Trance (28 page)

Ninety minutes later, we wrapped with a joke and laughter. Even though the questions and answers had been staged, we established a friendly rapport that lent itself to spontaneity and jest. Dahlia relaxed completely ten minutes into the interview. We had provided thirty minutes worth of Q&A, but Gage’s asides kept cracking us up.

By the time he yelled, “Wrap!” Lanthrop seemed to be teetering on the edge of a stress-induced implosion. William kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. Of our three observers, only McNally was as relaxed as those of us onstage. A bell clanged, announcing the end of filming, and Chad the sleepy cameraman bolted for the greenroom. Lanthrop muttered something uncomplimentary.

“Looks like someone’s getting fired tomorrow,” Gage said.

“That was amazing,” Dahlia said. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she looked like a seasoned journalist as she unclipped her lapel mike. “Thank you again, so much, for choosing me.”

I plucked off my mike and deposited it on the cushion. “You’re very welcome, Dahlia. It was a good opportunity for both of us.”

“Do you—?” She stopped, pursed her lips, then continued
her question. “Do you mind if I ask you something completely off the record?”

“You can ask anything, but I reserve the right not to answer.”

She nodded. “Back when I asked one of the questions, the one about whether or not you knew why everyone lost their powers, you said no. You didn’t know.”

My stomach knotted. “That’s right.”

“Is that true?”

Had I given that away? I suppose I had hesitated a split second too long, actually thrown by the question. “It was true when I wrote it.”

Dahlia considered my response, then smiled. “Okay.”

A shadow fell across us as William stepped up onto the stage, blessedly blocking some of those horrid lights. I started to shout for someone to have mercy, but they began to dim on their own. Spooky.

“There a men’s room around here?” he asked.

“Back in the greenroom,” Dahlia said. “I’m heading that way, I can show you.”

“Thanks.”

Dahlia shook our hands and expressed half a dozen more thank-yous in the space of thirty seconds, before leading William toward the stage left door. I stood up and stretched, my skin ten degrees cooler with the lights dimmed.

“I wonder when we’ll be leaving,” Gage said

“Whenever you like,” McNally said. I turned and found myself face-to-face with the older woman. She smiled congenially as her curious gaze flickered between us. “They need
to start dressing the stage for the eight a.m. digicast. Mr. Lanthrop is thrilled with your work today, by the way. I think you’ll like the rough cut, improvisations and all.”

One of the PAs bolted through and picked up the discarded lapel mikes, there and gone before I could blink. They moved fast, because they had to. In L.A.’s waning production industry, there was always another intern or wannabe waiting in the wings to get experience at a lower pay rate than the current employee. I could rest soundly knowing no one would ever clamor for my job.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Gage said as he stood. I tucked my arm around his, and we followed McNally toward the studio doors.

“Did Caliber get lost or something?” I asked.

“Maybe Dahlia tricked him into answering more off-the-record questions,” Gage said. “I don’t—” He stiffened. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

“What is it?”

“Do you smell that?” He shook his head. “No, of course you don’t.”

He turned around, spotted his target, and strode toward Mr. Lanthrop. The elderly man was conversing with a pair of matronly women who could have been news anchors as easily as wrestling champs. I scurried behind, alarmed.

“Mr. Lanthrop?” Gage asked. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s all right, Cipher.” Annoyance filtered through his smile. I doubted Gage missed it, he just pointedly ignored it.

“Does this warehouse have a gas lead pipe?”

Lanthrop blinked owlishly. “Um, yes, I believe it does. We
have a gas oven in the break room, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

Gage’s nostrils flared again as he blew out hard through his nose. “Evacuate this building right n—”

The explosion rattled the ground and blew the stage left door off its hinges. It struck the floor, careened sideways, and whacked the sofa for a loop. Wave after wave of superheated air slammed across the studio, knocking us to our knees. A fire alarm wailed somewhere deep inside of the warehouse’s old interior.

“William!” I screamed.

Gage reached for my hand. I shook him loose. He started shouting for everyone to get out and head for the exits, even as I ran the opposite way, toward the explosion and the source of the raging heat.

