Boiling Liquid Evaporative Vapor Explosion in General

I’m on the hook for a story, or a part story, of a thousand words by tomorrow at midnight.
The Genre is “Contemporary Fiction” which is just another umbrella term like “Speculative Fiction.” Meaning it can be anything.

I was having very dark thoughts last night. Do I bring my friends suicide into this, just to put an x in a box?

I realized I already had a dark enough story. I don’t know the beginning. I don’t know the why. I don’t know the ending. I don’t know if there is a happily ever after in there. I know this one part of the story. And I am already at 550 words. I could expend a thousand words trying to explain where I think this story is going.

Imagine being so locked onto a storyline that started with a .50 Cal Desert Eagle, a bunch of bikers, a meth lab, and a woman on the run.

For eight hours I laid there whispering “what happens next?” and letting my brain make up the story.

It was detailed enough that when I finally got up - with schoolwork to do - I was left with the question: “Why? Why would she do that?”

Then wrote two pages of notes.

Sandy gave me some insight into the law enforcement aspects and encouraged me to write. It is a weird place to find myself - I have never attempted to write from a female perspective.

Some of the answers fall from the sky - she was already on the run before being abducted. She flew UH-60Qs during Iraqi Freedom. I still don’t know why the FBI is on her tail or what mindset she would need to spend months at that New Mexico ranch before effecting her escape.

I was lying on my side, dreaming when she pulled the trigger on the Desert Eagle and Cecil’s head came off at his jaw line, his brains and skull splattering across the wall. I jumped at the image and it took me an hour of circular breathing to relax.

I don’t know where it is going but there are a lot of scenes that are bad. Not for the weak of heart, if there are any of those left in this world.

Cecil rolled into the bed with a thump - his two hundred and fifty pound frame reeking from the chemicals brewing in the basement. She whispered “are you okay?” and was rewarded with an elbow to the ribs.

One.

In the dugout below she could hear at least three voices, maybe four.

Those in the living room had long gone silent after some boisterous post night on the town conversation about visiting the bedroom she and Cecil shared. He wasn’t in the mood, so they weren’t in the mood when they saw the thunder in his eyes.

He had told the four in the dugout to finish the batch and leave through the casement - he was locking the trap door in one of the other bedrooms and moving the bed back over it to cover. What he didn’t know was that the casement door also had a huge Schlage lock on it. Directly below the bedroom window.

She sighed and rolled over, being overly dramatic. He threw another elbow.

Two.

She rolled again. He rolled and shoved her off the bed.

Three.

The desert Eagle was under the bed, as was five five-gallon jugs of kerosene. Without a sound and without a pause she pulled the laundry cord roped through the kerosene jugs, brought the .50 caliber up .

Four.

Placed the barrel at the base of his neck and pulled the trigger.
The knees of her sweatpants were soaking up kerosene. The Eagle was heavy as she slipped into the shoes left behind by a woman maybe buried in the yard, but probably fed to the coyotes.

Five.
“What the fuck?” from behind the door. “Was that in the lab?” a different voice.

Six.

The door slammed open and a single shot went through the first guy’s neck - she didn’t know who it was and didn’t care - and tore off the top of the second guys head.

Seven.

The four guys in the lab were starting to get concerned about the commotion upstairs. At first even the huge explosions of the Desert Eagle could be written off as TV noise or Cecil on one of his rants..

But the liquid soaking through the floor of the bedroom and into the lab could not. “It’s fucking kerosene!”

Eight.

Window open.

Nine.

Out. Zippo opened then dropped with one hand as the other slammed shut the bedroom window. She slid down the casement door. Having practiced this, but in bare feet there was a moment of concern – her shoes had more friction and she was worried she would tumble backward. She didn’t.

Ten.

The Desert Eagle went into the holster Cecil had brought back from Texas a few weeks ago. The holster she ducked into, cross chest. The cop who had owned it previously had been a big boy

The .50 came to rest against her lower back. She shrugged on one of Cecil’s hoodies.

Eleven.

Pounding started under the metal of the casement door. Someone screamed. There were eight seven-hundred and fifty pound propane tanks at the end of the lab which ran underground the length of the building. The lab was on fire. There were exactly two ways out.

Twelve.

She was parking her Mustang behind Cecil’s uncle Freddie’s house - three miles away when the tanks lit off.

Thirteen.

It was spectacular.

(When I wrote the first draft of that seven years ago, I was chastised that propane tanks don’t explode.

On consulting with members of the community that knows, I learned that, yes indeed - given enough heat and enough fuel density you will end up with a BLEVE. Which can be spectacular.)