in
his.
Outside, the night glowed. The flames lit up
the burning rubble. It looked like an earthquake had rocked the
city.
It looked worse through the professor's
cracked glasses.
He'd dropped them, recoiling at the
explosion, and now one lens had a thick crack running halfway
across his vision. Out on the street, it didn't matter much:
everything was fractured.
Jostled by the fleeing people in the street,
the professor bumped railings and storefronts as he stumbled away
towards the bridge out of the city. Uninjured in the first
explosion and the second and unharmed by the raining debris, he was
now bruised and bloodied by his own clumsy flight. He caught his
shoulder on the corner of a building and stumbled again. And again.
He shivered at the heat coming from inside the buildings to his
left and flinched from the rain of fiery bits from above.
The professor jerked to a stop.
No...
His sleeve had caught on a stick of a
debris, hanging from one of the burning structures. He shivered
again, and winced at the light – the unnatural firelight against
the darkening sky. So close. So close. The old neighborhoods beside
the docks were the last before the bridge. He was almost there. He
fumbled, struggling to free himself and keep a hold of the
briefcase tucked under his arm. It was only secured by one clasp,
the other open, papers poking out. It slipped and he dug his elbow
into the leather to keep it from falling. He tugged desperately at
his sleeve, still caught on some broken piece of something. The
case slipped again.
No! Stop!
Almost crying, he squeezed his elbow harder
against the briefcase to hold it and tore at his sleeve. As the
fire burned hotter – or maybe that was his own blood running
terrified in his veins – he jerked his arm free from the
debris.
It was a sign, shaped like a throne, hanging
lopsided in front of a doorway, hanging by one chain. The other
chain hung down to the ground, broken. The professor glanced
inside. The fire didn't look nearly as close as it had when he was
stuck. The far wall smoldered and dripped. The smell of plastic,
thick in the air, was diluted here. Mixed with another scent...
Charred wood...? Wood!
Even in the older sections of the city with
houses built before the drought, most buildings weren't made out of
real wood – most bits having been sold off years ago. The professor
couldn't help it, he stood there, still holding onto his ripped
sleeve, and breathed deep. The scent was unmistakable.
Then he choked.
The fire was moving fast.
The professor turned to leave, but paused as
a white shock of hair caught his eye. On the far side of the ruined
structure an old man sat while the house burned around him.
Fool!
He turned away again. One step, two steps.
He followed the people moving further from the city, further from
the burning and melting buildings.
A howl rose from the building behind
him.
The professor turned back. Through the
doorway he could see the old figure still sitting amid the rubble
of his home, unmoving except for his lips which opened around a
mournful wail. The professor looked back to the fleeing people, to
the edge of the city, to the bridge that was so close.
The wail continued.
He sighed, then coughed as more of the smoke
and acrid smell of burning plastic and wood filled his lungs. Then,
covering his mouth with his torn sleeve, he turned away from the
bridge and made his way to the burning workshop.
Somewhere behind him there was singing.
Faint, wordless singing.
Something crashed.
The door? The door. It had burst open. Or
fallen. Or exploded. The chair maker didn't look and didn't care.
He closed his lips over the escaping sob-moan, the pained animal
sound. The air was thick with burnt smells: the charcoal of his
work, his livelihood going up in flames, the varnish that had shone
so brightly over the cherry, the chemicals of the non-wood
compounds in the walls, the floor, everything that wasn't organic
and everything that
his.
Outside, the night glowed. The flames lit up
the burning rubble. It looked like an earthquake had rocked the
city.
It looked worse through the professor's
cracked glasses.
He'd dropped them, recoiling at the
explosion, and now one lens had a thick crack running halfway
across his vision. Out on the street, it didn't matter much:
everything was fractured.
Jostled by the fleeing people in the street,
the professor bumped railings and storefronts as he stumbled away
towards the bridge out of the city. Uninjured in the first
explosion and the second and unharmed by the raining debris, he was
now bruised and bloodied by his own clumsy flight. He caught his
shoulder on the corner of a building and stumbled again. And again.
He shivered at the heat coming from inside the buildings to his
left and flinched from the rain of fiery bits from above.
The professor jerked to a stop.
No...
His sleeve had caught on a stick of a
debris, hanging from one of the burning structures. He shivered
again, and winced at the light – the unnatural firelight against
the darkening sky. So close. So close. The old neighborhoods beside
the docks were the last before the bridge. He was almost there. He
fumbled, struggling to free himself and keep a hold of the
briefcase tucked under his arm. It was only secured by one clasp,
the other open, papers poking out. It slipped and he dug his elbow
into the leather to keep it from falling. He tugged desperately at
his sleeve, still caught on some broken piece of something. The
case slipped again.
No! Stop!
Almost crying, he squeezed his elbow harder
against the briefcase to hold it and tore at his sleeve. As the
fire burned hotter – or maybe that was his own blood running
terrified in his veins – he jerked his arm free from the
debris.
It was a sign, shaped like a throne, hanging
lopsided in front of a doorway, hanging by one chain. The other
chain hung down to the ground, broken. The professor glanced
inside. The fire didn't look nearly as close as it had when he was
stuck. The far wall smoldered and dripped. The smell of plastic,
thick in the air, was diluted here. Mixed with another scent...
Charred wood...? Wood!
Even in the older sections of the city with
houses built before the drought, most buildings weren't made out of
real wood – most bits having been sold off years ago. The professor
couldn't help it, he stood there, still holding onto his ripped
sleeve, and breathed deep. The scent was unmistakable.
Then he choked.
The fire was moving fast.
The professor turned to leave, but paused as
a white shock of hair caught his eye. On the far side of the ruined
structure an old man sat while the house burned around him.
Fool!
He turned away again. One step, two steps.
He followed the people moving further from the city, further from
the burning and melting buildings.
A howl rose from the building behind
him.
The professor turned back. Through the
doorway he could see the old figure still sitting amid the rubble
of his home, unmoving except for his lips which opened around a
mournful wail. The professor looked back to the fleeing people, to
the edge of the city, to the bridge that was so close.
The wail continued.
He sighed, then coughed as more of the smoke
and acrid smell of burning plastic and wood filled his lungs. Then,
covering his mouth with his torn sleeve, he turned away from the
bridge and made his way to the burning workshop.
Somewhere behind him there was singing.
Faint, wordless singing.
Something crashed.
The door? The door. It had burst open. Or
fallen. Or exploded. The chair maker didn't look and didn't care.
He closed his lips over the escaping sob-moan, the pained animal
sound. The air was thick with burnt smells: the charcoal of his
work, his livelihood going up in flames, the varnish that had shone
so brightly over the cherry, the chemicals of the non-wood
compounds in the walls, the floor, everything that wasn't organic
and everything that
Similar Books
