Even through the smoke, it smelled sour in there. The corpse lay on its back, one arm twisted beneath it, the other splayed, hand open. He was black, elderly, his hair gray and unkempt, and he wore nothing but a loincloth and sandals, one of which had been kicked off. A bottle lay empty beside him. The floor was stained, and in one moist patch, something like fungus seemed to be growing pale pink tubes, delicate and foul. I pulled my face away, tried to gasp fresh air and got only smoke, which left me wheezing and hacking. I followed the concrete spiral down, but it was clear before I saw the flames that I would not be able to reach the door in the intense heat. The skin on my face was starting to shrink, and a wisp of hair stuck to my sweaty forearm curled and smoked. I would have to leave the way I had come in. I ran up the stairs, past the torture cell, and up to the ladder, breaking out into the hot, dry air with a cry of relief. There was nothing to be gained now by staying hidden, and I moved to the parapet and began to wave and shout to the boys below.
