I throw my axe into it by the handle. Ten seconds later, it flies open. The flashing lights of the two PASS devices light up the smoke that fills the classroom.
I rush for the closest one.
Barely able to see, I wave a hand over the mask, desperate to know who it is.
The mask is wrecked. The shield cracked and caved in.
My throat closes over.
I check for a pulse. Nothing.
I check again.
My watch beeps, halftime.
“Dammit, London.”
I move to the next flashing amber light, stumbling over legs as I maneuver around the strewn-out limbs.
Heat flares over my face where my mask is sealed.
The mask is starting to disintegrate.
“Hold on,” I growl.
I hunt for a pulse on the next firefighter down.
I hold my breath, like that will make it more palpable.
A thready beat pushes against my gloved hand.
“Thank fuck.”
I kneel at their side and slide my arms underneath before pushing to my feet. My watch beeps again.
Ten seconds.
Fuck.
I spill from the classroom and head for the stairwell.
The limp firefighter my arms bobs with every hurried step I take.
My alarm shrieks.
We’re out of time.
The roar behind me picks up.
I run down the flights of stairs, arms screaming from the burn.
Everything slows down as I close in on the front doors. I push harder, legs searing. My mask warps, the rubber melting to my cheeks, over my temples.
I burst through the doors and stumble over the footpath before my legs give way, and I lay the limp body on the sidewalk.
“Hammond!” Owens is running for me. She kneels by our firefighter’s head, tugging at the mask.
Sandy is walking toward the building, hands in his hair.