The PA who’d powdered my nose tumbled out of the open doorway, her face streaked with gray. She fell to her knees, coughed, and tried to run, only to stumble again. I caught her around the waist. She yelped, and I saw the blistered burns on her bare midsection.

“In the … break room,” she sputtered.

I gave the girl a less than gentle shove toward the studio exit, then dashed through the door. The short corridor was stifling, the ceiling clouded with smoke. Orange flames licked the walls ten feet ahead where another door lay in shattered, charred ruins in the center of the hall. More smoke billowed out.

“We have to get out of here fast,” Gage said.

I jumped, heart in my throat. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“If the fire gets into the main gas line, this entire place will go up.”

Flames shot through the destroyed doorway and into the hall, like a puff of dragon’s breath. Just as quickly, it retracted, and a rush of air pulled toward the door, as though playing the entire explosion in reverse. I let it tow me forward, and I grabbed the burnt edge of the doorframe before the drag sucked me inside.

The interior walls of the break room were streaked with black soot and bubbling paint. A table and chairs lay askew in the corner, broken and blistered. The stove was a gutted ruin of twisted metal and exposed wire. William sat upright against the far wall, uniform in tatters, weeping burns on his face and hands. In the center of the room stood Dahlia Perkins, her clothes streaked with ash and not a mark on her exposed skin.

I blinked hard and pinched myself to make sure my eyes weren’t affected by the smoke. She was drawing the heat and remaining licks of fire toward herself, into her body. She stood like a statue, fingers splayed by her sides, saucer-eyed, clearly as shocked as we were, if not more.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” streamed from her mouth.

“Dahlia,” I said, hesitant to leave the safety of the doorway. “Sweetie, what happened?”

“We were just talking.” She moved her lips as little as possible, as though afraid to disturb the air. “Then I smelled gas. I saw a smoldering cigarette on the floor by the stove, and then it just exploded. I thought I was dead, but I’m not and this is really weird. How do I make it stop?”

“Try pushing,” Gage said, standing behind me. “Push the heat away.”

She closed her eyes. A heat wave blasted forward, knocking me backward into Gage and sending both of us careening into the wall. I hit the floor on my left elbow and shrieked when Gage landed on top of me and jammed it even harder.

“Sorry!” Dahlia said.

“Think about ice, dammit,” I yelled, my elbow throbbing. “Something cold, don’t think about the fire.” She had drawn most of the heat away—a topic for further discussion once we were out of that blasted hallway—but the crackling of the fire could still be heard behind the walls. The drawback of constructing a studio inside of a pre-existing structure was the unused, insulated space, and the inferno inside of it waiting to get out.

The ice suggestion seemed to work. The rush of air ceased, as did the unearthly glow of her skin. A heavy sheen of perspiration replaced it, soaking quickly through her blouse.

“I don’t want to do that again,” she said, panting. “Caliber?”

“I’m okay.” William hauled himself up, somehow not wincing as he flexed his muscles. Just looking at the blisters and char marks made the skin on my thighs crawl. “Is everyone else out?”

“We think so,” I said. “We were all out front.”

Gage led the way back down the short hall to the studio. Red lights flashed in the rafters, and everything reeked of burnt wood. We reached the center of the studio, and Gage slammed to a jarring halt.

“Everyone get down!” he shouted.

The order was punctuated by a second explosion as the internal fires reached the main gas line. The ceiling above us combusted in a shower of fire, metal, and glass. Light fixtures groaned, broke, and fell. Walls collapsed, consumed by flame. Intense heat roiled around us.

I hit the floor and rolled onto my back in time to see a steel rod dotted with six light cans plummeting toward my head.

I
erected the force field almost without thought, creating a violet canopy over the group. Gage lay next to me, curled onto his right side. Something had struck his face and left a deep gash on his left cheek. William and Dahlia were on my other side; he was protecting her from the debris now bouncing harmlessly off my shield. I could block the physical objects, but not the overwhelming heat or encroaching flames.

The ceiling stopped collapsing, and after the others were on their feet, I let the shield drop. What little heat it kept at bay struck like a hammer, knocking the last bits of clean air from my lungs. I coughed, overwhelmed by the acrid odor and bitter taste. Gage looked green, and I could only imagine how fried his senses were. Dahlia clenched her fists and seemed to concentrate on something—probably snowmen or penguins.

