Bad Radio by Michael Langlois Read Free Book Online

shackle had been neatly severed with bolt cutters. I sucked in as much relatively smoke-free air as I could and hustled down the steps with my hand and forearm shielding my face from the heat.
    The cellar was a surreal, hellish environment. Yellow and orange flame clung to the wooden ceiling in a rippling sheet. It looked like an upside-down lake of fire, rolling and boiling. Smoke filled the top half of the room, forcing me to shuffle crablike along the earthen floor, which was littered with shattered glass from broken jars of preserves. The air was a reeking stew of burning wood, plastic, insulation, and fruit.
    I lifted the neck of my shirt over my mouth and moved as quickly as I could towards my workbench. The heat was suffocating and insistent. Hot glass crunched under my boots, and more than once I had to catch myself with an outstretched hand to keep my balance, earning me deep cuts and burns in my palms and fingers from the scorching glass and bubbling, tar-like preserves which stuck to my skin like peach and strawberry napalm. I wanted to laugh at the idea of weaponized fruit, but the pain kind of sucked the funny out of it.
    Under the workbench was the large metal toolbox that I was looking for, also sitting open with the lid thrown back. I was already seeing spots from the smoke and my throat was burning, so I flipped the lid closed and fumbled with the hot latch until it closed. Then I burned my hand again grabbing the handle and dragged it painstakingly across the floor and up the stairs.
    I managed to stagger a few yards away from the cellar doors before dropping the box and myself on the cool grass. We were both steaming and smoking in the night air. In between coughing fits that produced bitter black phlegm, I could hear sirens approaching in the distance. Since the nearest fire station was in town proper, I figured my neighbors must have called them at least fifteen minutes ago.
    The steel toolbox that had started life a glossy gray was now a brownish sandpapery gray, thanks to the patina of rust covering it. It was over two feet long and probably weighed twenty pounds empty. I had long since taken out the metal tray of tools inside of it, so now it contained only a few old cigar boxes and a long bundle wrapped in cloth.
    “What the hell is wrong with you, running into the fire like that? Are you crazy? You ran
under
a house that was on
fire
.” I hadn’t heard Anne approach. “You could have died over that stupid box, you fucking idiot!” She knelt down next to me and punched me in the shoulder, hard.
    “If that was supposed to be first aid, you’re doing it wrong.” I took out a wooden cigar box with a picture of a matronly Cuban woman smoking a fat cheroot on the top. As soon as I picked it up, I could tell it was empty. I handed it to Anne. She opened the lid and then tossed it back to me. “You risked your life for an empty cigar box. Great. Good job.”
    “Yesterday it had a piece of metal in it, just like Patrick’s.”
    “You think those men came here to get it, exactly like at the nursing home, don’t you?”
    “Except for the arson, yeah.” I took the box back and ran my fingers across the gently bumpy surface of the bottom and sides, as if to check the validity of what my eyes were telling me. The box stayed empty. The things that did this know who I am, and they wanted to hurt me. And they did. But I’ll bet you my last dollar that none of them stuck around after setting that fire. Like I said, they know who I am.
    We sat on the lawn as gleaming county vehicles began to surround the house, reflecting the blaze in their chrome and glass. The inevitable flashing lights added hints of blue and actinic white to the mix. It didn’t take long to be surrounded by a swarm of determined and polite people going about their tasks in a controlled frenzy for the second time in one night.
    After a quick checkout from the EMTs, we ended up sitting on a rough wool blanket well back from the house,