Cole Fire, page 17
As he drove once again to Little Saigon, he reviewed the plan over and over in his head. He tried to picture each floor and how many steps it would be to the utility closets. Everything must go as planned.
This was to be the biggest and last fire for Wiltz. He drove past the site several times. He parked and walked the route he would take. On his last reconnaissance mission he entered the building and took the elevator to the top. He opened the doors on every floor, and when he didn’t see anyone, got out. He found a utility closet on each floor he explored. It would follow, such closets would be on the other floors as well. Lots of flammables, wires, and cables he would use them as his kindling.
The building was old, the multiple layers of paint everywhere told the story of its age. He used his pocket knife to help a peeling section of paint come off in a chunk the size of a dollar bill. The top layer was latex, but the five or six layers below were hiding a variety of volatile pigments. It will make great fuel, Wiltz decided.
With Charlie’s insistence, it was decided to take two containers of accelerant. Once again, Wiltz added Styrofoam to the mix of one canister to assure it would adhere to the surface he splashed it on. The other was straight gasoline. In his research, Wiltz had found that gasoline burns at essentially the same temperature as wood, except faster. It has worked in the past; this building would be no different.
Whoever said, “Act like you know what you’re doing and you can get away with anything,” was right. Wiltz passed two people on the sidewalk walking to the apartment building, but neither paid any attention to him or his five-gallon containers.
As planned, Wiltz used the rear entrance to the building. The quiet of the building reassured him. In and out, home and back to bed. This was the end of the war. He was going home. This time not on a medical flight, not padded and bandaged. He was the victor. He would leave, “mission accomplished.”
Wiltz rode the elevator to the sixth floor. With a little luck, the fire would take care of the top two stories on its own. He would torch the floors below until he ran out of fuel. He made his way straight to the utility closet. There were two cans of paint. A small mix of tools sat on a shelf. He grabbed a large screwdriver and started popping open paint cans and dumping the contents on the floor of the closet.
Just like the two floors above, the utility closet was just steps from the elevator. Moving quickly and confidently, Wiltz moved to the dark green door. This time, the utility closet was locked. For a moment Wiltz panicked. He took the screwdriver from his pocket and jammed it hard into the door frame at the striker plate and jerked. The hollow-core door buckled just enough for the latch to slip out. The door popped open.
This is too easy, Wiltz thought, very pleased with himself. He quickly surveyed the contents of the little closet. No paint this time, but like the other it was mostly storage, except for an old mop and bucket. It occurred to Wiltz he could work faster and more efficiently if he didn’t just splash gas and gel. He grabbed the mop, removed the cap on the napalm mixture and gave the mop a soaking.
The trail of gel streamed behind the mop like the tail of a comet, over the tops of doors and down walls. Wiltz poured more of his mixture over the mop and attacked the walls and doors on the opposite side of the hall.
As he worked his way down the hall he could hear the thump-thump beat of hip-hop. As the gel trail dissipated, Wiltz decided to light the fire and go to the next floor. His thought came too late. The door of an apartment several doors down opened, thunderous bass-heavy music flooded the hall, and three young Asian teens in full gang attire came into the hall.
“VC! VC!” Charlie Baranski made his presence known for the first time since Wiltz left his house.
The boys spotted Wiltz. He lit a match and touched the wall. The teens began screaming at Wiltz and rushing towards him. He flopped the mop against the flaming wall and ran towards the boys, waving and jabbing the flaming mop at them. They turned and ran back into the apartment. Wiltz ran the flaming gel over the door and around the casing.
He jammed the bundle of fiery mop strings under the door knob and kicked the end of the handle to where it wedged in the carpet. Wiltz moved quickly for his gas cans, lighting and touching matches to the gel along the wall as he went.
The thump of the music stopped. The sound of screaming filled the hall. Two apartment doors opened and an old Asian woman peeked into the hall. There was a loud bang. At first Wiltz thought he was imagining it, but he knew the second blast was a shot fired through the door.