Two thick rafter beams had fallen across the exit doors like a giant metal X. William tested the upper beam. Even with his strength, it didn’t budge. He tried the lower beam and managed a few inches.

“Get back,” I said. “I’ll try to blast it.”

They took cover behind the only camera still standing upright. I drew up two orbs roughly the size of grapefruits and lobbed them at the center of the X. The metal dented. Didn’t break. I squawked. Tried again. This time it fused the beams together where they crossed.

I gaped at it, eyes watering. “So much for plan B.”

“Tell me someone has a plan C?” Dahlia said.

William crouched in front of the fused X and scooted until his lower back was firmly planted beneath the cross brace. “I don’t know how long I can hold this up,” he said, his voice hoarse and dry. “So when I do, you three go between my legs.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” I said.

He winked. “You won’t. I promised Renee I’d take her to the beach when this is over, and I hate lying to a pretty lady.”

“Just so we’re clear.” I knelt in front of him, orbs glowing, ready to clear a path. “Now!”

The metal groaned; he didn’t. It gave; he didn’t. Inch by agonizing inch, William Hill lifted the beams high enough to create a crawl space. I propelled orb after orb, drilling a hole through the wood and plaster to freedom. When the tunnel was open and cool air tickled my cheeks, I reached back and yanked on Dahlia’s wrist.

“Go,” I said, shoving her into the hole. She disappeared. “Gage, go.”

“You go first,” Gage said.

“Don’t argue with me.”

William hissed. “Will one of you jackasses get going? I’m a strongman, not a robot.”

Gage plunged into the hole. I looked up at William, able to see every straining muscle, every bulge in his neck and abs and biceps. “When are you coming?” I asked.

“As soon as I can. I’ve got a date to keep, remember?”

With his promise ringing in my ears, I crawled forward. It was a tight fit, and I was impressed that Gage had managed to squeeze through the narrow passage. How would William manage?

Gage reached for me as I emerged in the dimly lit outer corridor.

“Hey, over here!” William shouted.

I twisted around, still flat on my belly. Someone else was on the other side with him. Legs stumbled into my line of sight, and I recognized the baggy jeans and soiled sneakers. Chad the sleepy cameraman. He was dragging something, and as he stumbled over a bit of debris, a packet of cigarettes fell by his feet.

My stomach clenched. I reached forward, drawing up an orb. The shoes moved out of sight, followed by the silver and red curve of a fire ax. “William!”

“Hey, man,” William said. “What the hell—?” His scream pierced the roar of the fire in the same instant the red-coated ax blade passed across the front of the hole. Blood splattered. The beams fell.

“No!” I plunged into the hole. Strong arms secured my waist and held me down. Panic crept into my heart. Bile stung my throat. “Let me go!”

“Trance, come on,” Gage said. “The ceiling’s coming down on this side, we have to go.” He yelped, and the pained sound
diverted my attention. A slim shard of wood had impaled his shoulder, just above the armpit.

Dahlia crabbed farther down the corridor on her hands and feet, tears streaking her sooty cheeks. She was coughing and retching. I couldn’t leave a man behind, but I had to get them out of there. Dahlia was a civilian. She was my priority.

With a frustrated scream, I lurched to my feet and grabbed Gage by his good shoulder. Together, we hauled Dahlia up and ran. Bits of the ceiling rained down as we raced toward sunlight. Sirens screamed outside, beckoning us forward.

Fresh air filled my lungs, forcing out the smoke in heaving, painful coughs that doubled me over. Tears stung my eyes, and I let them fall. Moisture was good. I had to go back for William. I’d need all the moisture I could get. I turned blindly toward the entrance again, only to find myself tackled to the ground. A third, eardrum-shattering explosion rocked the world. People screamed, and I screamed with them.

Tall, leaping flames consumed the warehouse and belched from every window and door. Yellow, red, orange, and every shade in between danced and sang their terrible song, rending and destroying.

I lunged again. “William!” My voice didn’t carry far. A solid body anchored me to the ground. I pushed and pulled. I screamed again, and a choked cry came out instead. My chest hurt. I couldn’t draw a breath.