Read Online Mourning Gloria by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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through the trees and reached the trailer, I was gasping for breath and there was a sharp pain in my side.
The flames had already eaten their way from the eastern end of the trailer almost to the center. They were as loud and fierce as a windstorm, lunging and roaring and snapping like something alive. I could feel the heat of the fire on my face and the air was thick with choking black smoke, but I ran up the three steps to the door, and twisted the knob. Hot. The door was hot and the knob wouldn’t turn.
I banged on the door. “Anybody in there?” I shouted. “Anybody there?” No answer. I tried again. “Anybody in there?”
I was turning away when I heard it. “Help! Help me!” A panicky cry, high-pitched, shrill with terror. A woman or a kid, maybe even a teenaged boy. “I can’t get out. Help, please help!”
Frantically, I twisted the door knob again and put my shoulder to it. Nothing doing. It wouldn’t budge. But there was a window just to my left. If I could find something—a heavy club, a tire iron, a rock—I could break it. A rock! That was what I needed. I turned and took a step down, looking for a big, heavy rock I could heave—
WHOOOMPH!
The window exploded outward and a fiery fist shoved me off the step, slamming me to the ground in front of the trailer. My forehead hit a rock and I saw stars, but I struggled to my knees, groggy. There was another explosion, louder this time, and I turned to look. The entire structure was engulfed in a sunburst of flame, so bright and hot that it burned my eyes. The heat seared my face and singed my eyebrows and hair.
“Hello, hello!” I became aware that I was still holding my cell phone in my left hand. The dispatcher was shouting at me. “Caller, what’s going on? What happened? Talk to me!”
“It blew up,” I said groggily. My right knee was bleeding through a rip in my jeans. My right forearm was bloody. “The trailer just . . . it just blew up.” I sniffed. “Smells like something I . . . smells like camp stove . . .” My voice trailed off. “Camp stove fuel,” I managed.
“You’re okay?” the dispatcher was asking urgently. “Caller, you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said, and then I remembered. “But there’s somebody inside, yelling for help!” I cried, getting to my feet. “A woman, maybe, or a kid. I heard it. Just before . . . before the trailer blew up.”
“Sending an ambulance,” the dispatcher said crisply.
With a heavy metallic sigh, the roof slumped inward, like a cake falling in the center. I shuddered and broke the connection. Whoever was in that trailer wouldn’t need an ambulance.
The trucks from the nearby local volunteer fire department got there first. A white-painted tanker truck (there’s no city water out this far, and no hydrants) pulled up in front of the trailer. Two guys in T-shirts and jeans jumped out, turned on the pumps, pulled out a hose, and began pouring water onto the burning structure. A couple of minutes later, a red ladder truck roared up the drive and stopped behind the first. Working deliberately, the driver climbed out and pulled a hose off the truck, hooked it to the tanker truck, and began pumping. Two men, already suited up in bulky gray firefighters’ garb, jumped down.
By this time the water from the tanker truck had put a damper on the trailer fire, turning it into pillars of steam and black smoke. The suited-up firefighters were pulling on helmets. I ran over to them.
“There’s somebody in there,” I rasped. “I could hear her crying. Or maybe it was a kid. I couldn’t really tell. I tried . . .” I looked at my right hand. There were blisters forming on my palm. “I tried to get the door open. But there was an explosion. Like a bomb going off. And another explosion after that.”
“Where’s the victim?” one of the men asked. He pulled a heavy ax off the tool rack. “Which end of the structure?”
“I was at the front door when I heard her.” I looked
The flames had already eaten their way from the eastern end of the trailer almost to the center. They were as loud and fierce as a windstorm, lunging and roaring and snapping like something alive. I could feel the heat of the fire on my face and the air was thick with choking black smoke, but I ran up the three steps to the door, and twisted the knob. Hot. The door was hot and the knob wouldn’t turn.
I banged on the door. “Anybody in there?” I shouted. “Anybody there?” No answer. I tried again. “Anybody in there?”
I was turning away when I heard it. “Help! Help me!” A panicky cry, high-pitched, shrill with terror. A woman or a kid, maybe even a teenaged boy. “I can’t get out. Help, please help!”
Frantically, I twisted the door knob again and put my shoulder to it. Nothing doing. It wouldn’t budge. But there was a window just to my left. If I could find something—a heavy club, a tire iron, a rock—I could break it. A rock! That was what I needed. I turned and took a step down, looking for a big, heavy rock I could heave—
WHOOOMPH!
The window exploded outward and a fiery fist shoved me off the step, slamming me to the ground in front of the trailer. My forehead hit a rock and I saw stars, but I struggled to my knees, groggy. There was another explosion, louder this time, and I turned to look. The entire structure was engulfed in a sunburst of flame, so bright and hot that it burned my eyes. The heat seared my face and singed my eyebrows and hair.
“Hello, hello!” I became aware that I was still holding my cell phone in my left hand. The dispatcher was shouting at me. “Caller, what’s going on? What happened? Talk to me!”
“It blew up,” I said groggily. My right knee was bleeding through a rip in my jeans. My right forearm was bloody. “The trailer just . . . it just blew up.” I sniffed. “Smells like something I . . . smells like camp stove . . .” My voice trailed off. “Camp stove fuel,” I managed.
“You’re okay?” the dispatcher was asking urgently. “Caller, you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said, and then I remembered. “But there’s somebody inside, yelling for help!” I cried, getting to my feet. “A woman, maybe, or a kid. I heard it. Just before . . . before the trailer blew up.”
“Sending an ambulance,” the dispatcher said crisply.
With a heavy metallic sigh, the roof slumped inward, like a cake falling in the center. I shuddered and broke the connection. Whoever was in that trailer wouldn’t need an ambulance.
The trucks from the nearby local volunteer fire department got there first. A white-painted tanker truck (there’s no city water out this far, and no hydrants) pulled up in front of the trailer. Two guys in T-shirts and jeans jumped out, turned on the pumps, pulled out a hose, and began pouring water onto the burning structure. A couple of minutes later, a red ladder truck roared up the drive and stopped behind the first. Working deliberately, the driver climbed out and pulled a hose off the truck, hooked it to the tanker truck, and began pumping. Two men, already suited up in bulky gray firefighters’ garb, jumped down.
By this time the water from the tanker truck had put a damper on the trailer fire, turning it into pillars of steam and black smoke. The suited-up firefighters were pulling on helmets. I ran over to them.
“There’s somebody in there,” I rasped. “I could hear her crying. Or maybe it was a kid. I couldn’t really tell. I tried . . .” I looked at my right hand. There were blisters forming on my palm. “I tried to get the door open. But there was an explosion. Like a bomb going off. And another explosion after that.”
“Where’s the victim?” one of the men asked. He pulled a heavy ax off the tool rack. “Which end of the structure?”
“I was at the front door when I heard her.” I looked
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