Page 20 of No Greater Oblivion

“Why the hell would you let her go in by herself!” I think I’m screaming. My ears are ringing. “What the fuck were you doing out on the curb!”

“The backdoor was open, she went to close it!” he starts coughing uncontrollably. “Alejandro…the explosion…I don’t know where she is…she said she left something at the bar and…I think she went to close the door…”

I abandon him on the street and he slumps to the ground. Lettie rushes to his aid and provides him with the oxygen mask while I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it to Diego.

“Wait here.”

“Wait—” He spins around. “Where the fuck are you going? Alejandro!”

“Someone stop him!”

“Sir, you can’t go in⁠—”

I storm past the barrage of firefighters reaching for me and head straight into El Aliciente.

Everything is on fire.

Smoke whips through the room and the pungent scent of gas fills my lungs. Above my head, the support beams begin to disintegrate, turning to black ash and dust. Finally, it gives under the weight of the chandelier and I sidestep it just in time because when it crashes, it sends shards of crystal and metal flying in every direction. As I continue through the lounge, the smoke intensifies making it difficult to see. I lose my balance and stumble into the bar, eyes burning as they strain to see ahead but there’s too much smoke, too much fire.

I duck behind the bar and dig through the bottom drawers for clean towels. There’s an unopened case of bottled water so I break two of them open and soak the towels, pressing one against my face so I can breathe better. The bar is only a few paces from the kitchens so I push through the flames and smoke, ignoring the shouts of people behind me.

The kitchen is the worst.

Glass explodes and shatters. Frames disintegrate and doors fall from their hinges. Almost all of the machinery is burned and destroyed beyond repair and part of the ceiling has already caved in, preventing me from venturing further into the room. Tendrils of bright gold, orange, and red fire dance across charred surfaces and climb up the length of the crumbling walls. The fire burns so deeply, with such intensity, the entire room is aglow. Even my skin burns amber from the inside out.

Frantically, my eyes scan the room. I call out her name.

“Dahlia?”

I don’t see anything and it’s becoming more difficult to breathe.

“Dahlia!”

A quick glance across the burning kitchen tells me there isn’t anyone here. There can’t be. Which means she must’ve made it out through the backdoor but if she did, where is she? Did she get hurt on the way out? Is she somewhere in the back alley and no one’s found her yet?

Panic bounds and builds to delirium. Smoke fills my lungs faster than I can dispel it and the wet rag does little to filter the air coming through my nose. Shelves crash and fall, the walls unable to carry their weight. One of the light fixtures collapses and swings across the room. It hits me before I can move, a sharp corner colliding with my temple and sending me tumbling to the ground.

I wince when my bare palms touch the tile floors—they’re hot enough to sting but not so insufferable that I can’t manage to push myself up to my knees.

My God…where is she? Where is she?

A loud crunch followed by a deafening boom sounds behind me. Part of the ceiling has just collapsed, blocking the only exit with burning debris. Beyond the shadows of smoke and flames I think I spot a pair of firefighters trying to find a way through. I’m half-tempted to yell at them to leave, not to risk their lives for me. But if Dahlia is somewhere, anywhere, I need them to find her first.

That and I’m seconds away from passing out. I can’t breathe anymore. Can’t think. Can’t see.

I force myself to my feet but am quickly knocked off balance by another collapsed shelf and a row of porcelain bowls which tumble to the floor in quick succession.

It’s then when I see it. A hand sticking out from under a collapsed shelf.

Dahlia.

She’s face down on the floor, red hair obscuring the sight of her face. Toward the back of the room, one of the standing shelves has fallen and remains propped up by the stove across from it, preventing the shelf from crushing her underneath. On the far side of the room, a massive, burning black crater eats through everything. That must be where the fire started but it looks more like a bomb went off.

I force myself up again and walk through tendrils of fire sweeping across the floor and grip the shelf by its metal sides. I could scream from the pain if I thought my lungs could spare the oxygen. The shelf won’t give no matter how hard I pull or lift which means it must be stuck on something. Hot metal burns through the skin of my palms until they eventually go numb but I don’t stop. I keep pulling and pulling, waiting for the moment the tension on the metal is relieved and the shelf budges. Finally it does and I send it flying across the room. The top part detaches from the bottom and I fall to my knees to dig her out from under it.

“Dahlia? Dahlia, mi amor,” I remember the second damp towel in my pocket and put it over her nose and mouth. “Can you hear me?”

Shouting from the blocked exit captures my attention. I turn around and the firefighters are starting to break through but not fast enough. The ceiling continues to fall in pieces, smoking and burning, obscuring their path to us.