Chelsea felt as if she were in the heart of a thunderstorm, not safe on the earth, but stuck between the two clouds that crashed into each other and crackled.
As the world turned to light, the force of Koko’s powerful arms faded against the terrible wall of energy that swept toward them both. It slammed Koko and the table into her, lifted her and took them all into the door behind them. The metal table legs crumbled like wet spaghetti and the top kept coming, flattening her against the door, squeezing all the air out of her, but continuing to push.
Her eyes were closed, but even the insides of her eyelids were filled with white light and heat. She swore her skull and rib cage were crushed as the door came free behind her. She had no idea what had happened to her arms and legs. She only knew she was flying, falling, and landing in a horrible darkness.
And all that had taken less than a second.
When the motion settled and her consciousness caught up with the flow of events, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe she was on her back. She heard a rush and a crackling like fire, but her back and hands felt cold. In the blackness, she heard the OCD singing weakly in her head, sounding dazed itself:
I told you so, I told you so, and now you’re dead. You’re dead forever.
But she wasn’t, and just to prove it, she opened her eyes.
At first everything was blurry. Far off, some reds and yellows swam together like fish floating in the air. The rest was grays and darkness, until a wave of heat hit her hard. It was a focused heat, and everything around it felt cold, as if little icy needles were jabbing at her skin. It reminded her of when she had had her ears pierced, only the feeling was slower and more insistent.
The thick smell of smoke brought back more of her senses. She coughed from a mouthful of the stuff, and then started breathing through her nose. The pain shooting through her ribs jolted her brain, made her focus.
The back of her head ached as she raised it. She could see now that the distant red and yellow were flames, licking like giant lizard’s tongues at a gaping wound in the back of the house. In addition to the red and yellow, blue and white flames shot out from pipes where the stove used to be. The explosion hadn’t just forced her and the table through the door, it had torn out half of the rear wall. And now the back of the house was burning.
She noticed the white of the stove about ten feet to her left, lopsided on the ground where it had landed. She and it were far from the house, maybe fifty feet. It was still snowing, she could see the individual flakes gently landing on the shattered bits of tabletop that covered her chest.
Finally, blissfully, she heard the sirens, not far off at all, getting louder.
But help was not the only thing coming this way. Something big and black and thick as a fallen tree trunk moved near the wreckage of the house.
Koko. Koko had survived the blast as well.
He was dazed, but he saw her lying there helpless, and was coming for her, following the final command his brain had given when fully conscious. One foot after the other, he came, hips and shoulders waddling like a giant push toy, his huge tail dragging behind him, making a thick line on the ground in the soot and the snow.
One step, two steps, three steps, more.
Chelsea tried to move, but her legs were pinned under the combined weight of the pieces of the table and the door. On her back, unable even to flip over, she dug her hands into the wet ground and tried to pull herself out by her fingers, but could not. Whatever strength had carried her this far was gone.
Five steps, six steps, seven and eight.
Her hands were filled with wet mud and snow, but her body did not move. He was coming. He was still coming, until all she could see was his big head with its unhingeable jaw, that and the flames dancing around it like a living frame.
He would always come for her. It didn’t matter that the sirens were deafening now, that she heard the cars screeching to a halt. It didn’t matter if the police came, or the army. Even if they took her a thousand miles away from here, this thing, this lizard would still be waiting.
Forever.
Inches away, Koko stood there, staring at her with his deathly ebon eyes. He flicked his tongue once, then stopped moving. It wasn’t until the snowflakes started to land right in those black, unblinking eyes, it wasn’t until they melted into little wet pools that ran down the sides of Koko’s face, down into the crack that formed his Muppet grin, that Chelsea realized the dragon wasn’t going to be moving anymore.
Two police officers ran up, guns drawn, circling Koko and her, keeping their distance.
“I think he’s dead,” she said hoarsely.
One of them nodded at something she didn’t see, something that made them relax a bit. They both holstered their weapons and set to work pulling the boards off her. She was breathing again. It was hoarse and painful, her ribs ached, but she was breathing, and though the officers offered her their hands, she stood up pretty much by herself.
