1 comments/ 17575 views/ 1 favorites Pyro By: Christian Black Jodie embraced the machine experimentally, her fingers searching for a hold. They found none. The entire contraption was cruelly sharp, with all its metal edges and awkwardly placed knobs. Jodie imagined the vents slicing her fingers open. She tried to rock the machine in its window seat, but it wouldn't budge. She saw then that she would have to lift the window to free the air conditioner. Jodie's consideration of this problem was rather slow, her mind more suited to abstractions than mechanics. Jodie leaned all her weight against the air conditioner and pressed the heel of her hand against the window jamb. The wooden frame creaked. The window had not been opened in the two years she had been living here, at least, and for all she knew not for years before that. The wood was swollen, the gap painted over. Jodie didn't expect it to move, but then it did, yielding with surprising ease. The heavy air conditioner shifted too, alarming her. She grabbed the machine with both hands to steady it. Jodie's head throbbed from the stifling heat. Sweat poured down her face. She licked her lips and admired the salty taste, her own smell. Jodie liked to sweat, but the heat had finally grown unbearable. Triple digits outside and then last night the air conditioner began to make a horrible grinding noise. The air it emitted was only vaguely cool. Jodie was surprised to learn after several phone calls that not only did air conditioner repairmen not make house calls, but also that there seemed to be no new units available in the entire city. Everyone was sold out and no one expected new machines in until the end of the week. Jodie tried again, reaching her hand into the small gap she had lifted the window, cautious of pinching her fingers. She grabbed the air conditioner by the catch which had secured it. Her muscles strained against the weight. With her other hand, Jodie threw the window up further. The air conditioner rocked menacingly outward. She grabbed it with both hands, and vividly imagined it slipping from her grasp, falling four stories to the sidewalk below and crushing a passer-by. This scenario was considered and rejected. There was no story there, not a good one anyway. Jodie pulled with all her strength. She staggered backwards and finally extracted the machine. It slipped and she panicked, dropping it to the floor with a metallic clatter and missing her bare left foot by about an inch. "Shit!" If the machine hadn't been broken before, it surely was now. It had gouged the hard wood floor, too. Good-bye security deposit, or whatever was left of it after the broken tiles in the bathroom and the piss stains in every corner of the carpeting. But at least the damn thing was out of the window. Jodie had accomplished what she had set out to do. Jodie stuck her head out the window and inhaled the dry, baked city air. It smelled carbonous and yellow-brown from the flatulence of a million automobiles. There was no breeze to speak of. The air outside was only slightly less stifling than the air inside the apartment. After all that effort, the open window would hardly make any difference. She looked down at the street, forty or fifty feet below, and had a brief morbid fantasy about jumping. It was no good. The dramatic possibilities of suicide were limited. Jodie looked over at the high-rise building across the street from hers. Dozens of windows, dozens of stories. Probably none of them worthwhile, but Jodie had always been intrigued by open windows. Most of the windows either contained air conditioners like the one she had just removed, or were shaded. Most of the others revealed only the flickering blue light of a television, or dazed people stretched out on couches to watch. Too damn hot to do anything else on a day like this. Jodie scanned the rows and columns until she found, in a window on the third floor, a woman reclining on a couch wearing only a black bra and panties. Jodie strained to see, at this distance it was unclear, but the woman seemed to be very young. Maybe as young as eighteen. A thin girl with short dark hair, sitting in her underwear before an open window because it was beastly hot and she had no air conditioning. The girl lifted her hand to her mouth. Smoking? Yes, Jodie saw her exhale a white cloud of smoke. The girl sat up suddenly. The hand with the cigarette made a violent gesture, pointing towards another room. Angry. Her mouth moved and Jodie fancied that she could hear the girl's voice even above the traffic noise coming from the street between them. Another figure stepped in front of the window. A man. Also barely clothed, wearing only white boxer shorts. The man was tall and muscular. He seemed to dwarf the girl. His back was to Jodie, and she saw that he had long, sandy-colored hair. His bearing spoke anger, like the girl's. They were arguing. The man raised his arm, as if to strike, but then gestured furiously in the same direction the girl had. He was smoking, too. The man turned and faced out the window. Jodie shrank back instinctively, but he was looking down at the street. He leaned his elbows on the open windowsill and smoked. His mouth was drawn into either a grin or a grimace, Jodie couldn't tell at this distance. He flicked his cigarette out the window, then turned and said something final to the girl before stalking away out of view. The girl leaned back and continued to smoke. Jodie watched her for a long while, until the girl also disappeared to wherever the man had gone. The sheets were damp with sweat. Two in the morning and the heat hadn't let up. It didn't seem to be any cooler now than it had been during the day. Jodie had read once that asphalt retained heat and now imagined invisible waves radiating from the street and penetrating her walls. She wondered why in God's name she had to live in Phoenix. But she knew the answer. Because she had grown up in Wisconsin and had despised it. Jodie had always enjoyed the heat, but that had been when she could escape it with the push of a button. Now it was unremitting. Roscoe, curled contentedly beside her, only added to her misery. She pushed at his bulk, tried to at least contain him to half the mattress, but he wouldn't budge. "OK," she said. "That's enough. Off!" The beast did not stir. Roscoe was Carrie's dog, a rottweiler the size of a small pony. He seemed to be made of muscle, and had planted himself squarely on the mattress. "Goddamn it, Roscoe," Jodie said through clenched teeth. "Off!" A low growl emanated from Roscoe's throat, a warning, and Jodie surrendered. She was angry at herself for being intimidated by the dog, but she knew the animal could easily kill her if he so chose. She had imagined this many times. Jodie snarled a curse and flopped out of bed. She slammed the bedroom door and stomped out to the kitchen damning the dog, the heat, Carrie, herself. Hurling the freezer open, she pulled out a tray of ice cubes. Jodie filled the sink and dumped the tray into the water. Before she could brace herself, she plunged her face into the ice water. Jodie stood up, gasping at the shock of the icy water coursing over her naked body. An old fan droned in the window where the air conditioner had been. Jodie had draped a wet hand towel over the fan in an attempt to cool the air a little, but the towel had dried out. As Jodie peeled it from the fan to re-wet it, she glanced across the street. The window she had spied on that afternoon was dark, but the one beside it- which Jodie had already determined to be the bedroom of the same apartment- glowed with a flickering orange. Candle light. The girl Jodie had seen earlier was now stretched out upon a bare mattress laid on the floor. She was naked. One of her arms was crooked behind her head as she stared up at the ceiling, a cigarette jutting from her lips. Jodie could make out the dark 'v' of her pubic hair and the flickering shadows cast by her small breasts. The candles were everywhere, a dozen or more points of unsteady light. Jodie moved the fan to the floor and crouched in front of the window to watch. A door opened. The man emerged from another room. He was also naked. Jodie strained to see, but at this distance, his genitals were only a dark blur. As he crossed the room towards the girl, she sat up and stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand. The man rolled his neck, the cigarette clenched in his lips, as the girl leaned into him. Her head slowly bobbed at his waist. Watching this, Jodie analyzed her own reactions, as if for later description. Shame and arousal, in about equal measures. But writers observe, she reasoned. Observation is just a polite word for voyeurism. The man stepped back. The girl turned around and