The Scorched Tombstone

Cora hooked her palms onto the brass handle and gently pulled back. A wave of heat engulfed her like a consuming tide. Scorched pieces of floorboard flung at her, carving red, blistering bruises into her skin. The blazing inferno peeled the interior bare and tore the house open, ripping through its brick chest which withered into inky, black ash.

         Sliding through the thin gap, Cora darted into the hallway. The great, oak door that confined the ancient tomb of the deteriorating house; concealed the nightmarish hell that swirled and brewed within the decaying structure. And obscured the smouldering fire like a burning agony that shreds you inside and out. It was only a few metres away, the freedom that slipped away from her grasp.

         The weak, brittle door burst into roaring flames. With no time to spare and the heat creeping up her back as every second passed, Cora retreated into the kitchen. There was no escape.

         The slave-girl hastily dug her hands into the seams of the trap door and heaved it open. Picking her way down the ladder, Cora dropped onto the concrete platform. And quickly dashed into the arching tunnel. Where was she – she did not know. But she continued groping through the railway tracks. Suddenly a hurried panting broke the silence. Adrenalin coursed through her veins as every drop of blood in her body froze. Barely her eyes scraped out a smudged silhouette in the inky darkness. Cora crouched against the brick tunnel inconspicuously as she crawled across the side. Abruptly the rushed footsteps hastened into sprinting, Cora could hear the blood pumping through her ear-channels.

         Losing balance, she was tackled by the emerging figure. Glimpsing the boy’s face, she faintly whispered Caesar.