Chapter 3. Blue Ambulences

Allison felt her head collide with the drawer against the far wall, and she yelped in pain. The vase above the polished wood shattered, raining pieces of glass down upon her.

Allison shut her eyes instinctively to avoid the glass shards, then pushed herself upright, cursing at the glass splinters now stuck in her palm.

The beds slid straight at her, and Allison realized that the explosion had managed to tilt the entire building. What kind of bomb is that powerful?

She crawled over the first bed, then raced towards the stairway, fighting the pain in her palms. It was only when her eyes began to sting when she realized that the entire stairway was consumed in smoke and tendrils of fire.

Allison's brain went into a panic. There was no way out.

The flames roared in her ears, and she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to clear the tears caused by smoke and desperation. Was she going to die here?

Her hands bleeding, her head throbbing, Allison patted down her backpack, making sure everything inside was there. She pulled out her Swiss-army knife from the side and leaped to the window. The only chance of escape was the window.

Allison slammed the knife's blade against the unyielding glass. It refused to dent. She jammed it against the pane of glass, trying to wedge open a space. She cursed the window designer. Didn't s/he know that there was only one escape if the window was blocked?

Allison dropped the knife on the ground and instead picked up the bedside lamp. The blade clattered to the floor, shining brightly in the blaze of the flames. The fire was almost halfway in. Allison swiped at her eyes again, slamming the lamp's base against the lock. Beads of sweat popped off her forehead, and the slanted environment was doing anything but helping.

The lamp shattered, leaving Allison with a thick, stubby stick.

"Nice," she snarled, slamming the broken stick against the window. Her hands bled more, staining the wood. Again, her mind thought. Come on, Allison...

A thin crack appeared in the glass next to the lock, and Allison glared at it, trying to smash open anything near that crack. Perhaps weaken the lock so she could jump.

The lock shattered in her hands, fragments of metal landing next to the blade. The fire roared closer, its crimson tips reaching the ceiling. Heat pounded on Allison's back, and she pried open the window.

Freedom. At last.

Exhilarated, Allison climbed out of the window and onto the thin ledge. Four stories below, there was a clear patch of bright green grass. Much too high. She would never survive the jump without injuring herself--a lot.

But there was only jumping left as an option. Actually, there were two options. Die by fire or die by jumping. For a moment, Allison considered the fire. She was terrified of heights.

Jumping was a quicker death.

She leapt out of the window, downgrading her opinion of her own sanity. Eleven-year-old jumps out of four-story window! She lands with a grin on her face! I'm late!

The stories soared by her. A ledge appeared from below. Her fingers lashed out and grabbed the thin stone layer. She nearly screamed in pain. Blood dripped down into the grass two stories below.

Allison gritted her teeth and pulled herself onto the ledge. Above, the fire roared. At least the second story was not so high. She could possibly land with just a sprained ankle. Then she had read enough survival books to make a splint.

The ledge became unbearably hot. Looking through the window, Allison thought she saw the first hints of a fire.

She decided she'd had enough fire for a lifetime.

Allison clambered down the ledge, eying the place where she was going to land.

The building trembled, and the ledge crumpled in her hands. The building exploded, and Allison crashed onto the ground, her back feeling like it was on fire.

The canopy of trees swam in and out of her view. The sun glared into her, and she felt shriveled, about to be cooked into stew.

"This is the one?" A voice grunted.

Allison's ears rang. Her vision was dimming. If this was dying, she wished it to go faster. Arches of pain ran up and down her back.

A coarse hand, calloused and hard, gripped her left arm. "Yes."

She remembered staring into a pig's face, then being lifted into a blue ambulance. A blue ambulance. Weren't ambulances supposed to be red?

"Blue--"

"Don't talk, kid."

The door shut behind her, and another word escaped her mouth. "--Ambulance?"

Then blackness overwhelmed her.