thrust her rear end towards the man, offering herself. The man drove into her, not bothering to extinguish his smoke as he took her from behind. Jodie watched until they finished and blew out the candles and there was nothing more to see. Jodie sat at her writing desk, in relative terms the coolest spot in the apartment. She was positioned in front of the window, in front of the fan, and in front of the dead black screen of the computer monitor. An unopened pack of cigarettes rested on the keyboard. Camel Ultra-Lights. She hadn't smoked since a brief rebellious stage in high school, and wasn't fully sure why she had an urge to now. The immigrant clerk at the convenience store had been impatient with her as she tried to choose from the bewildering selection of brands. He expected cigarette purchases to be brief transactions, only momentary distractions from the "Jerry Springer Show" playing on the tiny black-and-white television behind the counter. The clerk had made no effort to hide his annoyance at Jodie's indecision, and this had amused her. He was a character, all right. Jodie wondered if his lilting accent had been Indian or Pakistani, and if she could capture it on the page without turning it into an insulting caricature. When she walked out of the store a few minutes later, the pack stuffed into her pocket, she felt like she'd gotten away with something. He hadn't even asked to see her driver's license. She tore the pack open now, smelling the sharp scent of the tobacco. Jodie tried to shake a cigarette out, as she had seen people do, but they were packed too tightly and she had to pick one out with her fingers. She caught her reflection in the blackened computer monitor and experimented with several ways of holding the cigarette between her lips until she found one that looked natural. Only then did she realize that she didn't have a lighter. There probably weren't even any matches in the apartment. The cigarette held between her lips, filter growing moist with saliva, Jodie went into the kitchen. She bent over the stove and lit her smoke off the blue flame. Roscoe padded into the room as she took her first tentative baby puffs. He cocked his head at her curiously and let out a small bark. "Fuck you, Roscoe," Jodie coughed. She went back to her desk, tapped out her ash into an empty soda can and glanced out the window. Not much happening. The girl was having a nap in the bedroom, laying on her stomach, wearing only black panties. Jodie wondered if they were the same pair she had on the day before. The girl's smooth naked back glistened with sweat. The man wasn't around. Jodie hadn't seen him all morning. On her way back from the convenience store, she had walked past their apartment building and examined the names on the buzzers. Apartment 3-G; Marcus and Brenda Ash. She wasn't positive that was them, there were a few other couples living on the same floor, but Jodie liked Ash. It was very appropriate, considering their constant smoking. Jodie would have been disappointed to learn that wasn't really their name. She watched the girl sleep. Watched Brenda Ash sleep. Brenda hadn't moved in a long time, could have been dead for all Jodie knew. Jodie imagined her dead, murdered by her husband Marcus. But that was a cliche. That was Rear Window. Jodie inhaled too deeply, took in too much poisonous smoke. The coughing turned to retching as she stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. She gagged into the toilet, noticing with distaste that it badly needed to be cleaned, and barely managed not to vomit. Jodie spat gray saliva into the sink and rinsed her mouth, but the foul taste remained. Disgusted, she brushed her teeth. Jodie sat in front of the computer, not writing. She had been not writing all morning, taking occasional breaks to smoke or to cast glances at the Ash window. The cursor blinked in place. Sometimes it moved, dropping letters behind it like a trail of excrement. Then Jodie would clean up the line of shit with the "Backspace" key. It had been like this for a while. She was smoking, staring into that little window, when the apartment door opened. Jodie guiltily extinguished her cigarette. She put a smile on her face and looked up as Carrie walked into the room. "It's fucking hot in here," Carrie said, by way of greeting. She looked frazzled, as she usually did after so many days on. Her long blonde hair had already been let down, the jacket and tie already removed. All that remained of Carrie's professional demeanor was the white blouse and blue knee-length skirt. She unbuttoned the blouse as she stepped into the hot room. "Air conditioner's broken," Jodie said. "Jesus," irritated already. "I didn't think you'd get home until tomorrow." "The Portland flight got canceled." Carrie came over and kissed Jodie lightly on the cheek, then sniffed suspiciously. Jodie braced herself. "Are you smoking?" Carrie emphasized the word absurdly. "Uh, yeah." Jodie shrugged, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "Why?" "I don't know," Jodie faltered. "It was just . . ." "You know I can't stand cigarettes." "I know." "Jesus, Jodie. It reeks in here." "I'm sorry. I'll just . . ." "That is so inconsiderate. Not to mention unhealthy. What the hell were you . . ." Roscoe, hearing his mistress's voice, began to bark. Jodie winced. "Where's Roscoe?" Carrie followed the muffled barking to the bathroom. She opened the door and Roscoe sprang out, greeting her with licks and nuzzles so enthusiastic they nearly knocked Carrie off her feet. "There's my baby," Carrie scratched Roscoe's massive head, gurgling baby talk. "Did you miss Mommy? Yes . . . Mommy missed you!" Carrie turned to Jodie and the smile fell from her face. "Why did you lock my dog in the bathroom?" "He was driving me crazy, making messes," Jodie said, aware of how pathetically defensive she sounded. But just that morning she had found a mountainous pile of steaming Rottweiler shit in the center of the living room. She had seemed justified in locking the dog up then. "I couldn't keep him off the bed, and . . ." "How long has he been in there?" "A couple hours." "Bullshit. That's bullshit, Jodie. The floor's covered with piss." "I'll clean it up. It's not like I haven't been cleaning up his messes all week." Jodie stood up and stormed off towards the bathroom. Carrie grabbed her by the arm, stopping her. "That's not the point, Jodie." "Yeah?" Jodie said. "What is the point, exactly?" "The point is, I asked you to do one thing. One thing. Take care of the dog. Then I get back from work, and not only have you not taken care of the dog, you've stunk the place up with cigarettes. What's the matter with you?" Jodie wrested herself from Carrie's grip and stomped into the bathroom. She slammed the door and was immediately overwhelmed by the ammonia stench of the dog's pee. Disgusted, Jodie started peeling up the drenched yellow newspaper pages. "Bitch!" she heard through the door. "Bitch?" Jodie muttered. She couldn't remember Carrie ever calling her that before. She gritted her teeth, wadding pissy newspaper, cringing as her hands touched the loathsome wetness. "Bitch, bitch, bitch." Jodie caught her reflection in the mirror. Haggard, grimacing, her dark greasy hair plastered sweatily to her head. Maybe she was the bitch. She certainly looked like one. Jodie was reminded of her adolescence; of the skinny, gawking boyish girl who had hated her own reflection. Back then, confident and beautiful people like Carrie had been the objects of doomed crushes. Now Carrie was her lover. At that moment Jodie could not fathom why. She stuffed the handful of fouled paper into the little plastic trash can by the toilet. Then she peeled off her sweaty tank top and shorts. She started the shower and stepped into the stream of cool water. Jodie hadn't bathed or changed her clothes in days, a privilege of solitude. She missed it already. Even though Carrie had just come home, Jodie couldn't wait for her to leave again. She listened hopefully, though, for the sound of the bathroom door opening. She had deliberately left it unlocked. After several minutes, though, she was still alone. Jodie turned her face towards the cool spray to wash away her hot, shameful tears. Alone again. Carrie had been called in to cover for another flight attendant who was ill. She and Jodie were both secretly grateful. They had been at each other's throats the whole time Carrie had been home. Both had got their periods the same day. The heat and the hormones had conspired to amplify every annoyance and resentment to cataclysmic proportions. They did make love the first night. Sex was a necessary closure for Carrie after a fight, but Jodie had still been angry and had felt nothing. Then, after the blood had