets of mineral
oil spattered out of a gasket, up over her hazmat suit’s breath-fogged
faceplate.
She watched the change in the
ladder-shaft’s environment through the vid screen. Air puffed out of the
shelter’s tunnel in a square of visible and ballooning streaks. Black clouds of
dust went puffing out around the elderly man’s silhouette. He kept his burned
and slender arms up over his head, even though his head was beginning to loll
toward
here. And this, oh this man. Are you — are you Mrs. Sophie? Sophie S.-G.?”
And how in the Hell does he
know that?
When she did not answer, he lifted a
gray scrap of bloodstained notebook paper and rustled it toward the camera. He
called out, “Because this good man, this good man o’ the law who pass away down
here, well now. He wrote you a note if you are, if you are her, that
Sophie, see? He wrote it out to the last, I reckon. Was balled up in his hand
when I climb down here. Me, I put that hat upon his chest, for he had a good
heart and I can see that, writing you love and apologies and all, and I cover
him best I can. Cut-up plastic tent from the trunk of that police car. Oh,
those poor souls piled up high in there. Didn’t mean to find you, see? I’s just
looking for a place … a place to lie down. To find mine own last.”
Still in shock, Sophie could not reply.
And the man named Silas, he leaned with
both of his hands laced over his fox-head cane and with his toes pointed
outward, rocking back and forth. He was too proud to do anything but grimace
away the pain. He almost looked like a somber, indefatigable Charlie Chaplin. And
he shrugged — he shrugged of all things — and he said: “Well-up. Reckon
I understand. And so? I’s sorry to bother you and all. I’ll be going now.”
And he turned, giving the body of Peter
Henniger the widest berth the shaft’s confines would allow, and he limped his
way back toward the ladder.
What am I seeing? Is this
real? Is he real?
Sophie tried to breathe out a laugh of
humorless disbelief, but her mouth hung open and her jaw worked futilely for
purchase. She was no longer in shock. She was flabbergasted.
The man plucked at the garbage bag over
his right shoulder blade, and winced a little as he pried it free of his
scarred and peeling skin. He crooked his cane under his left armpit, then
smoothed the sweat off of his palms in preparation for the climb.
Pounding on the door, Sophie found her
voice at last. “Wait!”
And the elderly man did not turn, but he
cocked his head to gaze at the vault door over his shoulder. One of his pulpy
hands spread out, its fingertips each covered with some kind of reflective and hardened
glaze. He was waving .
“No, you good,” he called back to her. “Bless
you, you good and I can see that. You best to be letting me go. I realize that
now. Too dangerous to let me in, Mrs. S.-G. I was wrong to come, I was just …
well. I was wrong as wrong can be. I’ve got no right. Don’t you open that
mighty door to me, ma’am. It’s … it’s terrible out here.”
And he began to climb.
Sophie muttered in a blur,
“Unbelievable-oh-my-God-I, I can’t believe he thinks that I would, that
I, I …” And she screamed through the door, as loudly as she could: “You
stop right there!”
The man almost jumped out of his skin. He
raised his hands, as if he were about to be mugged, and his blackthorn cane
clattered down to rest over the ladder-shaft’s bloodstained floor grate.
“Un- fucking -believable.”
Beneath her breath, Sophie continued to
utilize her vast and comprehensive sailor’s vocabulary as she pumped the vault
door’s pressure wheel counter-clockwise. An alarm klaxon wailed, she punched at
a blinking red light that flashed upon the door. She shook the wheel back and
forth, then kept turning away. The wheel at last relented, rapidly slipping
through her fingers as it continued to spin on ever faster. Droplets of mineral
oil spattered out of a gasket, up over her hazmat suit’s breath-fogged
faceplate.
She watched the change in the
ladder-shaft’s environment through the vid screen. Air puffed out of the
shelter’s tunnel in a square of visible and ballooning streaks. Black clouds of
dust went puffing out around the elderly man’s silhouette. He kept his burned
and slender arms up over his head, even though his head was beginning to loll
toward
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