Cold Fire

with both feet. The pile of seats and junk and bodies was heavy enough, but the half-collapsed section of the ceiling, pushing down on everything else, did not seem to have any give in it. Holly strained harder until the steel deck, covered with only a thin carpet, pressed painfully into her back. She let out an involuntary sob of agony. Then she strained even harder, harder, angry that she could not move it, furious, and—
    —it moved.
    Only a fraction of an inch.
    But it moved.
    Holly put even more into it, found reserves she did not know she possessed, forced her feet upward until the pain throbbing in her legs was markedly worse than that in her back. The intruding tangle of ceiling plates and struts creaked and bent back an inch, two inches; the seats shoved up just that far.
    “It's still got me,” the boy said.
    More smoke was oozing out of the lightless space around him. It was not pale-gray but darker than before, sootier, oilier, and with a new foul stench. She hoped to God the desultory flames had not, at last, ignited the upholstery and foam padding that formed the cocoon from which the boy was struggling to emerge.
    The muscles in her legs were quivering. The pain in her back had seeped all the way through to her chest; each heartbeat was an aching thud, each inhalation was a torment.
    She did not think she could hold the weight any longer, let alone lift it higher. But abruptly it jolted up another inch, then slightly more.
    Norby issued a cry of pain and excitement. He wriggled forward. “I got away, it let go of me.”
    Relaxing her legs and easing the load back into place, Holly realized that the boy had thought what she, too, might have thought if she'd been a five-year-old in that hellish position: that his ankle had been clenched in the cold and iron-strong hand of one of the dead people in there with him.
    She slid aside, giving Norby room to pull himself out of the hollow under the seats. He joined her in the pocket of empty space amidst the rubble and snuggled against her for comforting.
    From farther back in the plane, Jim shouted: “Holly!”
    “I found him!”
    “I've got a woman here, I'm getting her out.”
    “Great!” she shouted.
    Outside, the pitch of the sirens spiraled lower and finally down into silence as the rescue teams arrived.
    Although more blackish smoke was drifting out of the dark space from which Norby had escaped, Holly took the time to examine his foot. It flopped to one side, sickeningly loose, like the foot of an old rag doll. It was broken at the ankle. She tore his sneaker off his rapidly swelling foot. Blood darkened his white sock, but when she looked at the flesh beneath, she discovered that it was only abraded and scored by a few shallow cuts. He was not going to bleed to death, but soon he was going to become aware of the excruciating pain of the broken ankle.
    “Let's go, let's get out,” she said.
    She intended to take him back the way she had come, but when she glanced to her left, she saw another crack in the fuselage. This one was immediately aft of the cockpit bulkhead, only a few feet away. It extended up the entire curve of the wall but did not continue onto the ceiling. A section of interior paneling, the insulation beneath it, structural beamwork, and exterior plating had either blown inward among the other debris or been wrenched out into the field. The resultant hole was not large, but it was plenty big enough for her to squeeze through with the boy.
    As they balanced on the rim of the ravaged hull, a rescue worker appeared in the plowed field about twelve feet below them. He held his arms out for the boy.
    Norby jumped. The man caught him, moved back.
    Holly jumped, landed on her feet.
    “You his mother?” the man asked.
    “No. I just heard him crying, went in after him. He's got a broken ankle there.”
    “I was with my Uncle Frank,” Norby said.
    “Okay,” the rescue worker said, trying to strike a cheerful note, “then let's find Uncle Frank.”
    Norby said flatly, “Uncle Frank's dead.”
    The man looked at Holly, as if she might know what to say.
    Holly was mute and shaken, filled with despair that a boy of five should have to experience such an ordeal. She wanted to hold him, rock him in her arms, and tell him that everything would be right with the world.
    But nothing is right with the world, she thought, because Death is part of it. Adam disobeyed and ate the apple, gobbled up the fruit of knowledge, so God decided to let