begun to flow and Jodie had really wanted it, Carrie of course had not. She had always been squeamish about menstruation. Didn't want to be touched when she was in her cycle, refused to touch Jodie when she was in hers. The blood had the opposite effect on Jodie. It made her ravenous. Her fingers were tinged pink. She felt the restless urge now, but was self-conscious with Roscoe laying on the bed beside her. Jodie hated the dog. His weight, his hair, his stink on the mattress. "Just tell him to get off," Carrie had said, demonstrating with a firm command which Roscoe, of course, had obeyed. The dog always obeyed Carrie. He never made messes when she was around. The heat would not let Jodie sleep and exhaustion would not let her come fully awake. Her eyes drifted open and closed. Jodie had stayed up very late waiting for the Ashes to come home. They had left early in the evening, and Jodie had kept a watchful eye on the apartment until, frustrated, she had gone to bed. That had been hours ago. Now her ears rang with tinnitus, a constant tone which had been with her for as long as she could remember. Usually, she didn't even notice it, but now it was almost deafening. Laying there, Jodie began to wonder if the sound was really inside her head, or if it came from an external source. She could almost convince herself that it was coming from the other room. After a while, she stood and followed the noise. There was a hole in the living room wall; the plaster was puffy and swollen around the edges. The hole pulsed with a steady silent rhythm, organically, like a heartbeat. This was where the whining static tone was coming from, from this orifice which had appeared in the wall. The whine was separate from the beating, a sound which the hole broadcast and which Jodie could detect with a sense that was somewhere between hearing and feeling. There had once been something stopping the hole, but Jodie had removed it. She couldn't remember why. Jodie approached the hole. The sound grew louder and louder with each step, until there was nothing else. No chance for any other sound to survive with the persistent ringing tone. But by then Jodie was crawling into the hole, which squeezed tightly about her as she forced herself through. Then there was silence as the wind bore her across the chasm. Pyro Petey There is no sex in this story. Sorry. Thanks to the hip and knee doctor for editing assistance. * I always heard the expression, 'nobody is perfect.' If that is true, then I am normal. What I mean is that I am not perfect. My biggest fault, which I have under control, is the most serious one. I love to start fires. When I was younger, it was a real problem and that is how I got my nickname: Pyro Petey. My name isn't Pete or Peter, it is Robert Smith. It is one of the most common names in America, which can be a blessing or a curse. However, let's go back to my nickname. My brother, William, christened me when I was twelve. The name stuck for a long while, but as I got better at controlling my urges, the Pyro part was dropped, but everyone kept calling me Petey. Sometimes it was awkward when I had to explain that my name was actually Robert. My second problem is my having an unusual reaction to beer. If I have more than one beer, then I fall asleep. If I am able to put down two or more, I am completely out of it for ten to twelve hours. It was a lot easier to live with the beer problem than the pyromania one. I didn't give up drinking altogether, but I have learned when, where, and how much I can handle. When I was fourteen, I spent the summer experimenting with my fire-starting skills. Several garages and outbuildings in the neighborhood became victims of my experiments. Of course, I quickly learned that this was not something that you share with your friends or family. Fortunately, I was young and sloppy, and I was quickly caught and run through the legal and psychological wringer. However, I never lost my interest in starting fires. I spent a lot of time researching and experimenting, but always without risking exposure or embarrassment. Other than the usual problems, growing up was not easy. My older brother, William, was always the favorite and always the overachiever. I had to struggle to keep my head above water and he became the academic genius, sports hero and a lady killer. Being his little brother did nothing for my ego. The happiest day in my life was when he left for college: with a full scholarship of course. As inept as I was, I did manage to finish high school and get a job as a roofer. I actually liked my work. I think I had some sort of attention deficit disorder, because I had a hard time sticking to any job longer than a few days. My choice of vocation helped me avoid this problem somewhat. I was always starting new jobs and finishing them before I lost interest. It was a pretty good match. As time went on, I was able to keep my affliction under control. It was ten years after high school until I was able to meet a girl and develop a relationship. It took another year until I was able to pop the question. Sarah was pretty much perfect as far as girls are concerned. I wasn't that particular, but I really couldn't find any faults with her. She had pretty brown hair, a nice complexion, and a cute body. As soon as we were able to save enough money, we bought a small house, so we could start a family. Things were perfect until my brother William decided to come home to visit. William finished college and got a job as an electrical engineer. He worked for one of the big chemical companies down in North Carolina. I hadn't seen him in almost ten years and I wasn't anxious to see him now. We all got together at mom and dad's place for a mini-family reunion. William had just come home from the Pocono's where he had bought a cabin on ten acres of wooded land. From the pictures, it looked more like a lodge. He was going to have an open house over the Labor Day weekend and he gave us detailed directions on how to get there. William's wife, Rachel, was in North Carolina with their two children. He was anxious for us to meet her and the kids at the cabin later that summer. Things were going better than I expected, until I noticed that Sarah and William were getting quite friendly. Now I expected my wife to be congenial, but the interaction with William was not normal. She was flirting and he was enabling her. All of a sudden, I was remembering the reasons why I hated my brother. He was leaving the next day, so I didn't want to make a fuss. I forced myself to spend more time with my dad than I wanted to, just so I could avoid seeing Sarah and William together. It was approaching time for us to go home when Sarah dropped the bomb on me. She had invited William to stay overnight in our guest bedroom. I could have killed her right then and there. It got worse when she told me that she was going to ride back to the house with William, because she had never been in a Mercedes. I knew that was a lie, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. I tried my best to not let my rage show. This was something I never expected from Sarah, but she had never met William. He was good looking and he could sweet talk anybody out of anything. Sarah spent way too much time showing him the house and telling him how she was going to be decorating each of the rooms. We finally got to sit down and relax when Sarah brought a couple of beers out. Normally I drink two or three beers a month and only when I am going to be staying home and going straight to bed. William looked over and smiled as he started to drink up. Sarah had a glass of wine that she was nursing. "Hey, we have a can of those fancy mixed nuts in the pantry. Hold on a minute and I'll get them." The nice thing about Heinie's is that you can't tell what is in the green bottle. The beer went down the sink. I came back with a can of nuts and a bottle of tap water. Up until this point, I still had to give Sarah the benefit of the doubt. We chatted for about twenty minutes and she appeared with two more Heinie's. Now I knew that William and Sarah were up to no good. Both of them were aware of my beer problem and both of them seemed to be using it to their advantage. I don't know what William did or said to Sarah, and I don't even know when he did it. Maybe they planned everything in the short car ride back to the house. It really didn't matter. I excused myself to go take a leak. The beer went down the toilet with the piss and I returned with another full bottle of water. I noticed the smirk on William's face as I took a big gulp. That just ticked me off, but when I saw Sarah smile, I became enraged. Normally, after two bottles of beer I am done for the night. It was easy to act sleepy and I even put on a