And I was sitting in the tree line, watching them through the scope of Dominic’s rifle. “Run,” I whispered. The lawn of the fortress was bathed in the flickering orange glow of the house fire. It was beautiful in a terrifying way, like watching Rome burn, but on a suburban scale. The fire alarm was still shrieking, a relentless mechanical scream that masked the sound of my breathing as I lay prone in the treeine.
Victor and his sons, Felix, Grant, Ian, Kyle, stumbled onto the grass, coughing and wiping soot from their eyes. The doctor, Sterling, ran out last, clutching his briefcase like it held his soul. “Where are Dominic and Evan?” Victor screamed, looking back at the smoking doorway. They were in the basement, Felix yelled.
The explosion came from down there. Get the water, Victor ordered, pointing at a garden hose. Put it out. The boy is down there. They didn’t care about Dominic or Evan. They cared about the product. They thought the baby was still in the incubator burning. I watched through the scope of Dominic’s rifle. The crosshairs drifted over Victor’s chest.
