LA County Fire Station 51's A-Shift Captain, Hank Stanley, was seated on their rec' room's leather-covered sofa with their mascot's head and the morning paper resting in his lap.

His three-man engine crew was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on their lunch—their exceedingly late lunch, considering that it was already close to three in the afternoon.

The Captain's eyes riveted upon one of the paper's front-page headlines and his bottom jaw suddenly went slack. "California going up in smoke," he read aloud, and then glanced over at his guys. "I cannot believe that there are still 400 separate fires burning in this state. It's been almost two months. Drought, or no drought, you'd think we would have made some headway by now."

"Nope," Chet Kelly solemnly replied. "We're just holding our own, Cap. New fires keep springing up as fast as we can get the old ones out."

Hank frowned and reluctantly returned to his reading.

Less than a minute later, the two missing members of Station 51's A-Shift crew returned from their latest run.

Roy DeSoto killed their rescue squad's idling engine and he and his partner, John Gage, pried themselves out of the parked vehicle.

Hank heard the truck doors slam and glanced up in time to watch his sweat-drenched paramedics drag themselves into the dayroom.

"What's on the menu at Chez Stoker?" Roy lightly inquired.

"Tuna pasta salad," the engineer answered.

Marco stared at the blond paramedic in amazement. "Yah mean, you guys haven't eaten yet, either?"

"We went through the hospital cafeteria line—a couple a' times, actually," Roy replied.

"Yeah," John ruefully joined in. "And both times, the alarm went off before we could make it to a table with our trays."

The engine crew shot the complaining pair some insincere looks of sympathy.

"Hey! We've been pretty busy, too, yah know," Chet informed the new arrivals. "While the two of you were cruising up and down the hospital's air-conditioned corridors, we were out there—in that oppressive heat and humidity—battling one blaze after another."

It was the paramedics' turn to give the engine crew faux looks of sympathy.

John removed a tall drinking glass from one of the cupboards and began filling it from the kitchen tap. "Seventeen more hours, and I'm gonna be on my way to someplace cool and dry."

"Cool and dry?" Lopez wistfully repeated. "I'd sure like to be someplace cool and dry."

"Me, too," Stoker admitted. "I haven't been cool and dry in months!" the engineer regrettably realized, and swiped the ever-present perspiration from his forehead.

"It would be nice," Kelly concurred, "to escape this heat and humidity for a few days."

"Not to mention all the brushfires and freaky electrical storms," DeSoto quickly contributed.

"You're all welcome to join me," Gage assured his shiftmates, once he'd downed the glass' cool contents. "That mountain cabin has plenty of bunks. You just gotta BYOSB."

"Bring your own sleeping bags," his partner translated, upon seeing the lost looks on their fellow firefighters' faces.

"Now, hold on a minute!" their Captain insincerely ordered. "You can't all just take off and head for the hills. Somebody has to stick around here and help me save California from going up in smoke," he lightly added and pointed to the article of 'gloom and doom'.

"Relax, Cap," Chet urged, sounding equally sarcastic. "When the whole state catches on fire, Roy claims that THEY say a big earthquake's gonna come along and put it out—by dropping it into the ocean."

His crewmates grinned and exchanged a group eye roll.

Hank heard Henry whine and his newspaper rattle and redirected his gaze to their no-longer-motionless mascot.

The dog dropped onto the floor and went trotting off into the kitchen.

All eyes in the rec' room watched, in bewilderment, as the still-whimpering pooch bypassed his food and water bowls—and the doorway to the alley.

The now howling hound chose, instead, to crawl under their kitchen table.

Gage set his drained water glass down on the counter and then bent over to address the strangely behaving Basset Hound. "What's the matter, kid?"

Almost as if in reply to the paramedic's question, a thunderous roar sounded from somewhere off in the distance. The loud rumbling sound increased steadily in volume and was instantly upon them.

The terrifying sound arrived with a jolt that rocked both the single-story brick building and its inhabitants. It felt like an eighteen-wheeler had just slammed into the side of their fire station.

Following the initial strong 'jolt', the floor beneath the firemen's feet began to 'shake rattle and roll'.

The window blinds began to bounce and sway and dishes started clattering in the cupboards.

Gage's water glass toppled off of the kitchen counter and shattered into a dozen different pieces.

The ceiling lights dimmed once or twice, but remained on.

Hank sat there in his 'rocking' chair and watched helplessly as his crew flailed their arms wildly about, in a desperate attempt to maintain their equilibrium.

It almost looked like they were surfing.

The side-to-side shaking motion continued for a full fifteen seconds and then quit—just as suddenly as it had begun.

"One thing for sure," Chet determined, following a gulp of relief, "Whoever THEY are, THEY have a wicked sense of humor."

Their Captain shot up off his no-longer-rocking sofa cushion and went dashing into the kitchen. "Is everybody all right?…Sheesh! For a while there, it sort a' looked like you were surfing," he confessed, following five reassuring nods.

"It sort a' felt like we were surfing," DeSoto had to admit.

"Must a' been a magnitude 5.0, or greater," Mike Stoker solemnly determined. "Wonder where the epicenter was?"

Gage grabbed a broom and a dustpan and started to sweep up the broken glass.

Kelly crouched down to their mascot's level and gave the droopy-eared dog a comforting pat on the head. "There lies Henry…the living seismograph."

Lopez stooped beside him. "I always said it would take an earthquake to get him to move."

His shift-mates snickered.

Their Captain pulled out a chair. "Quick! Let's eat! In a couple a' more minutes, the alarm is gonna go off. And it'll prob'ly keep going off—for the rest of the shift."

The famished firemen quickly—and obediently—assumed their seats at the kitchen table and began inhaling their slightly 'tossed' tuna pasta salad.

They'd managed to get one or two mouthfuls of shell macaroni, tuna, peas, onions and mayo down their hungry hatches when, just as the Captain had so direly predicted, their station's tones sounded.

The firemen shoveled one last forkful of food into their mouths. Then they shoved their chairs back and went trotting off, in the direction of their fire trucks.

"Station 51…Assist Battalion 14 with an evacuation…1126 East Berkley Avenue…Cross-streets: 5th and General…One-one-two-six East Berkley Avenue…Ambulances responding…Time out: 15:22."

"Station 51. KMG-365," Captain Stanley acknowledged and passed his paramedics their copy of the call address. He replaced the call station's mic', crossed the parking bay and climbed up into Big Red's cab. "Let's go, Michael!"

"Aye, aye, Cap!" Michael released the engine's air brake. Then he flicked its lights and siren on and followed Squad 51 out of their fire station and into the street.

Six minutes later, Mike Stoker brought Big Red to an abrupt stop, directly across from 1126 East Berkley Avenue. The engineer shoved the truck’s tranny into neutral and gave the bright yellow knob in the center of its dash a sharp tug.

The engine’s air brakes engaged with their familiar ‘kacheee’.

Hank Stanley leaned forward in his leather seat and let out a low whistle.

It didn’t take an architectural engineer to see why their station had been dispatched to assist Battalion 14 with the EVAC. The big, white, stuccoed building’s roofline was no longer perpendicular to the horizon. The quake had rocked the four-storied apartment complex clean off of its foundation, causing the entire structure to slope—a good three feet—to the east. Egressing those four slanting floors would prove to be most difficult, indeed!

The Captain and his crew dropped to the pavement and went jogging over to the Battalion Chief’s car, to receive their assignments.

Battalion 14’s Chief had waved Squad 51 over and directed its occupants to set up a ‘Triage Area’ out of harm’s way.

The paramedic team took note of the rattled-looking, gray-haired people that were being escorted, and outright carried, through the tilted front entrance to 1126 East Berkley and exchanged foreboding frowns.

Stress, and physical duress, could be extremely hazardous to an elderly person’s health.

DeSoto obediently drove a bit further down the avenue.

The rescue truck was finally stopped—a safe distance from the scene—and its engine was quickly killed. Roy clipped their HT to his belt, and he and his buddy bailed out.

John jerked several side compartments open.

Roy grabbed the Drug box, the Bio-phone and their cardiac monitoring equipment.

His partner removed some bright yellow drop sheets and began spreading them out on the narrow strip of grass that ran between the sidewalk and the pavement.

Moments later, one of 14’s guys came trotting up, carrying their barely established Triage Area’s first customer: an elderly woman complaining of…chest pains and acute shortness of breath.

The paramedic team traded another pair of exceedingly grim glances and then promptly began assessing and treating their first cardiac patient.

John started setting up for an IV and an EKG. “What’s it like in there?”

Their hunched over, and still a bit breathless, colleague replied with a quick question of his own. “You ever been…in an amusement park…Funhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that,” the beat-on-his-feet fireman observed, “only…without the fun,” he grimly added. The rescuer finished his break and went jogging back over to where all the ‘action’ was .

Two more of 14’s guys appeared, both of them with elderly victims in their arms.

DeSoto left their cardiac patient in his partner’s capable care and began triaging the new arrivals. He noticed that his buddy kept glancing up at the crumbling apartment complex and was immediately reminded of something their Captain had once told Johnny Carson. ‘You can take the rescue man out of Rescue, but you can’t take the Rescue out of the rescue man.’

Roy had no regrets about recruiting the ‘rescue man’ for the paramedic program, and Johnny had repeatedly assured him that he had no regrets about being recruited, because the bottom line was always about SAVING LIVES.

Though his partner had never complained about being ‘stuck’ in Rehab, or Triage, it was blatantly obvious that John Gage preferred assignments that allowed him to utilize both his ‘paramedic’ and his ‘rescue’ training.

Since their newest victims’ vitals all checked out, and since their injuries were minor, it was Roy’s intention to return to their cardiac patient. Before he could make it over there, however, more firefighters showed up and two more of the complex’s rescued occupants were deposited onto their bright-yellow drop sheets. ‘Wonder if the rest of the crew is being kept this busy?’ he thought to himself.

Speaking of the rest of the crew…

The Chief had split Engine 51’s crew in two.

Lopez and Kelly were sent inside, to assist 14’s truck crews with the evacuation.

The Captain and his Engineer were sent on a reconnaissance mission, around the outside of the apartment complex.

Structural collapse was imminent. Walls simply weren’t designed to support a building’s weight at such an extreme angle. Whether its demise would be by gravity, or an aftershock, the structure was definitely a goner.

When the thing did come toppling down, McConike’s goal was for everybody—both civilians and fire department personnel—to be standing on the outside, looking in.

