The Frozen Flame

         It was never meant to end like this.
         Frederick planted his feet and braced his quivering legs as he pressed his back against the door, trying to muster one last burst of confidence, but all he got was despair. He hoped against hope that somehow, his weight could bar the robbers' entry. Or maybe somebody would come to help? No, that wouldn't happen. He was the only one left.
         I wish I'd taken his advice. If I had, I wouldn't be stuck in here, just waiting to die.
         A crash erupted through the house as wood splintered and cracked, and Frederick's heart sank (along with his figure) as he realized they'd breached the door. He hurriedly examined his dwindling options of escape, but deep down, he knew there was no way out. They must have known it too, because they hadn't even bothered with stealth. He jammed his hands into his empty pockets, wishing he still had his trusty pistol to at least do something before he died, to at least have some miniscule fluke of a chance of getting out of there alive. But he didn’t.
         They were up the stairs, pounding on the door. “Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?” Frederick knew that voice: it was Johnson, the leader of the whole gang. The gang that he should have done in.
         “I guess we’re doing it the hard way. You’ve got the flamethrower, Brad?” The malice in his tone was so palpable that Frederick could feel his sneer through the door.
         No, not the flamethrower! Anything but the flamethrower…
         The flamethrower roared, flames crackling upon the wooden door. He peeled away, preferring a quick death to roasting alive. He darted to his dresser and ripped open drawer after drawer, shoving everything aside to try and find something, anything he could use to defend himself. But as he yanked drawer after drawer open, the door collapsed in a pile of burnt wood and sparks, and Frederick scurried behind the bed for cover.
         Johnson snickered as he sauntered into the room, flanked by his minions who all carried the biggest handheld weapon they could find, or at least it looked like that. Frederick counted six. About eight more than I can take care of, he thought, smiling at his own bad joke. A wisp of flame slowly grew in the corner of his eye, creeping along the remnants of charred doorway that smoldered subtly on the floor. That’d be a fitting ending. He still hadn’t lost his wry grin.
         “He’s in here somewhere, and he’s doomed.” Johnson milked that last syllable for all it was worth, intimidating Frederick more than he already had been, who was desperately trying not to draw attention to his last flicker of hope. If they noticed the flame, all was lost. Not that all wasn’t lost if they didn’t, but if they did, his mission would have been in vain. He needed to go out in a blaze of glory, not a pointless whimper.
         Frederick fought against his involuntary gulps of air. Calm down, he scolded himself, but the need for silence and self-preservation only exacerbated the overwhelming waves of panic. And as he attempted to restrain himself, he felt it being done for him as the still-warm barrel of the flamethrower poked into his back.
         “Great work, Brady.” He stalked over to Frederick, twirling a pistol in his unnaturally large hands.
         Frederick frowned. "You do realize the flamethrower's not going to work like that, right?"
         Johnson blinked. “You had to ruin the suspense." Frederick just stood there, having nothing more to say. "So, Frederick Allen Stewart, are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?” His oft-practiced sneer chilled Frederick to the bone.
         Frederick glanced around the room, trying to look away from the fire. His gaze settled on the bedpost as, in that slight moment of silence, he suddenly remembered the vodka he always had stashed under the bed, just in case.
         I could probably take someone out with one of those, right?"
         “I guess we’re doing this the hard way.” Johnson pointedly fingered his pistol, spinning it right in front of Frederick's face. “Where's your base?”
         He slid his foot under the bed, trying to drag the vodka out silently. But sneaking a glance at the flames, he knew they weren’t spreading anywhere close to fast enough to take out all of them.
         Johnson whipped his arm around, the pistol colliding with Frederick's head with a loud crack. “Where?”
         Pain shot through Frederick's head, blurring his vision. Since there's nobody left, it couldn’t hurt if I told them (and will hurt if I do!) “San Francisco.”
         “Who else is left?” Johnson glared menacingly into Frederick’s watering eyes.
         That question hurt more than the whacks had, even though the vodka finally slid out into the open. Frederick had to repress a small smile that was trying to crawl onto his face.
         Johnson, receiving no response, struck again. "I said, who else is left?"
         It'll never look the same again, Frederick noted painfully, scrambling for an answer. "Uh..."
         "This is your last try. WHO IS LEFT?" Johnson's jaw clenched, veins popping out on his forehead.
         Isn't vodka flammable? Only one way to find out. “Nobody. And soon I won’t be either.” He hurled a bottle, time seeming to slow as all of their eyes followed the projectile, flipping end over end towards the fiery wall. Nobody moved.
         The glass shattered, shards shooting throughout the room as they all ducked, only to look up to something far worse - vodka was, in fact, flammable. The flames whooshed over everybody, and as their shrieks pierced his burning ears, he grinned.
         Now that’s an ending.

Word count: 958