The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

64: Angel Band

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Saint, Lily, Bender, Storm, and Fiona by Diego Candia (this was the original cover for Book 1: The Green). All graphics by me.

"Get up!" Saint bolted awake as Luis's voice rattled in his ear, his heart pounding. He defensively shot out a startled hand at the shadow frantically hauling the blankets from his bed.

Luis ducked and threw the blankets to the floor, yelling at him as his teenage voice cracked into a higher pitch. "Don'you be swatting at me, you stupid gringo, get up!" He punctuated the order with a violent shove to Saint's ribs, practically knocking him out of his bunk. "Madre di Dios, there's a fire!"

"Damn it, Luis..." Wash growled, hauling himself to a sitting position. "Now ain't the time for your...." His eyes grew wide as he saw the orange glow across the yard through the open window. "T'underin' Jaysus, lads, the kitchen's on fire!"

Saint jerked out of his bunk like he'd just discovered a rattlesnake curled up on his belly. Somehow on his way to the door he managed to stumble into a pair of jeans and jam his feet into his boots. He fumbled clumsily though the bunkhouse, chuffing his shin painfully against a chair and slamming into Wash in the doorway as they scrabbled for the handle in the darkness, Tommy and Luis slamming into them from behind.

Cursing and sputtering, the men fell though the doorway and raced across the yard.

"What time is it?" Wash gasped, his voice hoarse from sleep and confusion.. "Where are the lasses?"

"Iz early," Luis gasped after him, struggling to keep up with the longer strides of his crewmates. "Maybe they ain't up yet...."

Saint could see the roof was within moments of catching. A curtain of flame sheeted hotly over the window nearest the stove, and black smoke boiled out of the open doorway.

Lynch, who had pulled on a dirty pair of trousers over his long-johns, was coughing violently against the porchrail, his face darkened by soot. He'd evidently entered the kitchen, but was driven back by smoke.

Fiona ran to meet the crew in her nightgown, her face waxy and the light from the fire blazing in her streaming eyes. "I can't find Lily!" she blurted in a panicked sob and clutched at Saint. "She's not in the house!"

Saint felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. Little Miss. Merda, this ain't good. "Tommy! Go check the barn!" He snapped, fighting to control the wild panic racing through him. "Luis, the privy! Go! Get buckets!" He gave the terrified youth a rough shove, sending him sprinting off in the direction of the outhouse.

"Mr. Lynch..." Wash reached for the retching stationmaster, steadying him. "Are you..."

Lynch waved him off, spitting into the dirt and shoving himself upright. He grabbed the wash basin from the porch and limped towards the water trough out front. "Find Miss McMillian. Page! Santana! Hurry up with the buckets!"

Wash's boots clattered onto the kitchen porch as he rushed straight for the smoke-spewing doorway. Saint grabbed him from behind and jerked him off his feet. "Don't breath it, get down!" He barked. "Stay here and call me out if I get lost, Wash. You can't go in there with your arm in a sling." He crawled forward, keeping his head below the smoke.

******

Lily's head throbbed sharply and her nose was filled with the acrid smell of burning wood and grease. The chaotic fragments of fear, pain, and confusion jangling though her aching brain quickly began lining up in an orderly fashion. The kitchen...oh, Jesus help me! She sat up with a soft cry of terror as smoke and flames blazed all around her. Have to find the door...or a window... She cast her eyes around quickly, but all she could see was roiling black smoke.

She crawled a few feet forward and bumped her head on one of the benches, her sense of direction completely obliterated. "Dear God, please help me..." she whispered. "I can't find my way out." The heat was almost unbearable, and a gust of smoke caused her to reel backwards, eyes burning. She opened her mouth to cry for help, but was overtaken by a fit of coughing.

Somewhere outside, she heard panicked voices shouting. The smoke rolled like a malevolent black ceiling above her head, stinking of bacon and burnt cotton. Wood crackled and popped in the dull red light as shattering glass from a breaking window rained down.

She felt large, sturdy hands close around her waist and jerk her backwards. Startled, she cried out in a panic-stricken sob as she was pulled irresistibly into a pair of powerful arms. "Got ya, Little Miss. Ssh." croaked a hoarse, smoked-seared accent in her ear, then a strained almost-shout of "Wash! Talk to us!"

"Come to your left, lad," Wash coughed, then continued from the closest window. "Hand her out to us."

Saint shoved himself backwards with his legs, holding Lily tightly in his arms and dragging her with him. She leaned limply against his heaving chest, her lungs convulsing painfully, and her hands tightly gripping his arms. It's an angel, her mind chattered hysterically. He talks like Saint...

"Wash, keep tal..." His ribs convulsed into helpless coughing as his voice broke. He clutched her hard in an iron grip as he fought for breath.

"This way!" She threw an arm around his waist and pushed him towards the window, leaning on him for support.

"Here!" Wash and Lynch were reaching into the window. "Mind the smoke!" the Irishman ordered. Saint stood up, hauling Lily into his arms like a rolled-up carpet and handing her out the window to the men outside. She kept her death-grip on him, unwilling to be carried to safety while he remained inside. His grip was weakening, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet, coughing violently.

Her eyes flew open wide in horror as he doubled over in the swirling black smoke. Wash and Mr. Lynch were trying to pull her away, and she heard their frantic voices in her ears as if she were under water. She fought for each breath, her lungs convulsing and starved. Everything was fuzzy and dreamlike except for one single, crystaline thing: Her hands locked tightly around Saint's wrists as he stood on the wrong side of the window sill. She knew it was the only thing keeping him upright.

I am not going without you, Peter Bari. She pulled with a strength she would later wonder at, hauling him relentlessly over the sill. He fell clumsily through the window with a hoarse cry and tumbled into the border of spearmint that grew alongside the kitchen wall.

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