//------------------------------//
// Part 8 
// Story: To Be Young and Stupid 
// by Crowley 
//------------------------------//

The fire engulfs the entire table, along with everything upon it. The flames trickle down the table legs, to the horror of present company and spread to the wooden floor below. Black smoke billows from the inferno, rising and swirling to the ceiling. Panic grips your heart, and the hearts of the very fillies who cannot stop their own clubhouse from burning.

Luckily, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle are backed up against a nearby window. You and Apple Bloom are backed up against the door. Sweetie Belle doesn’t waste a second pushing the window open, clambering out with the speed and urgency of a child trying to outrun a fire. Which was a perfectly accurate way to put it. Scootaloo follows suit, hopping through the window frame, looking back towards her burning scooter and the remaining two little ponies by the door.

“You owe me a new scooter!” she yells over the cackling before hopping out of view to safety.

“You don’t frickin’ say!?”

You’re unsure of whether she heard that remark; a stray gust of wind blows through the newly opened window, fanning the flames at the centre of the clubhouse. In a single swoop, the fire spreads to the curtains and walls, blocking yours and Apple Bloom’s way to the window. The only way out is through the wooden door behind you.

Turning on your hooves, you grab the door handle with a twist and a tug. 

The door doesn’t budge. You shove your body weight into pushing it. Nothing happens from that either. The handle just twists limply back and forth, having no effect on the door itself.

“What’s wrong?” you hear Apple Bloom, dropping the useless toolbox from her mouth in frustration, “Hurry up and open it!”

With a cry of desperation, you rattle the door handle; a hopeless thing to do. Must’ve broken when the stray lever smashed into it moments ago. You’re both stuck.

The realisation hits hard. All of this was your idea. You and Apple Bloom. You’re both going to burn to a crisp. And it’s all your fault.

You fall to the floor. “I can’t.” That’s all you can stand to utter in the heat. The sweat from your brow stings your eyes. At least it’s an excuse to cry.

No sooner do you fall to the ground in desolation do you sense a pair of eyes upon you. Apple Bloom’s eyes. You can’t bear to look at them, but you have to. If only to apologise.

As you huddle together to keep away from the fire, you take in her features one last time. Her pink bow hangs limply down her frazzled mane as two watery eyes look you up and down. A screwdriver, taken from the discarded toolbox by her side, is clenched between her teeth.

Without a sound, she places it down by your hooves. With her fear as prevalent as your own, she nods her head toward the broken door. Your eyes flash over the damaged wooden blockade as you notice a vital detail that could save you both.

The door hinges.

“If anypony can do this,” her voice gives away a quiver as the fire draws closer, “it’s us.” 

It’s all coming together in your head. You know what to do now; if you can't open the door via the handle, just take the whole door off!

Picking up the screwdriver with your mouth, you turn your focus toward the hinges and twist the first screw anti-clockwise. And again. And again.

“For what it’s worth…” Apple Bloom says as she keeps an eye on the flames as they rise to the black smoke gathering at the ceiling. The entire back of the clubhouse is now ablaze, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. If I hadn’t had the bright idea to chase you down and make you help us find our Cutie Marks, we’d never be in this mess.”

You don’t reply; you can’t with a screwdriver in your mouth. Slowly, far slower than you wanted it to, the screw finally loosens and drops to the floor. Another screw later and the bottom hinge on the door disconnects.

Maybe that should do it? You kick your rear legs against the door, hoping for it to fall away without its lower hinge. To your frustration, it still doesn’t budge. Your only hope is being able to unscrew the top of the door too. If only you could reach that high…

“I’ll help you up!” Apple Bloom places her front hooves against the door, propping herself up, “Climb on top of my shoulders!”

The second you try to clamber up her, she buckles under the stress, falling into a slump. The heat is stifling. She’s far too weak to lift you in this state. The surrounding smoke stings your eyes. The tip of your tail starts to burn. You pull it away from the ever-enclosing fire upon reflex.

You drop the screwdriver from you mouth. “Change of plan,” you nudge the filly, dizzy from the ordeal, “Can you unscrew the top hinge instead? I’ll be able to lift you, I promise!”

She nods weakly, “I was the one who screwed ‘em in in the first place,” she reminds you.

You hope she catches a glimpse of your encouraging, yet understandably fake smile as you lower yourself to let her climb on top of you. With the screwdriver now in her teeth instead of yours, she positions herself on your shoulders. Once she’s ready, you stand yourself up on your hind legs, your surroundings doing little to help your efforts, pushing Apple Bloom up towards the top of the door.

Your fore hooves rest against the unmoving door for support. The last thing you’d want is for her to fall at this point. You keep perfectly still, holding Apple Bloom steady as she slowly, groggily twists one of the higher screws little by little. The dark, thick smoke swirls around her head as she works.

“If it’s any consolation,” you call up to her, “All of this was my idea. You don’t have to apologise for anything! And if we don't make it, I just want you to know that..."

Your thoughts return to that sketch of her you made last night. That feeling in the pit of your stomach when she first hugged you. How... right... it all felt.

A screw falls from the hinge and bounces off what little wooden floor is left. Just one more to go. If there's anything you want to tell her, any encouragement, any secrets, any confessions... do it now.

"I like you, Apple Bloom. I mean, I really, really like you."

Out of nowhere, Apple Bloom sharply convulses, a sudden violent cough striking her at the worst possible time. The smoke chokes her. The screwdriver itself falls from her mouth as she coughs. She manages to catch the tool with her hooves as she balances atop your shoulders, but that doesn’t stop her coughing fit.

You lower yourself toward the floorboards, pulling Apple Bloom away from the unforgiving smoke, giving her room to breathe, even if it’s not much better.

“No,” you hear her feebly croak into your ear, “Push me back up there. I can do this. I gotta.”

You’d argue with her. Tell her that she doesn’t have to go through with this. That there’s a better way. But there isn’t. Hating yourself more and more, you lift Apple Bloom back up again, watching the smoke envelope her almost entirely. After a few more tense seconds, you sense her pitifully turning the final screw with more effort than you’d ever want to force on her.

The heat from the blaze behind you bakes your spine. Your tail is tucked, shaking, between your hind legs, but you don’t care how cowardly it makes you look. You just want to leave. You just want to head back home and play with your train set, safe and comfortable in your own home.

The high sound of a pin dropping snaps you back to the burning reality. The screw hits the floor and roll away into the all-consuming blaze, never to be seen again. The screwdriver itself falls a moment later, followed by a horrible, choking cough from the filly above you. And a heavy, futile gasp.

Your heart stings with fright when she falls from her standing position on your shoulders. She lands limply on your back with a soft thud.

She’s not moving.

You push against the unhinged door with what little might a colt possesses. It slowly creaks from the pressure, before falling clearly away. You fall through the door-sized opening and away from the tormenting fire, Apple Bloom still wilted over your back as you rush into the clean air of the outside world.

You made it.