It has been forever since I have posted anything on this website. I am so sorry this has taken me so long, and I am so grateful that you are reading this and baring with me despite how long it took me to update. My life has been crazy lately, and it still is insane. I am going to try very hard to post more regularly again. (And, I promise, I am working on the next chapter of "Between Love and Loss;" I know it is well past time I update that story as well.)

Thank you all so much for understanding, and for everything else! It means so much to me!

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER GETS VERY INTENSE AND A BIT GRAPHIC; IT COULD BE A UPSETTING TO SOME READERS. (Not as bad as that chapter in "Between Love and Loss.")

CHAPTER III

~LIKE A CANDLE IN THE DARK~

Combeferre was restless. Ever since Enjolras left, he found himself unable to find peace. He was anxious. He was worried.

It was already very late when Enjolras's little red car vanished into the darkness and the glow of the taillights disappeared. Combeferre was exhausted, his body weak, and his mind drained. He knew he would be asleep the minute he climbed into bed. However, once he was lying in his room with his lights off and a blanket over him, sleep did not come. He could not sleep.

He turned on the lamp beside his bed and began to read a book. He came to the end of the first chapter and realized that he had no idea what he had just read. He went back to the beginning and read the first page perhaps five times, before he gave up and closed the book. He could not focus on the words printed on those white pages. As if French was a foreign language to him, as if he was illiterate, they made no sense to his mind. He could not comprehend them. As much as Combeferre loved books, as much as he loved to read, he could not read tonight. His mind was absent. He could not focus. He could not stop worrying about Enjolras.

He did not understand why he was so worried. Perhaps, it was because he was so tired, and Enjolras had been so tired. Perhaps, it was nothing. He told himself that it was nothing. Still, his fears would not cease. He was not comforted.

A deep sensation of dread had lodged itself in his stomach like a bullet, and it was making him sick. There was a dull aching in his gut, and a few times he felt as if he was going to vomit—perhaps he was catching a virus of some type... A bleak coldness filled his chest, like an encasement of ice covering his trembling heart. His heart was heavy like a rock, stone where there should have been felt and blood. It was weary and afraid, tired but unable to rest. Why, he did not know. He did not, in truth, believe that his instants were correct. He thought that he was overreacting, that he was mistaken. Yet, he could not ignore the dreadful omen that hung over his heart like the shadowy form of death waiting to claim his prize: another condemned soul. He knew something was not right. He knew something was wrong. Something bad was going to happen.

For the next twenty minutes, he drank the coffee he bought with Enjolras, made himself another pot of coffee, paced around his flat as he drank a mug of it, cleaned up his flat, packed his things so he could return home whenever he felt the whim, he turned on the TV and watched about five minutes of the news before he turned it off again, he poured himself another cup of coffee, he wandered to the windows, peeked around the curtains, and looked out into the dark road as if he expected to see Enjolras's car pulling into the parking lot, as if he expected Enjolras to appear at his doorstep and tell him he had changed his mind. At last, unable to stand it anymore, he got into his car and drove to the bar, where he knew some of his friends would still be.

When he arrived, he parked his car, and went into the bar, where he found them. Courfeyrac was on the other side of the bar, standing in a dark corner and speaking on the phone in a hushed tone, as if he and the person talking to him were discussing something top-secret and extremely important. The others were lined up at the bar, seated in those high stools, talking and laughing as they sipped their drinks.

"Well, look who it is!" Bahorel greeted him with a grin as Combeferre made his way over to the group, and this was followed by loud welcomes and cheers from the others. "Decided to join us, did you? I thought you said you had things to do."

"I finished," he said honestly.

He reached the bar and seated himself beside Joly, who was watching his girlfriend with a bit of distress and repeatedly whispering to her, "I think this should be your last drink. Too much isn't healthy. I don't want you to get alcohol poisoning."

"Great!" said a drunken Bossuet. "Glad you could show up!"

Combeferre frowned as he glanced around the bar and noted that one of the friends was missing. He was surprised, because this was the one person he would have expected to be there even if no one else showed up. "Where's Grantaire?"

"Courfeyrac is on the phone with him now," Joly explained. "He drove Éponine home, and…" He trailed off, thought for a moment, and added uncertainly in a manner that seemed more a question than a statement, "I guess, it took him longer than he expected…?"

Combeferre had not been there for even a full five minutes. The man behind the counter approached him to ask him if he wanted a drink. He opened his lips to answer, but before he spoke even a word, a loud voice was heard crying out from across the bar. Combeferre did not have to turn his head. He did not have to look. He knew the voice at once. He knew who was shouting. His innards turned to stone, and his heart turned to ice.

