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Round two of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest. My second entry is below. I will leave the required prompts to the end to help avoid distractions as you read. If you want to know what was required and what wasn’t, it’s at the end of the story.
Burning
Flip. Snap. Flip. Snap. The Zippo lighter was long out of fluid and a little rusty, but still opened and shut easily with just a flick of the wrist. Mike spun the wheel occasionally, watching the flint spark briefly, almost imperceptibly. The embossed letters spelling out his father’s name felt cool in his palm.
Flip. Snap.
From the main room, he could hear Terry’s voice. “Anyone else want a grilled cheese?” A few of the other guys responded with grunts and yells, four-letter words he didn’t need to hear to understand. Terry entered the kitchen, his beloved “Firefighters Are Always in Heat. Local 344” hat turned backwards.
Spotting Mike sitting in the kitchen, he did an exaggerated double take. “Well look who’s finally up! Did you have a good nap?” Getting no response, his expression changed. “Hey, you’ve been weird all day. You’re not sick, are you? I’ve never seen you sleep on a shift before.” He looked around the room. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
Mike looked up at the calendar on the wall. Terry followed his gaze. “You got a thing for Miss October there? She’s a hottie no doubt, but me, I prefer blondes. Want a grilled cheese?”
“Not hungry.”
“Suit yourself.” Opening the fridge, he said, “Hey, your wife called again.”
“Ex-wife.”
“Right, sorry, I keep forgetting. Anyway, she called again. That’s like six calls this week. Says you haven’t called her back and to tell you she needs to talk to you today. That’s how she said it, all important-like: ‘today.’ Sounded kinda serious, so maybe call her back, huh? At least so we don’t have to keep taking all these messages?”
Flip. Snap.
“Ooooooookay then. Good talk.”
The awkward silence was shattered by the familiar screech of the alarm. Terry sighed and started putting the bread back into the bag. “Every. Damn. Time…” he muttered.
Mike was already on his way to the truck.
Fifteen minutes later, they were streaking down Third Avenue, each man doing his own pre-fire ritual. Hector fingered his rosary beads. Jack had his eyes closed and head back, either praying or meditating. Joe and Joey were pumping each other up like they were about to play in the Super Bowl: “Let’s get out there and save some lives!” Mike just rested his head on the cool glass of the window. Flip. Snap.
“Hey,” Terry said from behind him. “I meant to tell you. Hank found your dad’s old helmet in the freezer yesterday. That’s like the twentieth time it’s shown up in a weird place. The guys…well, they’re not thinking it’s so funny anymore, you know? Maybe cut it out with that?”
“It’s not me. It’s him.”
Terry sighed. “Listen. We’re all real sorry about your dad dying and everything—”
“Three years ago today.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. He was a great man and a terrific firefighter. Everyone in the house loved him; you know that. We miss him too. And we’re trying to be understanding. But this whole ‘he’s still around’ gag…well, it’s getting pretty weird.”
“It’s not a gag. He’s here.”
Terry rolled his eyes. “You’ve seen him?”
“No. But…well, I can feel him.”
The truck stopped in front an old Victorian house. An ambulance had already arrived, and a crowd milled around it. They were high society types, middle-aged people in nice suits and fancy dresses. Several women were draped in blankets. Physically they seemed fine, but their vacant stares showed that they were still in shock. A red haired girl in a sequined gown didn’t seem to realize she still held an empty champagne glass at her side, just stared up at the flames peeking out the second floor windows.
Inside, it was hot. Like always. The fire was in the walls; though Mike could see no flames, the thick black smoke was everywhere and visibility was low. He could hear the guys’ shouts signaling that a room was clear.
Through the haze, he could see the faint outline of a man standing motionless in the hallway. “Terry?” He took a few steps toward the man who suddenly came to life, turning away, and casually walking further into the building. His white hair almost glowed through the dense smoke.
“I’ve got someone!” Mike shouted. Into his walkie, he said, “Survivor on the second floor headed east! I’ll bring him out the back!”
The hallway was long and narrow, with very little smoke. He could see the figure at the end of the hall now, headed up the stairs. “Hey wait! This way, man! You gotta get out of here!” He sprinted after him. The waves of heat emanating from the walls made everything seem to vibrate.
The third floor was completely ablaze. He could see the man facing away from him in the middle of a large bedroom.
“Hey buddy! In case you haven’t noticed, the house is on fire! We gotta go!” Up here he could feel the intensity of the heat through the mask. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he shivered. He walked into the bedroom; this close to the flames it was hard to even open his eyes. Squinting, he shielded his face with a gloved hand.
The man turned around slowly. His face was grim.
“Pop?” Mike slipped off his mask and reached out his hand. “Pop! I knew you’d come!”
Outside, the chief was talking to the homeowners. “The house is clear. There was one guy still in there, but Mike’s bringing him out right now. We’re doing what we can to save the building, but the structure has been severely compromised.”
“Wait,” said the husband, “Who did you say was still in there? Because everyone’s already accounted for.”
“Are you sure?” The Chief looked confused, then grabbed his walkie. “Mike you still in there? You got the guy? You out yet? Mike? Mike!”
The only response was a low rumble from the house itself as it fell.
**********
Story Requirements: Ghost Story. Location: Fire Station. Item: Champagne Glass.