The Chief was counting on Stanley and Stoker’s astute observations to help him accomplish that goal.

Station 51’s paramedics loaded their cardiac patient into the back of a waiting ambulance. The cases containing their cardiac monitoring equipment were also shoved on board.

“What’s a kerfuffle?” John suddenly inquired.

His ‘completely out of the blue’ question caused his partner’s right eyebrow to arch in confusion.

Gage motioned to the little old lady lying, propped up, on the stretcher. “She said she lost her hearing aid in the kerfuffle.”

DeSoto pointed to the frenzied activity that was taking place, just up the avenue from them. “That.”

His inquisitive friend, however, remained clueless.

“A kerfuffle is a big commotion,” Roy bemusedly informed his partner. “14’s squad finally cleared their last call. They’re about two minutes out. I’ll try to get a ride back on the next rig that’s headed this way,” he announced as he climbed aboard and then added back over his shoulder, “Try not to cause any kerfuffles while I’m gone.”

John helped an elderly gentleman, with a badly sprained wrist, up into the ambulance. He glanced in the direction of their Triage Area’s four remaining occupants, who were all just peacefully sitting there on their drop sheets, awaiting transportation to the nearest Red Cross shelter. “I can’t make any guarantees,” he teased right back, and flashed his friend a mischievous grin.

Roy’s own broad smile vanished behind the vehicle’s closing doors.

John rapped an ‘all clear’ and the ambulance pulled away.

The remaining paramedic gave the slanting building a lingering glance. Then he exhaled a resigned sigh and resumed his triage duties.

Blockades had been set up at both entrances to the 1100 block of East Berkley.

One of the barricades was moved aside, to allow an ambulance to exit the avenue.

Before the barricade could be replaced, a forest green Lincoln Continental blew through the opening and continued toward the incident scene at a rather high rate of speed.

The unauthorized vehicle screeched to halt behind one of the big red firetrucks that were parked in front of the apartment complex. Its driver exited and began heading for the building’s front entrance.

“Let me go!” the elderly gentleman demanded, of the two policemen who immediately intercepted him. “I live here! Apartment 417!”

The officers were sympathetic, but did not release his arms.

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of them sincerely said, “but civilians are not allowed to enter the building.”

“I don’t want to ‘enter the building’!” the man assured them. “The woman who lives across the hall from me has a broken ankle! I just want to find her—to make sure that she’s made it out of there! I need to know that’s she’s safe!”

The cops could tell, by the tears in the elderly gentleman’s eyes, and the desperation in his voice, that he and ‘the woman who lived across the hall’ were more than just neighbors.

One of them unclipped the radio from his belt, raised it to his lips and keyed its mic’, “Fire, Battalion 14, from Police, Tact’ II…”

“McConike here, go ahead Tact’ II…”

“Chief, we have a gentleman here who wants—er, needs to know if your crews have finished evacuating the fourth floor, yet…”

McConike turned to one of his aides. “Do we have any crews on the fourth floor?”

The fireman shook his head. “We’re just finishing up on three.”

McConike keyed his radio’s mic’, “Tact’ II, this is Battalion 14…Our crews haven’t reached the fourth floor, yet. Why?”

“Tact’ II here. According to this gentleman, the woman in apartment—?”

“—418!” somebody in the background quickly supplied.

“418,” Tact’ II continued, “has a broken ankle…and he’s concerned about her safety…”

At the moment, McConike was ‘concerned about everybody’s safety’. The Fire Chief gasped in frustration and then keyed his mic’ for a final time. “All right. We’ll see what we can do. Battalion 14 out.”

Speaking of keying mic’s…

John heard their radio squawk to life and went trotting over to their truck.

“Rescue 51…What is your status?”

“ LA,” Roy responded, “Squad 51 is not available at this time. One half is at the hospital, on follow-up…”

John smiled and keyed his mic’, “And the other half is still on scene.”

“10-4, Rescue 51…Rescue 36, in place of Rescue 51…”

The half of Squad 51 that was ‘still on scene’ replaced their truck’s dash-mounted radio’s mic’ and then just sat there for a few moments, surveying that ‘scene’.

Squad 14’s paramedics had finally put in an appearance.

The new arrivals were more than a little relieved to find all but two of the building’s rescued occupants sitting in the Triage Area’s ‘walking wounded’ section, and that the vast majority of them had signed MICU ‘Release from Liability’ forms, waving medical treatment, entirely.

The two that had been deemed ‘serious but non life threatening’ were resting comfortably and their vitals remained stable.

That didn’t mean that the other earthquake victims weren’t hurting, though.

While their physical injuries may have been minor, the emotional trauma that had been inflicted upon them was severe.

It broke the paramedic’s heart to see the tears in their eyes, and the fear and uncertainty in their faces. ‘Oh well,’ the melancholy medicine man silently reminded himself, ‘CCR is a whole lot better than CPR.’ John was about to go back to calming, comforting and reassuring their Triage Area’s traumatized guests, when he heard somebody call his name. His head promptly swung in that somebody’s direction.

“The Chief wants to see you!” one of 14’s firefighters informed him.

Squad 14’s guys had spread some more drop sheets out on the grass.

The messenger gently placed another of the building’s rescued occupants upon one of them and then attempted to get a kink out of his back. “Oh, and, he said to bring a lifebelt.”

Gage re-donned his dropped coat and helmet. Then he grabbed their Trauma box—and a lifebelt—and went racing off, in the direction of McConike’s parked car.

“You wanted to see me, Chief?”

“We received a report of a woman with a broken ankle. Apartment 418. Forget that!” McConike ordered, upon noting the paramedic’s equipment case. “Just get her down and out!” He glanced around and spotted another member of 51’s crew. “Kelly! Give Gage a hand! Apartment 418!”

“Right, Chief!” the pair simultaneously replied.

Before departing, the paramedic flipped their Trauma box open, snatched up an inflatable splint and stashed it into the right front pocket of his turnout coat.

The two dispatched firemen followed the long, concrete walkway up to the building’s main entrance.

The front step remained on the level but, once across the threshold, the floor and walls fell sharply away, to the right. The only things still perpendicular to the horizon were four enormous chandeliers, which hung from the spacious lobby’s twenty-four foot high ceiling like ornate plumb bobs.

Two guide ropes had been stretched…from the structure’s front doors…across the complex’s really large lobby…and then secured to the big wooden banisters at the base of a long, winding, open staircase.

The rope on the left was for traffic entering the building and the rope on the right was for traffic exiting.

Pipes had apparently ruptured, because the floor of the lobby was wet and slick. Heck, even bone dry, the steeply slanting, highly polished terrazzo floor would have been extremely treacherous to traverse.

Kelly, who was carrying a ‘forcible-entry’ tool, would have to be extra cautious.

Gage clipped his belt to the ‘entry’ guide rope and followed his companion into the ‘not-so-fun’ Funhouse.

The two men quickly, but carefully, sidestepped their way over to the staircase.

Firefighters were ascending the high side of the stairs—on hands and knees, and were descending the low side—on their butts, carrying, or simply assisting, the dying building’s rescued occupants ‘down and out’. Gravity wanted to keep them pressed snugly up against the banister rails, and the firemen were panting from the exertion of having to fight it, every single step of the way.

A fire door had been installed on the second floor landing and it was being held open. The blade of a fire axe had been wedged in beneath it, to keep it from ‘self-closing’.

The pair scrambled through the slanting portal—still on all fours—and then started crawling up the high side of the enclosed stairwell to the third floor.

The two-storied, open, winding staircase had been carpeted.

This one was bare concrete, which made it much rougher on the rescuers’ hands and knees.

“I’m gonna require your services…when we get out a’ here,” Kelly breathlessly realized.

“Why?” the paramedic anxiously wondered back.

“Why-y?...I’ll tell you why…Because this is my fourth trip…through this…discombobulated building…and because my knees feel like…they’re all raw…But mostly because…I got a real bad case…a’ rug burn…on my a—behind.”

John’s face filled with both a grimace and a grin, as the mental image of Chet’s rug-burnt rear end was indelibly etched into his brain. “Just shut up…and climb.”

His companion’s rather pitiful-sounding request caused Kelly’s unseen green eyes to sparkle, mischievously, and his mustache to twitch, twice.

Speaking of exposed rears…

Mike Stoker was about to complete his umpteenth pass along the back of the building, when something suddenly caught his eye.

Something seemed to be protruding from the structure’s exposed foundation, something that hadn’t been there the last time he’d walked by.

The fireman immediately crouched down for a closer look.

It was a half-inch thick hunk of plaster, about the size of a paper plate.

Mike looked down the base of the building and saw that dozens more of these plaster ‘plates’ were beginning to flake away from the exposed foundation’s concrete wall. He tugged on the plate in front of him. What was revealed, when the flaking plaster fell away, caused Stoker’s blood to run cold.

McConike’s spotters had both been issued radios and had even been designated their own frequency.

The engineer raised his to his lips and keyed its mic’, “Cap, you’re gonna wanna see this!”

Moments later, his Captain came barreling around the northwest corner of the building.

“Those are old cracks,” Mike quickly pointed out, once Hank had skidded to a halt. “Might even be from as far back as the Sylmar quake, in ’72.”

To keep the apartment complex from being condemned, some unscrupulous person, or persons, had bought off a building inspector and then made ‘cosmetic’ repairs—simply ‘plastering over’ the huge cracks in its foundation.

And, while the two of them had been watching and waiting for the appearance of fresh cracks, the old cracks had been widening and spreading…

The Captain and his Engineer exchanged looks of abject horror.

“Battalion 14, Engine 51! We need to get everybody OUT! NO-OW! Also, advise authorities that we have discovered evidence of ‘reckless endangerment’ and ‘criminal negligence’!”

McConike heard the horror in his spotter’s voice and keyed his radio’s mic’, “Copy that, Hank!”

It was time to ‘cut their losses’.

The Fire Chief grimaced and then turned to his aide, “We need to close the building! NOW! Brinkman! Sound evacuation!”

The engineer nodded and went racing off in the direction of the closest fire apparatus.

Brinkman climbed up into Engine 51’s cab and tugged on the dangling chain of its air horn.

‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!’

Gage and Kelly had just left the fourth floor’s stairwell and were about to start scrambling up the long, carpeted hallway, that would lead them to Apartment 418, when the first continuous blast from Engine 51’s air-horn came wafting their way.

The panting pair exchanged anxious glances.

McConike was ‘closing’ the building. Which meant: they needed to get out now—with, or without, their victim.