"Grantaire? Grantaire, are you okay!? What happened? Can you hear me? Are you okay!? Grantaire!? Grantaire! Say something!" He swore in a loud shout, which was followed by a frightened whisper, "God…"

Feeling as if his nightmare was coming true, Combeferre leaped down from the stool and rushed across the room to Courfeyrac, who he met halfway, as he was already heading hastily toward the door. "What is it?" Combeferre cried in panic, and this question was echoed his friends who followed close behind him, leaving their drinks at the bar. "What's wrong?"

Courfeyrac made one last attempt to talk to the person on the other end of the phone, before he let out a heavy and fearful breath and ripped the phone away from his ear. "I don't know," he said, and they could hear the fear in his words even though he was trying to conceal it. He raised his large brown eyes and looked at the many faces crowded around him, staring back at him with wide orbs that reflected his own fear. "I think Grantaire was in an accident."

"An accident?" Joly repeated in sudden panic. As if to protect her from circumstance and grief beyond his control, Joly wrapped his arm around Musichetta and pulled her toward him. He held her close. "A car accident?"

"Yeah," grumbled Courfeyrac miserably. His voice quivered slightly. "I think so." As he spoke, he hurried across the bar, the other following close behind, and pushed open the door. He, Combeferre, Joly, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Bahorel poured, like a flowing river, out of the bar and into the street.

"What makes you think that?" Bahorel asked, running a few steps to catch up with and stride, like a soldier marching into battle, beside Courfeyrac, who led the procession across the lot and toward the vehicles.

He gritted his teeth, as if cringing at the very memory, as if the very thought brought pain that was hard to witness. "I heard the crash." He could still hear that awful noise in his head, replaying itself again and again, like a ghost ceaselessly tormenting and haunting him. "…He had been drinking."

"God," said Combeferre.

"Jesus," Joly whispered behind him. He gripped Musichetta tighter, and he cried out in terror, "Is Grantaire hurt? Is he alright? Where is he?"

"I don't know. He was not answering me when I tried to talk to him."

At these words, they all felt a terrible sensation of dread—sheer terror that was numbed slightly and made dull by the shock of the blow—fill their insides. They would have rather Grantaire told Courfeyrac that he had been hurt: at least that way they knew he was alive. But the fact that Grantaire had said nothing… Anything, even a faint moan of pain, would have been better than silence. Unconsciousness is quiet. The grave is silent.

"Maybe the phones got disconnected," Musichetta offered, a bit hopeful and desolate at the same time.

"I don't think so," Courfeyrac said grimly, even as much as he would have loved to believe it. "It sounded like our phones were still connected, but… but no one was talking to me."

"Do you know where Grantaire was, Courfeyrac?" Combeferre asked suddenly and urgently, speaking like an officer of a leaderless army stepping up to take charge. Enjolras was the leader, but Enjolras was not here. Combeferre was next in line, so Combeferre would lead them in his stead.

"Not exactly. I have somewhat of an idea…"

"You and I will go in my car," Combeferre swiftly began dealing out commands. If they had not been so terrified for Grantaire's life, all of the friends present would have been astonished at how alike Combeferre's voice, his expression, and the fire blazing in his eyes resembled Enjolras. He drew his keys out of his pocket and slapped them down in Courfeyrac's hand. "You drive."

They reached his car, and Courfeyrac jumped into the driver's seat. Combeferre turned to the others standing behind him, staring at him at loss—frightened young soldiers awaiting orders. "Bahorel, go to the place where Éponine lives and see if you can find anything in the area. We have a better chance of finding him that way." He turned to Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet. "The rest of you, keep trying to call Grantaire. Call an ambulance. If you get any news, call Courfeyrac and Bahorel."

With that, everyone nodded quickly and rushed into action. Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly were all three on their phones, trying to get ahold of Grantaire, calling an ambulance, in desperation calling the police as well. Combeferre's car and Bahorel's truck took off down the streets, both drivers speeding but not caring.

As Courfeyrac stared at the road, his terror-filled eyes fixed unwaveringly on the dark city before him, the ominous gloom of the night, Combeferre pulled out his phone. Courfeyrac was too terrified to think much of it but vaguely thought it a bit odd, as it was Grantaire who they ought to have been calling, when Combeferre began to dial a number and muttered anxiously, "I'm calling Enjolras."

…

The first thing he was aware of was the dull throbbing in his head and the sharp, dagger-like bursts of pain shooting repeatedly, firing like gunshots and bullets, through the back right side of his neck. He let out a low groan, a sound that came muffled to his ears. He turned his head slightly, and the pain increased. It pierced his neck as if a nail had been driven into his vertebrae. Perhaps it was this pain that awoke him. He opened his eyes.

