Consumed
Page 5
“Tourney!”
Shit, it was hot. She could feel her skin prickle in warning—or maybe that was her shirt melting into her arms. But she had other problems.
Danny released his mask and put his face in hers. “Listen, James Franco, this isn’t fifty-seven hours!”
“The movie was 127 Hours!”
“Are you seriously arguing about that right now!”
“Tourney me and do it!”
“That’s it. I’m demanding backup—”
“Do you want to kill all of us? Either leave me or do it!”
She would have taken care of the problem herself, but the angle of the blade needed to be right . . . and oh, God, was she out of her mind? What was she saying?
“Cut my hand off or leave me!”
Chapter 4
Danny was rank furious as he tried to get Anne’s jacket back on her. Was she out of her fucking mind—
A resounding groan escalated into a roar, and more of the floor above collapsed around them, coming down the slope created by that panel held up by the beam tangle. Arching over Anne, he protected her, bricks and pieces of particleboard punching at his shoulders and crashing on his helmet.
When things stopped hitting him, he discovered an unexpected bene. Smoke was escaping fast in a new direction, the rush-hour-worthy evac suggesting a way out might have opened that hadn’t been there before. The flames were so thick, he couldn’t be sure.
“Cut it off!” she yelled at him.
“Will you shut up with that!”
He kicked shit out of his way and attempted to get her mask back in place again, but she fought him—even as consciousness began to go in and out for her, her eyes rolling back, her weight weaving. And still that goddamn hand of hers was squeezed in between a trap of beams and crap that looked like pieces of machinery and a desk.
“Pull with me!” He wrapped himself around the back of her once more and took her forearm in his palms. “On three. One!” Maybe this will work. “Two!” Please, God, let this work. “Three!”
They both strained, her strong body bowing until her boots slipped out from under her and he had to catch her.
“Dan!”
As Anne barked his name, he refocused on her—and she put her free hand to the side of his mask.
“Do it, Dan,” she said. “Or you have to go. I’m okay with dying. Honest.”
He stared into her eyes through his facial shield. His breathing was a freight train in his ears. His body was shaking under his PPEs. His mind was racing through solutions, too many of them getting rejected.
Oh, wait, actually all of them getting tossed.
“Fuck,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
Releasing his mask, he pushed it aside and locked eyes on hers without any barriers. It wasn’t supposed to end like this . . . although even as he thought that, he wondered what the hell their other option was. He and Anne Ashburn were both death-wish idiots, the kind of people who pushed limits, and themselves, until shit got broken.
Danny looked around one last time. Then he shifted his eyes to her arm and wondered, Can I do this?
“It’s the only way,” she said into the smoke and heat. “If you won’t save yourself.”
He didn’t make a decision. He just started moving. Because if he thought for a moment—for one goddamn millisecond—that he was going to hurt her? He was going to vomit the pepperoni-and-onion pizza, side of fries, two Cokes, and a cherry pie he’d had for dinner all over the fuck.
With hands that shook, he pulled off his gloves, unlatched the front of his jacket, and reached in through his bunkers to his woven nylon belt. When he brought the strap out, Anne closed her lids. And shrugged out of her heavy jacket again.
Danny drew the strap around her upper arm, busted the fork in the buckle, and pulled the length tight. She was right with him, reaching across with her good hand and taking the end, cranking it over until her bicep puffed up around the ligature.
Nope, he thought. If she lost consciousness and couldn’t hold that tight, she was going to bleed out. Plus, he was going to have to carry her once she was free because chances were good she was going to go into shock—so he couldn’t keep it in place.
Pushing her hand away, he loosened the length and made a slipknot. “Brace.”
When she nodded, he used all of his strength to make a self-holding tourniquet, and the grunt she let out went through the center of his chest like a bullet. But it worked. Even though her upper arm was well muscled, the nylon bit into her flesh like fangs, going deep and locking in.
With a yank, he pulled her PPE back up so she would be protected from the heat, making sure the tough fabric was flat and tight over her forearm for a clean cut—
Another warning creak from up above had him ducking and looking to the ceiling at the same time.
“Do it!” she yelled.
The long-handled axe was on his belt, and he popped it free and removed the head cover. The grip was insulated, certified to handle up to twenty thousand volts of electricity. Too bad the bitch was not rated to cover the shock of cutting off a piece of your partner.
Just so you could maybe, possibly, probably-not-but-still, save her life.
Anne stared up at him, unblinking, unafraid. And that steely expression on her face reminded him, not that he needed it, that she was the single most courageous person, man or woman, he had ever met.
I love you, he thought. Not for the first time.
