Chapter 30: A Fire of My Own
Chapter 30: A Fire of My Own
Morning made the room visible. Safety remained a separate matter.
Everything I knew about starting a fire came from a school trip when I was fourteen. A bearded instructor had demonstrated a bow drill in a wet field and asked for volunteers. I had stared at my shoes to avoid being noticed.
That was the lesson the apocalypse wanted. Excellent work.
I made the drill from what I had. A thin pine drawer bottom became the fireboard. I rounded a chair rung into a spindle. A curtain rod and a bootlace formed the bow. For the socket, I punched a shallow dent into the base of the metal cup.
The tinder took longer. I shaved curls from a chair leg, teased fibers out of one foul-smelling shirt, then arranged paper and sticks from splinter-thin to the width of my finger.
I spent four hours failing.
The bootlace slipped, wore through, and had to be replaced with a strip of cloth. The spindle jumped the notch twice. On the second attempt, I threw the bow across the room, retrieved it, and continued with considerably less dignity.
Poor Coordination turned each step into an argument between my hands. The socket needed steady pressure while my other arm moved the bow quickly and level. My arms wobbled. The spindle stalled. Skin peeled from both palms until they shone and wept.
Meanwhile, the wrapped meat by the window smelled stronger.
During the third hour, a thread of smoke curled from the notch. Excitement made me stop sawing. I leaned closer, knocked the board, and scattered the black dust across the floor.
For several minutes, quitting felt reasonable. Raw meat existed. So did the sealed tins. I could eat those, abandon the spoiling portions, and spare my hands.
Then I remembered Aria carrying me through the gate with a bullet wound in her shoulder.
I am not letting four hours decide what I can do.
I cut another notch.
Eventually the bow’s squeal dropped into a lower, smoother sound. Smoke thickened and continued after the spindle stopped. A clump of black dust sat in the notch with one edge glowing orange.
I tipped it into the fiber nest. My first breath nearly killed it. The next was slower.
White smoke filled my face. Orange brightened to yellow, and a flame the size of my thumbnail appeared between my hands.
The sound I made will remain private.
No window congratulated me. The System gave no experience or achievement. I had failed until I learned enough to succeed. That tiny flame was the first victory since the Merge that belonged entirely to me.
I fed it splinters, then thin sticks, keeping it small and hot. The window opened three fingers for airflow. I set the pan over two bricks and sliced one portion thin so it would cook quickly.
The flame exposed how little I understood about managing it. Add too much wood and it smoked. Add too little and the heat vanished beneath the pan. I moved the bricks closer, fed it one dry sliver at a time, and watched the meat change from wet red to grey-brown around the edges.
The smell made my stomach contract hard enough to hurt. I turned every strip anyway and cut the thickest one open to check the center. Aria’s order had been simple: cook everything. I intended to obey it thoroughly.
Fat spat against the pan and nearly reached the tinder. I shifted the bricks, moved the pan higher, and learned that controlling fire involved more than creating it. The room filled with enough smoke to sting my eyes before I found the right balance.
Four minutes later, an engine entered the street.
The pan came off. I smothered the fire under the blanket and dropped behind the wardrobe with the rifle aimed at my barricaded door. Cooked meat filled the room with a smell that seemed loud enough to hear downstairs.
Boots crossed the yard. Through the window frame, I glimpsed grey uniforms.
"Orders say sweep everything between here and the reservoir road," one man said. "So we sweep."
They entered the ground floor and searched room by room. Their footsteps were steady and unhurried.
Then someone found the bones.
"Christ."
"Don’t touch it." The leader’s voice sharpened. "Months old. Look at the tooth marks."
"Should we clear upstairs?"
"Four people, no lamps, and evidence of a scavenger den?" Boots shifted toward the exit. "Anyone with sense would avoid sleeping above this. Mark the building and move to the reservoir road."
The patrol left.
I remained on the floor while the engine faded. My hands shook around the rifle. Twenty minutes passed before I lowered it, and I waited through another long stretch of silence before touching the barricade.
The previous survivor had piled wrappers, folded a blanket, and counted days on the wall. Something had killed them downstairs.
Now their remains had convinced four armed men to leave me alone.
You saved my life. You would have hated the method.
The meat in the pan had gone cold. I ate it slowly while sitting against the wardrobe, tasting smoke, salt, and a faint mineral bitterness. It was tougher than anything I had eaten before the Merge and better than the soup Eastbridge had charged me for.
Afterward, I cleaned my palms with antiseptic. The bow drill had stripped broad patches of skin, so I wrapped each hand with narrow bands of gauze while leaving my fingers free. The next fire would be easier if I protected the ember. Losing it would mean another four-hour argument with the spindle.
I broke the remaining cooked portion into two pieces and covered one for evening. The act felt absurdly domestic: portioning food in a barricaded room above human remains while armed men searched the district.
Domestic still felt good.
I set the pan beside the hearth, stacked the remaining wood within reach, and placed the rifle where either hand could find it from the floor. The room finally had an order that belonged to me.
I uncovered the hearth and blew carefully on the ash.
A coal still glowed beneath it.