A loud beeping permeates the thickening air as smoke seeps into the apartment from under the door.
“Your move.”
“I realize that.”
“Then move or forfeit.”
The detector continues to beep, sharp stabs of high-pitched wails filling the room.
“It’s been, like, fifteen seconds. We agreed not to play speed chess after the ’08 bottle rocket incident.”
“It went off by accident.”
“Towards my face?”
“Yeah, Rob, towards your face.”
The wisps of gray air puffing through the door turn darker.
“And it wasn’t even the 4th! What were you doing with a bottle rocket?”
“Preparing for the 4th.”
“It was February, man!”
“I like to prepare early.”
Rob stands up with a frustrated grunt, coughing a little from the smoke. He gets a chair from the kitchen and slams it down underneath the smoke detector. In one quick motion he mounts the chair, rips the noisy culprit of his lost concentration from the ceiling, and tosses it over his shoulder.
“My hair caught on fire, Alan.” Rob sits back down in front of the board and slides his bishop across the playing field, knocking Alan’s knight onto the floor. “Your move.”
“Finally, Jesus.” Alan stretches down to recover his lost knight. He has to wave his hand in front of him to clear some of the smoke. “And don’t do that,” he sputters.
“Don’t light my hair on fire!”
“That was three years ago, Rob, let it go!”
“Only if you let go of the fact that I,” Rob pauses to cover his mouth as a coughing fit interrupts him. “Kicked your ass and admit that you’re just a sore loser.”
The smoke bellowing in has turned a threatening black. Alan grabs a flimsy couch cushion and waves it as the board, clearing the air for a moment. He runs his hand on his chin as he thinks, concentration only disturbed by the occasional violent choking sound. His eyes begin to water profusely as the air thickens around him again. He waves the pillow up and down once more, making the board visible just long enough for him to make a confident move. Between involuntary guttural noises he manages a smirk.
“Your move,” Alan chokes.
Rob tries to mimic him but only ends up doubled over, inhaling painfully. “I know,” he wheezes.
There are sudden hammering sounds coming from the door, which has been completely shrouded in smoke, along with most of the room. The only identifiable point in the apartment comes from the intermittent waving of a cushion to make the board briefly visible.
The door, wherever it is, is kicked in, smacking the ground loudly and blasting a gust of air towards the players, clearing the chess board for a few moments.
“What are you doing?” The firefighter yells, his voice muffled by the mask and helmet and oxygen tank. “Get out of there!”
“I can’t understand you,” Rob yells over his shoulder. “But do that door thing again, that helped.”
“Let’s go!” Two firefighters stomped into the room, pulling on Rob and Alan’s arms.
“Wait!” Rob coughed, putting a hand up in the air. “I got it.” He struggles and breaks free of the firefighter’s grasp. With the smoke quickly creeping back around the chess board, Rob plucks his queen from the far corner and plants her down confidently right in front of Alan’s king.
“Check mate,” he manages. Then he turns to the baffled firefighter. “Okay, let’s go. I’m pretty sure there’s a fire somewhere anyway.”
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