show of trying to stay awake. I finished the water in the second bottle and walked slowly into the kitchen. I made a production out of throwing the empty away and opening the refrigerator to get out a fresh one. When I returned with the third bottle, William was grinning from ear to ear and Sarah was blushing. I finished the water in the last bottle quickly, closed my eyes, and starting breathing heavily, as if I was sleeping. My wife and my brother were whispering quietly as they turned out the living room lights and went down the hallway to the bedroom. Both of them knew that I would be out for the night: dead to the world. I waited for about twenty minutes and then walked down to the bedroom. The door opened with no problem. The moonlight coming through the bedroom window made it easy to see my brother and my wife screwing on our bed. They had no idea that I was there watching. The night was still young and I had a three hour drive ahead of me. I will say this, that William drew a good map. I had no problem finding his cabin in the woods. It was a beautiful place and it had to have cost him well over a quarter million dollars. Thirty minutes later, I was on my way home, and the cabin was a large orange ball in my rear view mirror. I was sitting down the street from the house, out of sight, just as the sun was coming up. All of a sudden, Sarah appeared at the front door. She looked around and when she saw that my truck was gone, she hurried back into the house. Ten minutes later William came rushing out, got into his precious Mercedes, and sped up the street. It was still early, so I went to the IHOP for breakfast. Sarah started work at eight. At ten after eight our precious home and our life savings went up in smoke. I stood by the truck, just for a moment to make sure that it started properly, and then started downtown to close out our accounts. I was only able to get a couple thousand dollars together. We weren't rich and buying the house took all of our money. When I returned to the house, the police and fire trucks were still all over the place. Sarah was there, talking to the police. I walked over to her Focus and slid one of my special packages under the passenger's side. It was a mixture of gasoline and styrofoam with a small igniter which made from a remote controlled car. I am not sure, but I think Sarah saw me driving away as her precious little Ford burst into flames. My work here was done. Time to move on. I had never been to North Carolina before. It was pretty, but I wouldn't want to live there. It took me two days to find where William lived. Damn, his house was nicer than the cabin. It must have been about 6000 square feet with a three car garage. I had to park several blocks away to watch the house. My old truck in that neighborhood would have aroused suspicion. I never saw William, but his wife, Rachel, brought their two kids out to catch the school bus. A short while later, she backed out of the garage driving a Subaru Outback. It had a tag advertising a local real estate company on the front. I had no trouble getting into the house. You would have thought that they would have a security system, but they didn't. No one would dare rob William. William wasn't home, but his Mercedes was in the garage along with a nice little Harley Davidson. Actually, it was a big Harley. I made a quick sweep through the house to make sure it was empty, and found that it wasn't. There was a kitty litter box in the laundry room, but no kitty. I spent several minutes looking and then decided to use the can opener. Ten seconds later, Tabby showed up looking for din-din. A few minutes after that he was comfortable in the cat carrier that I had found in the garage. Old North realtors wasn't hard to find. I only had to ask directions once. I walked into the front door and asked for Rachel Smith. A short while later she came out and I handed her the cat cage. She looked at the cat and then at me, just for a moment. "Oh no. Petey you didn't. Please say you didn't." We had never met, but she instantly knew who I was. " I am sorry. It had to be done. I didn't want to hurt your cat." "Why Petey, Why? What is so bad that you would burn your own brother's house down?" "You'll have to ask him. I'll call you in a week. If he hasn't told you by then, I will tell you." We were interrupted by an excited man rushing in the door. "Call the fire department. There is a car burning in the parking lot. Hurry." Rachel looked at me and I just shrugged my shoulders and turned away. I heard the office secretary telling my sister that the fire department was at her house, as I walked out. At this point, I had satisfied my rage. I was still mad, but no longer felt the desire to burn anything else. I headed West for a while and then South. I spent a few days in Northern Alabama. There was a lot of roofing activity which I found out was the result of several severe hail storms in the area. The big problem was that all of the roofers seemed to be Mexican. They were working in teams, and the quality of the work was excellent. My hopes of getting some work seemed dim, until I noticed an ad in the local paper for insurance roofing inspectors. I tried to clean up the best that I could with the few clothes that I had with me. Apparently, it was enough, because I got the job right away. They paid to send me to Mobile for two weeks training and then I was a fully qualified insurance adjuster for one of the major companies. They had so many claims pending that I had enough work to keep me busy for at least six months. I used my own name and my own social security number with no problems. I am sure that several law enforcement agencies were looking for me, but not in Alabama. I got a small apartment and then sold my old truck. The insurance agency provided me with a vehicle along with extra money for gas and maintenance. I did my job and I did it well. Everybody was happy. I kept my nose clean and stayed out of trouble. Shortly after I got settled in, I called my brother's wife. She said that William claimed to have no idea what drove me to go on my arson spree. I had promised that I would tell her what happened if William refused to, but I decided to change my mind. I told her that since he refused to be honest with her, I would have to return at a later date. She sounded worried when I hung up. My new job forced me to clean up my appearance. I had to keep my hair cut and trimmed, and I also had to shave everyday. These were grooming habits that I knew about, but never felt a need to comply with. Maybe that is why it took so long for me to find a wife, or keep a steady girl friend. I usually had supper at a fast food place and occasionally a sit down restaurant. Lunch was always catch-as-catch-can. Since I was the world's worst drinker, I avoided the bar scene. Every month or so, I called home. My parents had no problem expressing their disappointment with what I did. I never gave then an explanation or an excuse. Finally, after about six months, Sarah told them the true story. Because of the childhood relationship between William and I, they were sympathetic to the problem. William suddenly fell out of their graces. My dad confronted him and he denied the whole thing. Fortunately for me, they believed Sarah. Sarah was trying to find out where I was and what I intended to do about the marriage. She was living with her sister since the house burnt down. That was the last time they ever mentioned her. The conversations that I had with my parents after that never included my brother or my wife. My parents knew that the only way I would continue to contact them was if they avoided those two subjects. I did my job and I did it well. A lot of the local churches offered free English as second language classes. I was soon sitting in on these classes and learning Spanish. I made several friends during this time. Some of them were roofers that I had contact with when I was working. There were also a few brick layers, carpenters, and concrete workers. They worked their asses off during the day, but never missed their ESL classes at night. The used to joke about their kids who attended the public schools and spoke perfect English with no accent. Many of the wives attended the classes with them. My employer soon considered me to be bilingual. I never did learn how to speak proper Spanish, but I had no trouble carrying on a conversation with working people. There was never any inquiry into my crimes of arson. I am sure that there were police reports and my name was attached to every one of them, but no one every came looking for me. I used my own social security number on all my work documents and even filed a proper Federal Income Tax report. Nothing. Nada. I had been gone for about two