For a moment, the world around him came as a spinning blur as his mind tumbled through the dizzying transition between unconsciousness and waking. He watched bewildering images come into an unclear focus before his eyes: the corner of a glass window, a dashboard, a steering wheel, a deflated airbag… He stared for what might have been a second or two without comprehending these things. He did not know what had happened or how he had gotten here in this vehicle. Then he remembered.

All at once, it came back to him, and it hit him like a fist in the face, a bullet in the chest. He had been driving. He had felt the impact of the collision. He had been in a car crash.

He cursed loudly. Without allowing another second to slip worthlessly past, he raised his head—another bolt of pain cut through his neck, causing him to swear again—and reached for the buckle of his seatbelt. As the belt, which had been locked securely over his body pinning him against the back of the seat, retracted he pulled the handle on the door and pushed it open. He jumped out of the vehicle.

The cool air of the dark night met him suddenly. Even more suddenly, his feet hit the black asphalt beneath them, jolting his body and hurting his neck—he had not expected his feet to meet the ground so fast; he thought it was a farther drop. He threw out his hands and caught himself against the truck, muttering another curse under his breath. He stood there for a moment, steadying himself and breathing in the clean taste of a summer night, filling his lungs with oxygen, trying to clear his aching head.

His body swayed. His legs felt a weak support beneath his body. Was it a result of the collision, unconsciousness, or injury? Or was it merely the effects of the alcohol? He was not sure. He did not think he was hurt too badly. He had evidently been knocked out when he crashed: he had probably hit his head, which he guessed was the reason for the pounding in his skull. He likely had a concussion, but he was not extremely worried about that. The only thing that really concerned him was the pain in his neck. No matter, he was conscious now, and he could move his body without difficultly; he did not think he had fractured anything; he would be alright.

He tried to think, figure out what had actually happened? He did not remember crashing into anything. At least, he had not seen whatever he had crashed into. He remembered feeling the collision. One moment he was driving down the road talking to Courfeyrac on the phone, and the next he felt his truck hit… something. He guessed it was a tree or something similar, as he had been the only car on the road.

He stepped back and closed the door. Then, dragging one hand along the side of the vehicle to steady himself as he walked, he made his way around the truck, stumbling slightly as he went, struggling to keep his balance. He was dizzy, and his legs were a feeble support beneath him. He was drunk and he was injured, and he felt as if he might collapse at any moment. He persisted anyway. He went around the front of the truck, which was bent inward, busted, damaged by the collision. That would cost a lot to fix… He doubted he would fix it. Sighing, Grantaire raised his eyes and looked across the lonely road to look for whatever he had driven his truck into. That was when he saw it.

It was a distance away; it must have been thrown backward when the vehicles collided… It had rolled completely over twice before it finally came to rest on its four tires once more. It was smashed, destroyed by the impact. The front left side, the driver's side, was utterly crushed. The front windshield was cracked, three windows shattered. Now it was on fire.

All alone on this forsaken road, surrounded by bleak forests and barren fields, lost in the middle of a cold-hearted oblivion, the entire world, under a boundless sky of shining stars, which looked down on the earth like angels that watched but did not intervene, burned a single tongue of flame, a single beacon signaling to others that did not reply, a flare, a desperate cry for help that was not seen or answered. Burning like a candle in the dark forsakenness of the night and of that desolate road was a small red car.

It was like a bullet hitting him in the heart, perhaps like his huge truck hitting him and running him over. Perhaps the impact and the pain of either of these would have felt the same as what Grantaire felt now. His legs gave out from beneath him, and he might have fallen had he not been holding onto his car. In that moment, his head was spinning, he was dizzy and lightheaded, his chest tightened and closed up, his lungs lost the capability to draw in air, his could not breathe, he could not think. The entire world was caving in on him. He was standing in the middle of the divided Red Sea as the great walls of water came crashing down on the Egyptians, drowning and crushing them—he was one of those pagans destroyed by the wrath of God.

"Oh, my God…" Grantaire heard his own voice cry in a strained and broken whisper.

However, if any God could hear him, He did not answer him. And why should He? Grantaire had never believed in God before. Or if He had acknowledged His existence, he had not cared about Him; he had not followed Him, he had not trusted Him, he had not loved Him. What good is belief without faith? Without love? To believe in a God is nothing: even Satan believes in Him. It is not enough. Perhaps Grantaire believed in God, but he never followed Him and he never loved Him. He loved the world and the selfish and sinful pleasures that it had to offer too much to give his life away to any Greater Power. Grantaire never loved the Christ, who saves His children. So why now, when it was too late, should He answer the faithless plea of a hell-bound sinner, who served only himself and only the devil?

