The Escape

The smell of gasoline was sharp, chemical, and overwhelming. It dripped through the cracks in the ceiling, a toxic rain that sizzled on the hot casing of the ruined server.

"He's going to burn it down," I whispered, the fumes already making my eyes water. "He's going to burn us alive."

Julian didn't answer. He was already moving. He grabbed the heavy Maglite from the desk and swept the beam across the room, illuminating the concrete walls, the wine racks, the dead screens.

"The window," he snapped. "The one you came in."

"He covered it," I said, my voice rising in panic. "The shutters."

"Shutters can be broken."

He grabbed the crowbar I had left by the stairs—a stupid, sentimental mistake that might now save our lives—and ran to the back of the room. The steel shutter was down, blocking the broken window.

He jammed the crowbar under the lip of the shutter and heaved. The metal groaned but didn't budge.

"It's motorized," he grunted, veins popping in his neck. "Locked by the system."

"The system is dead," I said. "You shot it."

"The locks are fail-secure. They stay locked without power." He let go of the crowbar, swearing. "We need leverage. Something hydraulic."

I looked around the room. Servers. Desk. Wine racks.

Wine racks.

"The jack," I said. "For the crates."

In the corner, near the freight elevator that hadn't worked in decades, was a manual pallet jack. It was old, rusted, but heavy.

Julian saw it. He didn't ask questions. He dragged the jack over to the window, positioning the forks under the shutter. He pumped the handle.

*Clank. Clank. Clank.*

The metal groaned again. The shutter lifted an inch. Then two.

"Faster," I urged, coughing. The air was getting thick. Above us, I heard a *whoosh* sound.

The fire had started.

Heat began to radiate from the ceiling. Smoke, black and oily, curled through the floorboards.

"Come on," Julian growled, pumping the handle.

The shutter bent, the bottom lip curling upward. Six inches. Eight.

"It's enough," he said. He dropped the handle and grabbed my arm. "Go. Now."

"What about you?"

"I'm too big," he said. "I'll hold it."

He braced his shoulders under the shutter, straining to keep it open as the jack wobbled.

"Go!"

I dropped to my stomach and crawled through the gap. Broken glass sliced my palms, the wet mud of the garden soaking my knees. I squeezed through the opening, the metal scraping my back.

I tumbled out into the storm. The rain was torrential, a cold shock against the heat of the fire.

I scrambled to my feet and turned back.

Julian was still inside. He was trying to follow me, but the shutter was slipping. The jack was failing.

"Push!" I screamed, grabbing the bottom of the shutter.

He shoved his head and shoulders through. But the metal slammed down on his back, pinning him.

"Helen," he gasped, his face pressed into the mud. "Run."

I looked at him. The man who had haunted my family. The man who had paid for my life.

I grabbed his arms and pulled.

"I'm not leaving you," I grunted, my boots slipping in the mud. "You owe me, remember?"

Behind him, the basement was filling with orange light. The fire was spreading fast.

I pulled again, screaming with effort.

The shutter groaned. Julian roared.

And then, with a wet sucking sound, he came free. We collapsed into the mud, gasping for air, as the shutter slammed down behind us, sealing the inferno inside.

We lay there for a second, the rain washing the blood and soot from our faces.

Then Julian started to laugh. A low, wheezing sound.

"You're part of the family now, Helen," he whispered, looking up at the burning building. "Welcome to the fire."