My phone is dead again. I don’t know if Sanchez caught any of my little chat with the young men inside the house, but it doesn’t matter now. What does is that I get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
I run past a group of neon shirts without stopping to warn them about what’s back at the house. “There’s a fire that way!” one of them shouts to me, so I veer off to a side street. I smell the smoke from the fire, and for a brief moment wonder if I’m back in Vancouver. A crescent moon hovers above me, giving more illumination than the meager streetlights. I can see flashes of revolving light in the distance and hear the squeals of fire trucks or ambulances. It would make the most sense to head in that direction, toward the people, so I don’t. There’s a loud crack in the air. Fireworks blaze across the night sky. I am unsure of what to do with the two guns I have on me now. I’m sick of seeing guns everywhere in this open-carry state. They even make appearances in my dreams.
I shy away from the crowds that may or may not be armed, like I am. I am done with human beings right now and long for Whisper to be at my side. But she is busy with Leo, who I refuse to think about because then I’d have to spare a thought or two about Seb. And if I’m off people right now, the death of one of my favorites isn’t going to help much.
Soon enough, the problem I run up against is that there’s no place to go. Every time I see smoke or a neon shirt, I veer in another direction—but this isn’t much of a plan. I don’t blame myself, though, because I don’t know this city well enough to have any kind of strategy. I’m doing what I have been since I got here. Running around in circles. Where there are no circles there are dead ends, and this is no exception.
Soon enough, there’s nowhere left to run.
I reach the bottom of the street. On one side is a field of tall grass. On the other, and to my right, is a boarded-up warehouse, one of the few buildings on the block that’s been left standing. I have come to the end of the road, and am regretting my earlier decision to run away from the sounds of civilization. I feel exposed. Coming off the adrenaline rush I’d felt back at Nate’s house, I’m now shivering.
In the distance there is a figure at the top of the road, backlit by a streetlight. The figure pauses, looks in my direction. This could mean nothing, but after running into my would-be executors at Nate’s house I don’t want to chance it. The need to be indoors, have my back against a wall, is urgent. The building to my right doesn’t look that old. I wonder if it’s only been recently abandoned and begin to think that it might give me a moment to stop and think. To burrow for a while, just until I collect my thoughts.
There is a door around the side that is slightly ajar. I slip in, making sure to close it behind me. The quick glimpse that I’ve gotten before shutting the door showed a large room, one that once served as a lobby maybe, with two corridors branching off from either side.
There are only a few short seconds of blessed silence before footsteps approach from the corridor farthest away from me. So the building isn’t abandoned after all.
“Who shut the door?” says an angry voice. A young man, by the sounds of it, one who has been kicked out of several prep schools before taking up residence here. It’s amazing what you can hear in people’s voices when you are frightened and in the dark. Somebody slightly less articulate mumbles something in response about another door being around back. I pick up my speed, hoping to get to the back door before them. Now I know that the building isn’t empty, I no longer crave the comfort of walls around me. I just want to escape. I go down the corridor closest to me, and away from the voices. I have no desire to make conversation with a couple of frat boys in an abandoned warehouse on Devil’s Night. Their presence here isn’t exactly comforting.
Since Nate brought it up, I’ve spent some time looking into it. Its roots are in the Detroit race riots, three of which were so devastating that the army had to be called in to put a stop to the fires that blazed through the city. Detroit became an arsonist’s playground, the situation escalating in the eighties to the point that the city had to take action. Angel’s Night was created to counter the worst of the vandalism and violence, but pyros still flock here to set things on fire. I have a feeling that these young men, whoever they are, don’t have the city’s best interests at heart. Funny, sneaking around in an abandoned warehouse at night can leave that impression.
A faint, acrid scent reaches my nostrils. A trace of something that requires a moment to place. It’s odd that it takes me this long to notice the smell of gasoline, then I’m running back down the hallway toward the door I came in through. It’s shut firmly. The scent is stronger in here now, making me think they doused this room last. I can’t get the door open. I bang on it with my fists and shout “Help” until I’m hoarse. If I shout “Fire,” well, that’s just what they want to happen, isn’t it? To use the cover of Devil’s Night as an excuse to watch things burn.
Maybe it’s because I cried wolf back at the motel, but this time nobody comes to my rescue. I stop pounding my fist against the door and am about to go back to the corridor when I hear movement from the opposite end of the room. I freeze.
“Hey there, Nora,” says Ryan Russo.