Arson by Estevan Vega

kind of goodness anymore. She was special. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, even remember her name.
    By two o’clock, the parlor had died down, in time for his arm to rest and Jason and Chelsea to stroll in. Neither said more than a hello. They immediately rushed to the break room. After twenty minutes of giving them their space, Arson begged to have a few batches of ice cream made. Jason and Chelsea exchanged frustrated glances and reluctantly completed the task.
    While they were in the back, Arson went to the bathroom. Before he had finished washing his hands, he could’ve sworn he heard someone walking in. But when he stepped out to greet the customer, he instead caught Jason rushing to the back again. It looked like he was up to no good, and Arson had his suspicions.
    Trying to ignore it, he created the biggest, most appealing hot fudge sundae in ice cream history for himself in order to relax and calmly relish the few moments of quiet that remained before Murder Breath stumbled in.

 
    Chapter 9
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    THE FURIOUS ECHO OF fire trucks beckoned Arson to follow. He was walking home when they passed him. The red and white saviors shortened his breath. The sound of their screeching tires, restless engines, and fierce horns rang through the street and suddenly vanished round an unnamed road. Off to save some weary soul from a burning building, he imagined. Arson’s conscience screamed for him to head home, but tonight, intrigue lured him on.
    He hustled toward the sound and tried to keep up, staying close behind the sirens and the dim glow their flashing lights sent out into the darkness. He wanted to be there when it happened: the triumphant salvation of a helpless victim. Wanted to watch as some brave soul dragged a barely breathing, soot-covered person out of a fiery grave.
    At last he quit running. Distorted shouts and screams muffled the echo of each siren. Loud, unforgiving groans offered up to the dark. The screams came from inside the house. Firemen raced in, some gripping axes, others wrapping their gloved hands around an almost uncontrollable hose as it showered the flames. The fire manipulated Arson’s gaze, tempting him to keep watching, while a sudden back draft spit out two firemen. They hurled backward onto the grass and dirt, suits peeling and singed. But their courage remained. Arson’s heart leapt into his throat as the same two men abandoned all fear and stormed into the heart of the fiery beast.
    He waited. Waited for the heroes to do the saving. Waited for men to save the helpless, to redeem the lost. Arson lamented the empty hope hollowing him from within. He wanted so deeply for it to be true that he felt almost as if he were drowning in fear that everything would burn. In a moment, he imagined himself at the end of a dark road right before the bend. In front of him the world was ablaze, burning with impunity every man, woman, child, and home. Screams erupted from underneath and above. His eyes burned. His hands. His feet. His chest. He was burning along with every soul he watched die. He couldn’t save them. He wanted to so badly, but he couldn’t move. Torment and gravity were prevailing. Deep sorrow held him still. Arson couldn’t save himself. He couldn’t save anyone.
    But reality burned away even frail imaginings. He stared on. In a violent blink, he witnessed someone bring a coughing woman out from the inferno and down the porch steps. The rescuer fought to calm her panic, but she wouldn’t have it. She cried her husband’s name, praying the fire would be merciful. It didn’t help. She kicked and swore, and tears swelled.
    â€œAnd what about my son!” she yelled, beating her rescuer’s chest.
    It was an unholy mess. Seconds later, a smoky figure exploded through the front door, carrying a young boy across blackened shoulders. The boy’s skin was still alive, but his eyes looked dead. In fact, they probably