Page 7 of After the End
The shape of the exit was barely visible, but it was enough. Rory surged toward it. Just before she reached it, she glanced back at Ian. There was a splintering crack, louder even than the flames, and Rory’s eyes widened. She hurled herself at him, pushing him back, and a huge, flaming object dropped from the ceiling, crashing down right where Ian had been standing a half-second before. He stumbled, taking another few running backward steps to catch his balance. The dog stiffened even more, and Ian clutched at him, barely keeping him steady on his shoulders.
“You okay?” he demanded, yelling to be heard over the roaring flames.
“Fine! Let’s go!” Dodging around the flaming debris, she ran for the exit. Ian followed, his heart still pounding from the close call. He knew he would have nightmares later about Rory being buried alive, but he turned it off now. They were almost out, almost safe. Any freak-outs could come later.
They dashed out of the cabin, not stopping until they reached the rescue truck where Junior and the cabin’s owner were.
“Casey!” the man cried, trying to stand up from the back of the truck, but Junior kept him in place with a gentle hand on his shoulder. The dog started scrabbling to get down, and Ian hurried to crouch. Rory helped move Casey off his shoulders, and the dog immediately ran to press himself against his owner’s legs.
“There’s gratitude for you,” he muttered to Rory, who snorted and gave him a hand up.
“Thank you,” the man said, his voice choked. “You saved him. You saved Casey. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Ian responded. Rory backed away, and Ian had to hold back a grin. Gratitude—especially teary, effusive gratitude—made her uncomfortable. He was pretty sure she’d rather be yelled at than thanked.
“You both okay?” the chief asked as he strode toward them. He gave them both a once-over.
“Yes, Chief,” they chorused.
The fire chief eyed the cabin owner and Casey, who was getting checked out by Junior. “That is a big-ass dog.”
Ian wanted to laugh. “Yes, it is.”
* * *
It was hours later before they’d finished mopping up. The cabin was a blackened shell with a sagging roof and gaping, empty windows—they’d all blown out from the intense heat. The owner and his dog had been checked out, and they’d headed to a neighbor’s house. As she rolled a hose, Rory stared at the remains of the cabin.
“What are you thinking?” Ian asked, closing one of the storage compartments.
“I keep telling myself that they are okay,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I just wish we could’ve saved their home, too.”
“Me too, Ror.” He gave her a kiss on a cheek that tasted like smoke. “You stink.”
Laughing, she shoved him away. “You should talk, Smokey Bear.”
“Speaking of talking…”
A panicked expression crossed her face. “We probably should get going.”
He gave her a look but didn’t push it, heading for the cab of the rescue truck instead. Everything had been cleaned up and stowed, and the other trucks had headed back to the station already. Soup was pulling the wheel chocks as Rory did a final walk around to make sure that all the doors were secured. Swinging into the driver’s seat, Ian watched Rory in the rearview mirror. Even in her bunker gear, she was beautiful.
“Ugh,” Soup groaned as he climbed through the passenger-side door. “Are you getting all lovey-dovey again?”
Ian gave him a glare, which intensified as Soup slid over to the center seat. “No. Get out. That’s Rory’s spot.”
Smirking, Soup stretched his arms across the back of the bench seat and wiggled a little. “Not anymore. My butt-print is on it now. Claimed it.”
Rory climbed into the passenger seat, and Ian gave her a long-suffering look. She rewarded him with one of her quick, rare smiles, and his mood lifted. “Ten minutes left until the end of our shift. Let’s head back to the station before anyone else can light something on fire.”
He eased the rescue truck down the rutted driveway, splashing through muddy puddles of melting snow. It was technically spring, although there’d probably be another few blizzards before winter released its hold on Simpson. Glancing over, he saw that Soup and Rory were engaged in a thumb war.
“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” Ian said, turning onto the county road.
Rory shot him a guilty look, but Soup laughed. “I thought you’d never bring it up,” he said. “I didn’t want to say anything, but the smell—”
“Shut it, Soup,” Ian grumbled. “Rory?”
“I know.” She sighed. “I’m just so…badat it.”
