He doesn't usually mess with fires this big, but his dad told him that he was ready for the big leagues now. He was in the middle of transporting materials down to the basement when his mom called. He dropped the crate and rushed upstairs. After doing another boring chore, he slipped into his special fire suit. His dad special ordered it for him for his last birthday and t fit perfectly. His mask was fitted on his head carefully and he wobbled down into the basement again. His dad was napping and he hoped that he wouldn't need his help for this project. It wasn't anything big, just some words spelled out that he wanted to try.
"This is simple. You can do it. You've practiced before." The words echoed in his mind as he laid the trail of gasoline and a special powder that he came up with to allow the fire to last longer. He checked his work a couple times before deeming it safe. His dad always told him that fire was fun only when you're in control, or else it will hurt people. Badly. He never elaborated on how but it was obviously a painful memory for his dad and he never asked. Just as he was starting to put away the powder, he felt a familiar tickle in his nose. Shaking his head, he tried to hold the sneeze back; he had almost succeeded when his mom called again and startled it out of him. His eyes widened behind the mask and he shoved the package into the drawer, hoping she wouldn't come to see what he was doing.
"Honey? Do you want any snacks while you're down there?" She called, her voice tinged with worry.
He ripped off the mask to reply as loud as he could, "No Mama. I'm fine."
"... Be careful, please." She said, like she always did.
"Aren't I always?" He answered before pulling his mask back on and tromping down the stairs. Now, back to the test...
He smiled to himself as he gazed around the room again. Nothing hanging off edges precariously, no loose strings or cloth that could burn. All was good and he was officially ready. He looked at his box of matches fondly before tossing those onto the work desk as well. No, for a job like this, he would use his personal flamethrower. It was built by him and he had yet to test it. But since his little trick didn't need precision, it would be perfect for the job. He poured some gasoline in it and took a deep breath.
"Here goes..." He breathed the words as he pulled the trigger on his creation. It worked like a charm; the pilot light burst into a wondrous stream of flames, igniting the words just as he planned. He giggled to himself, savoring the sensation of fire at his feet, crackling in his ears and bathing his body with harmless warmth.
He felt a strange pit deep in the recesses of his stomach. He wasn't quite sure why but it felt like he had done something wrong. He scrolled through his checklist again while watching the fire at the end of his flamethrower, trying to figure why he was getting such a bad feeling. Then, it hit him. The propane tank was old and wasn't in the best condition when he picked it up, but he and his dad were sure it would be fine. As he made the realization, the flamethrower ran out of gas. The already broken tank was filling with dangerous gas and pressure. That made for a bad combination, one that exploded in his face. He cried out as he fell to the floor, his suit torn where pieces of metal ripped through it. He rolled on the ground, still clutching his flamethrower without seeing the reaction of the flames.
They had picked up on the small traces of ignition powder and burnt their way through it. They climbed the stairs, slowly at first but picked up speed and strength as the wood fed. They licked at the door as he watched in horror, his body frozen with shock. The flames went through the door and entered the kitchen, his mom screaming when she felt the too-familiar heat of flames coming too close for comfort. His dad awoke to the sound of his wife screaming as she grabbed a pot of water from the counter. It was supposed to be a constant reminder to the boys that they were to be careful and now it would serve its purpose. Except the fact that these flames had been engineered carefully and acted more like stove fires. Hungry bandits that only got angry when doused with water. They leapt across the walls and his dad tried to pull her out of the kitchen. She fought him, screeching that their son was still down there.
She pulled away from her husband, tears streaking down her face as she tried to get to the stairs. But the flames had already consumed most of the area in front of the basement door and she couldn't even hear if her son was calling for help. His dad grabbed her again, trying to rescue her from the immediate danger but she continued to fight until he promised to go down there himself and get their son. He told her to run outside and he ran heavily back into the kitchen. With no time to go and get his suit, he would just have to hope he didn't get seared too badly. He pulled an emergency mask from under the counter before leaping through the basement door. The flames reached out for him with eager fingers, eating at his clothes and trying to get to his skin. He landed on a step fortunately, but it crumbled under his weight and he fell to the ground.
