Page 85 of Claiming Liberty
They must’ve set the back of the manor on fire.
I cover my arm over my mouth and cough, kicking open one of the swinging doors before squinting through the smoke into the kitchen. The island is ensconced in fire, flames shooting up to the ceiling. The boards above us will weaken soon if we don’t hurry.
“Maybe we should find an exit instead,” Austin yells, his shirt pulled over his mouth.
I shake my head, ash assaulting my taste buds. “They would’ve blocked off the exits.”
Or covered them in flames.
Thinking quickly, I grip the top of the swinging door and land three hard kicks with the bottom of my shoe before the wood finally splinters. Austin must catch on to my idea because he takes the other door and does the same.
One more kick and I’m able to rip the wood off its hinges, stumbling back when it gives. I catch myself and reset my equilibrium before holding up the board to shield myself from the flames. I sidestep through the kitchen, Austin following my lead with his own makeshift shield.
When I reach the pantry door, I throw down the broken wood and rip off my shirt. I wrap the material around my fist and quickly turn the scolding hot knob and yank the door open.
Three crates of who knows what are stacked up on top of the board I need to move to access my secret tunnel. I quickly grab each one and hand them off to Austin who then tosses them into the kitchen, glass rattling and smashing with each one.
A cough barrels out of my lungs as I crouch down, holding my shirt to my mouth with one hand while using the other to find the loose spot in the thin, gray carpet. I rip it until the trap door is exposed, relief pulsing through me.
“Holy shit,” Austin murmurs from behind me. Until about twenty minutes ago when I told Austin, I was the only person who knew about the tunnel leading to my house, barring the workers who dug it. Not even Angel knew about it.
One thing I’ve learned in my life is to be prepared for every scenario. I think through every possible outcome and do everything necessary to ensure I have control of the situation. To survive an alcoholic father and schizophrenic mother, I had to know how to anticipate anything and everything and how to act accordingly. It’s how I learned to read situations. It’s how I learned to readpeople.
It’s how I knew Angel would turn on me.
Deep down inside, I think it’s how I knew not to tell Angel about this tunnel, this one backup he wasn’t a part of.
Austin bends down next to me and grips the handle before hauling it open, his face pinched with a groan.
I find the canned soup on a top shelf and slap them to the side, some clanging onto the floor and rolling into the dark pit. I grab the small flashlight I stored behind them and flip it on before shining it into the hole.
I stick the flashlight between my teeth and am just about to climb down the dingy wooden ladder when I hear something above me over the roar of the fire.
It’s faint. Faint enough that I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it, but my eyes lift to the ceiling as I whip the flashlight from my mouth.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Austin tilts his head to look at the ceiling.
There it is again. A faint scream. Maybe even screams.
I’m hearing things.
It’s probably the sound of things burning and crashing from the fire. That or I’m losing my mind from all the adrenaline running through me and the smoke depleting my oxygen.
They got the women out. We watched them being rounded up on the security feed…
But we don’t have cameras on the third floor.
Surely they checked…
“They got all the women out, didn’t they?” I ask, unease filling my voice.
Austin coughs, looks behind him into the kitchen, then shrugs and crouches. “Who cares?” He climbs onto the ladder and starts down.
I don’t budge.
My eyes glue to the ceiling when I hear the sound again.