Page 89 of Fire & Ice

“Mickey, you gotta promise me, something goes wrong, you keep Beau away. Don’t let him see—” Tripp breaks off mid-sentence, choking on his own words.

“Boy, I’m gonna smack you silly for even talkin’ that way once your ass is free,” Mickey growls back, but Tripp can hear the emotional edge marring his voice. He softens, then, and that scares Tripp more than anything else has yet. “You just worry about you, Tripp, and I’ll—I’ll take care of Beau.” There’s somuch stuffed into that promise that it would break Tripp if he let himself think about it too much, so instead, he lets go of the mic and gets to work.

Cramming his hand back into his glove, Tripp leans heavily on his right hip—the intact one—and starts pulling himself across the floor. It’s awkward and difficult and it’s slower progress than he’d like, but Tripp doesn’t stop. Pushing with his undamaged foot and reaching out with his good hand to pull, steadily, Tripp propels himself forward. It’s rough going, and he’s forced to use both injured limbs more than is tolerable, but there’s no alternative.

There’s no door, either. Tripp knew that as soon as Mickey mentioned it. It’s either not there or covered by rubble: either way, it’s of no use to him. He’ll just have to find another way, and if he can’t go around, thenthrough it is.Hell, he’s always been a ‘to the point’ sort of dude, so why not?

When he makes it to the wall, Tripp allows himself a break. Just a brief moment’s rest, leaning against the hot stone and breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain coursing through his body. Because he doesn’t have enough going on, the alarm on his tank picks that moment to begin sounding again, andthis is it,this is his last warning. His oxygen is nearly out.

With any luck, the room on the other side of this one will be slightly less hazardous. If not, Tripp’s done for.

Running a gloved hand over the smooth drywall in front of him, Tripp zeroes in on a crack in the surface, picking and then yanking until a chunk comes free. Underneath is concrete cinderblock—not a surprise, considering the state of the rest of the room. Biting his lip, Tripp glances around frantically for anything he might use, and comes up with a busted section of metal pipe. He’s broken through cinderblock beforeduring drills, but always withrealtools, like crowbars and sledgehammers.

Also, he had two working arms, which Tripp can’t believe how much he’s taken for granted.

Never again.

He’s got no choice but to work with what’s in front of him, though, if he wants to survive.

Bracing himself for the onslaught of pain, Tripp picks up the broken pipe and holds it firmly in both hands. Taking a deep breath, he slams it full-force into the block and immediately rears back to go again, pushing himself to repeat the action before the jagged bolts of lightning-hot pain that are ripping up his arm can really sink in.

Again.He brings the pipe down over and over, over andoveragain,and miraculously, the cinderblock steadily chips away.

It’s working.

Tears stream freely down Tripp’s cheeks, his left arm so sore that it’s practically numb, and his right not faring all that much better. Still, Tripp doesn’t stop. With repeated, unrelenting blows landed one after another, he manages to break a hole through the wall, and to hack away at it until it’s nearly big enough for him to squeeze through.

With a gasp that’s partially from pain and equally from lack of oxygen, Tripp chucks the pipe aside and resorts to using his hands to pull away larger chunks of rock. When the breach in the wall is finally wide enough for him to crawl through, Tripp unclips his airpack and lets it fall from his shoulders, ripping his helmet from his head and tossing it through the hole. His hood and mask follow carelessly after, but he leaves his pack behind. It’s no use to him now, it’s heavy, and he’s exhausted.

Steadying himself mentally, Tripp tries to prepare for what might be on the other side—life or death: this is the moment of truth.

He crawls through head first, bad leg snagging on some cinderblock and dragging a yelp from his lungs, but he makes it. On the other side, there’s about a foot and a half drop to the ground, but it’smuchcooler andmuchclearer. The air is lighter, more breathable, and the room is far wider than the space in which Tripp was trapped, so it’ll take longer to become smothering.

Tripp uses the adrenaline he’s built up from hacking through the wall to buoy himself forward, dragging his broken body as fast as it will go across the floor, just trying to move as far away from the blaze as he can get.

Rightas he reaches the middle of the room, Tripp hears an ominous creaking noise following behind him. He reacts just in time to look over his shoulder and see through the hole he came through that the hovel has collapsed in on itself, a puff of smoke and dust the only other thing making it out.

Tripp’s mouth goes dryer than it already was, uncomfortable with how close he came to being buried alive. Breath coming short and fast, he fumbles for the mic and activates the radio again. “Mickey,” he croaks. “I’m through. I’m through, but—it’s spreading fast. I dunno how long I’ll be safe here.”

Peering around, Tripp registers yet another disappointing, windowless space. There’s one set of double doors at the far end, but Tripp’s fairly certain they point towards where the epicenter of the blaze lies. He thinks he might be in a basement, which isreallya worst-case scenario, and likely why Mickey hasn’t suggested he access those doors at all. The fact is, there maynotbeany way for him to move that won’t lead directly into the bowels of a fully-engulfed fire.

He still has to ask.

“Should I—should I try the doors?”

“No,” Mickey replies sharply, his voice slightly staticky now. Radio signal must be weaker here. “Tripp, I’ve got the blueprints for the building in front of me—do not go through those doors. Just—sit tight, alright, son? Don’t—don’t you go giving up on me yet.” That spiel would have been a hell of a lot more convincing if Mickey bothered to take his finger off the mic before barking, “Get Lee,” at someone in the background.

Tripp’s heart sinks.

Mickey thinks he’s going to die. Mickey wants him to be able to say his goodbyes.

A normal person would probably panic, and Tripp knows that he should, but he’s too damn exhausted, in too much pain, and sobrokenabout everything he’s about to lose. It hurts like hell to think that he’ll never wake up in Lee's arms again, never see Beau’s smile when he cracks a joke at Tripp’s expense, never get to know the joys of being an uncle—or a dad.

Devastated, Tripp lies flat on his back on the dirty concrete floor, doing his best to breathe shallowly and to stay as low as possible, away from the rising smoke and heat. A single tear makes its way down his cheek and into his sweaty hair, and Tripp doesn’t bother to wipe it away.What does it matter, now?For the first time in what suddenly feels like oneveryshort life, Tripp prays—begs—to a God he’s never felt was listening before.

Please don’t let me die here.

The radio clip on his shoulder crackles to life once again, and Tripp tips his head, prepared to digest whatever crap news Mickey has to share. But the voice that comes over the line hashim pressing a fist to his forehead, eyes pinching shut against the burning pressure behind them. He swallows hard past the lump in his throat, and it goes down like needles.

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