“Since we’re already here,” Kelly breathlessly reasoned, “we may as well make it ‘with’.”

Gage grinned. “I agree, Chester B.!”

And so the two kept right on climbing.

The air-horn’s third long blast ended just as they fell against, ‘the’ door.

Chet reached up and tried the knob.

Locked.

Both men got carefully to their unsteady feet, and then struggled to stay on them at such a ridiculously steep angle.

“Fire Department!” Kelly called out, all-be-it a bit breathlessly. “Is anybody in there?!”

Silence.

“Fire Department!” he called again.

More silence.

“Stand back!” he advised. “We’re coming in!” Kelly pulled a hunk of nylon webbing from his coat pocket, slipped a half-hitch over the door’s knob and then passed the end of the strap off to his helper. “Think she’s already ‘down and out’?”

Gage kept one hand on the nylon strap and the other locked onto Kelly, in an attempt to keep him on his feet. “Nobody brought any broken ankles into Triage.”

Kelly whacked the inward-opening wooden portal three times—from top to bottom, with the adze tip of his halligan.* “Then why doesn’t she answer?” He assumed a teetering batter’s stance and swung at the locked portal with full force, deeply embedding its long, tapered pike tip into the tiny crack between the door and the jamb—just above the knob.

Gage shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she lost her hearing aid in the kerfuffle?”

Kelly rocked the pike tip until that tiny crack became a big gap. He pulled the pike out of the jamb, flipped his forcible-entry tool around and rammed its forked claw into the gap he’d just created. “I think maybe you lost your mind in the…kerfuffle.”

Gage flashed him another grin, which went unseen, since Kelly’s chest was currently pressed up against the halligan.

Chet threw his considerable weight into the bar, being careful to keep his fingers outstretched. The lock gave way and the portal popped open.

Gage used the strap to keep the ‘forced’ door from flying into the apartment.

One of Chet’s shaggy brows suddenly arched in thought. “What is a kerfuffle?” he wondered, as they started sidestepping through the opened doorway.

An elderly woman was seated on the living room floor, beside the sofa. Her broken ankle was already in a cast and they could see that she had been crying.

“Why did you have to go and do that?”

The paramedic would’ve liked answers to about a half-dozen questions of his own, but there simply wasn’t time. He shoved the inflatable splint back into his coat pocket. “Our orders are to get you ‘down and out’.

“I believe you just received new orders.”

Her rescuers looked both surprised and curious.

“Your firemen friends out there weren’t merely ‘honking at passing motorists’. I can’t leave without Mister Munson,” the old lady announced just as John was about to scoop her up into his arms.

“Where is he?”

Behind the couch.

Her rescuers' brows raised again, at that reply.

"But I'm afraid you'll never catch him," she tearfully predicted.

And the firemen realized she was referring to her 'pet' and not some guy.

At least, they hoped she was.

The relieved pair glanced at one another and came to an unspoken agreement.

John straightened back up. Well, he got as straightened up as he could in the steeply slanting living room. “Where do you keep your linens?

“In the hall closet. Why?”

Gage retrieved a bed sheet from the hall closet.

Kelly cut a two foot length of cord from the window blind.

John shook the sheet out and used it to form a tent over his end of the sofa.

Chet spooked the feline from his end and it fled into the sheet tent.

John gathered the linen up into a sort of a sack and Chet used the cord to secure it.

Just like that, and in no time flat, they had caught the cat.

The old woman’s eyes teared up anew, only this time they were tears of joy. “That sure worked slick!”

“We get an awful lot of practice,” Kelly explained.

Gage set the cat down on the couch and scooped their victim up into his arms.

“How come I get the cat?” Kelly complained, snatching up the noisy satchel. (An unhappy Siamese really knows how to howl.)

“Because you look like you’re about to keel over,” the paramedic explained as he began sidestepping toward the apartment’s exit, “and I don’t want to have to carry the both of you down.” He took extra care not to bang the victim’s broken ankle against the door’s jamb.

“Lead the way,” Gage urged, as Kelly caught up with them in the carpeted hallway.

Chet obligingly dropped to his butt. He set the sack in his lap and then started a controlled slide toward the stairwell.

John quickly followed suit. ‘Maybe Kelly wasn’t kidding?’ he silently realized, as his backside began to heat up. The wincing fireman leaned further back in the off chance that his canvas coat wouldn’t create quite as much friction.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Kelly took full advantage of the staircase’s empty ‘entry’ lane. He held onto the handrail on the high side of the stairs between floors 4 and 2, and John held onto him.

This arrangement kept gravity from pressing the paramedic and their victim into the wall on the low side, speeding up their descent—considerably.

Kelly did the same with the open staircase.

____________________________________________________________________________

Somewhere between floors 3 and 2, the dying building had begun making horrifyingly loud ‘crack’ing and ‘creak’ing sounds.

Judging by the chunks of plaster that were pelting their helmets, the lobby’s ceiling was about to let go. They were rapidly running out of time.

“One!” Kelly, who’d been counting down the floors, relievedly exclaimed as the trio finally reached the lobby. His relief was short-lived, however, as he noticed the lobby’s terrazzo floor had also begun to ‘spider web’.

“Lead the way,” Gage breathlessly repeated. “If it supports your weight…it’ll probably hold ours.”

Chet completely ignored John’s jibe and clipped his lifebelt to the ‘exit’ rope. Why was he always letting Gage talk him into being his guinea pig?

Kelly and the cat finally reached the collapsing apartment complex’s front entrance. He unclipped his belt and turned to see how far his annoying friend had progressed. He was pleased to see that Johnny only had about another 30 to 35 feet to go, and he and their victim would be home free, too.

They were gonna make it.

Suddenly, a thunderous roar sounded from somewhere off in the distance. The loud rumbling sound increased steadily in volume, drowning out Kelly’s heartfelt plea. “Noooooooo!”

The first aftershock hit with nearly the same force as the original quake.

Chet latched onto the dying building’s swaying entryway and watched in horror as the lobby’s already fractured floor fell completely away. “John-ny!” he screamed as both his buddy and their victim dropped outta sight.

Moments later, the shaking stopped.

Kelly was about to reenter the building when somebody latched onto the back of his turnout coat and yanked him back from the brink.

14’s Captain kept right on half-pulling and half-dragging Kelly away from the crumbling structure. He didn’t release his protesting prisoner until they’d reached the ‘collapse distance’, roughly, fifty feet, the equivalent of the building’s height.

“I gotta get to him!” Chet frantically informed the fire officer.

Cranson spun his clueless captive around.

Kelly watched, in even greater horror, as the still swaying structure collapsed—like a house a’ cards.

“Everybody accounted for?” 51’s captain breathlessly inquired, as he and his engineer came jogging up to the Incident Command Center.

“Two known casualties,” the aide solemnly replied. “One civilian and…one firefighter.”

Stanley winced at the news and quickly surveyed the scene.

Kelly was standing in front of the debris pile. Lopez was seated on their engine’s back running board, and Stoker was standing right there beside him. Thankfully, his crew was all accounted for. Which meant…Hank turned to 14’s Captain and gave him a look of sympathy and support. 51’s Captain was confused to find the look mirrored in Dean Cranson’s face…and the faces of the other firefighters in the area. Hank’s already heavy heart skipped a few beats and his helmeted head swung in the direction of their rescue squad.

His paramedics were nowhere in sight.

The heaviness in Hank’s chest increased by a hundred fold. The day that every Captain dreads had arrived. Hank had just lost one of his men.

But…which one?

Stanley directed his stunned gaze at Battalion 14’s Chief.

McConike was on the radio, informing headquarters of what had just transpired. He released its ‘send’ button. “Gage was exiting the building with a victim when the aftershock hit. The lobby’s floor and ceiling collapsed. Two seconds later, the whole damn building came crashing down, I’m terribly sorry, Hank. Gage was a good man.”

‘Tell me something I don’t already know!’ Stanley silently, and insubordinately, fumed. “Have the authorities been notified?”

McConike nodded.

“They’d better find the murdering bastard before I do!” Hank angrily declared. Then, since he couldn’t get his hands on the guy responsible for Gage’s ‘line of duty’ death, 51’s captain whipped his helmet off and hurled it down at the pavement, instead. Stanley promptly spun on his heels and went storming off.

Mike picked up his p.o.’d C.O.’s helmet and followed him over to their engine.

_______________________________________________________________

“Where’s Roy?” the still-fuming fire officer demanded of Lopez.

“I just came from Rehab,” Marco quietly replied, the sadness in his voice matching the look on his mustached face. “14’s paramedics said that Roy had to accompany a cardiac patient to Rampart. They’ve requested another ambulance. So he should be making it back here any minute now.”

Station 51’s Captain exhaled and exasperated gasp and then ‘regrouped’.

Dealing with a LOD death was an aspect of his fire officer training that Hank had hoped—and prayed—he would never have to draw back on. He did a quick mental review and realized he’d skipped the denial and isolation stages and gone right into the anger phase—displaced aggression—to be more precise.

‘Displaced…Like taking your anger out on inanimate objects, complete strangers and…your own crew.’ Hank rested a hand on his lineman’s slumped shoulder. “Sorry, Marco. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“No problem, Cap. I chewed out the guys in Rehab…and my helmet bounced under the truck.”

The no longer fuming fire officer gave Lopez’s shoulder and appreciative pat and then directed his sorrowful gaze toward the other mustached member of his crew.

Kelly was still just standing there across the avenue from them, staring at the remains of the building that had just swallowed up their young friend.

‘The ‘isolation’ stage,’ Stanley sadly and silently surmised.

For the moment, all Chet was feeling was frustration. He desperately wanted to reach his friend. Whether Johnny was alive…or dead, he just wanted to reach him. He’d come up with the quickest way to accomplish his mission, and he was frustrated because McConike’s aides wouldn’t let him ‘bother’ the Chief until he was off the radio.

An elderly gentleman suddenly stepped up beside him and pointed to the fireman’s make-shift satchel. “Is Mister Munson in there?”

“Hu-uh? Uhhh. Yeah.” Kelly had been so busy planning and plotting, he’d forgotten all about the cat.

The grief-stricken guy extended his arm. “May I take him?”

“Who are you?”

“Edward Greenbough…the III. Eleanor, the woman you were sent in to save, lives…lived across the hall from me. The two of us were very…close. She would want me to take him.”

“Where will you go?” Kelly inquired, keeping a tight grip on the bag.

“Home.”

“I thought this was your home.”

