"Wake up!"
Pat's eyes snapped open, baffled to see Sister Catherine's silhouette framed in the doorway, her black habit stark against the orange glow flickering behind her.
"What are you doing here? You're not allowed in the men's dormitory." He protested, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His wristwatch glowed faintly—midnight.
Sister Catherine shook her head. "The Church is on fire! We need to evacuate the building!"
Pat gasped. He looked up at the black smoke swirling above them.
"Why isn't the fire alarm going off?" Pat asked.
"Sister Mary forgot to replace the batteries."
"Fuck." Pat never swore—his faith had always kept anger at bay. But now, survival drowned out everything else. The heat pressed against his skin, heavy with unspoken wrath. He had no prayers left.
Quickly, he rose from bed, pushing away his thin, sweat-dampened sheets. The room felt like an oven, the air shimmering with heat. His bare feet slid creaking across the wooden floor.
"Follow me. I know where to go." Pat grabbed the handkerchief from his bedside table and covered his mouth.
Catherine wiped tears from her stinging, bloodshot eyes. As they dashed into the hallway, they turned left, only to be confronted by a grisly sight: the ceiling had collapsed, crushing two nuns beneath the splintered debris. Blood pooled around their motionless forms while hungry flames licked the exposed wooden beams overhead
"Damn it! We've to take the long way!" Pat shouted. They pivoted right, crouching low to not inhale the thickening smoke, and raced down the creaking stairs.
Coughing violently, Pat felt light-headed as the toxic air clawed at his lungs. He reached for the front door's handle—searing hot metal that burned his palm, unyielding against his desperate pulls.
Catherine cried, "Why won't it open?"
Pat gasped. "The fire warped the frame! We need to break the door!"
"I have the key for the emergency fire kit," Catherine said, determination cutting through her fear. "There's an axe inside."
She sprinted down the hall toward a locked cabinet near the old chapel entrance, fumbling in her black dress's pocket to pull out a brass key. The cabinet creaked open, revealing a red fire axe. She grabbed it, turned—and tripped on a warped floorboard. A sickening crack echoed as she hit the ground, the axe skidding across the floor.
"Catherine!" Pat yelled, sprinting to her. He lifted her upright, hands sticky with blood. Her face was pale, streaked with soot and tears. Blood streamed from her nose, and a deep gash was on her left leg.
Pat picked up the axe. Catherine leaned heavily on him as they staggered back to the door. With desperate swings, he hacked a small hole at the bottom of the warped wood.
"Catherine ladies first. You need to crawl through the hole." Pat urged setting the axe aside.
She shook her head, insisting, "No, Pat, you go first."
He met her gaze, urgency in his eyes. "Promise you'll follow me?"
She coughed, a sickly black mucus escaping her lips, and managed a faint whisper, "Yes."
Time was slipping away. Toxic smoke closed in, choking them. Pat dropped to the floor, squeezing through the narrow hole, splinters scraping his skin and tearing at his white gown.
"Catherine! I'm over here!" he shouted, but only the chilling wind answered.
Despair enveloped him as he collapsed from exhaustion onto the dew-soaked grass, the distant wail of sirens piercing the night air. Firefighters swarmed the scene in a blur of yellow helmets and hoses, and two paramedics rushed to Pat, slipping an oxygen mask over his soot-stained face as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.