The wood was useless for keeping out the elements, but it held its own against the unremarkable strength of Gilda Carr. With the neck of my dress covering my mouth, I tore at the wood, which was soft and rotten but in no hurry to give. I had barely dented it when the mattress at the door betrayed us and erupted into turquoise fire.

“Help me,” I gasped.

“But the mattresses—” said Cherub, no longer bothering to hide his fear.

“Will hold, or we’ll die.”

I helped him to the top of our little island. He took a few strong whacks at the wood, opening my dent a bit wider. Fire seeped across the floor, then the walls, and began to tickle the roof. Finally, the mattresses started to burn.

I pushed Cherub to his knees and placed my foot in his hands. I put my arms over my head. He stood, shoving me up, using my gin-numbed body as a battering ram to bash through the cracking wood. The night air was cold and sweet, perfumed with bonfire.

I dragged myself onto what remained of the roof, sat up, and reached back for him. He took my wrist and slipped, pulling me down as the flaming mattresses collapsed under him. I braced my feet against the hole.

“Climb!” I shouted.

“There’s nothing to climb on!”

His grip slipped again. I grabbed his collar with my other hand. He thrashed, kicking his legs against empty air, and I pulled with everything I had left. I was too drunk and too tired to let a good friend die. I dragged him an inch onto the roof, just enough that he could get purchase and scramble the rest of the way on his own. I didn’t loosen my grip until he tumbled into my arms.

He looked like he wanted to kiss me. I didn’t feel like wasting time. We ran alongside the burning roof to the edge of the lot. I jumped down the steps to the club’s front door. It was red hot and locked from the outside. I kicked at it, but what was the point? It wasn’t going to open, and the only man inside was too far gone to save.

“What the hell just happened?” said Cherub. We scrambled across the ice into a night lit up blue, that useless question reverberating across my gin-softened brain.

What the hell just happened?

What the hell?

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About the Author

W. M. AKERS is an award-winning playwright and editor at Narratively. Westside is his debut novel. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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