years when Dad had a stroke. By the time I found out about it, he was at home, but required a lot of attention. Mom asked me if I could come home to see him. I couldn't refuse. I took two weeks off from work and bought a used Focus, just like Sarah used to drive. It was cheap and got good gas mileage. After filling the trunk with some of my toys, I was on my way. I got a motel about thirty miles from home, just in case someone was still looking for me. I spent the first day with my parents and caught up with the news. William and Rachel built a new house; bigger and grander than the old one. Dad winked when mom gave me their new address, in case I wanted to send them a Christmas card. I think I had an ally. Sarah stopped calling or visiting. They had not heard anything from the police or insurance companies in over a year. They wanted me to stay at the house, but I insisted on going back to the motel. It was late when I left, but I decided to drive by Sarah's sister's house. I was sitting outside the house when a very large Dodge duel wheel pickup pulled up. The couple inside the cab spent a few minutes kissing and then my wife stepped out of the cab and walked up to the house. The guy waited until she got to the door, which I thought was considerate. She turned to him, smiled, and waved before going in. I was glad that I had brought some playthings with me. There was an all night diner a few miles away and it looked like my wife's new boy friend needed to refuel his body. He parked in the middle of the lot so that nobody could ding his tricked out truck. I parked on the side and walked over to give the Dodge a checkout: a special checkout. He took a booth by the front window and had just finished ordering as I walked up to his table. "Is that your Hemi out there?" "Yeah. Why?" "I just saw you come in. That sure is a nice piece of machinery. Do you mind if I sit down?" He just nodded and I waved the waitress over. "Something like that must cost a pretty penny." It was a comment, but I posed it as a question. "The truck cost me thirty-six, but I also got over ten in the accessories." I never did get his name, but we talked about his truck for the next twenty minutes. I just had coffee and he had the midnight breakfast special. 'I don't want to appear nosy, but aren't you the guy that is dating Sarah Smith?" "Yeah. Do you know her?" "We went to high school together. I thought she was married." That was another comment posed as a question. "She is, but he is long gone. The cops are after him for burning down his own house. Dumb fucker." "Why did he do that?" "Sarah said that he caught her messing around with his brother. He burnt down his brother's house too." "She admits that she was screwing his brother?" "Yeah. She said the husband wasn't hacking it in the bedroom and she had to look elsewhere. I am getting to help her out now." "That's cold. Why didn't she just divorce him?" "I don't know. You'd have to ask her. What's with all the questions dude?" "Just curious. Aren't you afraid that he might find out about you and his wife?" "No way. He is long gone, and if he did come back I would beat the crap out of his wimp ass." I gave him a big grin and he got a strange look on his face. "Wrong answer, DUDE." His eyes got wide as I held up the remote control and pressed the button. The home made napalm instantly engulfed the Dodge. He knocked over his chair as he stood up in surprise. "Say hello to my wife for me." Nobody saw me leave the diner, because they were all looking at the large flaming pile of metal in the front parking lot. I drove very carefully back to the motel and decided to check out. Six hours later, I was in North Carolina looking at my brother's new house. I was expecting to see William leave for work, the kids leave for school, and then Rachel go to her office. It didn't work out that way. A couple of police cars and a security company van showed up about the same time. The garage door was open and Rachel was busy loading the kids and a few bags into her new Volvo wagon. The last thing she put in was the cat carrier. Someone had tipped off my brother that I was on a roll. I am not stupid. I could do what I had to do another time. I quietly left the neighborhood and headed West toward the Interstate. Just outside of Knoxville, my cell phone rang. It was Rachel. "I know, Petey! I know now. He didn't tell me, but I figured it out." "How did you do that?" "She called early this morning. She called and told William what you did to her boyfriend, or should I say to his truck. It all made sense then. William screwed Sarah, didn't he Petey? That son-of-a-bitch screwed his own brother's wife." Pyro Petey "I am sorry Rachel. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. I was hoping you could get him to confess." "She wasn't the only one, Petey. There were others and there will be more. I have to end it, or at least as far as I am concerned." I didn't know what to say. It was obvious that my sister wanted to talk to somebody about the problem, but I was not a good candidate. "I am sorry, Petey, for what I have to do. I am going to do it for you, but I am going to say that it was you who did it. Will you be upset with me?" The way she worded it, it sounded sort of like a riddle, but I knew without a doubt what she meant. "It's okay. I am so far in now that it won't matter. Make it easy on yourself. It appears that no one knows where I'm at anyhow. Rachel, if you are going to do it, do it right. Don't be in a rush and don't get sloppy. Plan ahead and make sure that the cat is safe." I heard her laugh at the other end just before we hung up. Two months later, my brother lost his second big home. According to mom and dad, Rachel told the police that she had seen me at the house the day before the fire. The fire department was upset because the more water they put on the fire, the faster it burned. Rachel did some research on accelerants. Good girl. A week after the fire, Rachel filed for divorce. She was pretty smart and I was sure that she would take him to the cleaners. Sarah's boyfriend blamed her for the loss of his truck and she ended up in the hospital: he ended up in jail. Of course, he knew that she had nothing to do with the fire, but I was not available. I think I am ready to file for the divorce, but under the circumstances, I don't know how to do it. All I can do is hope that Sarah files under abandonment. I just found out that I am up for a promotion at work. I also found out that the company that I work for is the same one that my brother used to insure his homes. What a hoot. Pyro Jodie found herself lucid on the ledge of the building across the street, right before the Ash's window. She was afraid. The street was far below her. The building towered into the sky and listed dangerously, swaying like a blade of grass in the breeze. Jodie crawled into the window to get inside. The living room was lit by a hundred unattended candles, some of them burned down almost to nothing. There wasn't much time. Jodie flicked a light switch, but there was no power. She looked back through the window, up at her own apartment, and saw herself watching from across the street. The other Jodie was crouched down, trying to hide, terrified at the sight of her reflection trespassing in the Ash's rooms. Jodie turned away from herself, shamed by the display of naked fear. She stepped away from the window, and looked about the room, soaking in the strangely rich detail of her perceptions. She examined a shelf of kitschy ceramic nick-knacks. Red-cheeked angels and cherubic Indians. Jodie picked up a tiny Indian maiden, papoose strapped to her back, and could see the ring of dust which had accumulated under the base of the piece. She set it back down and walked towards the bedroom, trailing her fingers along the walls, amazed at the tactile sensation of their solidity and texture. Clearly, this was no ordinary dream. Then, from the room she had just left, Jodie heard the front door open. They were home. She looked frantically about for a place to hide. The closet. Four steps away. Jodie quickly and silently ducked into the closet and shut the door mere heartbeats before the Ashes stepped into the bedroom. Through the slats Jodie observed. She had not seen the Ashes this close before. Brenda moved with a feral, sensual awareness that was in no way virginal. She sat down on the bed and her eyes followed Marcus with such intensity that it made Jodie shiver. Marcus's face was thin, almost gaunt, and Jodie could see that his long hair was reddish and receding a little in the front. He was grinning strangely, an expression which gave him a hungry, vampirish aspect. Marcus crossed the room to the dresser. From the top drawer he removed a few objects