“If it is true, that ‘home’ is where your ‘heart’ is…Then I guess you are right. This was my home. I just have five other ‘places in which to live’. Six, if you count the flat in Paris.”

Kelly’s brows arched in disbelief. But he finally, reluctantly, relinquished custody of the cat.

“Thank you. I can assure you that ‘M’ will be well taken care of.”

That said, Chet went back to staring at story-and-a-half high mound of rubble.

The elderly gentleman stayed and stared, right along with him. “Thank you for trying to save her.”

Kelly nodded his appreciation of the guy’s gratitude. “I’m…sorry for your loss.”

“I am equally sorry for your loss. The other young man was clearly a close friend of yours.”

Speaking of the other young man’s close friends…

Chet’s mustached face suddenly filled with a grimace. “Ahhh…man…Roy.”

The incident scene suddenly grew very quiet.

McConike had finally finished shouting into his radio.

Kelly’s concern for John Gage’s partner was immediately put on hold. “Excuse me, Mr. Greenbough,” he begged off, and went bolting over to where the Battalion Chief’s car was parked.

Speaking of John Gage’s partner…

The returning paramedic popped his ride’s back doors open and hopped out onto the pavement. DeSoto removed their equipment cases from the back of the ambulance, as well, and then had a long look around.

The first thing Roy noticed was that the already dangerously slanting apartment complex had finally nosedived—completely—into the ground. Judging by the amount of dust that was still hanging in the air, he’d just missed seeing its collapse.

The second thing was that Triage had been turned into a Rehab Area.

The Red Cross had apparently kept its promise to return and transport the quake victims to the closest community shelter, because the bright yellow drop sheets were now occupied by his fellow firefighters.

Judging by all the IVs, cold compresses, hanging heads and sagging shoulders, the evacuators were suffering from dehydration, heat exhaustion, and over-exertion.

The third thing that came to his attention, after stowing their cardiac monitoring equipment away, was that Johnny was nowhere in sight. “Anybody seen my partner?” he inquired, of all who were within earshot.

His fellow firefighters exchanged exceedingly solemn glances.

Seconds passed, but nobody said a word.

Cal’ Brinkman finally raised his right arm and motioned toward the Chief’s car.

The puzzled paramedic gave the engineer a grateful nod and then headed off in that direction.

An uncomfortable feeling came over Roy as his fellow firefighters refused to make eye contact with him. He spotted 51’s engine crew and froze. The look—on all five of his friends’ faces—was one of profound sadness. ‘No Johnny…everybody acting as though someone has just died…’ Roy’s lungs suddenly stopped functioning and he staggered back a step, as though he’d just been sucker punched in the gut. He had! The implications—how people were reacting to his presence, and the looks on the guys’ grief-stricken faces—were truly gut-wrenching.

DeSoto just stood there, stunned—beyond belief.

51’s Captain came forward and steered his stunned crewman over to their engine. Hank sat John’s partner down on the truck’s back running board and locked a supportive hand onto his sagging left shoulder.

It was a full five minutes before Roy recovered enough to speak. “Whe—” the paramedic had to clear his tightened throat, in order to complete his question. “Where…is he?”

His crewmates shifted their solemn gazes toward the enormous mound of still-settling rubble, directly across the avenue from them.

So, not only was his best friend dead, he was also buried beneath a thousand tons of debris.

‘Nah-ahhhh…’ Roy’s reeling brain could not—would not—wrap itself around that gruesome scenario.

Besides, just because Johnny had been buried didn’t necessarily mean he’d been crushed to death. Hell, Chet was always calling Johnny scrawny. His partner had fit into some pretty tight spaces in the past seven years.

Hopefully, he’d found one more to fit into.

So…there was a slim chance that Johnny had just been entombed—and not crushed. His partner was just ‘supposedly’ dead. Roy’s head—er, heart chose to wrap itself around that scenario, instead.

The visible half of Squad 51 suddenly leapt to his feet and went racing over to the department’s ‘powers that be’ “Gage could still be alive!” he exclaimed, giving voice to his wishful thinking.

The Chief’s aides just gazed silently back at him with a mixture of sadness and sympathy in their faces.

DeSoto was, understandably, still in the early stages of grief. The first, of which, was denial.

“The department is acting under that premise,” McConike assured him.

The now confused paramedic’s puzzled blue eyes re-scanned the incident scene.

There was a complete absence of any fire department ‘activity’.

“Then, why isn’t anybody doing anything?”

“These crews are completely exhausted,” the Chief patiently explained. “More manpower and equipment is on the way. We can’t do anything until it gets here.”

“What happens when it does get here?”

“Well, Kelly’s come up with a pretty good plan. I think maybe he should be the one to answer that. ” McConike motioned for 51’s lineman to take over.

“Since the shortest distance between two points is a straight line,” Chet obligingly began, “and since it would take too long—and be too dangerous—to try to dig down to them through all that debris, we’re gonna tear up the walkway and front step, and then tunnel through what’s left of the basement, shoring things up along the way. Thirty, maybe thirty-five feet straight in, we’ll find them.”

As to whether the daunting task would end in a ‘rescue’…or a ‘retrieval’?

Well, either way, they would reach them.

‘Gage is awfully scrawny,’ Kelly reminded himself for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes. ‘And Eleanor was—is really thin, too.’

Battalion 14’s Chief stepped up to Station 51’s Captain. “Hank, I’m ordering you and your crew to return to quarters.”

John Gage’s shiftmates—and friends—exchanged mutinous glances.

“I need you guys to be well rested,” McConike quickly continued, before 51’s Captain and crew could voice their vehement protests, “when I send you in there tomorrow…to bring them out.”

51’s five remaining ‘guys’ gave their benevolent boss looks of undying gratitude and then reluctantly began taking their leave.

The Chief heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.

One of Stanley’s men wasn’t moving.

“Hank!” McConike called out.

‘Hank’ obligingly turned back and the stationary paramedic was promptly pointed out to him.

DeSoto was just standing there, staring at that enormous mound of debris.

Stanley stepped up beside him. “Roy?”

Roy was trying to recall the last thing he and his partner had said to one another.

“Try not to cause any kerfuffles while I’m gone,” he’d teased, following his friend’s amusing inquiry.

“I can’t make any guarantees,” Johnny had joked right back.

“Ro-oy?!” the Captain repeated, and finally succeeded in getting the day-dreaming paramedic’s attention. “You okay to drive?”

“Huh? Uh…Yeah…yeah,” Roy numbly replied, without breaking eye contact with the four compressed floors of wood and concrete that were keeping his partner entombed. He rested his right hand on the radio that was clipped to his hip. “I just wish there was a way to let him know that we’re coming back…that we haven’t given up on him.”

“Believe me, pal…” Hank paused to pat the paramedic’s chest a couple a’ times, right about at the level of his hurting heart. “He knows.”

Roy gave his Captain an appreciative nod and his partner’s temporary grave one last, lingering gaze. Then he turned and started trudging toward their squad.

The remaining members of Station 51’s A-Shift were halfway home when their trucks’ dash-mounted radios began to ‘bleep’.

“Squad 51…What is your status?”

Hank and his engine crew exchanged exceedingly grim glances.

Talk about a reality check.

“LA,” Roy quietly replied, without even bothering to reach for their radio’s mic’, “Squad 51 is…not…available…at this time.” The shock was beginning to wear off, and so was the ensuing numbness. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “One half is returning to quarters…” he paused, like he always did, to allow his partner to chime in.

“And the other half is still on scene.”

Gage’s cheery reply resonated through DeSoto’s memory with such crystal clarity, that he could actually hear the smile in Johnny’s voice. Roy glanced to his right, half-expecting to find his lanky-legged friend seated right there, beside him.

But he wasn’t.

And there were no guarantees that he ever would be…again.

Roy’s vision began to blur, as the emptiness of that black leather seat became unbearable. He blinked, to clear it. But it was blurring faster than he could blink. So he was forced to pull the Squad over.

Following a wordless exchange with his front-seat passenger, Mike pulled over and parked Big Red, right in back of Roy.

Hank and his engine crew just sat there, in a silent—yet visible—show of support for their grieving shiftmate.

They would need each other’s support. They had just lost their brother.

Roy would require the most support of all, for he had lost, not only his brother, but his best friend.

“Squad 51—”

Stanley made a frantic grab for their radio’s mic’. “—L.A.,” he interceded, before the dispatcher’s disconcerting question could be repeated, “Squad 51 is…unavailable. At. This. Time,” the Captain quickly, and confidently, tacked on.

“Copy that, 51…”

The old woman lay there, still cradled in the young fireman’s arms. It was dark—pitch dark, and the air was filled with pulverized concrete and plaster dust. The fine powder burned her eyes and nostrils and irritated the lining of her lungs, resulting in a constant cough.

She was shaking. The sudden fall—coupled with the unbelievably loud sounds of the building collapsing, over and around them—had scared her about half to death. But that wasn’t why she was trembling.

The young fireman wasn’t coughing. In fact, he was barely breathing.

And, the thought that he might be dying scared the living hell out of her. She buried her face into the young man’s no longer heaving from exertion chest and blinked fresh tears from her already watering eyes.

Her rescuer’s fire coat smelt of wood smoke and burnt electrical wiring. There was a hint of tuna fish and onions on his breath and he was wearing the most amazing men’s cologne.

“Please don’t die,” she pleaded, between coughs. “Please…don’t leave me all alone down here.”

The fireman didn’t respond.

So she shut her irritated, tear-filled eyes and extended her heartfelt plea to a higher authority.

Sometime later…

The dust had settled quite a bit.

Alas, her rescuer’s respiration rate had become so dangerously slow and so ridiculously shallow, the woman was convinced his death was now imminent. She hated to disturb the dying young man, but the front brim of his fire helmet was pressing, rather painfully, into her left boob. “Mister Fireman?...Mister Fireman?!” she repeated, upping the volume.

Not surprisingly, there was no response.

Her fingers fumbled blindly with the buckle on his helmet’s chin strap and she finally got it to release.

There was a light ‘tink’ling sound, as the fireman’s helmet fell away, and his hanging head flopped, lifelessly, to one side.

The old woman was startled when, just moments later, her rescuer’s chest heaved with a gasped inhalation. ‘His dying breath,’ she sadly surmised, and quickly scrambled out of the young fireman’s arms.

But, instead of being his last breath, it turned out to be just the first of many deep breaths, the most recent of which was exhaled with an accompanying moan.