“Saddle up! Incoming enemy fire! Those Zipperheads have us outnumbered!” Charlie screamed. “Now, soldier!”
Without a thought Wiltz yelled, “Yes, sir!” He grabbed the canisters and ran.
Wiltz frantically pushed the elevator down button. The flames were finding their way up the walls, under doors, along the carpet, and lapped their way to the ceiling. The sound of the screaming gang of teens was rousing more people in the surrounding apartments.
There was no time to wait. Wiltz ran for the stairs. The stairwell was filling with smoke and as he looked over the side he could see the yellow glow of fire from the two floors above him.
They would expect him to go down the stairs. He decided his only option would be to go up. The smoke and heat increased as he hit the landing on the fifth floor. He couldn’t finish the job now. He poured the contents of the napalm canister down the stairwell. It a moment of bravado, Wiltz dropped a match into the container at the same moment he dropped it. Several floors below, it exploded like a bomb, spraying flaming balls of gel against the stairs and igniting the floor below.
With the partially full gas can in hand he started up the stairs. The smoke and heat intensified with every step. The deafening bell of the fire alarm screamed through the stairwell. The fire department wouldn’t be far behind. Maybe up was not such a good idea, Wiltz thought.
* * *
“Breathe, fool!” Charlie screamed.
Wiltz gasped and coughed in the smoky air.
In a hard, metallic clang, the door of the stairwell burst open. The door banged hard against the wall. They were just behind him. Grabbing the gas can, Wiltz ran up the next flight, and this time he didn’t stop on the landing. For a split second he glanced down the spiral opening of the stairs.
Wiltz’s breathing was nothing more than gasps. As he started up the stairs he unscrewed the cap on the gas can. He had no choice but to press on.
“Faster!” Charlie’s voice seemed to echo in the cavernous shaft.
Ahead Wiltz saw a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. The smell of gas wafted around him as he ran. He knew what he must do. Setting the gas can down, he grabbed the red canister from the wall and hurled it down the stairwell at the boys. It bounced hard against the rail and struck a boy hard across the head in the middle of the group.
For a moment the pack stopped and tried to understand what just happened to their comrade. It was all the time Wiltz needed. He backed down a few steps and poured gas down the stairwell onto the boys. Without hesitation, he lit his entire box of matches on fire. With a sideward fling of his arm, he threw the fireball at the boys.
His aim was true. The gas ignited, sending three of the boys up in flames. The residue of the gas ignited and set the stairs and stairwell alight. The gang panicked. Some ran back down the stairs. Others began trying to stomp out the flames at their feet.
The boy that caught the bulk of the fuel waved his arms frantically. With fiery hands he slapped futilely at his face and hair. Then he paused. In a single motion, he threw himself over the rail, and plunged the six floors to the checkerboard tile floor below.
The mayhem was enough for Wiltz to run unnoticed to the top floor and the door to the roof. There was still gas in the can, not much, but enough to douse a pile of tarps and a pile of trash left from a repair job of some kind. As Wiltz poured the last few drops of gas on the scraps of plywood and two-by-fours, he looked out over the city.
“I will miss you,” he said softly.
As he reached in his pocket he realized he had thrown his matches at the boys. There was no time. In the distance he heard sirens. He couldn’t tell if it was headed his way or not, but he needed to get away. The first fires must be roaring by now. He must get away.
Wiltz moved to the edge of the roof. The building next door was built without a space between. It was shorter than the apartments and dropped at least fifteen feet. The sirens were getting louder; they were coming his way. He must jump.
“Do it,” Charlie whispered.
Wiltz stood tall and turned away from the edge of the building.
“Charlie, I have done as you asked. You said this is the last attack. I am holding you to your word as a soldier.”
“There is more to do.” Charlie’s voice was firm and demanding.
“No! I’m through!” Wiltz matched Charlie’s intensity and began moving to the front of the building. “I will stop you and you will not bother me again.”
As he looked down at the street, he could see people running from the building. Flames were shooting out of windows below, and the fire trucks were rounding the corner.