What did it matter? If there was a God at all, if this God could hear him, if this God could help him, He would not. He would look at Grantaire with revulsion and disgrace—much the way Enjolras, who was a follower of Jesus, looked at him—and He would turn his back on him. Grantaire was alone. There was alone in this darkness with no one but the gloomy forest, the empty fields, the black road, and the burning vehicle.

There was no way of knowing how many people were inside of it. None had gotten out. The passengers were either trapped inside, unconscious, or already dead. No sound came from the fire save for the noise of the flame: hissing like the tongues of serpents, whispering like the voices of demons, flapping like the large black wings of Death.

Grantaire recognized Enjolras's car.

…

Something was burning. He could smell it. He smelled smoke. He smelled fire. The dense scent, the smoky air, was burning his nose and his sinuses, his throat, and his chest. Before he was awake, he was coughing. Coughing up mucus, and… something else, some pungent liquid that was coming up his throat and draining slowly out from his nose and the corner of his mouth…

He weakly opened his eyes. They were immediately met with a painful burn as thick smoke assaulted them. Reflexively, he closed them again, flinching and wincing. He kept them shut tightly as they began to water. He coughed again, more forcefully this time, as he was conscious now and allowed his body to do what it must in order to get the smoke out of his lungs. It hurt his chest a bit, but he ignored it. A large amount of fluid dislodged itself from his lungs, and he spat it out. It became a bit easier to breathe. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes again.

He did not know where he was. He did not know what had happened.

He could smell smoke and fire: something must have been burning. He could smell something else as well. Something strong, powerful, sharp, almost metallic, vile, sickening… For a long time, he could not place such a repulsive odor. He was not sure he had ever smelled anything quite this overwhelming or this distasteful. The very scent, the way it assaulted his sinuses as if threatening to suffocate him, made him want to gag. Not until he raised his eyes and saw the smears, splatters, of deep crimson running slowly down the windshield like rain on a windowpane, like tears on a widow's face, did he realize that it was blood. Someone was bleeding. Someone was hurt.

My God, was his first thought, and his second was to find this person, whoever it was, and help him. Yet, he did not know who or where this person was. He did not know who was bleeding. He did not know who was hurt.

Bewildered and afraid—yes, he had no choice but to admit to himself, he was afraid; not for himself but for whoever it was losing what was obviously a very large and dangerous, perhaps lethal, amount of blood—he looked around him, trying to figure out what was going on. Only to add to his confusion, he saw the interior of his car. What on earth was he doing on his car? He saw the windshield, cracked and covered in blood, broken fragments of glass scattered across a wet dashboard, a deflated airbag stretched over the steering wheel in front of him; the bag was white but marked by a large red stain… He looked down at his own body, and saw that he was soaking wet. Everything from his chest down as far as he could tell was drenched in the same dark fluid.

He had no idea where it was coming from. He was not hurt; he could not feel any pain; it could not have been… It could not have been his own, as he was not even hurt. Certainly, this was not his blood… But why was it all over him? Where was it coming from? Who was it coming from? It seemed to be… it seemed to be coming from his own body… It had to be. He was the only one in the car. His body was the only present being of flesh and blood, mortal flesh which could be torn and mortal blood which could be spilt. He was bathing in a fountain of what must have been his own blood.

He stared. He seemed to have lost all capability to do anything else. He was unable to move or speak. He could do nothing but remain still in his seat and stare uselessly at what he saw before him, all around him, all over him… God, it was everywhere…

Numbness, emptiness like a hallow pit inside of him where his heart and insides were no longer, filled his corpse as he stared uncomprehendingly at his own body. It was as if he was in a dream, watching these things, witnessing them but not really experiencing them, not really living them. This could not have been real. He was dreaming. This was not real. It was as if he was dead already, and he was a spirit hovering over and looking down at his corpse as his soul departed. That would explain why he was unable to feel the pain.

The sea of red was filling up his car, threatening to drown him. His eyes fixed inflexibly on this bleeding flood, this death sentence, he drew a deep breath of precious air into his lungs. Pain, like a knife going into the center of his chest, tore through him. He gasped a short, sharp gasp. He bent over, clutching his chest with one hand, choking and coughing as fire devoured his lungs. He could feel them burning up inside of him, as if they were shriveling up like cinders in a furnace, constricting or being constricted as if by the serpent, shrinking into withered black crusts. It was a mouthful of smoke that he had inhaled. As he sat there cringing in pain and coughing up thick clots of foul-tasting fluids, it occurred to him for the first time that the fire must have been close by.