which Jodie could not see. "Let's do this quick, OK?" Brenda said, her voice flat and mid-western. "I want to go." Marcus, annoyed, said: "You want to do this first, don't you?" "Well, yeah." "So shut the fuck up. We got time." Marcus held a long taper candle in one hand. Smoke was curling from the tip. Marcus pinched the wick. It sizzled between his fingers and, when he let go, there was a flame. He licked his fingers. It was like a film of someone snuffing a candle played in reverse. In his other hand, Marcus held a short metal rod. He held the tip of it in the candle flame until it glowed red. Jodie realized then that it was some kind of branding iron. "Take off your underpants," Marcus said. Brenda giggled. "I ain't wearin' underpants." She spread her legs as Marcus knelt before her. The glowing tip disappeared up her short denim skirt. Jodie closed her eyes and clamped her hand over her mouth so she would not cry out. Brenda moaned as her flesh was seared. Jodie smelled it, like meat on a grill. She blinked away tears. "My turn," Marcus grinned. "Just a minute, baby," Brenda panted. "Let me catch my breath." "You like that better than the other one?" "God yeah. Wait 'til you try it." Marcus stood in front of Brenda and unzipped his jeans, his back to Jodie. She wanted to see his penis, though. It didn't seem fair that she couldn't see his penis. Brenda held the little iron in the flame, her hands quivering, impatient for it to get hot again. She touched her husband with the glowing tip. Marcus cried out loud and Brenda flinched back, alarmed. "Baby, you made a mess all over my shirt," she giggled again. "So change it," Marcus was already zipping himself up. "Maybe I don't wanna," Brenda said, looking up at him. "Maybe I want your stuff all over me." Marcus shrugged and turned. He was facing in Jodie's direction now. He put a cigarette in his mouth and sucked on it. The end flared red and was lit. No match, no lighter. It had ignited with his breath alone. "Well, let's go then." Brenda leaned back on the mattress, languorously. She lit a cigarette the same way Marcus had, with no flame. "Do my tits first," she said. "Come on, Brenda. We ain't got much time." Brenda opened her soiled blouse. Her breasts were very small, the nipples plump and wine-colored. "Please." Jodie, leaning forward to see more, lost her balance. She fell into the closet door with a thud. She winced. They had heard the sound. There was no doubt in her mind. Her heart beat twice before Marcus flung the door open and she was spilled gracelessly naked onto the bedroom floor. Brenda sat up, clutching her blouse closed. "Who the fuck are you?" Marcus grinned. Jodie wondered if he had known all along that she was there. "It's that dyke bitch from across the street," he said. "The one that's been watching us. I guess she wanted a closer look." Jodie struggled to her feet, awkwardly covering her nakedness. "Come here," Marcus came at her, the lit cigarette held like a dart between his fingers. Jodie was afraid he was going to stub it in her eye, but Marcus speared the cigarette into the center of her forehead. It sank into her skull like a hot knife into butter. When he withdrew the cigarette, it was no longer lit. Jodie realized with horror that the glowing tip was still in her head. The cherry. It was called a cherry. The cherry was still in her head. The Ashes barked at her, viciously, like wild dogs. Jodie opened her eyes and saw the massive black shadow of Roscoe standing on the bed above her. He barked madly and Jodie knew he could see the cherry burning in her forehead. Jodie touched the spot. It burned her finger, like an intense pinpoint fever. She knew that if she looked in the mirror, it would be glowing red. Jodie pulled her hand away. Her fingers were stained with blood. Her head was bleeding. Panicked, she touched the spot again with the back of her hand. It was cooling fast, and dry. As Jodie came awake, she realized that it was menstrual blood on her fingers. She was still flowing heavily, and must have touched herself in her sleep. The smell of her menses hung thickly in the air. Roscoe let out a frightened yelp and then bolted from the room. Jodie groaned and sat up. Her nerves still buzzed with the afterglow of the dream, or whatever the hell it had been. She had smeared blood everywhere, would have to clean herself up. But first, she needed a smoke. By the next morning, the memory had not evaporated, as dreams do. Not at all. The details were still vivid in Jodie's mind. The chronology was still clear. Jodie wrote it all down, filling four pages. It was the first thing she had written in months. That afternoon, she went out and bought a pair of binoculars. Her dream had been accurate in many ways. The Ash apartment, seen through the magnifying lenses, was much as she had visualized it the night before. Details she had not been able to see with her naked eye, like the shelf of ceramic Indians in the living room, appeared in the glasses exactly as they had in the dream. There were a few key differences, though. There was no closet in the bedroom, for one. No place to hide. The Ashes, seen more clearly now, appeared somewhat different than they had in Jodie's dream. Marcus was definitely older, but the age difference was not as extreme or as perverse as Jodie had dreamed. They were not as beautiful, either. The real Brenda was a little heavier than the dream Brenda had been, and Marcus was not as tall as Jodie had fancied. Jodie observed them over the next few days, keeping a detailed log of their activities. Every time she looked, it seemed, they were either fighting or fucking. In between these two activities, they smoked. Jodie watched them smoke entire cartons, but she noted a very strange and intriguing fact: She never once saw them light a cigarette. When she wasn't observing, Jodie was writing. Delighted, she wrote. The words flowed from her freely, for the first time in months, as Jodie smoked and sweated. Carrie had made her promise that she would see to replacing the air conditioner, but this was a task Jodie kept putting off. Not only would this involve social interaction on a scale she did not wish to even contemplate, it would also take valuable time away from her writing. Besides, Jodie didn't mind the heat anymore. She was growing to like it. What she wrote was formless now, too vague to even be considered sketches, but then her novel had come to her in the same way. Memories and fantasies; dreams and nightmares; images pouring from her without shape or context. That only came later, when she wove the pieces together. Whenever she was asked what her book was about, Jodie always replied with one word: "Incest." It amused her to see how people reacted. The book, Snow Angels, was published year before. Jodie received a modest payment, more than she had made from all her published short stories, and the book had garnered reviews in a few little-read but well-regarded publications. For the most part, the reviews had been positive, though not very enthusiastic. "A promising debut." "Interestingly bittersweet." "Almost disturbing." Nothing that would make a good jacket blurb. The biggest thrill for Jodie had been seeing the book at Barnes and Noble, shelved between the works of "real" authors. Since the novel was published, though, she had been dry. She still had ideas, plenty of them, but they all shriveled when she tried to develop them. Everything seemed flat and contrived. Carrie had always said that Jodie was afraid of success, and now theorized that since Jodie's greatest fear had been realized, she simply didn't know how to handle it. Jodie felt that Carrie did not understand her at all. Now the words were crowding out, competing with one another, bottlenecking at Jodie's fingers. She was elated. So far, she had the description of her dream and one other coherent scene. She wasn't sure what it meant, or how it fit in with everything else she wanted to say, but Jodie liked the scene. A boy of about ten, Marcus, sits in a Mid-Western backyard. (In Jodie's notes, the characters were named Marcus and Brenda Ash. She supposed she would have to change the names later, but feared that she would be unable to come up with ones she liked as much.) He kneels on the ground over an anthill, killing ants with the focused beam of sunlight from a magnifying glass. "That was what we called entertainment in the shithole town I grew up in." (Jodie slipped in and out of the first person, searching for a voice.) The boy finds that he can make the ants shrivel and crisp even without the glass. The fire comes from inside his head. Later in the story, Jodie would have him practice lighting scraps of paper, staring at them until they smolder and ignite. Young Marcus