“Duncan!” Josh’s voice, through the vent.
Duncan walked back to the shelf. He put his finger on the trigger and tried to hold the gun like Mrs. Teller did, with the butt against his shoulder. He couldn’t; the gun was too long. So he held the gun at his side, at waist level, with the stock extended out behind his armpit. Then he aimed at the vent.
The BOOM shook his whole body, and the shotgun jumped out of his hands and went skidding backward across the floor. Duncan didn’t look to see where it went. He focused on the duct.
The grating was gone. He’d shot it off.
Duncan ran to the shelf, climbed up, stuck his head into the hole. Yes, he’d be able to fit. Barely. But the duct went up on a slant that was too steep—he couldn’t crawl up.
“Duncan!”
“I’m here, Josh! I shot the cover off.” He felt absurdly proud of himself when he said that.
“Can you get inside?”
“Yeah. But I don’t think I can crawl up. It’s too high.”
“I’ll look for some rope! Hang in there, Duncan!”
Duncan wiped the sweat off of his forehead. It had gotten even hotter. The wall on either side of him was burning, the flames coming closer.
Mom said, “What’s Mrs. Teller doing?”
Duncan turned and squinted at her. She was on the floor, still fighting with his dog.
“Woof’s attacking her, Mom! Woof! Come!”
Woof barked to Duncan and then trotted over, his tongue hanging out. He looked pleased.
“Up, Woof! Up!”
Woof leapt up onto the shelf, and Duncan hugged his dog tight. The beagle licked his face, then slobbered all over his ear.
“Mom’s going to save us, Woof. We have to go in that vent. Don’t be scared.”
Woof wasn’t scared at all. Upon noticing the duct, he stuck his head inside and barked. Duncan petted Woof’s butt and told him he was a good boy. Then he chanced another look over his shoulder.
Mrs. Teller was gone.
“Duncan!” Josh talking. “We’re sending down a hose. Wrap it under your arms and tie it around your chest.”
The hose made a lot of noise coming down, banging against the aluminum walls of the duct. Woof barked and bit the end when it appeared. Duncan told the dog to sit and tugged the hose out until there was enough to make a knot. Then he paused. If he went up the hole, how would Woof get out?
“You gotta go first, buddy.”
Duncan patted the dog’s head, then wrapped the hose around Woof’s body. He tied it tight enough to make the beagle yip.
“Mom! Josh! Pull Woof up!”
“No! Duncan, you come up right now!”
“Woof’s going first!”
Duncan listened to Mom and Josh argue, and then Woof got tugged into the hole. He tried to spread out his paws and pull back, ears flat against his skull, but he was jerked right up the vent.
“Duncan …”
It was Mrs. Teller. She was right behind him.
Duncan didn’t waste time. He scrambled into the duct after his dog, forcing himself up as far as he could go. The fit was tight. Really tight. And the smoke rose up beneath him, making it a lot harder to breathe, because there were no pockets of good air.
Overhead, the duct clanged, and the hose came down again.
“Wrap it around you, Duncan!”
Duncan’s arms were up over his head, so he could grab the hose but had no way to pull it around his waist; he couldn’t lower his hands. Instead he held it tight.
“Okay!” he yelled.
Josh pulled so hard on the hose it got ripped from his grasp.
“Duncan!”
“I can’t tie it on!” Duncan coughed. “Pull slower!”
Again the hose came down. Duncan became aware of how hot it was getting in the vent. He felt sleepy. He wanted to close his eyes, even though he knew that was a bad idea.
“Duncan!” Mom, yelling. “Grab the hose!”
Duncan managed to get a hand on it. Josh lifted slower this time, and Duncan held on. But after going up only a little ways he felt like he was being stretched in half.
“Hold it!” Duncan croaked. “I’m stuck!”
The oversized undershirt he wore had become caught on something in the vent, and the material was pulling at his neck, choking him.
Duncan tried to shake his head to release the tension. It didn’t work, the fabric continuing to cut into his throat. Because he couldn’t lower his arms, he couldn’t get the shirt off.
I have to let go of the hose, drop down, and take off the shirt, Duncan thought.
And that’s when Mrs. Teller grabbed his foot.
Duncan screamed. He didn’t want to let go now, even if he got strangled. He tried kicking but didn’t have any room. Mrs. Teller’s hands grabbed his thighs, hard, her fingers squeezing.
Duncan knew this was the end. He wasn’t going to get away. He felt bad for his mom. First she lost Dad, and now him. Smoke filled his lungs, but he tried to talk. He wanted to tell Mom that he loved her, one last time, before Mrs. Teller pulled him down.
But Mrs. Teller didn’t pull. She pushed.
Duncan heard the sound of fabric tearing, and then the pressure on his neck eased up. Josh yanked the hose, and Mrs. Teller continued to shove Duncan up the vent, lifting his legs, his ankles, and finally his feet, until he no longer felt her touch.
A moment later Mom and Josh were tugging on his arms, hauling him out of the duct.
“Duncan! Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”
“I got shot, but only a little.”
Mom hugged him, and he hugged her, and it turned out he had some tears left, after all, because he started to cry. Woof, not wanting to be left out, stood up on his hind legs and put his front paws on him, joining the hug. Duncan wanted it to go on forever.
Then, from the vent, the sound of screaming.
Duncan pressed away from his mother.
“Mrs. Teller! She’s still in there, Mom!” He looked at Josh. “We have to get her out! The fire is going to get her!”
Another scream, and then the sound of a shotgun firing.
Silence followed.
Josh put one hand on Duncan’s shoulder and his other on Mom’s. He steered them, gently but firmly, away from the house.
“We need to get you both to a hospital.”
Even though Mom and Josh didn’t say anything, Duncan knew what happened to Mrs. Teller. And it was okay. She was finally with Mr. Teller again. He imagined them both, in heaven, baking cookies.
“I fired a shotgun,” Duncan said to Josh, beaming.
Josh tousled his hair.
“You did good, sport. Now let’s go make sure your mom is okay.”
Duncan saw Josh take Mom’s hand, their fingers interlocking, and he smiled.
Sheriff Streng sat in the back seat of Mrs. Teller’s 1992 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, a vehicle that boasted faux wood side panels and less than ten thousand miles on the odometer. Mrs. Teller had kept it in the garage and was kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition.
Streng had pulled it onto the lawn before the house collapsed, doing so out of necessity. There were too many people to cram into Olen’s Honey Wagon, and one of them was dangerous.
The captive had his hands tied behind him, Streng’s belt cinched around his legs, and a face that resembled a Picasso painting because Erwin had hit it so many times. He was no longer an immediate threat, but the sheriff still didn’t like being this close.
Streng had frisked him quickly, finding the plastic zip lines they’d used to bind his wrists, assorted matches and lighters, a container filled with more of those odd capsules, a Ka-Bar Warthog knife, and another one of those high-tech electronic devices that he couldn’t figure out how to turn on. He put everything, except the knife, in an empty McDonald’s bag he’d gotten from Olen’s truck. Then he turned his attention back to the pyro.