When at last most of the smoke seemed to be out of his lungs, he cracked open his wet eyes and turned his head. Terror struck his heart like a bolt of lightning. The car was on fire. Fire! FIRE! The passenger-side of the vehicle was already ablaze. Streaming and flapping like the tatters of a red flag, the flame billowed. It rushed into the air like a river, hissed like a snake, jeered like the demons. It reached into the sky and toward him with flaming arms and flickering hands, the flaming hands of the doomed souls trapped in hell. As if it was alive, the fire mocked him as it slowly grew larger, as it slowly moved toward him. The beast crept steadily toward its victim, prepared and eager to devour him.

It was the sight of the fire, his burning car which he was still inside, that finally brought Enjolras to his senses. All at once, like a thousand pounds falling upon him, reality hit him. He remembered driving, leaving Paris, heading home for the first time in a year. He remembered the other car, the truck, the headlights, the speeding and reckless driver. He remembered the collision.

Vaguely he could remember rolling. His gut had been filled with that horrible sensation that consumes a man as he falls through nothingness. He was tumbling through an oblivion of darkness and pain. It was like being trapped beneath the waves of ocean as the current tosses a limp body onto the coast, dragging him against the rocky seabed and slamming him against the shore. (This was his car being thrown and rolling completely over twice.) He remembered the collision, the impact, the rolling, and then… nothing after that. He must have passed out. He could remember nothing else. Now, however, he was awake. He was still in his car, and it was on fire.

Instinct for survival taking control and taking the wheel, he acted at once. His hand flew to the buckle of his seatbelt and pressed the button, and as the belt released him he made for the door. He yanked on the handle with one hand and slammed his other hand into the door to open it. It did not open. It did not even budge. The collision had slashed the door inward, and now it was stuck closed. He tried again, this time throwing his shoulder into the door as well, trying in vain to burst through it. It was useless. He could not open the door. He could not get out.

Jesus!

His heart lurched in terror. He panicked. Only a second later, he stopped his mind in its tracks. He could not panic: that would only make things worse. He had to remain calm. He had to keep his head. He had to find a way out of this. There had to be a way. He had to find a way out!

The driver-side door was welded shut. It would have been the quickest and the safest escape, but it was impossible. All three windows on that side of vehicle were shut tight and unbroken. His eyes darted frantically to the other side of the car. Surely he would be able to get out of the passenger door— The fire was already burning the foot of the seat, laughing at him, mocking him, blocking the exit. Beyond the fire, three windows were broken, and billowing clouds of black smoked spilt out of them, rising into the night and mixing with the gloom. He would climb through window if he must. He would get out of here. He had to.

If he went through the backseat, he could avoid the flame and get out through the glass-less window. That was what he would do. That was his only option. Springing into action, he made for the backseat—

He cried out.

Pain. Awful pain. It hit him like a bullet. When he tried to get up, when he tried to move his legs, the first bolt of pain hit him. It was sudden, and it was terrible. It was a sensation like bullets being shot up his legs. Movement pulled the trigger, and pain immobilized him. It began in his thighs and tore through his entire body, shooting up his abdominal, ripping through his chest, penetrating and shaking his whole skeleton. He could not move his legs.

Panic pouring into him and filling him rapidly, he looked down. His trousers were drenched. The fabric was engorged with blood. A red puddle was forming in his lap. "God…"The front of the car was desolated in the collision, and the dashboard had been smashed downward. It was bent and collapsed on Enjolras's legs. Like a thousand pounds weighing upon his fragile body, it was pinning down, immobilizing, and crushing his legs. Worse yet, the sharp edge of some broken metal was sinking deep into his thighs, cutting into his flesh as easily as the blade of a sword. Blood was coming up out of his thighs like water gurgling out of a spring in the earth. Now he knew where all of this blood was coming from…

Terror seized his heart. He could not move. He was trapped in this car with the fire. Burning, bleeding, dying. He was going to die in here. If he could not get out, he would die. His life would be drained with the blood or his body would be burned with the car, claimed by the fire. He was going to die if he did not get out of here. Soon! He had to get out!

Refusing to give in or to give up, he attempted to break free of these chains. He tried to move his legs. With a powerful jolt, he tried to yank them out from the grasp of the metal crushing them. The pain—the agony—hit him so hard that it blinded him. It paralyzed him. He could not see. He could not move. He could not breathe. He was unable to stop himself from shouting. A horrible cry, strangle and tortured, flew out form his bleeding mouth. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could—as if that could make the pain any less. He ground his jaws together, scrapping his teeth upon each other. He cringed as a wave of excruciation devoured him.

