Nine Lives. Sharon Sala

came close to making her gag. Still, it was better to gag than burn.

      Smoke was filling the apartment as Cat ran back to the living room and pulled Nelson into the hall. His head bumped hard as she dragged him over the threshold, but it couldn’t be helped. Better a headache than dying.

      “Come on, Brownlee, wake up!” Cat cried, but Brownlee wasn’t talking.

      Cursing beneath her breath, she got him as far as the landing, then bent over, and with what she would later consider a burst of adrenaline spurred by an overwhelming fear, pulled him up and over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started down the stairs, staggering slightly under the weight.

      Cat hadn’t counted on the difficulty of balancing dead weight on a decline. Every time she took a step down, Brownlee’s head bumped against her back, keeping her slightly off balance. But the heat behind them and the smoke swirling around their heads was all the reminder she needed to keep moving. They’d cleared the fifth floor and were just past the fourth floor landing when Cat sensed someone on the stairs in front of her. Her instincts proved right as she stepped down onto the heel of a boot.

      Staggering to keep from losing her load, she grabbed the railing with one hand and the back pocket of Brownlee’s jeans with the other.

      “Move faster or get over! I’m coming through!” she yelled.

      Wilson McKay was, what the waitress at his favorite diner called, “a looker.” He was four inches over six feet, with a linebacker’s build. His hair style wasn’t a style at all, but a buzz-cut that was always in the process of growing out. He wore one small gold hoop in his ear, and denim or leather with equal distinction. His nose had been broken twice, and there was a small scar beneath his right eye. Every scar, bump and line on his face was a testament to the hard knocks of his life.

      He had turned forty yesterday, and a bunch of his friends had thrown a big party for him down at the bar across the street from his bail bond office. The beer had been flowing freely. They’d even sprung for a day-old cake from the deli section of one of the big grocery stores across town. Their gift to Wilson had been Wanelle, the prettiest hooker on their side of the city, which was a title Wanelle held proudly, even if her claim to fame came from a real long stretch of the truth.

      Still, Wanelle had all her own teeth and clear skin, and she was almost pretty when she laughed. Wilson knew her slightly. He’d seen her around Ft. Worth from time to time, but buying a woman had never been his style. He’d felt trapped when Wanelle had been presented to him, especially since his buddies had tied a big red bow around her neck. Turning her down would have been a serious social faux pas to his friends and to Wanelle. So, rather than hurt everyone’s feelings, Wilson had graciously accepted, and they’d spent the night in her fifth floor apartment, only to be awakened by the scent of smoke.

      Wilson was just coming out of the bathroom when he saw tiny gray fingers of smoke coming from under the front door and curling upward.

      “Oh, shit,” he muttered, and ran to the door. He put a hand on the wood to check for heat, and when it still felt cool, took a chance and opened it.

      Smoke was pouring down the stairwell from above. The moment he saw it, he slammed the door shut and spun away, grabbing his shirt from the back of a chair as he ran toward the bedroom.

      “Wanelle! Wanelle! Wake up, honey. The building is on fire! We’ve got to get out of here.”

      Wanelle rolled over. Her hair was smashed to her head on one side, and her makeup was smeared beneath her eyes. She looked a bit like raccoon road kill.

      “Wha’sa matter? What did you say?”

      He grabbed the clothes she’d taken off last night and threw them on the bed.

      “Get dressed. Fast! The building is on fire.”

      “Oh Jesus! Oh Lord!” she screamed, and began to cry.

      “Save the prayers for later,” Wilson said, as he pulled her out of bed. “Here. Put these on.”

      She looked at the panties and bra as if she’d never seen them before.

      “Uh… I need to pee before—”

      “Make it fast,” Wilson said.

      Wanelle ran for the bathroom. He gave her less than thirty seconds before he was knocking on the door.

      “Come on. You’ve got to come now.”

      Wanelle opened the door, wild-eyed and muttering beneath her breath. Wilson began dressing her as if she were a child, then handed her the boots she’d been wearing and grabbed her coat.

      “Now, honey! We’ve got to go now!” he said, as she thrust her arms into her coat.

      She was right behind him when he opened the door. The smoke that had been in the hall began filling her apartment. As soon as she saw it, she started to scream. If Wilson hadn’t grabbed her arm, she would have bolted back into the apartment and closed the door.

      “No you don’t,” he said.

      She fought back, stronger than he would have believed her capable of being. The smoke was getting thicker, which meant their time-line to safety was getting shorter.

      “Sorry, honey, but you leave me no choice.”

      Without hesitation, he doubled up his fist and popped her on the chin. She went out like a light. He caught her before she fell and threw her over his shoulder, then ran out into the hall. Seconds later, he was descending the stairs with the dead weight of her body swinging behind his back, the smoke continuing to thicken, seriously dimming his view.

      Wilson pulled the collar of his turtle-neck sweater up over his nose like a mask, while every now and then, Wanelle would moan. Wilson knew she was inhaling too much smoke, but there was nothing he could do.

      They were just past the fourth floor landing when someone stepped on the heel of his boot. Before he could react, he heard a woman yelling at him. From the panic in her voice, he had no doubt that she meant what she said. He turned abruptly, saw little more than her shadow through the smoke, then hefted Wanelle to a more secure position.

      “Right in front of you and going down!” he yelled, and started taking the stairs two at a time.

      Even though the muscles in Cat’s neck and shoulders were trembling from Nelson Brownlee’s weight, she never gave in or slowed. A few steps more and she began hearing footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. Fearing someone would run into her and send both her and Brownlee tumbling, she yelled out a warning.

      “Traffic on the stairs! Traffic on the stairs!”

      The footsteps faltered, then kept on coming, but with less speed. They all passed the third floor landing, then the second, and when they finally hit the first floor and ran out into the street, firemen were running past them into the building.

      Wanelle was beginning to come to as Wilson handed her off to some EMTs. He mentioned smoke inhalation and that he’d knocked her out when she’d started to panic.

      The medics nodded their understanding as they transferred her to a stretcher and carried her toward a waiting ambulance.

      Wilson’s legs were shaking as he watched them take Wanelle away, knowing she would be all right. Then curiosity made him look for the woman who’d been behind him on the stairs.

      At first he thought she was already lost in the gathering crowd, and then he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman carrying a man over her shoulder. He’d had no idea she’d been carrying someone. Added to that was the fact that she had not handed the man she was carrying over to the medics scattered around. For whatever reason, she was headed toward an SUV parked on the opposite side of the street. What surprised him most was that the man she was carrying appeared to be twice her weight.

      “Damn, a real superwoman,” he muttered, then decided to follow her.

      He started across the street at a jog, dodging hoses and firemen,