For In Every Dawn Sleeps Darkness

By Angelle Chandler

Chapter 1

"Out of the way! Clear the way! Damn it, move!" Pushing back the rag-tag crowd half blocking the Emergency Room doors, the white-clad EMT yanked hard on the gurney, dragging it with a clattering screech across the linoleum entryway, nearly pulling it out of his partner's hands. The swaddled form on the cart, covered to the neck in a starched white sheet so that little showed but a spill of dark gold curls, did not move. Reluctantly, the motley mix of reporters and bystanders fell back as the pneumatic doors began to wheeze closed. "Is she all right?" a tall woman clutching the collar of her coat closed against the chill night wind shouted after them. "When will she be able to talk to us?" Ignoring her, the EMTs swung the cart around a corner and banged through the double doors into the triage area.

Expecting them, two nurses rushed forward to join them at the gurney. "Is this the one from the university fire?" Pulling the stethoscope forward and onto her ears, she placed it on the unmoving figure on the cart, listening. The lead EMT nodded to her raised eyes. "Hmm." Briskly dropping the stethoscope, she stepped up, stripping the sheet from the still form. The garish costume covered with spangles was shocking against the stark white of the hospital walls. Bright makeup, heavily yet expertly applied, stood out sharply against the pale, delicate features. "How many is that now?" Her eyes flicked to the younger nurse. A quick flip through the chart in her hands and a mental calculation, then the girl replied, "Fourteen. Minor injuries mostly, bruises and crowd injuries. Mild smoke inhalation. Shock." She glanced down. "This is the last one, the one everyone thought was missing." The gray-haired nurse caught the lead EMTs eye as she picked up one slim arm and registered the pulse. "Where did you find her?"

"On the roof." The two men shifted uneasily, neither one wanting to hold her gaze. The truth was, it was a miracle they'd found the girl at all. The fire department, local police and university security had been herding the masses of walking-wounded from the burning auditorium. The opening-night crowd (well-dressed, intelligent, a mix of students, faculty and local culture mavens) had run, walked and stumbled from the inferno of the Glassman Performing Arts Center unable to say exactly what had started the fire. Gounod's Faust had nearly reached its climax when the acid reek of smoke began to creep into the house. Before the audience could begin to react, some sort of explosion shook the old brick and wood building, rattling the brass railings and doors. Then the screaming had begun.

All things considered, the evacuation had gone spectacularly well. The Head of the Astronomy Department, a Professor McNaughton, had broken an ankle on the front steps, and several others were bruised and battered, but most of the sold-out six-hundred-seat theatre had made it out in one piece. As Chief Dumbarton oversaw the loading of Professor McNaughton into a waiting ambulance, and police inspectors were threading through the remaining crowd taking statements, a tall, thin man in a white tuxedo streaked with smoke hurried up to EMT Frank Black. Wringing his hands, the distraught man craned his neck around to look over his shoulder at the historic building now going up in flames, then turned back to Black. Fear glittered his eyes. "Do you need assistance, sir?" Black's eyes followed his gaze back to the burning theatre. The man looked familiar. Black frowned. Suddenly it clicked: the face looked back at him from the poster on the huge display in the front of the Glassman; Professor Raymond Schultz, the director.

Schultz hesitated, licking thin lips. "I think," he paused, glancing back again, flames reflecting in the dark of his eyes. "I believe… that one of the cast may be missing." Black raised a hand, signaling Chief Dumbarton. The Chief cut an imposing figure, parting the growing crowd of onlookers easily before a group of officers began shooing them back, pushing the orange and white public safety barricades into place. "What've you got?" Black nodded towards the trembling director. "Missing person. He says she may still be inside." Dumbarton's eyes widened. "Inside? Anyone still inside there isn't coming out." Schultz turned paler, something hardly possible. "Who is it? Are you sure they're not out here? On the way to the hospital?" Professor Schultz shook his head. "No, she's… she hasn't come out." Black and Dumbarton watched him steadily – how could he be so certain? The professor licked his lips. "You see, there were – threats. Threats against… against her, against one of the other players. And," he licked his dry lips again. "I'm sure she hasn't come out. She may have disappeared before the fire began."

