Man In The Mist. Annette Broadrick

      Jill was dead. It was his fault.

      Now he paid the price for not saving her. He’d been doomed to the fiery flames of hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames singeing him, sucking the air from his lungs.

      He’d sometimes wondered if hell was a real place. Now he could tell the world it existed. It hurt. The heat was consuming him.

      A young girl kept visiting him—offering him drinks, checking his temperature, bathing him, helping him with his personal needs.

      He should be embarrassed. He didn’t know this girl but somehow it didn’t matter. What had she done to be consigned to hell? Must have been bad to have to experience this. Poor thing.

      He was tired, much too tired to ask her why she was there.

      Images of a strange bedroom flitted periodically through his world. At times the room would be so bright the light hurt his eyes, sunlight from a nearby window filling the area. Other times—only a minute or so later, wasn’t it?—the room had no light, just shadows moving around him. The light and lack of light did nothing to stop the flames that kept licking at him.

      Greg saw the gun. He signaled to Jill to get out of the store before the stupid punk with the .38 spotted her.

      Where had the other gunman come from? The patrol car should be here by now.

      A spray of bullets shattered the glass around him. He had to stop the shooter. He had to check on Jill.

      Blood. So much blood.

      “Dear God,” he whispered brokenly. “Jill.”

      “You’re dreaming. You’re safe here. You’re going to be all right. Just rest.”

      The voice came to him—peaceful and soothing.

      “Tina?”

      “Fiona. I won’t leave you. Allow the medications to work on you. You’re doing fine. You’re safe,” she repeated.

      Of course he was safe. It was Jill he’d left unguarded.

      Fiona knew that tonight would be the crisis. Three nights had passed since her visitor had arrived. She had stayed with him ’round the clock except for short breaks to eat and bathe. When he was quiet, she managed to nap in the chair in his room. There were times when he would have lucid moments before falling back all too often into some nightmarish scene that haunted him.

      She lost track of time. She measured her hours by bathing him with cool water to bring his fever down. Was his cough sounding less congested? Were his lungs taking in more air? She wasn’t certain. All she knew was that she couldn’t leave him to fight his battle alone.

      His fever broke somewhere between four and five o’clock the morning of the fourth day, and Greg slipped into a deep, healing sleep.

      Fiona was exhausted.

      She forced herself to climb the stairs to her room, pulling herself up each step by hanging on to the handrail. With the last of her reserves, Fiona stumbled into her room, found her nightgown and dropped into bed.

      She immediately slept.