Page 95 of Marcus

Cella shot him a look over her shoulder, the narrowing of her gaze darkening her pretty features before they exited the playroom. It brought them right out to the small lobby of the plant which also split off into hallways that led to work areas, the receptionist’s desk, and a gift shop.

All which faced those same big windows that the play area sported. Each one that was now also broken out by the same gas jugs and crowbars from before. The gift shop had flames licking out of the door. Not a surprise considering the goddamn thing was mostly made up of very flammable items like plush toys, flags, T-shirts, and other knickknacks for people to buy.

And in the lobby, fire danced across the black and white checkered tiles on the floor from the little lakes of gasoline that had snaked across the room.

“Oh, my God,” Cella said behind him.

The thing about old buildings?

They were fucking old.

This was one of the oldest maple syrup farms and plants in Canada. Not a lot about the place had changed over the past seventy years but for some modern upgrades. Part of the draw to the place for tourism was the fact it was so old and had great history for the province and even the country.

But it was still old.

And that meant it went up in flames as though it were a firework going off against a dry Christmas tree.

“What do we—”

Cella didn’t even finish her statement before Marcus turned, grabbing her shoulder to shove her backward, too. “The exit down the hallway leading to the bathrooms—we’ll go through there!”

He caught sight of a couple of workers going down that way, too. Hell, there were only maybe twenty on staff during an open to the public day. But with just him there, only a handful of people were on staff to keep the place lit up and useable. He figured those ones he saw were the only ones in the front. The two in the back inside the actual bottling section of the plant would have exited out a rear door.

Marcus kept that calm demeanor even as he kept up the pace of a jog with Cella right at his side. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good, and he didn’t want to scare Tiffany any more than she probably already was.

Tiffany coughed, making her crying sound even more miserable than it already did. “Why does it smell so bad?”

He didn’t know how to tell her, but that was just what happened when shit burned. Especially when that stuff was everything. Plastic decorations on the wall. All the stuff inside the gift shop. Even the play equipment. Those weren’t things that should be burned, so when it did, the smell and smoke could be both dangerous and overwhelming.

“Turn your face to my jacket,” he told her, “and breathe into it, okay?”

She did.

Beside him, Cella tried not to seem panicked.

He could still see it.

“It’s just down the hall,” he said to Cella, “the next door on the left.”

She made it to the door before him, shoving it open which just allowed the slight breeze from the outside to come barreling into the back hallway. The bit of pressure release went away and the black, tar-like smoke billowed out behind them.

He handed Tiffany to her mother. “Take her.”

Cella did, but her wide eyes turned on him with fear. “What are you doing?”

The smoke behind him smelled so fucking bad.

Like poison.

Death.

And yet, all it took for Marcus was a quick look at the few people who had gathered at the side of the building for him to know they were missing someone.

“The plant manager,” he said, “she went into the back storage to get the suit for Tiffany. She should have come out already, and if the power is out, it’ll be dark.”

Because the goddamn place needed a lot of upgrades. There were no safety measures in place other than a few scattered emergency lights, a few of which he knew had been busted out by the forklifts in the backrooms.

“Marcus,” Cella hissed, snagging his wrist in her trembling hand before he could disappear into the building, “you can’t go back in there—it’s not safe!”