The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [118]
The paramedic arrived and immediately knelt before the wounded men. Their faces were singed and their clothes were still smoldering, the oil-fired flames having defeated the fire-retardant suits. The paramedic pulled a pair of sharp scissors from his box and began to cut open the suit of one of the firemen, peeling it off. Another paramedic appeared from nowhere and began the same procedure on the other man.
Both were moaning in agony now, conscious again. As their suits were cut, Taylor helped to tear them away from the men’s skin. Up one leg, then the next, followed by their arms and torso. They were helped into a sitting position, and their suits were stripped from their bodies. One man had worn jeans and two shirts beneath; he’d escaped largely unburned except for his arms. The second, however, had only worn a T-shirt beneath his suit—that too had to be cut away from his skin. His back was blistered with second-degree burns.
Looking up from the injured men, Taylor saw Joe waving wildly again; three men were crowded around him, and three others were closing in. It was then that Taylor turned toward the building and knew that something was terribly wrong.
He rose and began to rush toward Joe, a wave of nausea breaking over him. Drawing near, he heard the soul-numbing words.
“They’re still inside! Two men! Over there!”
Taylor blinked, a memory rising from the ashes.
A boy, nine years old, in the attic, calling from the window . . .
It stopped him cold. Taylor looked toward the flaming ruins of the warehouse, now only partially standing; then, as if in a dream, he started toward the only portion of the building left intact, the part that housed the offices. Gaining speed, he rushed past the men holding the hoses, ignoring their calls to stop.
The warehouse flames engulfed nearly everything; their flames had spread to the surrounding trees, and those were now ablaze. Straight ahead was a doorway that had been torn open by the firemen, and black smoke poured out the opening.
He was at the door before Joe saw him and began screaming for him to stop.
Unable to hear above the roar, Taylor rushed through the door, propelled like a cannonball, his gloved hand over his face, flames lapping at him. Nearly blind, he turned toward the left, hoping nothing would block his way. His eyes burned as he inhaled a breath of acrid air and held it.
Fire was everywhere, beams crashing down, the air itself becoming poisonous.
He knew he could hold his breath a minute, no longer.
To the left he charged, the smoke almost impenetrable, fires providing the only light.
Everything blazed with unearthly fury. The walls, the ceiling . . . above him, the splintering sound of a beam crashing. Taylor leapt aside instinctively as part of the ceiling collapsed beside him.
His lungs straining, he moved quickly toward the south end of the building, the only area left standing. He could feel his body was growing weaker; his lungs seemed to be folding in as he staggered forward. To his left he spied a window, the glass unshattered, and he lurched toward it. From his belt he removed his ax and broke the window in one swift motion, then immediately leaned his head out, drawing a new breath.
Like a living being, the fire seemed to sense the new influx of oxygen, and seconds later the room exploded behind him with new fury.
The scorching heat of the new flames propelled him away from the window, toward the south again.
After the sudden surge, the fire receded momentarily, a few seconds at most. But it was enough for Taylor to get his bearings—and to see the figure of a man lying on the ground. From the shape of his gear, Taylor could see it was a fireman.
Taylor staggered toward him, narrowly avoiding another falling beam. Trapped in the last standing corner of the warehouse now, he could see the wall of flames closing in around them.
Almost out of breath again, Taylor reached the man. Bending over, he grabbed the man’s wrist