This is a story pretending the recent drama is behind them. i.e. done with the affair, over it, the end.
I don't own any of the characters.
When they knew the bomb was going to go off, they started to run. It was only logical. Nearly two hours of standing in front of a man with dynamite strapped to his chest and a little button in his right hand, well, that tends to focus one's thoughts.
Danny pushed Lindsay ahead of him, his hands roughly on her back. He wasn't going as fast as he could. That was what he hated. But he couldn't help it, because the bomb was behind them and the exit in front of them, and he was the only one with a bulletproof vest, not that that mattered so much. And she was pregnant. That worried him most of all. It was an acidic thought that ate away whatever was in the center of his stomach, burning and bubbling because he might lose someone he'd never met. Even if that person was four and a half months old, it still tore him up. He didn't understand why it meant so much to him, that little bundle of cells in his girlfriend's stomach, but things were about to explode and it seemed to be all he could think about.
Except for her. He thought about her. He watched her hair swish back and forth as she raced as fast as she could. He knew that her foot must've been bothering her from that fall only a couple of hours earlier. He debated lifting her and running instead of following her out. When Lindsay wasn't a little hurt and when she wasn't pregnant, she could outrun him any day of the week. But today, today, when it really mattered, she was both of those things and he wasn't sure what he could do.
They made it to the doors at the end of the hallway with a slam, pushing on the bars that should have opened them, but all they heard was the rustling of chains from the outside.
"Danny, they're locked, Danny, we're locked in this stupid school –"
He made a quick decision and wondered if it would cost them their lives. He knew they had only two and a half more minutes before the bomb went off, because he was still counting in his head from before.
He grabbed her hand and dragged her into a room off the hallway. He scanned the room for the best location for cover, but found none. He saw the barred window and thanked the higher powers. He smashed it open with his fist to let air escape and enter the room. The oxygen will either feed the fire or keep us alive, a voice told him. His decisions were coming one after the other, rapid and bumbling. He was scanning his brain for anything that would help them.
"Get on the floor," he yelled to her, running and skidding to where she lay. One minute and four seconds. He straddled her waist as he sat up. They were pressed to the side of the wall, near a corner. He fumbled with his vest, ripping open the Velcro with a sticky, too-loud sound. He leaned down again, adjusting his body to be completely on top of her.
She shivered against the warmth of him, fully aware that finding heat would not be a problem in a matter of seconds. She knew that the fire would rip through the high school like, well, wildfire, and that it could very well burn them alive.
"Let me know if I'm crushing the baby," he whispered to her. He didn't know why he kept his voice quiet. Perhaps he was aware that, in just a little while, their ears would be throbbing and shaking. He covered her quickly, running a checklist from her feet to the crown of her head, covering what he could and tucking her underneath him. He had to be a blanket. He had to be an iron wall.
"Why did you take off the vest? Put it back on!" she shrieked. She knew it wouldn't do much if the fire came for them, but it was all she could think of, their paper reinforcement. They were far away from the hallway, pressed right up against the far wall. The fire might skip over the room entirely, or burn its way right to them. The ground was concrete, a known insulator, but she couldn't help but imagine a wall of flames heading for them.
"Shh, shh, it's OK," he whispered. He covered their heads with the vest. It was a stupid move, really. It wouldn't have done much, and they both knew that. But it felt nice. Danny had made a little house for them. Lindsay was reminded of making forts with her siblings, just sheets and stacks of books that provided thin cover from their living room. But it made her feel safe. It did then, with Danny covering her so thoroughly that she felt no air on her body, only Danny.
Her mind drifted to her stomach, to the baby. Why hadn't she stayed at home? Why hadn't she stopped the man with the bomb? She could've shot him; she had the chance. But he was only 16. She couldn't kill sixteen year olds.
"It's not the best position, but you can't lean over so well with the kid, so I thought –"
"It's good," she said softly, "it's better." And it was. The baby was sandwiched between them, pressed up against his father's stomach, hugged by his mother's arm.
Danny kissed her gently, counting down. Ten, nine, eight. He circled her head with his left arm. Six, five, four. She pulled the vest down further with her right hand. One.
The building shook heavily, things falling and things shaking. They saw the blast of the fire before they heard it roaring, and Lindsay's first thought was not a thought but a number – 3 times 10 to the eighth, the speed of light. Faster than sound. But they did hear the sound. It was a roar, after the blast, once their eyes were squeezed shut and their hands had found each other and were twined tightly.
The fire shot its way to the exit door, sizzling and crackling and setting things alight. The heat was overwhelming, but Danny and Lindsay could only press closer against each other, shutting out the world with their bodies.
And then the roar was over, and there was only creaking and sizzling, and banging and breaking.
Danny took a chance and opened his eyes, blinking in reflex to the ash falling. He chanced a look at the window and found that the bars had been ripped off. He looked around him quickly, and assessed the damage.
There were minor bits of cardboard and paper alight near the entrance to the hallway, but nothing particularly dangerous. The roof had caved partially, in the center. Probably from the blast.
Danny nudged Lindsay, shaking her until her eyes opened. He ripped two pieces of cloth from his undershirt and handed one to her, motioning that she copy him and cover her mouth with it. Then they crept. He felt like they were hiding from the fire, sneaking out unnoticed from the wiggling and crackling flames around them.
He crouched over Lindsay as she wiggled to the window. He was unsure about the ceiling, and whether or not it would cave in more. He kept above her just in case.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of squirming along the bottom of the floor, they reached the window. Danny twined his fingers to make a footstep for her, and she stepped and pulled her way up to the window. He used his shoulders to push her from the back. She raised her hands down to help him, but he shook his head and motioned for her to move. Years of morning pull-ups had made it easy for him to hoist himself up using the ledge.
The coughing hit them when they were racing from the burning building, listening to the chorus of sirens and wails from both sides of the street.
"Sit," he choked, and pushed her down to rest on the curb. He checked her over, broken occasionally by his coughing fits. She'd remained well protected. She had a scratch on her arm, the one left exposed, but he judged it shallow and clean. Probably a shard of glass or metal had scraped her.
He felt fine, and wondered if he was, excepting his smoky lungs. His back felt hot, and he knew that his hand was bleeding. They'd been extraordinarily lucky.
When the ambulance arrived, all he could think about was the baby. He shoved Lindsay at the paramedics, babbling and pointing at her stomach. They responded quickly, pulling her into the bus with gusto and letting him hold her hand and wipe off some of the dark ash that clung to her face like streaky makeup.
"Wow," she gasped breathlessly.