Finally, when the agony faded a faint bit, he forced his eyes, which were red and wet now, to open. He looked down, and he watched his wounds vomit up more blood. "God…" he whispered. He was bleeding too much. He was bleeding out. He was bleeding to death. His efforts to get away had not helped him in the least. It had only made things worse. He was bleeding heavier, and he was in greater pain. He could not get away. He could not move again. He could not move. He could not get out.

Yet the fire was growing larger by the seconds! It was spreading, moving toward him. Like a predator stalking its prey, taking its time as only to make the victim suffer longer, it was coming. In less than a minute, it would be upon him. It would burn him. It would devour him.

Panicking, not knowing what else to do, with nothing else to do, he raised his voice and cried for help. "Help!" Enjolras yelled as loudly as he could. "Somebody, help me! Please! I cannot get out! I'm trapped in the car! There's a fire!"

His eyes darted to stare in terror at the flame. It was not even a foot away from him. He could feel the heat beating upon him as a man trapped in the desert feels the scorching glare of the sun as he lies on the sand and dehydrates. He could feel the heat slowly burning his skin, like the sun burns the skin slowly. He could feel the fire licking at his feet, grabbing at his legs like the hands of demons.

God! His voice cracked and broke in panic and despair when he shouted another time, "Help me!"

But what use was it? Nobody came. Nobody could hear him over the revelry of this heinous flame. Nobody was coming to help him, and even if someone was to come, what was a man against a fire? What was the power of earth against the power of hell?

"Jesus!" he cried in a strained whisper, in despair and terror. The fire was growing. No one was coming to save him, and he could not save himself. Perhaps, indeed, only the Lord could save him now.

The car was filling up with smoke, toxic fumes from the fire. He could not breathe it. He tried to draw in a breath of precious air, and smoke rushed into his lungs. It invaded his body. It scorched his insides, burning the soft tissue that lined his throat and windpipe, making everything raw and bloody. He choked. He bent over, clutching his chest, coughing, gagging, and suffocating. He could not breathe. He could not breathe! Fluid could be heard gurgling inside of him, and he felt as if his chest was being torn apart from the inside out. A moment later, blood rushed up his throat and burst out his lips.

He leaned over and spat it out, choking on it all the while. His entire body was shaking madly, convulsing, trembling uncontrollably, because he was in so much pain, because he was so weak, and because he was so afraid. With his dying strength, he managed to raise his head.

"Help!" he croaked through the fluid as it churned inside of him and spilt out of him. He raised a hand and hit his palm against the window—maybe he could break the glass and get out… Sharp pain shot through his hand, his wrist, and his arm. The glass did not break (even if he could manage to break it, his legs were trapped, and an open window would be useless). Instead of an escape, he saw a red handprint—a splatter of blood—left upon the window.

"Jesus."

The fire was upon him! It was at his feet. At first, it only scratched at him, as if to torment him, to tease him and laugh at his terror. Then, it began to assault him. I sprung upon him as a beast tackles its prey. It attacked him. In the next second, his boots were on fire. Ravenously the flame devoured the leather exterior, burnt through his shoes, and started at his skin. The fire began to burn him.

"HELP ME!" he whaled like a child—frightened, helpless, pitiful. His voice was high, strained, desperate. It broke and shattered. "Please!" Now, he was begging. Strong, brave, proud Enjolras, who scarcely asked anyone to help him with anything, who refused to admit ever that he needed help, was begging like a coward. He was begging whoever might be able to hear his broken cry, he was begging God, he was begging... anyone!

"Somebody please help me!" Enjolras screamed. The fire was traveling up his legs. In seconds, it had consumed the fabric of his clothes, which were ablaze and burning like torches of white flame, and it was eating his flesh. It was burning him, devouring him, destroying him. His legs were on fire, his ankles first, then his skin, his knees, his thighs… The flame destroyed him, burning, melting, boiling his flesh and blood, causing it to bubble, and smoke, and hiss, and curdle, and crumble, and shrivel up like meat frying on a grill, like ashes in a burnt out furnace.

"Please! Help me!" Enjolras whaled one more time—the desolate cry of a forsaken child—and a tear rolled down his marble cheek. Enjolras, who seemed unbreakable, was broken, and, like a helpless child, he was crying. Like a man being beaten, tortured, like one tied down to a stone table in some desolate chamber while his enemies interrogate and lacerate him, like a man being dissected while he is awake, or burned while he is alive, like a man being crucified, he was screaming. Enjolras screamed. He begged for help. He cried for mercy.

It was useless. No mercy was shown to him. There was no one to help him. No one could hear him. It seemed God could not hear him either. Perhaps the roar of the flame was too loud. Perhaps Satan was too strong. No one came. No one helped him. No one saved him. So Enjolras screamed vainly as the fire grew. As he was burned alive.

