Escape

The darkness was absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket that dropped instantly. The only sound was the whir of a fan spinning down to silence. Julian had cut the ventilation.

Iris stood in the pitch black, her breath hitching in her chest. The air was already hot, thick with the smell of smoke creeping through the hole in the brick. Now, without the exchange of fresh air, it would become toxic within minutes.

She fumbled for her phone. The screen cast a weak, ghostly light, illuminating the concrete walls of her tomb.

*No Service.*

Of course. The soundproofing that kept Elias’s screams in also kept the signal out.

She waded back to the hole she had made. Smoke was pouring through it now, a gray waterfall tumbling into the room. She could hear the fire upstairs, a low, hungry roar like a beast waking up. The floorboards above creaked and popped.

She tried to push herself through the gap, but the heat on the other side was intense. The basement was filling with smoke. If she went back out there, she would suffocate before she reached the bulkhead stairs.

She was trapped between a fire and a sealed box.

She shone the light around the room, desperate. There had to be another way. Elias had survived here for thirty years. How did he get food? How did he get laundry?

*The dumbwaiter.*

She remembered the shaft in the pantry. She had seen the greased cables. She had seen Julian hover near it.

But where was the opening down here?

She scanned the walls. The brick was uniform, painted a dull, institutional beige. But near the back corner, behind the bucket, there was a seam in the masonry.

She ran to it. She pushed against the brick.

It didn't move.

She felt around the edges. There was no handle. No latch. It was flush with the wall.

But there was a small, circular indentation at waist height. Like a button.

She pressed it.

Nothing.

It was electronic. Controlled by the same system that ran the lights and the ventilation. The system Julian had just shut down.

Iris screamed in frustration, slamming her fist against the wall. The smoke was getting thicker, stinging her eyes, filling her lungs with every gasp. She sank to her knees in the water, coughing.

Think. Think.

The system was off. But the dumbwaiter was mechanical. It had a motor, yes, but it also had a counterweight.

If the motor was disengaged, the car should move freely.

She needed to force the door.

She grabbed the sledgehammer she had dropped near the entrance. She dragged it through the water. She jammed the flat end of the crowbar—no, she didn't have the crowbar. She had left it in the main basement.

She only had the hammer.

She swung it at the seam. The brick chipped.

She swung again. And again. The smoke was blinding her now. She was swinging blindly, fueled by terror and the image of her daughter’s face.

*Crack.*

A brick shattered. Behind it, metal.

She hit the metal. It dented.

She hit it again. The latch mechanism, deprived of power, was the weak point. It sheared off.

Iris dropped the hammer and clawed at the panel. It slid open with a screech of metal on metal.

Inside, the dumbwaiter car was waiting. A small, wooden box, barely big enough for a child.

Or a starving man.

Or a desperate woman.

Iris didn't hesitate. She squeezed into the box, curling her knees to her chin. It was a coffin. A vertical coffin.

She looked up. The shaft was a chimney of darkness, stretching up to the kitchen.

To the fire.

But the cables. They were right next to her face. Greased. Thick.

She reached out and grabbed the main cable. It was slick with oil.

If she pulled, would it go up?

She hauled down on the rope. The car shuddered. It lifted an inch.

She pulled again. Another inch.

She was heavy. But the counterweight was heavier.

Hand over hand, she began to climb the rope, pulling the car up with her. It was grueling, agonizing work. Her muscles burned. Her lungs screamed for air.

Smoke was rising up the shaft with her, a hot wind pushing her upward.

She passed the first floor. She could hear the fire raging in the hallway, the crackle of wood, the crash of falling plaster.

She kept pulling.

The car jerked. It hit something.

The top.

She was at the pantry level.

But the door was closed.

She pushed against the inside of the pantry door. It didn't budge.

She was trapped in the shaft, suspended above the fire, with nowhere to go.

Then she saw it.

A sliver of light at the top of the door. The trim she had pried loose weeks ago.

The one she hadn't nailed back completely.

She jammed her fingers into the gap. She pulled. Her nails tore.

The wood groaned.

*Snap.*

The trim gave way. The panel loosened.

Iris kicked the door. Once. Twice.

It flew open.

She tumbled out onto the pantry floor, gasping, covered in soot and grease.

The kitchen was an inferno. The island was ablaze. The curtains were gone.

But the back door... the window she had smashed...

It was a wall of flame.

She couldn't go out the back.

She crawled across the floor, staying below the smoke. The front door was locked. The windows were sealed.

But she remembered the dumbwaiter. The one she pried open.