With the increased oxygen supply to his brain, awareness gradually returned to John Gage. He came to completely and coughed. He could tell by the sound of his cough that he was in an enclosed space—a very dark and very dusty enclosed space.

He reached inside his coat, pulled the penlight from his front shirt pocket and clicked it on. He was lying in a V-shaped collapse void. His back was up against one of two enormous hunks of the lobby’s fractured terrazzo floor.

One of his long legs was directly in front of him and bent at the knee. The sole of his left boot was resting on the other hunk of slanted flooring.

There was a ten-inch wide slot in the bottom of his V-shaped tomb. His other leg had managed to find it, which meant that he was pinned, right up to his hip, between the two slanting slabs of concrete and granite.

The ‘exit’ rope was still attached to his lifebelt and it was holding his hips up at an unnatural and very uncomfortable angle. He somehow managed to get his belt unclipped from it.

He wrinkled his dust-encrusted nose up a few times and then reached, instinctively, for the aching left side of his stiff, sore neck. His hand hit something that caused a ‘clink’ing sound. He directed the narrow beam of his penlight at the ‘clink’ing object and discovered that one of the lobby’s enormous, crystal chandeliers had accompanied him into the basement. The chandelier had taken a huge hunk of the lobby’s ceiling with it, and that hunk of ceiling had served as a protective cover for the little V-shaped void.

One of the chandelier’s shiny brass arms must have been pressing into his neck, because there was a bruise and some swelling right below—and just in front of—his left ear. Humph. That was a new one. He’d never been ‘chandeliered’ before.

“Are you all right?” a vaguely familiar voice suddenly inquired.

It was the woman with the broken ankle. The one they’d been sent in to get ‘down and out’.

Gage took a couple of seconds to compose himself. “Yeah. I’m still a little woozy, is all.” He directed his penlight in the voice’s direction and exhaled an amused gasp. “Man, I cannot believe we survived that! Mister Munson must’ve loaned us a couple of his lives. What about you? Are you okay?”

The woman could not believe her eyes and ears. In no time at all, her rescuer had gone from near death to cracking jokes. As for his question? He’d sheltered her with his own body and kept her from harm. “You saw to that.”

“You sure you’re not hurt anywhere?”

“Well, I have a broken ankle. But that was busted before the earthquake hit and the whole damn building came down on us.”

Gage flashed an unseen smile at his ‘feisty’ fellow captive. “How long was I out?”

“I don’t know. My watch doesn’t have a luminous dial. A half hour—forty-five minutes, maybe?”

“Have my firemen friends out there been honking at any more passing motorists?”

“No. Why?”

“Two short blasts tells everybody to stop working. They even reroute traffic so that there’s total silence. Then, the guy on the LDP—Life Detection Probe—listens for signs of life. It’s a portable, battery-powered victim locator. A sort of acoustic listening device with a super-sensitive microphone attached to the end of a long probe. The mic’ is hooked up to an amplifier with an ambient noise filter and the guy monitors the sounds through a set of headphones. Voices only travel a few feet through the rubble. But tapping and banging carries a long ways. So, when we hear the ‘all quiet’ signal, we need to bang my helmet on one of these slabs, and keep on banging it.” A nerve in his numb right leg was really beginning to kill him. He recalled that amputees often report experiencing phantom leg pains and suddenly wondered if his right leg was even still there. “Could you do me a favor?”

“If it is within my ability to do so…”

“There’s a flashlight in my right coat pocket. Could you flick it on and let me know if my right leg is still attached to the rest of me?”

The old woman was taken aback by his request. But she obligingly crawled back over to her rescuer. She fished around in his pocket, removed the flashlight from his fire coat and flicked it on.

The chandelier’s crystal prisms caught and refracted the light, so that the entire void lit up with a warm, soft, glittering glow that was real easy on the eyes.

“Far out!” Gage declared with a grin. “Sort a’ adds a certain ‘ambience’ to the place, don’t yah think?” He took a longer, better look around. “I wouldn’t care to hold a dance in here. But, as collapse voids go, this one is downright ‘roomy’.”

The woman gazed in amazement at the ‘transformed’ young man and then reluctantly aimed the flashlight’s beam down through the ten-inch slot in the bottom of their V-shaped void.

The fireman’s right hip was pinned between the two slanting slabs of concrete and granite. His right leg was caught between two jagged pieces of the floor’s reinforcing rods. A third piece of rebar had penetrated his right thigh, just above the knee. “The good news is, your leg is still there. The bad news is, it appears to be bleeding.”

“Okay. Thanks. Now, I’m gonna need you to move as far back as you possibly can.”

She did.

There was a smaller, two-foot square hunk of the fractured floor digging into his right shoulder blade. He got it dislodged and then situated it so that it would act as a wedge, to keep the slot on the bottom of the V-shaped void open…in the event of another #@$! aftershock.

“You made me a seat. How considerate of you.” The woman crawled over to the makeshift wedge/chair, sat down and extended her right hand. “Eleanor Johanna Rigby. I was obviously not named after the song, nor was the song named after me.”

John took and shook the woman’s proffered appendage. “John Roderick Gage. I, uh, don’t have any Beatles’ songs named after me, either.”

She returned the young man’s grin—and flashlight. “Everybody just calls me E.J. Would you mind if I just call you J.R.?”

John replaced his penlight and then proceeded to drape his flashlight’s wrist strap over one of the chandelier’s shiny brass arms. “As in J.R. Ewing? The villain on ‘Dallas’? Well, I guess that’s better than Junior. When my buddy and I first started working together, he saw JR GAGE stenciled on all my gear and started calling me Junior.” Junior noticed that his entire body was wringing with sweat and started to remove his hot, canvas coat.

E.J. stopped him. “No! Don’t! You’re a fireman. I don’t have to tell you about ‘heat conduction’. This slab is going to suck the heat out of you until you and it are the same temperature.” She saw the amazed look on the young man’s face and quickly explained, “I have my Red Cross Advanced First-Aid Certificate, and I’ve taken five refresher courses, so my certification is up to date.” She paused to gaze up at the source of the void’s soft, soothing yellow glow. “Shouldn’t we shut the light off? To conserve the batteries?”

J.R. couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “I just replaced them, when I came on shift. My firemen friends out there will get here before the batteries go dead,” he confidently predicted.

Speaking of going dead…

“Just a few short minutes ago, I was convinced that you were…dying.”

“Yeah. I figure that’s cuz one of the chandelier’s arms must’ve been compressing the left vagus nerve in my neck, here…” he paused to point out the affected area. “The vagus nerve is sandwiched in between the left carotid and left subclavian arteries. It provides parasympathetic innertion to the heart and lungs, and compressing it can cause a vaso-vagal response. That’s when your BP/blood pressure drops suddenly and results in unconsciousness. Compression of the vagus nerve can also cause relative bradycardia—an unnaturally slow heart rate, and slow, shallow respirations.” He swiped his sweat-drenched brow with the sleeve of his canvas coat. “It, uh, also causes profuse sweating.”

E.J. picked the fireman’s dropped helmet up and studied it in the dim light. ‘PARAMEDIC’ was emblazoned between the circular white emblems’ red and green half moons.

‘Airway, breathing, circulation,’ she grimly reminded herself. “May I borrow your bandage scissors?”

“Why?”

“Your airway is open, your breathing has returned to normal. That leaves circulation. We need to get that bleeding stop—”

“—You can’t go down there!” J.R. quickly determined.

“Why ever not? The opening is a lot wider over the—”

“—Every pipe in this building burst! Both potable and non-potable! There’s raw sewage down there!”

“I’m not afraid of a little poo.”

“You can’t go down there! What about your busted ankle? What if there’s another aftershock? It’s too dangerous!”

“Where, exactly, is it written that you can risk your neck to save my life, but I can’t risk my neck to save yours?”

There was a bout of silence, as J.R. struggled to come up with a good answer to her good question. “It’s…one of those unwritten laws!”

“In that case, I choose to unlisten to it.”

“Look, I’m fine! If it was an artery, I’d already be dead. At least wait until the next aftershock passes!” He paused to pat her seat. “I’m hoping this hunk of concrete will slip down and wedge the slot open enough for me to pull my hip and leg free.”

“We can’t wait any longer!”

“Plea-ease?” the paramedic pleaded. “Don’t go down there!”

Two short, muffled blasts from an air-horn sounded just then and their attention was immediately redirected.

John snatched his helmet from the old woman’s hands and began banging it against the slab of flooring that he was leaning up against.

Several loud banging minutes later…

E.J. saw that J.R.’s arm was getting tired and quickly snatched the helmet back. “My turn,” she announced and began banging out a coded message.

J.R.’s eyebrows arched. “You know Morse Code?”

“I worked my way through college in a Western Union off—” she stopped banging as the muffled air-horn suddenly sounded again. One short blast, this time. “Does that mean ‘We heard you?’ or ‘Everybody get back to work?’”

John was forced to smile, a sad, half-hearted smile. “Everybody back to work. But don’t worry. They’ll hear us next time.”

E.J. set their noisemaker down and shoved her hand back into the fireman’s right coat pocket. She removed the air-splint she’d seen him shove in there, and inflated it just a tad. “Lift your head up for me,” she requested.

J.R. did as directed.

E.J. placed the partially inflated air-splint beneath his raised head, cushioning it from the slab of cold, hard, terrazzo flooring.

“You made me a pillow,” Gage realized, with a grin. “How considerate of you.” That said, he pulled his pillow-provider from her makeshift seat and took her back into the protective custody of his arms. “We need to conserve heat,” he explained, once he’d gotten the woman re-situated in his lap—er, his half-a-lap.

A long, comfortable silence ensued, which was only disturbed by the loud rumbling of the young fireman’s empty stomach.

“Sorry about that,” J.R. apologized. “We got toned out before we could finish eating.”

“Tuna salad?”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” J.R. re-apologized. “Didn’t have time to brush my teeth.”

“Or time to check on your friends and families, either, I’ll bet.”

“The Department has a system in place, in the event of natural disasters. Off-duty firefighters are called upon to perform welfare checks on the families of on-duty firefighters. It works pretty well. Our loved ones are looked after, and our attention remains focused on the job.”

“Are you married?”

Another, slight, sad smile appeared. “Only to my work.” The look on the young fireman’s face suddenly grew even sadder. “E.J….Why didn’t you answer us?”

“Because I knew that signal meant that the building was about to come down…because I knew that the two of you would be able to make it out a lot faster without me…because elevators don’t ‘do’ sideways…because I couldn’t leave without Mister Munson,” the old woman choked back a sob, “and because I couldn’t ask you boys…to risk your lives…just to try to save…some stupid cat!”

