The Searcher Read Free

around me like the world is in pain.
    The first fire truck stops at the edge of the blaze and people run out, pulling hose from its belly like they are drawing innards from some beast in sacrifice to a burning god. They seem so tiny and the fire so big. The wind stirs the flames and the fire roars forward, up the road, toward the men, toward me. Fear flares inside me and I turn to run and almost collide with a woman wearing a dark blue uniform, walking up the road behind me.
    â€œAre you okay, sir?” she says, her eyes soft with concern. I want to hold her and have her hold me but my fear of the fire is too great and so is my desire to get away from it. I duck past her and keep on running, straight into a man wearing the same uniform. He grabs my arm and I try to pull free but I cannot. He is too strong and this surprises me, as if I am not used to being weak.
    â€œI need to get away,” I say in my soft, unfamiliar voice, and glance back over my shoulder at the flames being blown closer by the wind.
    â€œYou’re safe now, sir,” he says with a professional calm that only makes me more anxious. How can he know I am safe, how can he possibly know?
    I look back and past him toward the town and the sign, but there is a parked ambulance blocking my view of it now and this makes me anxious too.
    â€œI need to get away from it,” I say, pulling my arm away, trying to make him understand. “I think the fire is here because of me.”
    He nods as if he understands, but I see his other hand reaching out to grab me and I seize it and pull hard, sweeping his feet from beneath him with my leg at the same time and twisting away so he falls to the ground. The movement is as natural as breathing and as smooth as a well-practiced dance step. My muscles still have memory it seems. I look down into his shocked face. “Sorry, Lawrence,” I say, using the name on his badge, then I turn to run—back to the town and away from the fire. I manage one step before his hand grabs my leg, his strong fingers closing around my ankle like a manacle.
    I stumble, regain my balance, turn back, and raise my foot. I don’t want to kick him, but I will, I will kick him right in his face if that’s what it takes to make him let go. The thought of the solid heel of my foot crashing into his nose, splitting his skin and spilling blood, brings a sensation like warm air rushing through me. It’s a nice feeling, and it disturbs me as much as my earlier familiarity with the smell of death. I try to focus on something else, try to smother my instinct and stop my foot from lashing out, and in this pause something big and solid hits me hard, ripping my leg from the man’s grip.
    I hit the ground and a flash of white explodes inside my skull as my head bangs against the blacktop. Rage erupts inside me. I fight to wriggle free from whoever tackled me. Hot breath blows on my cheek and I smell sour coffee and the beginnings of tooth decay. I twistmy head around and see the face of the policeman who nearly ran me down. “Take it easy,” he says, pinning me down with his weight, “they’re only trying to help you here.”
    But they’re not. If they wanted to help, they’d let me go.
    In a detached part of my mind I know that I could use my teeth to tear at his cheek or his nose, attack him with such ferocity he would want to be free of me more than I do of him. I am simultaneously fascinated, appalled, and excited by this notion, this realization that I have the power to free myself but that something is holding me back, something inside me.
    More hands grab me and press me hard to the ground. I feel a sting in my arm, like a large insect has bitten me. The female medic is crouching beside me now, her attention fixed on the syringe sticking into my arm.
    â€œUnfair fight,” I try to say, but am already slurring by the time I get to the last word.
    The world starts turning to liquid and