Fire Escape

by Toni Artuso

Fire Escape

A siren blares like a guilty conscience.

It must be a false alarm.

But the wailing continues. Above it, you hear lodgers, disturbed, chattering. Then slams assault your ears. Feet tramp down the hall.

You decide to stay in the room until the all-clear.

Then you hear banging on doors advancing down the hall methodically, inevitably, a guttural growl accompanying each firm rap.

“Hotel Security!”

“Everybody out!

“Evacuate now!”

Doors burst open, and staff holler room to room in a steady call and response.

“302 clear!”

“303 clear!”

“304 clear!”

You’re in 306. You can’t stay here! You can’t be seen like this! But you need your room key and wallet. Snagging your crossbody bag from the bed, you heedlessly shovel in everything that you emptied from your pockets onto the desk upon first rolling in. Pulling the purse strap over your shoulder, you scurry toward the door then freeze and stare stupidly at your toes, sheathed in unfamiliar black tights. You grab your heels—then gaze in horror at the spikes that once charmed you so. You can scarcely cross a room in these, let alone manage two flights of stairs! Pumps in hand, you shove your feet into slippers, throw open the door, bolt out.

The hallway is deserted—one advantage to being last guest out. You plunge into the stairwell, which echoes emptily. You thunder down, anxious to stay ahead of the hotel staff, still checking the last rooms on your floor but rushing to vacate, too.

The door at the bottom of the stairs flies open. Warm, humid air stifles you. You stumble onto the parking lot’s tarmac. You look up. A large crowd mills just outside the well-lit but deserted lobby—the other hotel guests.

You skirt the group, hanging around the murky edges of the crowd, hoping that no one—especially one of your coworkers—looks in your direction. A man at the edge of the crowd peers into the dark, apparently taking stock of you. His gaze lingers.

From somewhere deep in the central cluster, a voice cuts through the subdued chatter of the milling mob, reaching even your distant ears, your lobes stinging from the unfamiliar pinch of clip-on earrings.

“Hey, anybody seen Tom?”

At first, the voice sounds breezily unconcerned. You recognize the speaker. Of course, Roger finds this a hoot. Back at the office, he’ll embellish the story with each repetition. Despite the claustrophobic warmth of the still-humid night, you shiver, as if someone shoved an icicle from home past the nape of your neck and let it slide down your back inside your clothes. What if Roger recognizes you? Then you’d become his punchline, the bizarre center of his gratuitous, gossipy little tale.

“Seriously, folks, where’s Tom?” Roger’s voice tightens with tension, as if he’s edging toward panic.

You step back, looking desperately over your shoulders, seeking some shrubbery that offers cover in case Roger organizes a search party. You see nothing but a sea of cars and light poles.

The rental car! This revelation strikes like heat lightning out of the clear sky above. You can hide in there! You paw the inside of your purse, praying that, despite your panic, you managed to scoop up the key. You pull it out, then step toward the lot. You squint in the glare of the sodium lights. You’ll be totally exposed to view as you comb the lot for the unfamiliar vehicle. You’re safer in the shadows.

Howling fire trucks arrive, light bars splashing red and yellow all over the building and the milling crowd. As the trucks’ sirens hush, firefighters—in oversize helmets, coats trimmed with reflective tape, and rubber boots—dismount. They assemble then troop into the hotel out of view.

The crowd continues its chatter, but now they focus on the hotel, speculating on what—if anything—the firefighters will find. Your stomach clenches as you ponder how you’ll acquire male clothes again on this trip if your work attire burns. At least, in the excitement, Roger has forgotten you. Even the staring stranger at the edge of the crowd faces the hotel. The trucks’ radio chatter occasionally cuts through the crowd’s muttering. The firefighters tromp out.

The crowd surges forward. Apparently, the firefighters have sounded the all-clear. You dither in the darkness, debating the safest course. You can bury yourself in the press of the crowd. Anxious to return to in-room movies, drinks, meals, perhaps they’ll ignore those around them. On the other hand, one of your coworkers might spot you. You hang back, waiting for things to settle, grow quiet.

The firetrucks finally kill their flashing lights. With a roar, they roll—in a gust of diesel exhaust—toward the driveway and the street beyond. Your eyes follow their retreating taillights. On how many other business trips have you packed your girl clothes, changed into them at night, then paced behind your closed door, a caged animal unable to muster the courage to step even into the hall?

Fingering the car key in your right hand, still clutching your heels in your left, you venture into the parking lot.

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Author Toni Artuso (she/her/hers) is a trans female writer from Massachusetts. Recently retired, she’s transitioning. Her fiction has appeared in Cosmic Crime Stories, Sundial Magazine, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, The Pine Cone Review, Penumbric Speculative Fiction Magazine, Mollyhouse, Sledgehammer Lit, and All Worlds Wayfarer. For more of her work, follow her on Instagram @tonialtrina.

Artist Eric Chamberlain works in acrylic, pastel, graphite, digital and music to make an emotionally, psychologically and spiritually compelling connection with audiences. Chamberlain has also written and published a self-help book for creatives titled The Eye of Gogi. He helps small animals and other creatures when he can.