“Put your oxygen on,” he ordered. “Or I’m not doing shit.”
When she complied, Danny closed his eyes, but only for a second. Then he masked himself and changed position so he could get a clear swing with good aim. Testing his angle, he lowered the blade so it rested on the PPE sleeve in the middle of her forearm. And then he settled his body into a stance, and thought about all the firewood he had been chopping for the winter.
This is no different, he told himself. This is a piece of wood.
If he thought for one second it was Anne’s flesh and blood, he was going to lose his nerve and fucking maul her.
Clean cut.
One chance.
* * *
As Anne went numb, she watched from a great distance as Danny lifted the axe over his shoulder, his powerful arm rising high. For a split second, the reflection of flames on its polished steel blade made the metal glow orange.
She couldn’t look away, but she couldn’t watch it happen. So she focused on his face, the angry, strobing illumination of the fire making his features animated even as they didn’t move behind his mask. She had thought of him as a surgeon no more than two minutes ago. Who could have guessed he was going to—
Raw human survival instinct made her open her mouth to tell him to stop—but she didn’t get far. The ceiling across the room caved in with the sound of galloping hooves, bricks from an outer wall landing fifteen feet away from them.
She looked at that beam. That slope. How much was above them. “Do it!”
Danny didn’t move.
Until he did.
In a single, decisive surge, he brought the axe down. Blink-of-an-eye time. Nothing more than a quick inhale.
As she was freed, momentum from her pulling back carried her away from the trapping tangle, the blade . . . the hand that she left behind.
The hard landing reverberated not just in her ass but through her whole body, her teeth clapping together, her legs banging into the floor, one shoulder taking the brunt with a holler as her spine torqued.
The cut she did not feel whatsoever.
She brought her arm up, and her brain was so compelled by the absence halfway down that even the fire and the danger went away. The PPE’s tough material had been pulled tight as a result of her leaning away from the axe, and there wasn’t any fraying of the fabric or insulation. There was blood, though, and—
Like time wanted to catch up to itself, everything went from slow motion to speed of light.
All of a sudden, Danny’s grip was biting through her heavy jacket and he had her up off the floor and over his shoulder. As he took off at a run, she bounced around and tried to figure out where he was going—and then she saw it. The most recent collapse had wiped out part of warehouse’s outside shell, and though it wasn’t a clear shot to an escape, it was better than the flames—
Shit, it was hot. She could feel her skin prickle in warning—or maybe that was her shirt melting into her arms. But she had other problems.
Danny released his mask and put his face in hers. “Listen, James Franco, this isn’t fifty-seven hours!”
“The movie was 127 Hours!”
“Are you seriously arguing about that right now!”
“Tourney me and do it!”
“That’s it. I’m demanding backup—”
“Do you want to kill all of us? Either leave me or do it!”
She would have taken care of the problem herself, but the angle of the blade needed to be right . . . and oh, God, was she out of her mind? What was she saying?
“Cut my hand off or leave me!”
Chapter 4
Danny was rank furious as he tried to get Anne’s jacket back on her. Was she out of her fucking mind—
A resounding groan escalated into a roar, and more of the floor above collapsed around them, coming down the slope created by that panel held up by the beam tangle. Arching over Anne, he protected her, bricks and pieces of particleboard punching at his shoulders and crashing on his helmet.
When things stopped hitting him, he discovered an unexpected bene. Smoke was escaping fast in a new direction, the rush-hour-worthy evac suggesting a way out might have opened that hadn’t been there before. The flames were so thick, he couldn’t be sure.
“Cut it off!” she yelled at him.
“Will you shut up with that!”
He kicked shit out of his way and attempted to get her mask back in place again, but she fought him—even as consciousness began to go in and out for her, her eyes rolling back, her weight weaving. And still that goddamn hand of hers was squeezed in between a trap of beams and crap that looked like pieces of machinery and a desk.
“Pull with me!” He wrapped himself around the back of her once more and took her forearm in his palms. “On three. One!” Maybe this will work. “Two!” Please, God, let this work. “Three!”
They both strained, her strong body bowing until her boots slipped out from under her and he had to catch her.
“Dan!”
As Anne barked his name, he refocused on her—and she put her free hand to the side of his mask.
“Do it, Dan,” she said. “Or you have to go. I’m okay with dying. Honest.”
He stared into her eyes through his facial shield. His breathing was a freight train in his ears. His body was shaking under his PPEs. His mind was racing through solutions, too many of them getting rejected.
Oh, wait, actually all of them getting tossed.
