Repurposed 8.2

Interval 8.2
April 11, 1982
1730, Fairport, AL
Residential Area / Street Address Classified



"I'm sure… I'm … sure there's a reason for it," Harlan Wade stammered. "Sharon would never have left a… the oven wasn't on, was it?"

"No sir, doesn't look like it was from what we can see, though the gas line probably blew that into pieces too," the investigator sat with Harlan, trying to keep it casual, trying to keep him from bolting into the remains of his house. People were known to do that, stupid of them, thinking it's brave. "It's still too hot to enter, it's just not safe, I'm … I'm very sorry."

Though they were across the street, both could still feel the heat from the blaze. The gas line had been turned off, more than twenty minutes before. How it was still occasionally sending gouts of fresh flame into the evening sky was beyond the fire chief. All the residents in the nearby homes had to be evacuated, of course. No damage had occurred to any of their homes, thankfully this ultra-hot blaze had been contained to the Wade's house.

"Sir," one of the firemen tromped across to the pair, his big boots weighed with tiredness as well as thick insulation. "Sir I think… there's…" He leaned in a little and was obviously trying to avoid Harlan's eyes, "we think there's a body in there, probably his wife."

Sharon hadn't been out, her car was in the garage. She'd already finished her errands and had probably been home a while. She'd been taking care of Alma, who had for whatever reason been quite angry at her father.

Ever since he married Sharon, that is.

He was drained, Harlan sat with his hands numbly in his lap, watching his home burn down. He'd come home to find half the Auburn Fire Department on hand, and for whatever reason they'd already stopped using their hoses on the blaze. It was like nothing could extinguish it. Why bother wasting the water? It would burn itself out at some point, and as long as they kept the other homes watered down and secure, it wouldn't be spreading.

"We'll try and get to it, as soon as we can, Mr. Wade," the investigator said.

"There's something else," the fireman added, and this time he leaned in so that Wade couldn't hear. The investigator blinked and made a sour face.

"That can't be right," he said, then he excused himself, waved over another person to keep watch over Harlan in the meantime, and walked away with the other man.

"I swear I heard it, sir," that man said. "There's a child in there, I just know it."

"There is no way, son, no fucking way that there is a kid in that house," he growled. "You're hearing things. Someone left a TV on in another house."

"Sir, with all due respect, I heard her say things."

"Things…? Things like what exactly?" This was getting on his nerves. There had better be an explanation for the fire itself, he half expected it to be a drug lab by the way it just suddenly went up like that.

"She…" the fire fighter rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand, leaving a smirch of ash. "She wants her mother."

"Well ain't it a little too late for that," the investigator said, well aware that he sounded like a complete jackass.

"That's just it sir, the … the body we found, Sharon Wade, most likely?" The investigator nodded, and the younger man continued. "That's his second wife. Not his daughter's mother. We've been getting some of the records, seems his first wife died a little over a year ago."

Ah, that would make more sense, he thought. Angry kid, finds mom's cigarettes and matches… But… even a child playing with matches or a lighter couldn't possibly have done this kind of damage. Most he'd ever seen in that kind of case was a kitchen or single room lit up from a loose piece of paper or trash can. Even Christmas trees didn't go up like this.

"Well, Jonesy," the investigator said, "you might try seeing if she comes out for you. If there really is a kid in there, and she's still okay? Maybe it's not as bad as we thought."

He looked at the brilliant orange-red flames, licking up past what used to be the second floor's balcony. Yeah. Maybe it was just the exterior of a house that burns with such a hot temperature that glass exploded all the way across the street – embedded into the cars parked across from the Wade house, in fact.

Ned Jones didn't really want to head back into a house that refused to stop burning.

But he heard her. He had. So he placed his helmet back on, flipped down the visor, and bundled a fireproof blanked over one arm. He'd need it, he figured.

He went past the broken and half-burnt fence, through the neighbor's yard, and into the side of the Wade house, where the garage met the main portion of the house. A side door was half off its frame, only one hinge keeping it from falling entirely. He kicked it down, glanced around, and entered. It was bright: everything just glowed. If it wasn't openly on fire, it was still so hot as to be glowing. Terrific. He had to be very careful walking past anything, in that case. Didn't want his ass to burn just because he leaned over a table.

Ned picked his way through the kitchen, noted that yes, there was the oven and no, it was not lit. "Little girl? Alma isn't it?" He thought that's what it said, Alma or Edna or something short. "I'm trying to find you, can you hear me?"

"Here I am," she said, standing barefooted on the hallway floor, staring up at him. He nearly hit the ceiling, she hadn't been there a moment before, how'd she get there?

He knelt, carefully moving his visor up. If she could speak, breathe, be okay there, surely he would be all right.

It was so hot. She didn't look like she was out of sorts at all. He gasped and blurted out, "I've got to get you out of here, all right? The house isn't safe, and your daddy is worried sick about you."

She just blinked. Her huge eyes, probably blue but in this light they looked purely red, closed and she nodded once. She let him put the blanket over her, wrap her up, cover her black hair and tuck under her ash covered feet.

They made it out the way he came, through the garage, and the neighbor's yard. He strode across the street, some of the displaced neighbors cheering for him – he'd brought someone out? The little girl? That was wonderful news! An ambulance was on hand already, just in case – too late for Sharon, but wouldn't it be a good thing for little Alma to be okay?

Harlan stood, moving through the gathered firemen and police, shoving them aside roughly. Any other time, that kind of behavior might have gotten him arrested. But now? His little girl was safe. They could let it slide. They might not have, if more of the reports they'd gotten from social services had been read. Harlan wasn't known to be a patient man, nor a particularly gentle one.

Within moments of Alma's rescue, for whatever reason, the house suddenly ceased to burn. A plume of black smoke rose in a tower now, and a number of the firemen nearest rapidly picked up their hoses and made it look like they were doing something to it, rather than just watering the neighbors' lawns.

Harlan took his daughter from the fireman, pushing back the blanket and pawing at her hair, her face. He was so relieved. She didn't much seem thrilled about it, she didn't put her arms around his neck or cry. Instead she looked at him, glaring.

"Mommy didn't like her," she said. But anything else she had to say was muffled by Harlan, wailing, with her crushed to his chest.