steals cigarettes and lights them with his mind. "It was great. A secret that I had. Know one else knew. I felt powerful when I did it." Teen-aged Marcus when he sleeps has "hot dreams," objects in his rooms bursting into flames when he dreams of sex. Of course, he calls it "fucking." He is crude, earthy and sensual. Jodie saw him holding his hand over a candle flame, quivering with pleasure. "Fire couldn't hurt me. It felt good to burn. Like fucking, only better. Better than fucking." Brenda, where does Brenda come in? Jodie hadn't yet worked out how they meet. Her story started with Marcus. She did know that they fuck for the first time in the backseat of an old car. Dirty sweaty backseat fucking, which Jodie had never known but now imagined. Brenda is like Marcus. The fire is in her too. The car bursts into flames and the young lovers roll out onto the ground, still going at each other, hair singed and clothes smoldering. They laugh. The gas tank explodes when they orgasm. No, Jodie corrected herself. The correct word was "come." The tank explodes when they come. Jodie smoked as this came out of her. Constantly. She had a bought a carton and was halfway through it in less than a week. She lit her cigarettes with wooden kitchen matches, finding them more sensual than the sterile click of a butane lighter. Strike, spark, sizzle, flare, burn. The sulfur smell. She even liked the way the way the burned-out sticks with their little heads looked in her ashtray, like dead black sperm. Jodie pulled a blank sheet of paper from the computer printer and stared at it for several minutes. Nothing. She folded the paper in half , then in half again, creasing the edges carefully. She held the strip of paper close to her face, went cross-eyed staring at it. Still nothing. She lit a cigarette and let tendrils of smoke drift from her mouth and curl around the paper. Jodie lit the paper with the tip of her cigarette and held onto it for as long as she could, until the flame singed her fingers. She dropped the burning paper into the ashtray, which was already overflowing with charred scraps. Beside her, the new air conditioner rumbled. It was set on 'fan,' a function which drew air in without cooling it. Jodie hated the machine. She had become acclimated to the heat and, when the air conditioner had been running, was unable to stop shivering. But when the machine was off, the air in the apartment became stifling, especially with all the smoke. The 'fan' mode was an unhappy compromise which still did not solve the main problem. The air conditioner blocked her view. She could still see across the street, but only if she stood on a chair and leaned her elbows on the top of the machine. This was awkward and uncomfortable. No more could she sit at her desk and cast casual glances over at the Ash place, picking up the binoculars when it seemed like something interesting might be happening. Jodie had considered taking the machine out of the window, but it was even larger and heavier than the old one. It had taken two muscular deliverymen to install the thing. Even if Jodie could have managed to get it out of the window without killing herself or someone else, there was no way she could get it back in before Carrie came home. Carrie. Goddamn Carrie. This was all her fault. She had been home for three days at the start of the week and in that time had ruined everything. Jodie could have tolerated the nagging, and the silent treatment which always followed, if Carrie hadn't also refused to have sex with her. Jodie was horny, on edge, at the point where near-constant masturbation was no longer doing anything for her. She needed an honest-to-God fuck, but Carrie just turned away from her coldly. Then, to add insult to injury, Carrie had called and ordered a new air conditioner. The bitch. Even after she left, Jodie was unable to write. When she read over what she had written thus far in her "Ash" project, it now seemed like the rantings of a lunatic. She could no longer make any sense of it. Jodie folded another piece of paper and tried again. Marcus had left his cherry in her head, so she knew it would just take practice. All up and down both arms were small red cigarette burns. They shouldn't have hurt, not with the change that was taking place, but somehow they did. Jodie had spent most of that morning in the shower, the water as cold as it would go, sobbing as the water stung her burns. There was one on her right cheek and on each earlobe. She had nearly set the bed on fire the night before when she burned herself in the breast. The pain had been so real and immediate that she dropped the butt onto the mattress and managed to retrieve it only seconds before it could burrow inside. Jodie re-fixed her concentration. This time, something would happen. She could feel it. The ringing in her ears grew to an intolerable volume and the spot on her forehead glowed white-hot. Roscoe, laying on the floor across the room, sensed what was happening. He stood and started barking like mad. Jodie shut him out, concentrated harder. A smoking pinprick of light appeared on the paper. Jodie's burns began to sing. She squinted her third eye and the paper burst into flames. Jodie laughed out loud. It was real. The power was in her. She was one of them. All day long she practiced, burning up dozens of sheets of paper before moving on to cigarettes. She lit them with her new-found gift, just as the Ashes had. Each time she did it, it was a little easier, until she barely had to think about it at all. Roscoe went ape-shit every time Jodie lit something, until he finally managed to cram his entire cowering bulk underneath the bed. Frightening the dog made Jodie even more delirious with joy. Her burns were healing, too. The little red blemishes were shrinking before her eyes. By that night, Jodie was able to fully extinguish cigarettes on her skin with a keen, sexual pleasure. The burns did not leave any mark at all. She prepared the bedroom with cheap dime-store candles and fell asleep in a wonderland of light. Jodie awoke the next morning refreshed and famished. Eggs. She wanted eggs and coffee. Eggs, coffee and a smoke. Every surface in the bedroom was coated with wax drippings and Jodie knew she was lucky not to have burned the building down. Lucky. As she prepared her breakfast, Jodie worried that it might have all been a dream. There was one way to find out. She lifted the stove top and blew out the pilot light. Then she turned on the gas. Jodie stared at the hissing burner until the blue ring of fire appeared. She smiled. It was no dream. Roscoe had gained courage during the night. He stood at the kitchen doorway, growling with real menace. Jodie put a cigarette in her mouth and, deliberately taunting the dog, lit it with her mind. Roscoe lunged. The massive dog sprang snarling at her chest. Jodie was knocked to the floor with the beast's hot breath at her throat. The power flew out of her, unbidden. The dog fell back, yelping with pain. His eyes sizzled. Smoke curled from his ears. Roscoe let out a final smoking cough and keeled over sideways. Jodie had turned his brain to charcoal. "Roscoe," Jodie choked. She hadn't meant to do it. It had been an accident, just a reflex. But it was done. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Jodie embraced the dog's corpse, gagging at the smell of singed fur and cooked flesh. She wept tears of genuine remorse. The door to Apartment 3-G looked no different than any other door in the third floor hallway. Fake wood-grain paneling, plastic number painted to look like gold, glowing fish-eye peep-hole. Jodie stood before it for a long time before building the courage to knock. Before she could rap on the door, though, the peep-hole went dark and then light again. She heard the chain being unfastened, and then the door swung open. Marcus stood there, red hair wild as flames, muscles sheeny with sweat. "Why the hell you knockin'?" he said. "You got a key." Brenda looked down at herself, at her thin girlish body. For a second she wasn't sure who she was supposed to be. Then she remembered. Then nearly everything meshed. She smiled up at her man. "Musta forgot it," she said. "Well, come inside then," he held the door open. "What's the matter with you?" Brenda shook her head, trying to clear it. "I don't know. I feel kinda fucked up." "You get the smokes?" "What?" she blinked groggily. "Damn it, I sent you out for cigarettes two hours ago. Where the hell you been?" Brenda shrugged. She reached into the pocket of her cut-off shorts and was surprised to find an unopened pack. She offered it to Marcus. "Ultra-Lights?" he said, disgusted. "Since when do we smoke pussy cigarettes?" "I don't even remember buying them." Pyro "You are fucked