“Fuck,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
Releasing his mask, he pushed it aside and locked eyes on hers without any barriers. It wasn’t supposed to end like this . . . although even as he thought that, he wondered what the hell their other option was. He and Anne Ashburn were both death-wish idiots, the kind of people who pushed limits, and themselves, until shit got broken.
Danny looked around one last time. Then he shifted his eyes to her arm and wondered, Can I do this?
“It’s the only way,” she said into the smoke and heat. “If you won’t save yourself.”
He didn’t make a decision. He just started moving. Because if he thought for a moment—for one goddamn millisecond—that he was going to hurt her? He was going to vomit the pepperoni-and-onion pizza, side of fries, two Cokes, and a cherry pie he’d had for dinner all over the fuck.
With hands that shook, he pulled off his gloves, unlatched the front of his jacket, and reached in through his bunkers to his woven nylon belt. When he brought the strap out, Anne closed her lids. And shrugged out of her heavy jacket again.
Danny drew the strap around her upper arm, busted the fork in the buckle, and pulled the length tight. She was right with him, reaching across with her good hand and taking the end, cranking it over until her bicep puffed up around the ligature.
Nope, he thought. If she lost consciousness and couldn’t hold that tight, she was going to bleed out. Plus, he was going to have to carry her once she was free because chances were good she was going to go into shock—so he couldn’t keep it in place.
Pushing her hand away, he loosened the length and made a slipknot. “Brace.”
When she nodded, he used all of his strength to make a self-holding tourniquet, and the grunt she let out went through the center of his chest like a bullet. But it worked. Even though her upper arm was well muscled, the nylon bit into her flesh like fangs, going deep and locking in.
With a yank, he pulled her PPE back up so she would be protected from the heat, making sure the tough fabric was flat and tight over her forearm for a clean cut—
Another warning creak from up above had him ducking and looking to the ceiling at the same time.
“Do it!” she yelled.
The long-handled axe was on his belt, and he popped it free and removed the head cover. The grip was insulated, certified to handle up to twenty thousand volts of electricity. Too bad the bitch was not rated to cover the shock of cutting off a piece of your partner.
Just so you could maybe, possibly, probably-not-but-still, save her life.
Anne stared up at him, unblinking, unafraid. And that steely expression on her face reminded him, not that he needed it, that she was the single most courageous person, man or woman, he had ever met.
I love you, he thought. Not for the first time.
“Put your oxygen on,” he ordered. “Or I’m not doing shit.”
When she complied, Danny closed his eyes, but only for a second. Then he masked himself and changed position so he could get a clear swing with good aim. Testing his angle, he lowered the blade so it rested on the PPE sleeve in the middle of her forearm. And then he settled his body into a stance, and thought about all the firewood he had been chopping for the winter.
This is no different, he told himself. This is a piece of wood.
If he thought for one second it was Anne’s flesh and blood, he was going to lose his nerve and fucking maul her.
Clean cut.
One chance.
* * *
As Anne went numb, she watched from a great distance as Danny lifted the axe over his shoulder, his powerful arm rising high. For a split second, the reflection of flames on its polished steel blade made the metal glow orange.
She couldn’t look away, but she couldn’t watch it happen. So she focused on his face, the angry, strobing illumination of the fire making his features animated even as they didn’t move behind his mask. She had thought of him as a surgeon no more than two minutes ago. Who could have guessed he was going to—
Raw human survival instinct made her open her mouth to tell him to stop—but she didn’t get far. The ceiling across the room caved in with the sound of galloping hooves, bricks from an outer wall landing fifteen feet away from them.
She looked at that beam. That slope. How much was above them. “Do it!”
Danny didn’t move.
Until he did.
In a single, decisive surge, he brought the axe down. Blink-of-an-eye time. Nothing more than a quick inhale.
As she was freed, momentum from her pulling back carried her away from the trapping tangle, the blade . . . the hand that she left behind.
The hard landing reverberated not just in her ass but through her whole body, her teeth clapping together, her legs banging into the floor, one shoulder taking the brunt with a holler as her spine torqued.
The cut she did not feel whatsoever.
She brought her arm up, and her brain was so compelled by the absence halfway down that even the fire and the danger went away. The PPE’s tough material had been pulled tight as a result of her leaning away from the axe, and there wasn’t any fraying of the fabric or insulation. There was blood, though, and—
Like time wanted to catch up to itself, everything went from slow motion to speed of light.
All of a sudden, Danny’s grip was biting through her heavy jacket and he had her up off the floor and over his shoulder. As he took off at a run, she bounced around and tried to figure out where he was going—and then she saw it. The most recent collapse had wiped out part of warehouse’s outside shell, and though it wasn’t a clear shot to an escape, it was better than the flames—
