“No!”

Jane could not tell if her mother’s scream had come before or after she had taken the bullet for her. The lead fragments pinged against the wall, sparking bright orange.

Her mother’s body collapsed into Jane’s, a warmth splashing across her hands, seeping through the sleeves of her jacket. Together, they fell backwards against the drywall.

It was happening all at once, and Jane’s mind was struggling to keep up. The flurry of movement as the thugs sprinted out the kitchen, Jackson in tow, their shouts panicked. A strange gurgling noise was coming from on top of Jane, like a clogged drain.

And there was the rush of flames, traveling up the wall behind them. Orange fire licked up the gasoline-soaked drywall, roaring as it consumed the air within the kitchen greedily. Jane dragged herself from beneath her mother’s body, hands slick with-

It was blood. She was covered in blood.

Reality slammed back into focus, the cacophony around her gripping her mind like a vise.

The bullet wound in her mother’s throat gurgled again as her hands clawed at Jane’s, her mother’s eyes wide with terror. The flames above them leaped from wall to wall, filling the air with an acrid smoke that choked whatever expression of anguish from Jane’s throat.

Somehow, she managed to pull it together, just for a moment. Something in the back of her mind tugged at her, compelling her from her shock.

Hastily, she pulled her jacket off, the sleeves sliding stickily from her forearms.

Too much blood. There was too much. There shouldn’t be this much blood.

Her mother’s hands gripped Jane’s legs, weakly drawing her closer. Jane kneeled beside her, pressing the jacket against the bullet wound.

“No, no, come on. Come on!” Jane’s mouth was operating without her volition, senselessly giving sound to the absolute panic she felt. This wasn’t happening. This was a nightmare.

The bleeding was almost entirely unimpeded by the fabric. The jacket was turning crimson-black rapidly.

Something broke in the ceiling above them as it collapsed, flaming timber and other construction material raining around them. A bit of smoldering plaster landed on Jane’s shoulder, but she did not feel it.

The kitchen was bathed in flickering orange, the heat suffocating them.

“Jane…” her mother’s voice was wet in a way that no voice should be. A gurgling rasp.

“Mom, hang on, I just need to stop the bleeding.” Distantly, Jane knew she was fighting an uphill battle. It was unlikely she would be able to stop it at all.

More collapsing architecture, all around them blackened house crashing to the ground. The smoke was so thick that Jane could barely see her mother beneath her.

“Jane… I love you.” Blood was spraying from her mother’s nose with every exhale, fine red droplets extending over her lips.

“Don’t say that. Come on, please don’t say that.” She could not tell what it was that dripped down her cheeks. Tears, or sweat, or water as the pipes burst behind the walls.

More crashing, and, this time, shouting. A woman’s voice as well as a man’s. Jane ignored them, abandoning the jacket and instead pressing both hands against her mother’s neck.

Someone was shouting her name. Jane knew them. They were searching for her from somewhere within the burning house.

She needed help. This someone might be able to help. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. Her mother’s eyes were closing. She couldn’t let that happen. She would not allow them to close.

“Help!” Jane found herself screaming. Immediately, the smoke filled her lungs, choking her. More tears fell from her cheeks as she coughed violently.

“Jane!” There were hands on Jane’s back, cold and sweaty in comparison to the air. A familiar pair of shoes stepped into her view, crouching next to her mother.

“Jane. Jane, stop.” Victoria’s hands were holding Jane’s head, as if trying to wake her. She shook them away. She needed help to stop the bleeding. Victoria’s hands should be on her mother’s neck, holding the blood in. Why weren’t they? Why wouldn’t Victoria help her?!

“Jane. We need to go. She’s gone,” Victoria’s voice was hard. It was a commanding tone, like the brusque way she had before.

“No…” Jane pulled one blood-soaked hand away from the bullet hole, uncomprehending.

No.

Something exploded, elsewhere in the house. The impact unfurled through the kitchen, pushing the smoke against the far wall. Jane nearly toppled over, no longer in control of her numbed legs.

Someone other than Victoria hoisted Jane up from behind with impressive strength. She did not resist, or even bother to react. No.

It was only by this other person’s grasp that Jane was torn away from her mother’s body. It was only then that she saw the full extent of the damage.

What little remained of the ceiling was gone as dark plumes trailed into the sky, obscuring the night. The furniture was gone with only a single upturned chair left untouched. The one Jackson had been sitting in.

The blood formed a maroon background to the prostrate corpse of her mother. Jane’s eyes traced her mother’s pale arms as they lay limp on the floor, again and again she found herself examining the body. There was no emotion within her. There was nothing. Her mother lay there, the last of Jane’s family, surrounded by flame and debris, eyes shut.

No.

Dimly, Jane felt herself being dragged backwards, her heels scratching against the ground. Through the hallway she was carried, and ultimately deposited onto her lawn. The night was as bright as day, licks of fire bursting from her home’s windows. Her eyes watered.

There were sirens, somewhere in the distance, but Jane did not care. The stone path dug into her back, but she did not care.

Victoria and Watson, together somehow, stood over her, but Jane did not care.