…

He found his phone on the filthy floor of his truck—he must have dropped it when they crashed. With trembling hands and twitching fingers, he dialed the number: 1—1—2.* Dazed, unable to believe that this was reality, unconvinced that this was not all just a terrible, terrible nightmare, he ran toward the burning car. He ran toward the fire.

The phone rang once.

"112, Public Safety Answering Point," said a composed voice. "Please, state which service you require."

Grantaire did not state which service he required. Instead, he screamed like a madman into the phone, "There was an accident! The car is on fire, and my friend is trapped inside! Enjolras!?" Momentarily forgetting entirely about the call-taker he was speaking to, Grantaire came upon the car. He could see a handprint of blood upon the window. "Holy hell, God-damn, my God!" he muttered in frenzied terror under his breath. His hand flew to the door—the entire front and left side of the car was bent inward, smashed and broken—and with all of the strength in his alcohol-weakened muscles, he tried to rip it open.

"Damn!" he screamed into the phone, interrupting and overpower the voice that was starting to speak from the other line. The door would not yield. He tried again to yank it open, but it was useless. He could not get it open.

"Monsieur, are you alright?"

"The damn door is stuck!" Grantaire yelled into the phone. His voice was trembling with fury and terror, helplessness, panic, and despair. "I can't get the door open, and he's trapped in there, and the car is on fire!"

"I will send ambulances, police, and firemen," the voice said urgently but—somehow—still calmly. "At what location are you?"

In haste, Grantaire put his phone on speaker, set it on the ground, and tried to open the door with both hands. As he wrestled in vain with door that would not yield, he answered in a loud voice, "I'm…" He had not idea where he was. He screamed a vile curse. "I don't know where the hell I am!" Turning wildly around, he saw the street sign not far off at the intersection. Squinting at the letters, struggling to read through his drunkenness, he relayed the information to the speaker, emergency vehicles set out, and his call was transferred to the Emergency Control Service Center, whom he spoke to briefly as he struggled vainly to get Enjolras out of the burning car.

There was no way he was going to get this door open, not with his bare hands, and the fire was only growing. He opened the passenger side door, and the fire rushed out. There was no way he would be able to get in or Enjolras would be able to get out through this door unless he had a way to put of the fire. The right side of the car was already ablaze. He would have to find a way to open the broken door.

"Please, get here quick!" said Grantaire in despair, grabbing his phone as he ran past. "My friend is trapped in the car! He's burning alive!" Then he hung up.

Carelessly stuffing his cell back into his pocket, he ran back to his truck and managed to dig a crowbar out from a pile of garbage in the back bed. He thanked God aloud without realizing it and rushed back to the flaming car. As he neared the vehicle, he looked through the window, through the blood, through the fire, and he saw Enjolras still sitting in the driver's seat, trapped, imprisoned.

If he was screaming or making any sound at all, Grantaire could not hear him. It was hard to tell, but Grantaire did not think he was moving. He remained still in his seat, motionless in the presence of fire and death. If what he saw before him was true, Enjolras was either paralyzed, unconscious, or already dead.

Grantaire's heart lurched in terror. No! He would not believe that. That could not be true. Enjolras was not dead! He would not believe it until he had no other choice. For now, he chose to believe that Enjolras was alive but in mortal danger, and if he did not do something soon, it would be too late.

He swore under his breath as he stabbed the tip of the crowbar into the narrow crease between the door and the lock. He pressed down on it with all of the strength and weight of his body. Come on. Open! Open! God, please, let it open! Please! Jesus…

The loud crack, a noise almost like a gunshot, of metal breaking slammed against Grantaire's eardrums; he stumbled forward; and he felt the friction between him and this door disappear. The crowbar had broken! In terror and outrage, Grantaire screamed a curse. He quickly regained his balance and raised his eyes.

Wait! No, it was not the crowbar that had broken! It was the door. Part of the door had broken, and now it was a useless flap clinging to the side of a burning car, swinging loosely on worthless hinges. The door was open. It was open!

"Yes!" Grantaire's curse was suddenly a cry of joy, and his miserable spirit actually dared to feel a faint glow of hope. Yet, there was no time to rejoice for long. Without hesitating, Grantaire tossed the crowbar, reached for the door with his bare hands—God! just the car door was hot, and just touching it was painful—and pulled it open. Thick, black, sufficing smoke and hungry, lethal, hellish fire poured out. Grantaire coughed and blinked his eyes rapidly as they were assaulted and burned. He ignored both the smoke and the fire, looked into the car... And there was Enjolras.