Groaning weakly, he looked up to see his son huddled under the desk through the haze of smoke. Even with their masks on, staying down here would be harmful. He pushed himself up, or attempted to. His ankle was badly twisted from the fall and throbbed harshly. His son always took notice of this and came out of his hiding place to try and pull him to safety. He wasn't strong but with the adrenaline and his father's help, he managed to get him under the table. They huddled there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. The stairs were destroyed and the only window was nowhere to be seen in the thick smoke that permeated every inch of the room.
Meanwhile, his wife sprinted next door to dial 911 before going back to the house. It was pouring smoke out of the windows and the flames seemed bent on ruining the paint that covered the walls. Steeling herself with courage she wasn't sure she had, she dashed inside, pulling up her shirt to cover her mouth and nose, just like her husband taught her so long ago. Her beautiful kitchen, the one she had spent months upon months working on was ruined.
But there was no time to dwell on that and she turned her sights to where she believed the basement entrance to be. She was hysterical at this point, her crying hadn't stopped since she started and if she stopped moving for a second, she was sure her legs would give out and leave her in a huddle on the floor. She called for her son and husband desperately, looking at all the smoke frantically. The flames seemed to fan out from a central point and that was where the basement was, she thought in the small, rational part of her brain. And without any regard to the consequences, she leapt through the flames.
She had misjudged the distance in her terror though and ended up smacking into the counter closest to the door. The impact left her sprawled on the floor, her body aching and temporarily paralyzed. She struggled to lift herself as the pain started to recede but the smoke had already taken its toll on her. She felt the strength ebbing from her body as she screamed hoarsely for her family.
He heard his mom crying out for him and his dad who didn't move a muscle. He glanced at his father tearfully to see his reaction to his wife's screams. There was none. That scared him more than the fire and he looked away quickly, trying to think of a way to help their bleak situation. He started rummaging through the drawers near him, his gloved hands clumsy and shaking as he forced his brain to think. There! A fire blanket was exactly what they needed. He tugged it out and unfolded it. It was big enough to rest over the two of them somewhat comfortably. He arranged it over their bodies, curling into his dad who still didn't move even as his son jostled him.
The sounds became muffled as he finished with the blanket and placed his hands over where his ears would be. If he thought hard enough, he could even block out the sounds of wailing and screaming, from inside and outside the house. He could pretend that he and his dad were hiding down here for fun instead of hoping to escape with their lives. He hummed his favorite song to himself, slightly rocking back and forth, though if his dad minded, he didn't protest. He continued this for some time before the flames started to die down, their hissing and crackling softening as the world faded away.
When he finally pulled himself out of his dreams, he felt smothered. There was something on him and he fought to get it off. Looking at the cloth in his hands, he realized that he had been wrapped up in the fire blanket for who knows how long. But if he was in the blanket, then that must mean that they were okay, right? He glanced to his side, expecting to see his dad there. But the only thing that remained was the charred remains of what was his sanctuary.
The flames had finally burnt down to embers, smoldering in small piles. He scrambled to his feet, his pain coming back in a flash as his injuries flared up. He looked down to see blood oozing out of some wounds sluggishly, pieces of the propane tank still lodged in his body. Unsure of what to do with them, he tried his best to ignore them and looked around for his dad.
After turning to look at where the stairs were, he found him. He was lying awkwardly on his side, his arm bent under him and his face grey. He tilted his head and crouched down to nudge his dad. He tried yelling through the mask, still pushing him but to no avail. His father was dead and if he had to guess, it was from inhaling too much smoke. As he sat there, clutching his dad's shirt, realized that he had taken off his mask. He didn't know why his dad had done it and he wasn't completely sure he wanted to know. So he rearranged his dad's body to look more natural, curling up next to him and hugging his arm. He hummed to himself, determined to make the images in his head go away.