“This is the end, Charlie, one way or the other,” Wiltz said, stepping onto the ledge.
He waited for a response. There was none.
“Do you hear me?”
The voice he’d grown to despise so much was gone. The flames were brighter, the crowd was clearer. Wiltz could hear the shouts of the firemen, and the screams of people from their windows. What he didn’t hear was Charlie Baranski. It was over.
Turning from the ledge, Wiltz broke into a run. Without hesitation he leapt from the apartment building to the roof of the building below. He hit hard and felt a sharp pain in his right ankle as he rolled across the rooftop.
The pain grew sharper when he stood. Limping and wincing, Wiltz approached the grey metal door in the center the roof. A metallic howl of rusty hinges shot through the night as he pulled the door open.
Inside, the pale yellow bulbs in the hall lit the carpet, badly worn, showing years of stain and neglect. To his left and right were doors with peel-and-stick numbers. It was a hotel of some kind. He made his way along the hall, his ankle throbbed, his face wincing with each step. As he approached the end of the hall, a soda machine hummed and cast a florescent flood of light onto a staircase with a dark stained bannister.
Wiltz started down the staircase, his back to the bannister, his throbbing foot dragging behind. The doors read 701, 702 as he reached the next floor. He looked frantically for an elevator. To his right just head he heard the sound of a door opening. A man in a light blue uniform was coming out of a door. As Wiltz approached the man he could see he was quite old. His snowy white hair and beard covered his ebony skin.
As he reach the man, Wiltz dropped to one knee and pretended to tie his shoe.
“Mornin’,” the man said.
“Good morning,” Wiltz replied.
The man was struggling with a luggage cart stacked with books and magazines. In the other hand he grasped a large metal lunch pail.
“Let me give you a hand there,” Wiltz offered.
As he rose to his feet Wiltz slipped his hand in his pocket, struggling to conceal the pain he was in, and palmed several dollar bills. They were neatly folded in two, as was his habit.
“Thank you, I’m havin’ a time here,” the old man said.
Wiltz took the handle of the cart and spun it around, freeing the back wheel from the door frame. The old man pulled the cart into the hall and Wiltz pulled the door closed behind him. Just like when he was a kid in school, he wedged the bills between the door and the lock.
“There you go,” Wiltz said softly.
“God bless you, son,” the old man said without looking back and rolled on down the hall.
The throbbing in Wiltz’s ankle was getting worse and he could no longer put his weight on it. He leaned against the wall, panting with the pain and listening to the thud, thud, thud of the old man and his cart going down the stairs. Several minutes passed and the sound of the descending cart faded away.
Wiltz half-hopped, half-slid his way along the wall until he reached the old man’s door. It took no effort to push it open. Wiltz let the bills fall to the floor and hopped inside.
Once inside he felt for a light switch and flicked it on. Across the small room was a bed, a table, and a tattered old easy chair. Slowly and painfully, he made his way across the floor and collapsed into the chair. Wiltz sat with his head back against the chair, his eyes closed.
In the hall he heard voices, faint at first but growing louder by the second.
“Everybody out! Fire next door! You gotta get out!”
Wiltz froze. The voice grew louder. Heavy knocking now accompanied the yelling. Voices joined in as the moments passed. The door of the small room shook hard from the heavy fist pounding out the alert.
“Fire next door! Everybody out! You gotta get out!”
Wiltz didn’t move. Soon he heard the pounding next door. The chaotic sounds of trampling feet and excited, panicked voices died down, then silence. He bent down and untied his shoe and examined his ankle. He knew it would be a bad idea to take his shoe off; he might not be able to get it back on. The swelling around the top of his shoe was severe. It needed to be bound up if he was going to be able to get to his car. The loosening of his shoe helped the pain, but it was still excruciating to put weight on it.
To the left of the chair was the bedroom. Using the wall to support his weight, Wiltz hobbled into the bedroom and to a small dresser. The drawers contained a small assortment of socks and underwear, a few neatly folded sweaters and sweatshirts, but nothing that would help.
