Flash Fiction Contest Winner

FIRE IN THE HOLE

by Colin Palmer

The walls are thick with it, having oozed its way down, following gravity's whim.

This isn't art, she thought. This is murder. Why can't they see me? Why can't they hear me? Hey! You! And you! Hey, I'm alive here guys.

"Truly rad. We're da best. High-five man."

The sound of slapping palms was muffled in the tiny chamber, absorbed by the thick fireproof surrounds. The teenagers laughed, and even that was muted. They didn't notice. Their labor of love was finally completed after an almost constant thirty-six hours of hot, sticky, and painstaking construction.

"Let's get out of here; you stink!" said the second.

Neither moved, both avidly staring with pride at their creation.

"We should give her a name."

"Like what? ‘Hades’? 'Coz that's what it's going to feel like in here in five minutes or so," their laughs subdued again inside the compact space.

They looked at her, their masterpiece of plaster, glue and paper, the splashed remnants of all three that decorated the wall and floors from one of their early fun fights — before creativity set in and they both got down to work with the painstaking attention of true artists. Their laughter died as they stood and admired her in all her glory.

"She looks real," one whispered, his eyes glued to her curvaceous form.

I am real. Stop messing around you guys.  Why don't my arms move?  Why can't I stand up?

"Uhuh. Let's get outta here."

They sealed the thick door, also clad with asbestos, and walked the several steps to a small viewing window, one of several spaced around the walls but this the only one without a video camera mounted in front. A small metal panel jutted out below, wiring and hoses dangling beneath, individually sheathed in a thick protective shield. On top of the panel, a selection of three toggles were marked — one boy flicked the toggle ‘CAMERAS’ to on and looked at his friend, co-creator, then slid his hand to the left to the switched marked ‘FIRE’, his right hand resting near the third switch, ‘RETARDENT’.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Hope Mom doesn't miss that stool," was the response.

His friend took that as a ‘yes’ and flicked up the toggle. A roar filled the inside of the chamber as the Thermit cone burst into an immediate fierce combustion, and after a few seconds, ignited the magnesium bomb underneath it.   Electronic thermometers climbed rapidly, 2,000 degrees centigrade, 2,500 and still climbing as a vast white light enveloped the inside of the chamber.  The boys cheered and slapped high fives, donning heavily tinted safety glasses to peer through the almost impenetrable wall of white heat. Their faces hovered close to the viewing window, just as one plaster hand completely glowing with white flame slapped onto the glass from the inside, followed by a second. Open. The. Fucking. Door. NOW!