They spoke to her in reassuring tones as they walked her in a wide circle around Koko. As she passed the lizard’s side, she noticed the huge gash in it, and the dark blood and entrails that oozed from it.
Not the cold, then. Not just the cold anyway.
The front of the house was a maze of flashing lights, the police, a fire truck, an ambulance.
“How many in there?” a red-faced paramedic shouted at her.
“Two,” she answered, but it was still hard to speak, her voice rough from screaming. “Derek’s in the hall closet, Dr. Gambinetti’s on the living-room floor.”
It was only after the paramedic turned away and ran off that she realized she hadn’t mentioned Eve Mandisa.
Oh well, they’d probably find her anyway. No rush.
Out of nowhere she felt two arms grab and pull at her. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her mother, saying nothing, but hugging her so tightly her ribs hurt. Her father was there too, his arms wrapped around them both. In that big nest of family and winter coats, Chelsea let go and sobbed.
They stood there like that until a paramedic pried them apart so he could have a look at Chelsea. He sat her in the back of an ambulance, checked her cuts, her blood pressure, her heart rate. As he worked on her, Chelsea watched them pull two gurneys through the front door.
Strapped to the first was Derek, his head twisting left and right, his eyes moving wildly in his head. They steadied for a second as the gurney passed her, and Chelsea swore he grinned at her. If he could talk, he’d probably make some stupid joke.
“She seems fine, just some scratches and bruises. We’ll need the ambulance for the other two, but you’ll want to take her to County General just to check her out,” the paramedic said to her family.
Chelsea slid out of the ambulance to make room for the second gurney. Dr. Gambinetti was still—very still—but his head wasn’t covered with a sheet. Maybe he was alive too.
Seeing her standing, her mother hugged her again. Chelsea tried to swallow, to clear her throat, but couldn’t. Gently, she pulled herself away from her mother’s embrace.
“My throat’s so dry. I really need some water,” she said.
Helen Kaüer looked around and spotted the convenience store on the corner. “I’ll get you some.”
Chelsea shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll go.”
Her mother stared. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not. He said I was fine.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Chelsea shook her head and pressed her palm against her mother’s cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
There were tears in her mother’s eyes. “You’re not. You’re not fine. You’re going to the hospital.”
“Okay. Whatever. Right after I get some water, okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Chelsea pulled away and started walking. Helen Kaüer tried to follow, but her husband gently held her back. He spoke softly, but Chelsea heard him.
“Let her go herself if she wants. We’ll watch her from here.”
She didn’t need to hear the rest. The cacophony of fire hoses, shouts, and flames quieted a bit at her back as she made her way to the convenience store. Somewhere far off, she heard music and people laughing. Hobson Night was still in full swing. Most of the people in the town were enjoying themselves.
Snow gathered in her hair. Everything ached, but it felt good to be moving after having been pinned under the wood, felt good to be outside after having been stuck in the house. When she pushed the door open and walked into the cleaner air of the store, she noticed for the first time how much she smelled of sweat and soot. What a fright she must be to look at.
But right now she really didn’t care.
“Dasani, please,” she said, pushing a five-dollar bill toward the creepy man whose eyes were lines of folded skin.
They’d found Derek. They’d help him. Maybe even Dr. Gambinetti was still alive.
He put the change on the counter next to the bottle.
Only if you count all the change. Then they’ll be alive.
She grabbed the coins and stuffed them in her pocket. The cashier stared at her.
“Aren’t you going to count your change?”
In her mind’s eye, amidst the frenetic, chipmunk chattering of the OCD, with all its horrid, comic-book images and insane, magical cures, she caught a glimpse of the stone plaque in “Restrooms” Gambinetti’s unkempt, cozy little office:
WHAT MIGHT BE ALWAYS OWES ITS DEEPEST DEBT TO WHAT IS.
“No,” Chelsea said, between gulps of water. “I trust you.”