Maine Crime Writers

When Kate Flora, our fearless leader, sent out a suggestion that we feature short, scary scenes from our books, my first thought was: YIKES, my second thought was: Fire at the Petard.

In Death By Sunken Treasure Hayden Kent is seeking Mike Terry’s killer. Mike had discovered a Spanish treasure ship and claimed the salvage right. A few days later, he washed up on the beach at Pigeon Key dressed in full scuba gear. The valve on his air supply turned to the off position. It didn’t feel like an accident. At the start of this scene, Hayden has received a call from one of Mike’s business partners, Devon Rutherford. Devon asks Hayden to meet him at his restaurant, The Petard. When she arrives, the restaurant is closed, but Devon’s car is parked outside the kitchen entrance.

I keyed the alarm on my car and walked to the kitchen door. It opened at my touch. Emergency night-lights illuminated the large kitchen. The place smelled of deep fryers and fatty meat. A thick layer of grease coated all the surfaces. The door to the bar stood at the other end of the room. A faint light shown through the porthole window in the door. I made my way to the door, my shoes making sucking sounds and sticking to the floor with every step. How did this place pass the health inspection?

The closer I got to the bar, the more a smoky odor tickled my nose. It didn’t seem related to any item on the menu. Puzzled, I opened the door. A blast of heat seared my face. Wispy tendrils of smoke filled the room.

Flames danced in the rear of The Petard’s barroom. The acrid smoke stung my eyes. I backed up into the kitchen and pulled the door handle hard. It shut with a sucking sound. The roaring of the fire deafened me. It dawned on me that the door between the kitchen and bar provided fire and water protection.

In the brief instant I’d stood in the open doorway the kitchen had filled with smoke. It hung everywhere. Tendrils of greyish black swirled in the air. I put a hand out and grasped a counter to stay connected to something to lead me out. My hand touched a towel. Devon. Could he be trapped? He’d asked me to come. I’d spoken to him no more than a half hour ago. My fingers worked the nap of the towel under my hand. I had to try to find him.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. After three false one handed tries, my thumb managed to dial 911. The smoke choked me. “Fire in The Petard,” I managed to cough out.

“Emergency services are on the way. The alarm company called us. Are you in a safe place?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes,” I lied. “Someone is in the building. In the office I think. The owner.”

The professional voice said, “Stay on the line with me and make sure you are safe.”

I responded by disconnecting the call and stuffing the phone in my pocket.

Worried that the firefighters would get to The Petard too late for Devon, I threw the towel over my arm. My hands groped along the rear wall of the counter until I found a spigot, drenched the towel, and wrapped the cloth around my face. My nose burned when I inhaled droplets of water with my first breath.

Concern emptied my head of everything except the floor plan of the bar. Devon and Jake used a little room in the center of the bar as an office. A line of shooting trophies stood on a shelf over the door. Floor plan fixed firmly in my head, I made my way to the door and touched the flat of my hand to it. Not hot yet.

I shoved the door open, and flames fed by the oxygen from the kitchen roared and shot in all directions. It took all my willpower to stay in the restaurant and let the door to freedom close behind me. Once the door shut, the flames tamed.

Black choking smoke filled the air. Flames filled my vision. They licked out from everywhere and leapt in a macabre dance.

Memory told me the bar lay to my left. I put a hand out, fishing around. My fingertips met something solid. I moved toward it, keeping a wary eye on the flames. They appeared closer now, some almost at my feet. Embers lit pathways in the air above me like Fourth of July sparklers run amok. Every breath hurt. I struggled to keep my breathing shallow. I didn’t want to draw the heated air too deep into my lungs.

I sidled closer to the solid object. My hand kept moving over the edge. I put the flat of my hand on the bar. The heat rising from the surface made me jump back. Something sticky instantly covered my palm. Lacquer on the bar melted into a sticky mess. I reached out again and allowed my fingertips to graze the bar top.

Unable to see anything I moved carefully to avoid falling over some unseen obstacle. My fingertips followed the edge of the bar around to an opening. Spreading my arms wide, I flapped my hands trying to grab something on each side to help guide me behind the bar. The knuckles on my left hand hit something that felt like wood. Must be the front of the liquor wall. A slick surface met my questing right hand, the steel of the back bar workspace.

Keeping fingertips on both of the surfaces, I made my way toward the center of the bar. Inching ever closer to the fire.

A series of loud pops from exploding liquor bottles almost drove me back to the kitchen. I felt like I’d been in the bar for hours. The air seemed thicker. More explosions. A shard of glass cut down the side of my arm. My heart beat loudly enough to fill my ears, even over the roar of the flames.

I forced myself to follow the bar to where I thought the office door cut the back wall in two. My left hand lost contact with the inside bar surface, pitching me forward. Groping wildly I found the surface again. My hand felt around the inside of the space and located the office door. I prayed Devon was inside and alive. The fire’s roar galvanized me. If Devon called out, I would never hear him. I shoved the door of the office open. Fire hadn’t yet found the inside, but smoke filled the room. A prickle of fear touched my heart. How could I find him? I didn’t dare let go of the door. It was my only way to safety. No light penetrated inside the room. Even the flames provided no illumination here.

I tried to call for Devon. The makeshift respirator covering my face made shouting impossible. Worse, the cloth was drying out. Smoke filed my nostrils and mouth with every breath. A wave of tiredness washed over me. The smoke lightened briefly, sucked through the ceiling vent of the air conditioner. A lump curled beside the desk. I let go of the door behind me and took a step in the direction of the lump. Black smoke filled the room again. I dropped to my knees and crawled. Certain I reached the desk, I ran my hand along the floor. Nothing. I groped up, down, and around the desk leg. Nothing.

My eyelids drooped. The thought of moving defeated me. Where were the fire trucks? I had to lie down. I shook my head to clear the thought. I made one last sweep. My swinging hands knocked over a wastebasket. Could a wastebasket look like a body? I didn’t know. I fought the desire to stretch out and sleep. A loud roar hurt my ears. A thousand explosions sounded. Fear brought bile to my throat. I made one last desperate attempt to find Devon before I crawled backwards.

My feet touched something. Wall, door, I didn’t know. Joy at my good luck bubbled up in my chest. I forced myself to stand. My questing fingers found a knob. The door felt hot to the touch. I didn’t remember it being hot before. I pulled the door open the tiniest bit. My breath caught painfully in my throat. Fire engulfed on the far side of the bar. Huge flames soared over the top. I had to get out. I had to get to the kitchen entry. Fear pulled me through the door.

I grabbed the back of the bar with my right hand. The searing heat of the stainless counter almost made me pull my hand back. Something wet on the counter stung my hand. The liquor bottles.

They’d exploded on this half of the bar too. Behind me, behind the bar, coming straight for me, was a wall of fire. The fire almost surrounded me. Every second I delayed brought the inferno closer. I had to get to the kitchen door before the flames cut off that avenue of escape.

Throwing caution to the wind, I raced toward the door and safety. My chest burned. Every breath stabbed the length and depth of my lungs like daggers. I reached where I thought the door would be. My hand pushed. Nothing. It took all my willpower not to give in to the panic bubbling up in me. How could the fire be so bright and show me nothing?

Frantic now, my hands beat the walls. Heat flowed down my back in waves. I thumped harder. I moved from side to side, my fists finding nothing but solid wood. My strength ebbed as the fire robbed my body of the oxygen I needed to survive. I fell forward. The wall opened, and I kept falling. The cooler air of the kitchen surrounded me. I couldn’t grab anything to break my fall. It went on for an eternity.