You need to take the shot, Ethan thought. It will be better for her. Faster.
But he couldn’t do that.
The blood clouded the scope again and washed the woman away from him and that was the last he saw.
43
It was the wrong way to die. Jace knew that before he got into the shelter, and once he was inside and he couldn’t see Hannah anymore, he was sure of it. It would have been better for all of them to sit there and wait, and then she would not be alone, none of them would be. Right now, it was just like the quarry, hiding and waiting, and if he was going to die like that, then he should have let it happen long ago.
“I’m getting out,” he said.
“No, you’re not.” Allison Serbin had her arms tight around him, and he began to fight her, kicking and wriggling. She fought with him until they heard Hannah’s voice.
“Connor! Connor! Get out here. Fast.”
“Listen to her!” he said. “Let me listen to her!”
Allison Serbin either gave up and released him or he finally fought free of her; he wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. He was out of the awful shelter again, back into the world, and while it was a terrible world, filled with the smells of smoke and heat and blood, it was better than the tent. He’d come out facing what remained of Jack Blackwell’s head; there was not much of it to speak of, and he felt a strange, savage happiness, although once such a thing would have made him ill.
At least he didn’t get me. Neither of them did.
But it was his brother’s fire. He’d said so himself.
Hannah said, “You told me you could build a fire. You told me you were good at it.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. He just turned to her and nodded.
“Were you telling the truth?” Her voice was urgent, her eyes clear for the first time since the bullets had found her legs. “Do not lie to me now. Can you build a fire and do it fast?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to need to do it.”
“What?”
“You have one chance,” she said. “You can save yourself and save her. But, buddy, you’ve got to be able to do it, and do it fast.”
He nodded again. He felt light-headed, glad he was on his hands and knees, anchored to the ground.
“Listen to me,” she said. “You’re the one who doesn’t make mistakes, right? You can’t make one now. You’ve got to listen and do exactly what I say. If you do that, you’re going home. I promise.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay. You see the grass down there? That little plateau?”
He followed her pointing finger. She was indicating the last thing between them and fire in the trees. A circle of grass that died out at the rocks where they sat now. It was maybe a hundred yards away from them, and just fifty in front of the fire.
“Yes.”
“You’re going to make a fire there,” she said. “And you’re going to let it spread.”
He looked back at her. Was she in shock? Was this what happened when you went into shock?
“It will work,” she said. “Here’s why: You’re stealing what the fire needs. Do you understand that? It’s going to need-”
“Fuel and oxygen,” he said, thinking of the brace piece, the way you’d give it that lift to provide fresh air, keep the flame from drowning. The way the fire was smothered by larger pieces of wood. But this was no campfire. This was a monster.
“Yes. You’re robbing it of the fuel.”
“It won’t work. Not on that. It’s too big! It will never burn out.”
“No,” she said. She wiped her face with her hand and left a streak of blood across her forehead. “It won’t burn out. The fire will move faster. That’s what we need. It has to go over that shelter fast, do you see?”
He wasn’t sure, but before he could answer, she said, “Go down there and start a fire, Connor. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” he said. He didn’t think his legs would hold him when he stood, but they did. The fire steel was in his pocket. He removed it and held it in a sweating, shaking hand and said, “I’ll go make a fire.”
Allison tried to go with him. Tried to stop him, actually, but when Hannah Faber yelled at her, she paused, turned back, looked in her eyes, and saw the truth in them.
“It’s your only chance,” Hannah said. Very soft. “If he can do it, you bring the shelter down and set it up in the ashes.”
“Won’t it melt?”
“Not down there. Not at that heat. Just set it up the way you have it, and make sure it’s as close to the center as you can. Once the fire gets there, it’s going to race. It will have no choice.”
Allison looked away from her and back down to where the boy walked alone. He seemed smaller than ever before, his silhouette framed against the orange sky.
“You believe this,” she said.
“It’s the only chance. And, listen-when you get back in there with him, you hold him tight, understand? You’d better hold him tight.”
Allison looked at Hannah’s blood-soaked right leg and the devastated left foot, then back into her intense eyes, and nodded. “I won’t let it be for nothing.”
Jace picked up a brace piece as he walked, a perfect length of deadfall, and he was thinking that he didn’t have time to get kindling, there was no way he had enough time, but then he remembered that it didn’t matter. All he needed to do was make the grass catch. He wasn’t trying to build a campfire. Just burn the grass.
Every step was hotter, and louder. His mouth was so dry, his tongue felt fat and swollen against his lips.
I can save them.
He walked on, closer, closer, and only when he was in the middle of the ring of grass did he stop. He knelt then and dropped the brace piece-he didn’t need it, just the spark-and he tore handfuls of dry grass out and set them in a loose pile at his feet. He held the fire steel and prepared to strike it, knowing that he could do it, that he could get that shower of sparks.
He dropped the tool on the first strike. His hands were shaking too badly.
You’re going to kill them.
He grabbed it again, and that was when he heard the scream. It was loud, but it didn’t last long. It came from the woman who’d been thrown off the horse.
The fire had found her.
That’s what’s going to happen. That’s what it will feel like, Jace, that’s how you’re going to die.
Stop being Jace. Be what Hannah still called him. Connor Reynolds could start this fire; he had before.
He gripped the fire steel in his left hand and the striker in his right and this time he didn’t drop it when he made contact. Sparks fell in a shower into the grass.
Died immediately.
He was starting to panic, but then he remembered the first day, Ethan telling him to slow down, slow down, and he tried again, and then again, and on the fourth time, some of the grass caught.
He lowered his face to the ground and blew on it and it smoked white and then he blew some more and watched it glow red and then he added more grass, trying to move slow, trying not to smother it.
The fire was already spreading, though. Already pulling away from him, the sun-scorched grass going up fast, spreading out in an expanding ring. He stood and looked up into the rocks and saw Hannah Faber lifting a hand, one thumb up. He ran then, out of his own fire and back up the rocks to her.
“Told you I could,” he said when he reached her. He was out of breath, gasping.
“Never doubted you, buddy. But you just saved some lives. Now you two go down there and put the shelter up right where you started that.”
“It won’t make it up here,” he said. “There’s nothing to burn now. It’s just like you said.”