The bathroom was only a few steps away. On the counter were assorted toiletries, and an old razor. Wiltz opened one of the two drawers in the cabinet below the sink. Through the pain, he smiled and groaned “Yes” when he saw a half bottle of Sloan’s Liniment and an old Ace bandage.
Wiltz unscrewed the cap from the liniment and poured it over his ankle, soaking his sock. He unwound the bandage and poured the rest of the liniment over it. There was not much elasticity left to the old bandage, but he wound it as tight as he possibly could, round and round his ankle. He used the old metal clip to fasten the end and tried to stand.
The pain was less intense. The pressure of the bandage kept it from flexing. Wiltz saw his reflection in the mirror and looked long and hard into his eyes.
“This is almost over,” he said, and nodded to himself. He reached up and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside, the white metal shelves were rusted all around the edges. A row of amber plastic medicine bottles were the total content of the cabinet. Ernie Johnston was the old man’s name, and he took a variety of prescriptions.
The only drug Wiltz recognized was Vicodin. The label warned that the medication was two years past the expiration date. He didn’t care. Taking the cap off, he popped three of the pills in his mouth and rinsed them down with water from the sink. All he knew was that he needed to get home.
On the small tidy table in the kitchen was a Bible, a note pad and a pen. As Wiltz passed, he paused and looked at the notes. “My God shall supply all my needs” was written in a shaky hand. Wiltz picked up the pen and wrote.
“Today, He supplied mine. I took your Ace bandage and used up your liniment. Please forgive me. God Bless.” He tossed the pen on the table and hobbled to the door.
Although he was an atheist, Wiltz figured this once he could play into the old man’s fantasy of a power guiding his life and taking care of him. What else do the elderly have?
The hallway was deserted. He knew the stairs would take him to the main floor and out. The chance of running into someone was too great a risk. Perhaps he would go unnoticed. On the off chance the manager of the building was doing a head check, he would be hard pressed to explain his presence in the building. There must be another way.
At each floor Wiltz looked for an alternate way to exit the building. Finally, three floors down, he saw a window at the end of the hall. The light from outside seemed to glow orange. The view from the window was the roof of the building next door. From the window it was almost a direct access. Wiltz unlocked the window and lifted it open. The strong smell of smoke hit him. He put his good foot out the window and climbed out onto the ledge. Along the side of the roof was an access rail. The three-foot gap between the buildings was an easy span to cross. This time Wiltz had no choice but to lead with his injured foot. Little by little, he edged his way along.
There was no way to see how far the ladder ran down between the buildings. Wiltz decided not to chance it and reached for the rusty steel rail. It was wobbly in his hand and he felt unsure of putting his full weight on it. Pushing off with his good leg and using the rail to propel himself forward, Wiltz crossed the divide and landed, tucked and rolled onto the roof.
There was no entrance from the rooftop into the building. From the back side of the building the alley was lit by the fire of the apartment building beyond. Two fire hoses shot up from the street and were manned by at least seven firemen. Wiltz moved to the side of the building with of a view of the street. It was three stories to the street, and at the corner police had it barricaded off. A large crowd had gathered to watch Wiltz’s final attack. They were getting a good show.
Opposite the old rusty rail, a newer ladder led to the alley space between the building and its neighbor next door. In an effort to save his ankle for the walk to his car, Wiltz hopped and slid down the ladder. Twice he nearly missed the rung and instinctively caught himself with his injured foot. The pain, it seemed, was declining. Either that, or the drugs and liniment were kicking in.
As Wiltz neared the bottom of the ladder he could see there was a drop of at least ten feet to the ground. Mustering the last bit of strength in his arms, he did the last five rungs, legs hanging. He guessed the drop to the ground was now a little less than five feet with his arms fully extended. For a long moment Wiltz hung on the last rung. His head told him to drop, but his fear told him it would hurt his wounded ankle. He knew he should drop, but he just couldn’t let go. Finally, his weakened arms made the decision, and he dropped to the concrete below.