E.J. was crying openly now and J.R. regretted ever having posed his prying question. “Yeah…well…That just goes to show,” he began, his own voice cracking with emotion, “that you don’t know Chester B. and me. Cuz’, if you did, you’d know that we would NEVER risk our lives just to try an’ save some stupid cat.” His sad smile returned and he tightened his tender hold on her. “But, to save somebody’s furry best friend…and beloved companion? Well, the two of us will do—and have done—just about anything.”

The woman returned his smile, but the tears continued their steady stream down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, J.R.. Look at you. You’re trapped…and hurt. I’m soooo sorry.”

“Hey…I’m a firefighter, E.J. Firefighters flirt with disaster on a daily basis. Sometimes, disaster flirts back. This is just one a’ those times. And, I’m the one who’s sorry. I was s’posed to get you ‘down and out’. Remember?”

“You got me down. I’d be dead right now, if you hadn’t. And you would have gotten me out, too, if that damn aftershock hadn’t a’ hit when it did. I have every confidence that we will get out of here. We’re just taking the ‘scenic route’, is all.”

J.R. just had to chuckle at that. “Now that you mention it…The chandelier is kind a’ pretty to look at, isn’t it…”

And it was E.J.’s turn to laugh. Her laughter was short-lived however, as the chandelier’s dangling crystal prisms suddenly began to dance and sway and ‘clink’ noisily together. The ‘clink’ing was quickly drowned out by an all too familiar rumble. She clutched the front of the fireman’s coat with both fists, buried her tear-streaked face back into his chest, and resumed her silent—but fervent—prayers.

As the second aftershock came roaring—and rolling—in, Gage re-donned his helmet and then used his body to shelter E.J. from harm.

The third temblor, while not as violent as the first two, shook the slabs of concrete and granite enough to cause them to shift.

As they shifted position, the wedge/chair settled lower into the V-shaped void, widening the slot at the bottom and freeing the fireman’s right hip.

John was just about to pull his no longer trapped leg up out of the hole, when the slab his left foot was planted on slipped. A white-hot shaft of pain tore through his right thigh.

He threw his helmeted head back and screamed,“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

The tremor—and the screaming—gradually subsided.

E.J. was alarmed.

The young fireman had just screamed until he’d run out of air. And now, his chest wasn’t moving, again.

She hoped it was because he was holding his breath. She was tempted to hold hers, too, as the air was—once again—filled with that damn disgusting dust. She removed herself from the fireman’s lap and retook her wedge/seat.

Her young companion was in a world a’ hurt! To make matters worse, a gasped inhalation was rewarded with a lungful of pulverized plaster dust. The irritant sent J.R. into a coughing jag. With the pressure removed from his hip, his formerly asleep right leg was rapidly ‘reawakening’. So, the initial white-hot shaft of pain was being closely followed by a constant searing pain. He really, really, REALLY needed to take his weight off of his right leg! “E.J.?!” he somehow managed to get out, between coughs—and tightly clenched teeth. “Can you grab that rope up there?!”

The old lady latched onto the requested rope and pulled it down for him.

J.R.’s trembling left hand grabbed the lowered rope, but even with the both of them pulling down, it wouldn’t stretch enough for him to get his lifebelt re-attached to it. In fact, the only result of their combined effort was more screaming. It seemed pulling up on his right leg hurt every bit as bad as pushing down on it did. John loosened the straps on his lifebelt with his trembling right hand, and tried again. This time, he was able to get the belt’s clamp clipped to the rope. After some excruciatingly painful ‘trial and error’, the fireman was finally able to get his lifebelt buckled into a non-scream-producing position. “So,” he gasped, once he’d regained his breath and, at least, some semblance of his composure, “how’d you break your ankle?”

E.J. completely ignored the injured young man’s nonchalant inquiry. It was time to ‘act’, not ‘talk’. ‘Circulation…Circulation…Circulation.’ She took the bandage scissors she’d just stolen—er, borrowed from the paramedic’s assessment kit—and began cutting the bottom of her cotton housecoat up into strips of bandages.

“I see you’re—”

“—Yes!”

“I don’t suppose—”

“—No!”

J.R. exhaled a resigned sigh.

By the time E.J. finished cutting, her cotton housecoat was little more than a cotton blouse. She threw the long cloth strips over her left shoulder and started taking her leave.

J.R. locked his right hand and onto her left wrist and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Please...be careful down there.”

She placed her steady right hand over the paramedic’s trembling appendage and gave it a few comforting pats. “Don’t worry. I will.”

J.R. exhaled another sigh, of utter frustration, and, reluctantly, released his grip.

“I’m leaving you in charge of the lighting,” E.J. lightly announced, and carefully began lowering herself down through the opening at the bottom of their V-shaped void.

J.R. dutifully removed his flashlight’s wrist strap from the chandelier and beamed its soft yellow glow directly below.

E.J.’s good right foot hit the basement floor. She balanced on one leg for a few moments and then slowly—and carefully—dropped to her knees. Her hazel eyes widened in horror and she stifled a colorful expletive, or two, as she got an up close look at the young fireman’s badly injured leg.

The tip of that steel reinforcing rod was now sticking out the right side of J.R.’s leg. This latest shaking and resettling had shoved the rusty half-inch diameter rebar clean through his lower thigh. Worse yet, the wound seemed to be bleeding even more profusely.

E.J. sent a silent prayer, for strength, heavenward and immediately set about stemming the steady flow of blood. “The floor is wet,” she calmly relayed, noting that her sweatpants felt damp at the knees. “But there doesn’t seem to be any raw sewage or standing water anywhere.”

“That’s a good sign,” her suspended patient replied, sounding equally calm. “They must be trying to reach us through the basement. They’d have the Sanitation Department pump it out, first.”

The woman was on her fourth layer of bandages and still the dark stain continued to appear. “We seem to be just outside of the laundry room. Too bad I can’t get to it. Mister Greenbough does his wash on Tuesdays and he has the most luxuriant 100 percent Egyptian cotton, 800 thread-count sheets. They’d make incredible bandages!”

J.R.’s right eyebrow arched.

“I know what you’re thinking,” E.J. continued. “You’re thinking: ‘How does the old bat know so much about Mister Greenbough’s sheets.”

The young fireman was forced to laugh.

“Well, we both do our wash on Tuesdays and I help E.G. fold all his bedding. This isn’t too tight, is it, dear?”

“It’s not tight, at all.”

That was probably why the crimson stain continued to appear. She wasn’t tying the bandage strips tight enough. She snugged up the sixth and seventh layers of cotton cloth and was relieved to see they remained relatively stain free.

“So, how did you break your ankle?” J.R. re-wondered.

“Every Saturday night, we turn…used to turn the lobby into a ballroom. E.G. and I were dancing. Marv Dunlop cut in and stepped on my left foot with one of his two left feet and my ankle snapped like a dry twig. But, it’s a clean break and my orthopedist claims I’ll be back on the dance floor in about four more weeks.” E.J. used the last strip of cloth to wipe the drying crimson stains from her hands. “How are you doing up there, dear?”

“I was doing a whole lot better…when my leg was asleep.”

E.J. could easily believe that! The old woman knelt there, silently berating herself for having allowed J.R. to delay her bandaging efforts. Blood had pooled on the tiled floor, beneath his dangling right leg. Thankfully, her young rescuer was right. The pool wasn’t the bright red color of arterial blood. She tossed the crimson-stained cloth aside and started struggling back onto her one good, slippered foot. “I’ve managed to get the bleeding under control,” she relievedly reported as her grey-haired head popped back up through the opening.

J.R. slipped his light’s wrist strap back over the chandelier’s shiny brass arm and extended a helping hand.

E.J. declined the young fireman’s gracious offer, realizing the pain, even the slightest movement on his part, would produce. She opted, instead, for hobbling up a sort of ‘debris stairway’. It took some doing, but the old woman finally found herself perched back upon her wedge/chair. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’ve been trying to think of something I wouldn’t do for a shot of Demerol, right now. So far, I haven’t been able to come up with anything…short of murder.”

“Well…That’s a relief.” E.J. smiled, as her deadpan reply prompted the pain-racked paramedic to laugh, yet again.

“Thanks for saving my life, E.J.”

“Thanks for saving my life, J.R.”

Two short, muffled blasts of an air-horn suddenly sounded.

J.R. slipped his helmet off and handed it to his savvy companion.

E.J. accepted their noisemaker and began banging out rather loud, encoded message.

Over at L.A. County’s Fire Station 51…

Headquarters had assured the grief-stricken crew that their families were all safe and secure.

That knowledge did little, or nothing, to lighten the somber mood that seemed to permeate the entire station.

Hank and his Engineer were currently seated in his office. The pair had just finished giving their signed statements to the authorities.

That meant that the wheels were now in motion to see to it that the party responsible for the building collapse was brought to justice.

Unfortunately, that knowledge also did little, or nothing, to lighten either man’s somber mood.

Recalling his boss’ ‘At. This. Time.’ comment to dispatch, Stoker felt compelled to inquire, “Cap, do you really believe John could have survived the collapse?”

“Depends,” the Captain quickly came back. “You asking my head? Or my heart?”

“You’re one hell of a Captain,” Mike quietly confessed. “Bordering on brilliant,” he added, with a wry, shy smile. “But the times I’ve been proudest to be under your command, are the times when you’ve led with your heart, and not just your head.”

Hank flashed his friend back a grateful grin. “Thanks, Mike. That means a lot…coming from you.”

“So. What are you going to do?”

“This…situation…reminded me of something I read a while back…in a fortune cookie, of all the damned places. It said, in part, that ‘As long as there is hope, there is life’. So, I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. I’d like to hold onto that hope and save the damn grief for another damn day.”

“So…what’s stopping you?”

His boss’ face suddenly filled with an unbearable sadness. “What if I’m wrong?”

“I read something a while back, too. If I recall correctly, it was along the lines of: ‘The loss is forever. Grief over that loss is not.’”

The Captain flashed his Engineer back another smile, this time, a sad one. “You’re gonna make one hell of a Captain, yourself, someday.”

“So you keep sayin’. Yah know, if I was a less secure person, I might take it that you were trying to get rid of me.”

“Now, why would I wanna get rid of the best damn engineer in the entire department?”

The two friends exchanged grins.