Dumbarton shared a glance with Black, nonplussed. What was this – an accident, a missing person, or some other crime? Was the girl even still here? "What girl? Who are we looking for, mister?" He could distribute the description, put out a missing persons, but there was no way he was authorizing any of his men to go back into the burning auditorium – the whole thing was about to come down. "Christine Daae'," the director murmured. He reached down and plucked a crumpled program from the asphalt parking lot, smoothing it open and turning back to the last few pages. "Junior, transfer from out of state last year. She was – is – in the chorus. And… understudy for Marguerite." Schultz pointed a slender finger at a black and white photo of a group of choristers smiling up at the camera. The object of his gesture was a fair-haired young woman with a bright smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, a little apart from those around her in the front row. She looked like any other university girl; pretty, healthy, full of life. Dumbarton studied her face for a moment, preparing to search the crowd, hoping against hope that Schultz had just missed her in the confusion and dark.

A slight figure incongruously dressed in angel's wings and a fluttering white robe appeared beside the director out of the orange-lit night, clutching at his arm. "Have you found Christine?" she begged, wide eyes brimming. "She's not here. She's not here!" The little angel (one of the chorus, Dumbarton realized) didn't wait, but turned to run back towards the burning auditorium. "Stop her!" Dumbarton called, but needn't have worried. Frozen in place, she stared up, up to the roof of the century-old building. A scream ripped from her throat, seeming much too big for the diminutive angel. "Look! Christine!" All eyes turned first to the little chorister, then followed her horrified gaze to the top of the Glassman, and the figure who stood near the edge.

Even through the thick haze of smoke, Dumbarton recognized the pale young woman. She seemed dazed, taking a stumbling step closer to the edge of the scalloped roof. The crowd gasped, then let out a sigh of relief as she spun and stepped backwards. Dumbarton's eyes ran from the girl to the two stories below her – the fire had consumed much of the supporting structure, and the building groaned and shifted ominously. Several figures clad in disaster rescue gear and ventilators rushed forward, scrambling to put a rescue net into place. "Stay back!" Dumbarton yelled. "You can't get close enough. It's going to come down!"

Everyone's eyes were glued to the figure on the roof. Her hair swept her pale face, whipped by the hot wind rising from the flames. Her eyes shone blankly, wide with shock and terror. Holding her arms out in supplication, she backed slowly away from the edge as the building began to crumble.

Black shut his eyes tight with a shudder. When he opened them, both nurses were staring raptly at him, waiting for him to continue. "The building came down, just – crumbled around her. I don't know how she survived, but somehow they got under her with the net just as she hit the ground. Didn't even get a scratch." He looked at his partner, unwilling to voice the thought they both shared. His partner had no such compunctions. "It was a miracle." The ER nurse cleared her throat after a pause. "Well," she said crisply, "miracle or not, this young lady has had quite a night. She's in shock, she's breathed a lot of smoke, and she'll have to have a battery of x-rays and CT scans before she can go home." She reached out, tucking one dark gold curl behind the unconscious young woman's ear. "I imagine she'll have a story to tell once she wakes up."

Darkness. Screaming. Swirling music and the harsh smell of smoke. She ran, heart hammering until it choked her, fleeing higher and higher through the shadowed recesses of the disused backstage areas. She had to keep running, to hide, or else he would find her again – he with the eyes like burning ice and the voice of an angel. She stumbled, tripping over a thick nest of ropes, then caught herself, rising higher and higher through the attic of the theatre, passing row upon row of gaily painted backdrops and dusty props and scenes. Faster she ran, fleeing the screams and smoke rising behind her, stopping only to twist aside the thick metal bolt and shove open the trap door to the rooftop with a shrill shriek almost lost in the chaos of cries and sirens below. The cold night air flooded over her, cooling her flushed face. Free.

His image rose before her, blocking out the sky. The voices below cried out in sympathy with her as her hands rose in a futile attempt to shield herself. No! Please, no! I don't belong to you! The world spun around her, falling away at last in a haze of swirling grey.

She opened her eyes.

-
AMC 2 May, 2006