Swift was no longer screaming, so he had no direction to follow.
He moved forward, hoping to find a wall and get organised. Try a quick grid search. He estimated that wherever Swift and Reid were lying, together they had to be at least four feet wide. He moved a few feet to his right and his hand touched a cast-iron radiator. It was hotter than a spitting griddle. Poe jerked his hand away. He knew it was badly burnt but he needed to keep moving.
Halfway across the room he found them. Two bodies. He reached out and parts of them were still burning; other parts were crispy. Reid must have drenched them both in accelerant.
They were dead.
Poe felt between them. As he’d feared: they were still handcuffed together. Tethered in death as they had been in life. Poe wondered if that had been Reid’s plan all along.
He couldn’t leave him where he was. He might have said he didn’t want to be buried with his friends, but he would get a burial. Even if only he and Bradshaw turned up at his funeral.
Poe began dragging them by their feet, but with just the one good arm and only a sliver of breath left, it was slow and hard going. He grunted with the effort.
He reached the stairs.
He’d have to throw them down. Ignoring his bursting lungs, Poe dragged them to the edge of the stairs.
He nearly made it.
He really did.
But old buildings have exposed wooden beams and wood burns quickly.
An ear-splitting crack was followed by so many sparks the room looked like the inside of a firework. He looked up and saw the sky. Part of the roof had collapsed. The oxygen-starved fire flared and burned brighter. The heat intensified against his already scorched skin. Flames shot through the roof, driven skywards.
Another creak, and the roof collapsed.
A shower of burning timber covered Poe. In his fear he sucked in a lungful of the toxic air. He felt himself beginning to lose consciousness and knew he had little time left to save himself. With heavy arms and laboured movements, he freed himself from the burning debris. He started crawling towards the stairs but his arms and legs felt like lead.
The idea of sleep became strangely alluring.
A voice broke through the roar of the fire.
‘Poe! Poe! Where are you, Poe?’
Something touched his foot. He looked down and instinctively pulled his foot back. He was hallucinating. He had to be. A mud monster, a golem from his nightmares, had hold of his foot. It was trying to drag him down to hell. He gasped in panic, and the little breath remaining in his lungs left his body.
The room began to spin. The golem was going to get him; he could feel the monster’s hands on his legs again.
His eyes bulged as he gasped for air. He found he didn’t care any more.
Washington Poe put his head on his burnt hands, closed his eyes and passed out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Poe heard sounds. They’d been there for some time although he hadn’t been conscious enough to identify them. He wanted to open his eyes but they seemed gummed together.
He tried to figure out where he was.
Beeps, hums, people talking in hushed tones. He was in a bed. The clean sheets were rough and tucked in too tight at the feet. The air smelled of lemon disinfectant.
Poe knew a hospital when he was in one.
He attempted to open his eyes again but they stayed shut. He tried using his fingers to pry them open but they were heavily clad in soft cloth – bandages presumably. His hands throbbed, almost certainly from the burning banister. Or the cast-iron radiator. Or the burning corpses. Or the roof collapse. Poe gave up using his hands, and, ignoring the excruciating pain, forced his eyes open. With a rip, they opened further. Searing pain caused him to cry out loud. A narrow beam of light pierced his vision. It felt like molten steel being poured into his head.
He tried to sit but was too weak. He looked and saw his hands were bandaged. A bile-coloured liquid had leached through them. Probably iodine.
What the fuck had happened?