Stanley started getting stiffly to his feet. “What da yah say we cut all the mutual admiration crap and go see what the rest of the guys are up to,” he ordered more than asked.

“Great idea, Cap,” Stoker replied, and then quickly added, “I know. I know. ‘All of your ideas are great—and that is why you are the Captain’.”

“Damn straight.” At least, Hank hoped all of his ideas would turn out to be great.

Back at 1126 East Berkley Avenue…

The firefighter listening for signs of life suddenly froze all motion.

Through all the loud ‘crunch’ing and ‘crack’ling in his headphones, there filtered the faint, but deliberate ‘bang’ing sound of something other than resettling building debris.

It took the wide-eyed listener a few more seconds to finally realize what he was hearing.

He stashed the probe under his armpit and pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. It took several more listens to get the encoded message recorded, but, once it was down on paper, the fireman raised his hand-held radio to his smiling lips and keyed its mic’. “Battalion 14 from HT36…”

“McConike here…Go ahead, 36…”

“Chief, they’re alive!”

“Say again…”

“Gage and the victim are alive!...Sir.”

“You’re positive it’s not just debris settling from that last aftershock?”

“Not unless settling debris knows Morse Code…Sir,” he wisely replied and proceeded to read the Battalion Chief the ‘bang’ed out message, “Two alive STOP Entombed in V-shaped void STOP Please hurry STOP.”

McConike lowered his HT and beamed a big grin in his engineer’s direction. “Brinkman, sound ‘message received’!”

Brinkman returned his boss’ grin, “With pleasure, Chief!” That said, the engineer spun on his heels and trotted off in the direction of his truck.

Gage heard his firemen friends honking at passing motorists again and surpassed both of their grins. He reached out and stopped E.J., right in mid-bang. “Three short blasts mean ‘Message received.’”

E.J. lowered her aching arms. “Thank God! I sure hope they hurry.”

“Firemen work a little faster and are more ‘inspired’, when it’s a rescue…and not just a recovery.”

E.J. gave her young rescuer’s still trembling hand a few more comforting pats and began praying, fervently, that it would turn out to be a rescue operation. Two rescues, and no ‘recoveries’.

Back over in the rec’ room of Station 51…

Hank had just finished proposing his ‘As long as there is hope, there is life’ plan of action, when the phone rang. Being in closest proximity to the annoying instrument, he turned around and answered it. “Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking…” His bushy brows shot up into the middle of his forehead. “Well, I’ll be damned!” The Captain covered the phone’s mouthpiece and aimed his amazed gaze in his engineer’s direction. “It worked! Headquarters just confirmed it. They’re both alive!”

The Captain’s shared phone conversation had stunned John Gage’s shiftmates into silence.

“It’s true,” Hank assured his disbelieving crew. “The guy working the LDP picked up a Morse Code message: Two alive. Entombed in V-shaped void. Please hurry.”

Lopez and Kelly grinned from ear-to-ear and promptly flew into a back-slapping frenzy.

Hank noted that the dour expression on DeSoto’s face failed to depart. “What’s wrong, Roy?”

Before their Captain had come into the rec’ room, Roy, Marco and Chet had been riveted to their color TV’s 24-inch screen.

KXLA was showing live coverage of the collapse site, and the LACFD’s rescue operation.

Chief Dalbert’s voice droned on and on, “All the utilities have been secured. The Sanitation Department is continuing to pump out the basement. Progress is painstakingly slow. The crews are only averaging about 2-feet per hour, as they have to cut through concrete walls, floors, steel pipes, wires and an assortment of reinforcing rods. The crews are working with several thousand tons of debris over their heads. Right now, we’re waiting for more jacks to be delivered. The jacks are needed to shore up the access route…”

Roy’s gaze slowly shifted back to their TV’s screen and the ‘talking head’.

The message hadn’t come from his partner. Hell, the only Morse Code Johnny knew was S-O-S.

Which meant it had to have come from the woman who was ‘entombed’ with him…and she had requested that they ‘Please hurry.’

Roy’s solemn gaze returned to his now concerned Captain. “I could imagine that Johnny had somehow managed to survive the collapse. But I’m not naïve enough to think he could go through such a catastrophic collapse, plus a pretty strong aftershock, and remain unscathed. Chief Dalbert just said it could take up to fifteen to twenty hours, for us to reach them. Even a minor injury can become life-threatening, if left untreated that long…” the paramedic allowed his worry-filled voice to trail off.

Stanley exchanged grim glances with the rest of his guys. “As long as there is hope, there is life,” he repeated. The Captain crossed over to his senior paramedic and gave his sagging left shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “The other part reads: As long as there is life, there is hope.”

Roy gave his boss a grateful nod, but his expression remained grim.

There were times when the fireman wished he didn’t know so damned much about medicine.

Roy was right. His partner had, most definitely, not survived the collapse unscathed.

In fact, the scope of the ‘scathed’ paramedic’s pain was breathtaking—literally.

‘Inhale through your nose…’ the hurting fireman mentally coached himself, between bouts of teeth-gritting and gasping. ‘Ahhh-ahhhh-ahhhh…Shit, shit shit…Just shoot me now…Where was I?...Oh…yeah…Ahhhhhhhhh…Damn, damn, damn…’ Gage grimaced and gave up.

Regulating one’s breathing required total concentration and his brain’s pain receptors were being bombarded with so many messages, his thoughts refused to stay focused. He felt weak, faint, dizzy, confused, and agitated. He was experiencing tingling in both arms and numbness around his mouth. No doubt about it, he was hyperventilating. “E.J…could you please…pass me…my helmet?”

E.J. handed the paramedic his helmet and he promptly began breathing into it. “Hurts bad, huh…”

“It…doesn’t hurt…good…Sorry…I was being…a smartass…Sorry…I was being…disrespectful…I’m afraid…I’m not managing…my pain…very well.” He pulled the helmet away from his face for a moment. “I don’t wanna alarm you…but ‘murder’ is lookin’…like it may end up…on the Demerol ‘trading table’…after all,’ the hurting bad fireman breathlessly confessed, his grimace combining with a crooked grin.

“J.R., I’d like to try something with you. If you’re willing…”

The young fireman’s handsome face remained frozen in a grimace. “At this point…I am willing to try…anything…E.J.”

“Years ago, I traveled to Bolivia. I was on a bus filled with people, heading up into the Andes, just north of La Paz. It had been raining heavily for several days. The mountain road we were on suddenly gave way and the bus plunged down an embankment. Dozens were killed, many more were seriously injured. I suffered a compound fracture of my right wrist. As luck would have it, a medico kallawaya came along.”

“A medico…kallawhat?” the paramedic queried, his voice muffled by his helmet.

“Kallawaya—a traditional, naturopathic Bolivian healer. He did what he could to treat our injuries. Fortunately, Arturo spoke Spanish. His prescription for coping with the pain until outside help arrived, was to bombard our brains with things we felt very passionately about: sights, sounds, memories. According to Arturo, and his ancient Incan ancestors, our brains are incapable of focusing on two equally strong feelings at the same time. So, it’s possible for the passion we feel to override the pain we feel…or something along those lines. Well, my wrist was really killing me, so I gave it a go. And, damned if it didn’t work! Perhaps, if we can keep you distracted with good, stimulating conversation about the things you feel strongly about, your passion will override your pain, as well…”

Re-breathing his own air seemed to have corrected his blood’s low carbon dioxide level, so J.R. slowly lowered his helmet. He did say he was willing to try anything. “Okay. Why not. I am passionate about the Great Outdoors.

In fact, I was s’posed to be heading up into the San Gabriels right after my shift.

About six months back, some buddies of mine pooled their resources and bought 2,000 acres of primo, pristine, virgin timberland from a logging conglomerate.

The property is completely surrounded by State and National Forests.

They sort a’ nominated me to be their property’s caretaker. In return, I get to stay there whenever they’re off on location. It’s my new favorite place in the world.

They put up a brand new log cabin, right on the edge of the timberline. It is incredible! Built-in bunks, a beautiful stone fireplace and a cozy loft. Wall to wall windows and a wrap-around deck. Everywhere you look, there’s a breathtaking view.

There are three—three trout streams on the place.

Tons of wildlife. Fresh air…zero smog. I can do a little upkeep and de-stress at the same time. What’s not to love?

I’ve been hiking up there, on and off, for the past few months, now, and I still haven’t seen it all.” The paramedic paused to beam a broad grin in his helpful companion’s direction. “It seems to be working, E.J..”

“Great! Then, don’t stop. You’ve described some of the sights. What about the sounds?”

The young fireman’s grin remained planted on his pain-free face and he got a far-away look in his eyes. “The wind. The sound of the wind rustling through the pines around the cabin is soul-soothing.”

“Soul-soothing?”

“Yeah. Soul-soothing...like the sound my horse makes when he’s munching on his hay…or the sound my saddle makes when the leather creaks…or the sound water makes as it’s trickling over stones in a trout stream. Soul-soothing.” The wistful thinker suddenly snapped out of his soothing reveries. “How did you ever end up in Bolivia?”

“You’re supposed to be doing the talking, here. Not me. I’m not the one with a steel rod rammed through my right thi—” E.J. cut her comment short and cursed beneath her breath. ‘Wonderful! You just reminded him of what you’re trying to get him to forget!”

J.R. was forced to grin again. “I can be a ‘passionate’ listener.”

E.J. surrendered. “I taught High School Art for 47 years. Although, art isn’t exactly something that can be ‘taught’. I spent my summers traveling the world. One can’t get very far on a teacher’s salary, so I also illustrate romance novels.”

“Sorry about all of your paintings,” J.R. interjected. “I saw them, and your artist supplies in the closet, when I went to get the sheet.”

“Those were just prints. Prints can be replaced. The originals currently ‘deck the halls’ of Passion Press, Inc., in downtown L.A.” The ex-teacher/artist eyed the passionate listener carefully.

Her rescuer was ruggedly handsome, like the young men on the covers of the romance novels she was commissioned to illustrate. “You strike me as having been a good student.”

“Getting good grades was not an option when I was growing up. It was mandatory. My father read—somewhere—that ‘Knowledge Is Power’. And he intended to see to it that his kids were as empowered as they could possibly be.”

“You have siblings?”

“One. A sister. Two years older than me. She loves to travel the world, too. Only, it doesn’t cost her a dime. In fact, she gets paid to do it.”

“What airline is she with?”

“Julie’s been with Trans World for over 15 years. She’s based in Rome. But, once or twice a year, she’ll swap flights with somebody heading for the States and fly into LAX. She usually crashes at my place. Poor choice of words.”

