Red, White & Dead. Laura Caldwell

I thought, Dad?

      Still, my instincts made me struggle against it, until I heard a fierce whisper. “Jesus Christ, McNeil. Relax.”

      “Mayburn?”

      He clamped his hand over my mouth and pulled me into the booth, one of those old-fashioned ones that print little strips of photos. Over the sirens, we heard footsteps pounding down the hallway.

      “Quiet,” Mayburn whispered.

      I held my breath, froze my body.

      The footsteps stopped. Where were they? What were they doing? With the sirens still ringing, we couldn’t hear them now that they weren’t running.

      I held my breath so that I wouldn’t move. With Mayburn’s hand still over my mouth, I felt I was going to pass out. I shook his hand away from my face. Sucked in quiet lungfuls of breath.

      “Hey, Ransom,” I heard Dez say loudly. He must have been fifteen feet from us. “Ever get your picture taken in one of those booths?”

      Ransom gurgled a response, which sounded like a sickening laugh.

      “Yeah, let’s get a picture.” Dez’s voice was closer now. “We’ve never had our picture taken together.”

      Ransom gurgled again, sounding closer, too.

      I tried to turn to see Mayburn, so we could figure out what in the hell we were going to do, but then we heard a crash of glass, followed by shouting.

      “It’s the Chicago Fire Department!” someone yelled. “Is there anyone in the building?”

      We heard the banging of boots on the floor.

      “Sir! Sirs!” It must have been one of the firefighters yelling at Dez and Ransom. “Sirs, we have to evacuate the building. This way.”

      “We’re okay,” Dez shouted.

      “Exit this way, sirs.”

      “Yeah, just a minute.”