“Nadine, the garage is on fire!” Vance’s voice, usually a low rumble, was a raw shout. He didn’t wait for a reply, already turning to plunge back into the churning black smoke that billowed from the doorway, a hellish red glow flickering behind him. Nadine, still holding the small plastic trigger, stared at the inferno. The heat, even from this distance, was immediate, a hot slap to the face. Her first thought wasn’t for Vance, or the structural integrity of the town, but for the exquisitely plush recliner. The thought of its soft green velvet melting into scorched slag hit her stomach like sour milk. She shoved the little transmitter into her pocket and trotted toward the commotion. Sprinted. The concept felt alien on her legs. “Vance! No!” she yelled, her voice thin against the crackle and roar. He was already gone, swallowed by the thick plumes. Outside, the entire street was alight with the amber glow of the blaze. Townsfolk, roused from their early evening routines, spilled onto the dusty road, pointing and gasping. The county fire engine, a lumbering beast of scarred red metal, ground its gears to a halt at the curb. Three burly men in heavy, stained turnout coats were scrambling off, hoses already snaking from the side. “Fire in the service bays! And the old Calamine warehouse next door is catching!” shouted one, a stocky man with a walrus mustache, pointing frantically. “Looks like a total loss, boys, just try to contain it!” Nadine didn’t hesitate. She fumbled in her purse, pulling out the hefty check from the culinary board – the one with all the zeros. She waved it wildly. “You! Fireman!” she shrieked, her voice raspy from the smoke. The walrus-mustached man blinked at her, baffled. “How much for the truck?” He stared, then let out a bewildered laugh. “Ma’am, it’s not for sale!” “Everything’s for sale!” Nadine retorted, thrusting the check at him. “Name your price. I’ll buy it right now. Cash! Just put out *that* fire!” She jabbed a finger towards Vance’s auto repair shop, pointedly ignoring the warehouse. The volunteer captain blinked down at the numbers, his brow twitching upward. He looked at the truck, then back at the check. “Well, I… it’s a municipal asset, ma’am,” he stammered, but his hand was already reaching for the slip of paper. “Though… for this kind of money, I suppose the county could get a brand-new model, maybe two…” His voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on the digits. “Done!” Nadine declared, snatching the draft, scratching her signature onto the line, and jamming it into his heavy glove. “Point the nozzle at Vance’s shop! The armchair! Soak everything around the armchair!” The captain hollered to his crew, who hauled a brass coupling toward the flaming bays, sending a roaring spout of water across the eaves. Inside the blazing workshop, Vance choked through a thick mouthful of soot. Flames licked at the ceiling, threatening to bring down the whole structure. He had dragged the armchair away from an oil barrel, keeping its back turned to the wall. Its velvet glowed faintly in the inferno, a beacon of Nadine’s peculiar joy. He grabbed one end, grunting with effort, trying to maneuver the bulky furniture. A loud groaning noise ripped through the air above him. He looked up just as a massive support beam, charred black and spewing sparks, began to detach from the ceiling. It swayed, then dropped, picking up speed, aimed directly at him, at the couch. Vance threw his shoulder into the frame, shoving the heavy seat forward as the rafter crashed down behind him in a spray of sparks and burning pitch. A gasp tore from his throat. Too close. He dragged the couch onward, feeling the heat sear his skin, his lungs burning. Meanwhile, in Nadine’s small, surprisingly quiet cottage, Jolene stirred. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, her mouth felt like cotton. She sat up abruptly, memories of the ‘sleepover’ hazing in her mind. Nadine’s suspiciously sweet wine. The sudden urge to nap. She looked around, the room empty. A frantic tear through her handbag confirmed the remote was missing. Fury, cold and sharp, cut through the grogginess. The fire. The planned diversion. It was supposed to draw all attention away. It was supposed to keep the roads clear so she could blow the silo reserves untouched. She stumbled out of bed, her limbs heavy, and peered out the window. The fire truck was indeed there, but its hoses were turned squarely on Vance's building, not the outlying fields. Her fingernails dug into the sill. Nadine. Always Nadine, somehow thwarting her without even trying. Across town at the county clinic, Brenda Gable woke to the smell of rubbing alcohol. Her head lolled to the side. Her apprentice, young Wallace, was dozing in a chair beside her bed, a stack of ledgers precariously balanced on his chest. He looked exhausted. She looked at her own pale hands, the IV drip in her arm. The last few days, the last few *years*, had been a blur of early mornings and late nights, chasing every last penny, every last bushel, every last piece of gossip. And for what? A freezer, a fire, and a humiliating hospital stay. She looked at Wallace, slumped and worn out. A rare, unfamiliar thought bloomed in her mind: *rest*. Maybe just for a day. One day without chasing, without hustling. It felt like a betrayal of everything she believed in, but also… strangely appealing. Outside the steaming ruins of the shop, Vance stumbled through the charcoal fog, streaked in black grease and hacking hard. Behind him rolled the bulky green armchair. Its deep green fabric was untouched, not a scorch mark, not a smear of ash. He maneuvered it to Nadine’s side, collapsing onto its plush cushions with a relieved sigh, his eyes, bloodshot but bright, fixed on her. “Saved it,” he rasped, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Nadine felt a warmth spread through her, a sensation far more potent than the residual heat from the fire. She reached out, wiping a streak of soot from his cheek with her thumb. “My hero,” she said, the words feeling foreign and surprisingly genuine. She sat beside him on the armrest, her hand settling on his grimy one. Vance squeezed it gently. The volunteers, having pinned the burn to the workshop bay, soaked the remaining charred timbers. The heat had been intense, burning away more than just the usual auto parts. One entire interior partition near the tool racks had collapsed into gray ash. Where it once stood, obscured by shadows and junk, now lay a series of wooden crates. They were stacked haphazardly, hastily covered with a tattered tarp that had also partly burned away. The remaining sections of the tarp revealed clear stenciling on the crates beneath. Fading but legible, the words stood out starkly: ‘VERDANT REPUBLIC CANNING FACTORY – PROPERTY OF’ and then, beneath it, in bold, block letters, the name: ‘JOLENE MERCER – MUDLARK COUNTY FREIGHT.’

Inferno and Manifests