He was unconscious. Unconscious or dead. His body rested motionlessly in the seat, covered in blood and burning in fire. His head was turned to the side, hanging limply on one shoulder, like the head of a man who is crucified and hanging lifeless of a cross, and Grantaire found himself staring straight into Enjolras's face. His face was pale. His eyes were closed. His lips were parted slightly, and a thin stream of red was flowing form the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, my God," was all Grantaire was capable of saying, of doing. He could do nothing but call on God.

For a moment, he was stupefied, struck dumb, and paralyzed by terror and shock. The moment passed, and he rushed into action. Without second thought, he dove into the fire. He heard his own voice yelling in pain as the flames attacked his hands and arms. Instead of withdrawing, he went farther forward. Blinded, unable to see, unsure if his eyes were open or closed, he wrapped his arms around Enjolras's limp body and tried to pull him out of the vehicle. He could not.

Why!? What was going on!? GOD!

With no other choice, Grantaire released his grip around Enjolras and retreated. Swaying on his legs, choking on the smoke, ignoring pain that was burning his hands and arms, he looked wildly around and tried to discover what was wrong. Was Enjolras still wearing his seatbelt? No, it was unbuckled. Then, why— Oh!

Grantaire swore again. He saw how the front of the car had been crushed. He saw how Enjolras's legs were trapped beneath the desolated dashboard. He saw how Enjolras was stuck, bleeding, trapped. He saw how this very car had become Enjolras's prison. It had become his grave. And it was all Grantaire's fault.

"Oh, my God," Grantaire was saying again and again, deliriously, hysterically. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! What have I done! Oh, God! GOD! God, help me! Help me!"

He was worthless now. His body was shaking all over; his limbs were limp; his mind was gone; his vision was blurring and darkening. Soon he was going to pass out. "GOD!" Grantaire screamed again. No! He could not give up! He could not give in! He could not let Enjolras die! There had to be a way… There had to be a way to get him out…

He felt as if he was drunk—wait, he was drunk—he felt as if he was dead. He was dead, and now he was a corpse without a soul or purpose lingering in the mortal world, trying in vain to commune with the living, who could not see him. Bracing himself, he stumbled into the fire again, leaned in to the car, and sank his hands into the flame. He cried out again when the fire touched his hands. Fumbling frantically through the flames, he found the dashboard, he found Enjolras's legs, which were soaked and spitting up blood like bile. With his bare hands, which the fire was already burning, he tried to find a way to free Enjolras. He tried to bend the metal, he tried to break the dashboard, he tried to free Enjolras's legs, he tried to get him out…

All was in vain. It was useless. It was hopeless.

Then, Grantaire heard the sirens.

They were like the voice of an angel. They awakened a sudden new hope in him. Grantaire sprang up and looked down the street. Already he could see the flashing lights approaching. He started shouting to the fire truck—saying what? he had not idea—and waving his arms around like one who has gone insane.

The fire truck, and an ambulance just behind it, pulled up beside the burning car, and a swarm of uniformed men rushed out. At once, in frenzied panic, Grantaire was rapidly talking to the men, but they did not listen to him. The raced past him as if he was not there. They closed in around the burning car and around Enjolras. They blocked his view. Grantaire could not see what was happening.

He started forward, running toward the car once more, but someone came up behind him and grabbed him by the arm. Grantaire turned suddenly, frightened, as if he thought he was being attacked, and he saw a paramedic. He did not even know what he was saying now, but words were falling ceaselessly through his lips, and he was speaking to the man in terror.

"He's in the car, the car's on fire, I tried to get him out, but I couldn't, I have to save him, I can't let him die, I can't let him die, I can't let him die..."

"We will handle it, monsieur," the paramedic said gently but sternly. "We will get him out of the car. You need to come with us. You need medical attention." He was still holding a firm grasp on Grantaire's arm, and he began to pull him in the other direction, toward one of the ambulances.

"No!" Grantaire shouted, suddenly hostile. With surprising strength and aggressiveness, he yanked his arm out of this man's grip. "I'm not going! I'm fine, I'm not hurt, but Enjolras—"

"Monsieur…" Other men were around him now. "Please, let us handle this. You need to come with us."

"No!" Grantaire refused again, but it was clear now that these people were not giving him a choice.

Oh, God! he thought in terror. Where is Enjolras!? I cannot leave him! I need to get to him! I need to see him!

He spun around and looked across the street at the firefighters, who were now trying to put out the flame as it devoured what was left of Enjolras's little red car. Where was Enjolras!? His eyes darted to a new location, and then he saw him.

He saw them slide a man—he supposed it was a man; through the blood and gore it was hard to distinguish who or what it was—on a stretcher into the back of an ambulance. The doors closed, the vehicle took off, and that fast he was gone.

* "112" is the European emergency number, equivalent to the American "911."