Blackness. Smoke. Choking fumes. Heat – horrible heat. All soundless, as if he was enveloped in a silent movie. Pain – not much of it, but it was there.
Fire! Got to get out...!
Tim pushed against the clasp of the seat belt; fought it until it reluctantly released him from its care. What happened? How long was I out? The door wouldn't open. Through watering eyes and his persistent need to cough he saw that the limo he was in was mangled and smoking from largely unseen fires now feeding greedily at the bottoms of the seat cushions. Got to get out...! Something must have exploded. A bomb? He tried saying his name; heard nothing. The percussion must have deafened him.
No one else in the limo was moving. "Steffen! We've got to get out of here! This car could blow!" He couldn't hear his words; hoped he was indeed speaking out loud. There was no response to his shaking of the duke. Tim prayed that the kindly man was still alive.
Got to get out! Even if the limo doesn't explode, the toxic fumes from the burning seats will kill us. Through the smoke he could barely make out the window at his side, but he saw that it was partially broken. Tim swiveled and kicked at the window with both feet, once, twice, the hammering snapping at his ankles, until most of the glass fell out. He wrapped the duke's fedora around his hand and punched out the remaining glass; wincing a bit as some glass got through the hat. Then he squeezed through the window and dropped to the ground on wobbly feet.
He had vague images of people running, in and out of the billowing smoke, but these he ignored. He could see more smoke, and flames, from the car nearby. Whose was that? He couldn't help everyone at once; didn't know yet what had happened. He couldn't be in both places at once; his primary concern had to be those who were in his car.
With all his might he tugged at the too-hot door handle of the too-hot limo, and finally the broken door yawed open and hung at a sad angle; he could feel its damaged parts protesting their ill-treatment. Sliding across the glass-littered seat, Tim unfastened Steffen's seat belt and then pulled him out of the car. A breath on Tim's cheek told him, blessedly, that the duke still lived. The man was no lightweight, but Tim carried him about 40 feet away; set him down, and ran back. There were other people to help...
The limo was heating up and smoking more. The bodyguards were in the front seat: Rudolf at the wheel; Franz in the seat beside him; both unconscious if still alive. The very real possibility of imminent death overrode all other concerns of any other injuries the men might have sustained: Tim had to get them out.
The front of the limo had sustained more damage than the back. The driver's door would not, would not open, despite all of Tim's pulling. But he found that the passenger door was just a little stubborn; when it inched open, he put his side to it and pushed. Man, that's hot! He quickly was pulling Franz, all 250 pounds or so of him, out, and then dragging him a safe distance away, where other people rushed to Franz' aid.
Rudolf was a more difficult problem. Tim had to drag him over limo's gear shift, and Rudolf was also heavier than Franz. Finally Tim had him out; struggling not to drop him; dragging him away, away, until other hands took over.
Hot. Hot. Too smoky... Tim thought he saw flashes and backed away. An omen of the limo's explosion? He fought the hands that tried to grab him; sometimes saw mouths moving but he could hear no sound from them. He blinked and blinked; willing sight to stay in his irritated eyes. The other car...!
It was a little ahead of the limo in the lot. Had it pulled out, or was it blown to there? While Tim's limo had been parked over two head-to-head spaces, the car must have been parked head-in. Flames licked at the windows of the car. Grateful that he'd hung onto the duke's fedora, to be used again like a pot holder, Tim approached the car. Shaw, at the wheel, was clearly dead, and Tim choked back a sob. He ran to the other side of the car, and reaching through the flames, pulled Ocasio out through the now-glassless window; then let someone take him. Again grabbing hands. Leave me alone! A thick mustardy coat with reflective yellow stripes—a firefighter?—tackled him about the waist. Tim couldn't hear what hear what the man said; saw only the concern in his eyes over the moving lips. With more strength than he knew he had, Tim broke free and darted out of reach, and was relieved that the man did not follow.
Six. That was it in their party. Poor Shaw...! Tim ran, as if by an instinct; saw others running, too, though he didn't know why. Then he was lifted up and just as suddenly slammed to the ground as his limo finally blew.
After a minute or so, he got up, and lurched away. No one was paying attention to him, which suited him fine. He stank of the smokes of many burning materials—that much he could scent; and a low rumbling in his ears told him his hearing was starting to return. Still feeling hot, he staggered to a tree past the edge of the parking lot, sat down there, his knees folded up to his chest, and devoutly hoped the cruel world would not notice him over here.