up," Marcus muttered. He opened the pack and put two in his mouth, as if to illustrate how inadequate one would be. Both flared to life at once. "I wanna go lie down." "OK by me." He followed her into the bedroom. Brenda looked out the window, up at the building across the street. Sunlight glinted off the binocular lenses. The shadow of the woman was there. "That crazy dyke is watching us again." Marcus stood behind her, pressed himself close. "Let her," he said. "I kinda like putting on a show." He pulled at her clothes. Brenda raised her arms over her head and let Marcus pull her shirt off. His hands were on her breasts. The sensation should have been familiar, but it was strange. Like they weren't her breasts. Marcus's hands moved down, expertly undid her shorts. They slid to the floor and Brenda was naked. "Lie down," Marcus whispered. She did as she was told. Marcus undressed quickly. His penis was erect, very large and brown. The head glowed like the tip of a cigar. It was beautiful, like she had never seen it before. She spread her legs, opened herself with her hands. Her clitoris was the same brilliant orange. "It's a cherry," she said with wonder. "Girl, I took your cherry a long time ago." She touched it and pulled her fingers away, surprised. It burned. Marcus just laughed. "You oughtta know better than to touch it when it gets like that. Now roll over." "Yes, Daddy." Marcus chuckled. "I like it when you call me Daddy." "I like it too," she braced herself. "Daddy." He burned inside her. It was like the first time. Later, Jodie lay between them. The mattress was filthy with ash, the discharge of their lovemaking. It was foul and dirty, but Jodie didn't want to move. Marcus and Brenda both smoked, but she couldn't take any more just yet. "You know where fire comes from?" Marcus asked. "Where?" Jodie choked the word out. Her mouth was full of ash, her tongue blistered and raw. "From Prometheus," Marcus said. "Oh yeah," Jodie coughed dryly. "That's right." Brenda sat up, surprised. "You've heard of Prometheus?" "It's a famous myth," Jodie said. "Actually, I did a paper on Prometheus in college. I compared that myth to the story of Jesus." "Ain't no myth," Marcus said, indignant. "It's true. And if Prometheus ever came across Jesus, he'd burn that skinny Jew up like kindling." "I told you they don't teach you nothing but shit at college," Brenda said. "I know it." Jodie snuggled in closer to Marcus. "Tell it to me," she said. "You wanna hear it?" "I want to hear you tell it." Marcus cleared his throat. "This was a long time ago," he said. "Before Columbus invented America, back in Indian times. See, Prometheus was king of all the Indians. They all had the fire in them. That's how come they all smoked peace pipes." Jodie saw it as Marcus did, like illustrations from a book seen as a child and never forgotten. Prometheus looked like The Human Torch from The Fantastic Four. He sat on a flaming throne surrounded by throngs of naked Indians. "Prometheus was a good king," Marcus continued. "All his people loved him. There was no war, no sickness, no death. Just fire. The Indians lived like children, naked and free. They just smoked and fucked and played all day." The image this conjured was a fusion of Eden and Hell. Naked figures frolicked in a flaming garden. Brenda held her cigarette to Jodie's lips. Jodie inhaled luxuriously and pulled closer to Marcus. "Then the white men came. At first, the Indians tried to be friends. They tried to share their fire and their love." Marcus kissed Jodie on the mouth and she saw the Europeans coming ashore, greeted by naked Indians bearing peace pipes. Brenda kissed Jodie's neck. Her soft lips tasted Jodie's breasts, then her stomach. "The white men called the Indians wicked," Marcus spoke into Jodie's mouth. "They stole what they wanted and killed any Indians that resisted them." Jodie saw the massacre clearly, white men killing women and children. Brenda's lips fluttered between her legs. Marcus's kisses grew hotter. The room filled with smoke. "The Indians knew they had to keep Prometheus a secret. If the white men ever found out about him, they would drown him. That's the only way Prometheus could die, drowning in water. So they hid him, in a fire they kept burning all the time." The Indians carried wood to a blazing campfire, and fed it with reverence. Marcus forced Jodie's head down onto him. It burned her tongue. Her pillow burst into flames. "The white men finally found the flame that Prometheus lived in." Marcus moaned as Jodie puffed on him, raising billows of smoke. "Before they could put it out, a brave Indian girl swallowed the fire. It burned her inside, but she ate it anyway. She ran into the woods and the white men chased her." The young Indian girl was thin and shapeless, like Brenda, like Jodie. Her mouth was in flames. The armed men on their horses chased her into the dark woods. Jodie pulled Marcus's glowing tip deep into her body. Brenda straddled his face and his tongue sizzled on her blazing clitoris. Jodie kissed Brenda, forming the apex of this pyramid of flesh. The bed smoldered. The curtains ignited. "The girl got away," Marcus's voice was muffled by Brenda's thighs, but he continued his tale. "The fire in her belly turned to children. A boy and a girl, spawned by fire. Children of Prometheus." The Indian girl held a squirming baby at each breast. In their eyes were flames. Brenda, Marcus and Jodie stumbled naked from the burning apartment. They ran laughing down the hall as the alarms wailed and the other tenants staggered from their doors. "We are their great-great-grandchildren!" Marcus screamed over the chaos. "Direct descendants of Prometheus! Children of the fire!" "Where are we going now?" Jodie called, laughing. "Gas mains under the city," Marcus yelled back. "We fuck that and the whole city's fucked! It won't rise from the ashes this time! BURN THE MOTHERFUCKER DOWN!" Jodie ran naked and unashamed into the street, carried laughing between her lovers, blistered with the ecstacy of it all. "Gas mains," Jodie mumbled. "Burn motherfucker . . ." A man's voice, faraway: "She's saying something." Jodie was flying, borne aloft like ash on the wind. There was a man at her feet and another at her head. They both wore white. "Won't rise from the ashes," she tried to tell the men, but all that came out was a croak. Her voice was terribly dry. Jodie was carried through a door and sunlight burst down onto her in a sudden, baking explosion of light and heat. Her skin shriveled in horror. She tried to close her eyes, but there was something wrong with them. They wouldn't close. "He left his cherry on my tongue." She stuck her tongue out so the men could see. "It's all right, ma'am," one of them said, not very convincingly. "You're going to be fine." There was a crowd gathered around outside, dozens of people standing around watching. Uniformed policemen were holding the crowd back. There was a commotion, a blonde woman whom Jodie faintly recognized, arguing with one of the policemen, her voice wild and edgy with panic. She ran over to Jodie just as she was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The blonde woman followed Jodie inside the vehicle. The doors slammed closed and Jodie felt motion. Distant sirens began to blare. The blonde woman's face was above her, looking down terrified. "What happened, Jodie? Jesus, what happened?" Jodie moved her mouth, but could not make her voice work. The blonde woman appealed to one of the men in white. "What happened?" Jodie heard the man say something about a gas explosion, but couldn't quite make out exactly what he was saying. There was a problem with her ears, too. The ringing tone was loud and persistent. She remembered what Marcus had said about the gas mains, and wondered if that was what the man was talking about. But that was just a scene in the book. That was fiction. The blonde woman was sobbing when she bent over Jodie again. "It's going to be fine, baby," the woman cried. "You're going to be all right." Jodie shook her head. She was going to have to revise this dialogue. It was terrible. For a second she forgot which character she was supposed to be in this scene, the dying woman or the anguished lover. Then she remembered. "I'm almost done with my book," she said, suddenly bright. "You want to know what it's about?" "Yes, baby," Carrie's tears fell like acid rain onto Jodie's burns. "Please tell me." "It's about fire." Carrie frowned, clearly troubled by the answer. This struck Jodie as being very funny. She would have laughed had it not suddenly become very difficult to breathe. Carrie's hair began to smolder, and this was even funnier. Blue flames climbed the inside walls of the ambulance. Soon everything was in flames.