her face. Layla was paler still and her eyes had sunk in, dark, bruised lines appearing beneath them.
She paused by the bed, half empty bottle in her hand, and stared at her friend. Work friendships were often weird. You spent all day every day with someone but never saw them any other time. Layla had been the perfect partner to have in the shop. She was amazingly dedicated for someone with no stake in the business, and she was the definition of easy going and caring and lovely. And they had seen one another on weekends. They had drinks and Layla came over to help out when Bayleigh was struggling.
Her eyes were wet and she booted the side of the bed. The pain in her toes made it clear it was a bad idea, but she did it again anyway. Screw it. Screw the men in their trucks and the nasty shit they sprayed out. She was gonna find them and hurt them and… tears ran down her face and she scrubbed them away. She wasn't going to do anything except try and survive. But if she did and the opportunity arose, she'd make them pay.
She sneered at herself, but a huge burp from Layla carried the smell of rotting meat and made her gag. Survival. One thing at a time. She was about to set a building on fire while she was still inside it. So one thing at a time.
She completed another circuit and emptied a few more bottles. The air was hazy with fumes and she felt lightheaded by the time she returned to the bed.
Layla had stopped moving.
Her head was on one side and her eyes were finally still. Bayleigh felt her forehead and jerked her hand away. She was cold now, utterly cold.
She rested her hand beneath Layla's nose and held it there. The breaths were shallow and feeble. She didn't move, even once her shoulder started to shake. She wanted to witness the moment, if only for her own closure.
It happened without warning or fanfare. A breath came out, brushing her hand like a spider. She waited for another and it never came. She could feel the cold rising off her friend. Only it wasn't her friend anymore. Her skin looked like putty, already chipping and flaking off. She pressed a finger against Layla's cheek, ignoring the blurring as more tears arrived. It felt hard, like someone had sprayed her with varnish. She pressed harder and it cracked, like eggshells.
She spun away and her feast of the previous night came up all over the floor. She spat, sucked in the taste of the lighter fluid and coughed. The cough became a hacking, painful thing that had her gripping her knees and bending at the waist. Time was up.
She staggered over to the shelf and scooped up two of the clickers. The last three bottles of lighter fluid went into the bag along with a loaf of bread and cheese, and she paused beside the barricade. This was, at best, lunacy. At worst it was suicide. But she'd get nowhere thinking like that.
She turned for one more look at Layla and wished she hadn't. A sound she'd never made before, a howl that climbed up from her gut, tore from her lips. Her friend was sitting up, sunken eyes staring, lips pulled back from her yellowing teeth. Bayleigh clicked the lighter and held it to the floor.
The line of fluid she'd spread carried the flame from her feet to the bed. She opened another bottle and tossed it onto the fire. It struck the bed and flames leapt up. Fluid splashed across the person who looked like Layla, but wasn't, and she ignited. The scream was horrible, so close to what Layla sounded like yet utterly removed from anything human, and Bayleigh looked away, scrubbing her eyes.
She set her shoulder to the bed and pushed. It slid a few inches and stopped.
Bayleigh groaned and wriggled as she felt the heat on her back. She pushed and it moved again, and stopped. She was going to burn alive. She squeezed her eyes closed against the fumes and the smoke and heaved.
Another three pushes and, as she was sobbing in despair, it tilted, the legs nearest her lifting off the floor. Sweat ran
She paused by the bed, half empty bottle in her hand, and stared at her friend. Work friendships were often weird. You spent all day every day with someone but never saw them any other time. Layla had been the perfect partner to have in the shop. She was amazingly dedicated for someone with no stake in the business, and she was the definition of easy going and caring and lovely. And they had seen one another on weekends. They had drinks and Layla came over to help out when Bayleigh was struggling.
Her eyes were wet and she booted the side of the bed. The pain in her toes made it clear it was a bad idea, but she did it again anyway. Screw it. Screw the men in their trucks and the nasty shit they sprayed out. She was gonna find them and hurt them and… tears ran down her face and she scrubbed them away. She wasn't going to do anything except try and survive. But if she did and the opportunity arose, she'd make them pay.
She sneered at herself, but a huge burp from Layla carried the smell of rotting meat and made her gag. Survival. One thing at a time. She was about to set a building on fire while she was still inside it. So one thing at a time.
She completed another circuit and emptied a few more bottles. The air was hazy with fumes and she felt lightheaded by the time she returned to the bed.
Layla had stopped moving.
Her head was on one side and her eyes were finally still. Bayleigh felt her forehead and jerked her hand away. She was cold now, utterly cold.
She rested her hand beneath Layla's nose and held it there. The breaths were shallow and feeble. She didn't move, even once her shoulder started to shake. She wanted to witness the moment, if only for her own closure.
It happened without warning or fanfare. A breath came out, brushing her hand like a spider. She waited for another and it never came. She could feel the cold rising off her friend. Only it wasn't her friend anymore. Her skin looked like putty, already chipping and flaking off. She pressed a finger against Layla's cheek, ignoring the blurring as more tears arrived. It felt hard, like someone had sprayed her with varnish. She pressed harder and it cracked, like eggshells.
She spun away and her feast of the previous night came up all over the floor. She spat, sucked in the taste of the lighter fluid and coughed. The cough became a hacking, painful thing that had her gripping her knees and bending at the waist. Time was up.
She staggered over to the shelf and scooped up two of the clickers. The last three bottles of lighter fluid went into the bag along with a loaf of bread and cheese, and she paused beside the barricade. This was, at best, lunacy. At worst it was suicide. But she'd get nowhere thinking like that.
She turned for one more look at Layla and wished she hadn't. A sound she'd never made before, a howl that climbed up from her gut, tore from her lips. Her friend was sitting up, sunken eyes staring, lips pulled back from her yellowing teeth. Bayleigh clicked the lighter and held it to the floor.
The line of fluid she'd spread carried the flame from her feet to the bed. She opened another bottle and tossed it onto the fire. It struck the bed and flames leapt up. Fluid splashed across the person who looked like Layla, but wasn't, and she ignited. The scream was horrible, so close to what Layla sounded like yet utterly removed from anything human, and Bayleigh looked away, scrubbing her eyes.
She set her shoulder to the bed and pushed. It slid a few inches and stopped.
Bayleigh groaned and wriggled as she felt the heat on her back. She pushed and it moved again, and stopped. She was going to burn alive. She squeezed her eyes closed against the fumes and the smoke and heaved.
Another three pushes and, as she was sobbing in despair, it tilted, the legs nearest her lifting off the floor. Sweat ran
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