“Are your parents still living?”

“My Mom died of breast cancer, when I was twelve. I lost my Father five years later, in a construction accident. He was working on a high-rise in Riverside when a crane collapsed, killing him—and four other guys.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” E.J.’s voice cracked with emotion and she had to regain her composure before continuing with her questioning. They’d covered sights and sounds. It was time to tackle memories. “What about memorable experiences?”

“Where do I begin,” John muttered beneath his breath. He decided to start with the most recent and work his way back. “Okay. It’s three in the morning. A call comes in: ‘Woman down. Unknown cause. We get to the scene and there’s this lady sitting on the curb, outside a’ this bar, sobbing hysterically. We check her out and quickly discover that she is also completely ‘blotto’. We finally get her calmed down enough to speak and ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’ She looks up at us and says, ‘I’m peeing pennies!’

E.J. couldn’t help but laugh.

J.R. grinned. “I know. Right? We’re supposed to maintain a professional demeanor at all times. But, how can anybody be expected to hear a comment like that and NOT ‘crack up’?”

“So,” E.J. inquired, between a few lingering giggles, “did you?”

“We took one look at each other and went into a couple of coughing jags. While we’re trying to wrap our heads around that, she proceeds to pull her pants down and show us that her panties are, indeed, full of pennies.”

E.J. laughed harder than ever.

“And, Roy—my paramedic partner—Roy was no help at all. Kept making all these snide comments under his breath, about the goose that laid the golden egg, and about whether she was expecting us to deposit her at Rampart? Or take her to the bank, to make a deposit. Is she crying because she’s not peeing quarters? I elbowed him til his ribs were black and blue, but I could NOT get him to stop. Roy’s sense of humor can get pretty demented on a nothing call at three in the morning.”

“Whatever became of your patient?”

“Well, we transported her to the ‘hospital’ and they finally got her sobered up. That’s when she remembered she had broken into some parking meters, earlier in the evening. She said she was afraid the police would catch her with her purse full of pennies. So she stashed them where the sun don’t shine. To this day, neither of us can look at a penny without being reminded of the lady who turned her panties into an impromptu piggy ba—Ow! OW! OW!” the storyteller screamed in agony and started reaching for his injured right thigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“Muscle spasm!” J.R. gasped, and re-locked his jaws.

“Quick! Pinch the area between the base of your nose and your upper lip! Harder!” E.J. ordered. The woman exhaled a frustrated gasp and brushed the incapacitated paramedic’s hand away. She then latched onto the designated area and squeezed, really hard. “There is a nerve bundle—between your nose and upper lip. The acupressure point for leg pain is located there.”

J.R. yelped in agony. “Acupressure point?” he inquired, his eyes watering from the pain of her pinch.

“Southern Mongolia. Gobi Desert. The Dzungarian Basin. I had foolishly allowed myself to become dehydrated. The calf muscles of my left leg were locked in a charley-horse. Altanjin offered to put me out of my misery. He was really into ‘acupuncture’, at the time.”

“At the time?...Wha—? You speak Chinese?”

“The language of ‘love’ is universal, my dear boy.”

“Something tells me you could write and illustrate your own series of ‘romance novels’, E.J.,” J.R. determined, his voice sounding somewhat nasally.

E.J. completely ignored his comment. “For the record, Mongolians speak Cyrillic. Altanjin was a Tibetan Buddhist who spoke both Turkish and English.”

At long last, J.R. could feel his locked up quadriceps relaxing.

E.J. released her hold on the paramedic’s upper lip area. “Now, where were we?”

J.R.’s still-tearing eyes gazed disbelievingly back at his tormentor. “Uh-uh…memories. If mine serves me correctly…”

Refusing to allow his celebratory mood to be dampened by DeSoto’s dire predictions, Chet Kelly sprang up out of his seat. “I’m gonna give Edward a call an’ see if he’s heard the good news,” he determined with a grin and started striding toward the payphone in the corner of the room.

The news was just too good NOT to share!

“Who’s Edward?” Marco wondered, following along on his friend’s heels.

“The guy who took Mister Munson,” Kelly cryptically responded and began paging through the Charter Oak phone directory. “I wonder if it’s spelt Greenbow, as in ‘take a bow’, or Greenbough, as in ‘when the bough breaks’?

Marco’s only comment on the subject was another quick question of his own. “Who’s Mr. Munsen?”

“Eleanor’s Siamese,” Kelly replied and kept right on flipping pages.

His curiosity piqued, Hank promptly posed a question of his own. “Who’s Eleanor?”

Kelly raised his gaze to his Captain’s level. “Edward’s girlfriend…The woman with the broken ankle…The old lady the Chief sent Gage an’ me in to get ‘down and out’,” he additionally supplied and finally succeeded in removing the bewildered look from his boss’ face.

‘That would explain how Johnny ended up in the building,’ Roy silently realized.

Mike’s thoughtful expression suddenly turned to one of amazement and he headed over to the corner of the room, too. “Edward Greenbough? As in Greenbough Industries ‘Edward Greenbough’?”

“Could be,” Kelly finally came back, following a few moments of careful contemplation. “I mean, a guy’s gotta be pretty rich, to have six different homes. Right?”

Stoker was momentarily too stunned to speak. “Pretty rich? Chet, the guy is a billionaire—several times over! What would one of the wealthiest men on the planet be doing at that apartment complex?”

Chet gave their dense engineer a ‘Du-uh’ look. “Did I mention Eleanor is Edward’s girlfriend? His seventh home was the apartment right across the hall from hers.”

Stoker was even more astonished. “It’s bough, as in ‘when the bough breaks’, but it’s a safe bet his number’s unlisted.”

“I’ll just phone his company, then—”

“—You won’t find Greenbough Industries listed in that directory. Its corporate headquarters are based in New York, with subsidiary companies all over the world. As a matter of fact, there should be some right here, in L.A. I’ll call my stock broker. He’ll know.”

Chet readily relinquished his phone spot. “Hear that?” he whispered to Marco. “Mikey has his very own stock broker.”

“Guess that explains why his face is always buried in the Financial Section,” Lopez realized right back, also speaking in a whisper.

Mike gave them both an eye roll before dropping his dime into the phone’s coin slot and dialing a number from memory. “Hi, Phil. Mike Stoker, here. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know if Greenbough Industries has any subsidiary companies here in L.A., would you?...They do?” He placed the palm of his left hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “There’s an import/export company and a chain of 5-star hotels.” He uncovered the phone. “No. I wasn’t thinking of investing. We’re trying to reach Edward Greenbough…He does? …Thanks, Phil…Right!...Yeah…Okay. Bye.” He returned the phone to its cradle, snatched up the much larger L.A. directory, and began flipping through its Yellow Pages. “Phil says, word from the world of finance has it, that Mr. Greenbough likes to stay at one of his hotels whenever he’s in town. ‘The Chamberlain Suites’.”

Their Captain whistled for the second time that shift. “From what I’ve heard, that is the ritziest hotel in L.A.”

Stoker finally found the number he’d been searching for, under ‘Hotels’, and kept his right index finger pressed beside it. The phone’s receiver was raised, left-handedly, from its cradle and passed on to Kelly.

Chet dug through the change in his pants’ pockets, deposited the correct coinage, and then dialed, as Mike relayed the numbers.

“Three-zero-one…eight-five-five…one-two-one-two.”

At a hotel desk in downtown L.A., a gaudy phone began to ring.

An impeccably dressed clerk silenced the noisy, ornate instrument by picking up. “Good evening,” the young fellow formally greeted, “Chamberlain Suites. How may I assist you?...One moment, please.” He placed the caller on hold and waved his equally impeccably dressed boss over.

“Yes?” the older fellow formally inquired, upon approaching the desk.

“There is a fireman on the line, sir. Says he wishes to speak with the hotel’s manager.” That said, he handed the phone over and gave its ‘Hold’ button a second pressing.

“Good evening. This is Roger Logan, manager of The Chamberlain Suites. How may I be of assistance?...Yes…I see, Mister Kelly, but I am afraid Mister Greenbough is currently not in residence.”

The desk clerk’s eyes widened as the party in question suddenly appeared, holding—what appeared to be—a fistful of pillowcase—a howling, fistful of pillowcase. He tapped his boss politely on the shoulder and pointed toward the hotel’s main entrance.

Mister Logan followed his employee’s pointing finger and his staunch face lit up with a formal smile. “Wait, Mister Kelly! You’re in luck. It seems that Mister Greenbough has just stepped into the lobby. One moment please.” The manager placed the caller back on hold and headed off to greet his employer.

“Mister Greenbough! I cannot begin to tell you how good it is to see you again, sir.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

“Shall I have Anders fetch your luggage?”

“I don’t have any luggage.”

The manager’s cheery demeanor instantly evaporated. “Does this mean you won’t be staying with us, sir?” he wondered, and followed his boss off across the lobby.

“Mister Munson and I will be staying. I just don’t have any luggage.”

“Very well, sir. We will have a suite ready for Mister Munson when he arrives.”

They reached the desk.

“He already has,” his boss announced and raised the noisy satchel he was toting. “Cats don’t have any luggage, either. Do they, M. Which reminds me…could you see to it that a catbox, some kitty litter and a large can of tuna are delivered to my quarters?”

Logan bowed both his head and his upper torso—twice—in a sort of full-body nod. “I almost forgot,” he realized, upon straightening. “There is a phone call for you, sir. A Mister Kelly is on the line.”

“Take a message for me, will you, Logan,” Edward wearily requested. Even if he had recognized the name, he wasn’t in a talkative mood. He and M needed some alone time…some time to grieve.

“Of course, sir,” Mister Logan dutifully acknowledged and turned to his desk clerk. “Calvin, Mister Greenbough will be needing the keys to his quarters. Oh, and, ask that fireman fellow to please leave a message.”

“Yes, sir.”

‘That fireman fellow!’ Edward suddenly—and silently—realized. ‘Mister Kelly!’ He passed the pillowcase off to Mister Logan and snatched up the desk phone so fast it made his astonished employees’ heads spin. “Chet?! Chet?!” he anxiously re-exclaimed. He spotted the flashing red light on the ornate instrument’s base and hit the damn ‘Hold’ button. “Chet?! Chet, it’s Edward!...” the elderly gentleman’s weary eyes welled up and his jaw quivered. “No. No. I hadn’t heard…Tell your Captain that I am placing the entire resources of Greenbough Industries at your Department’s disposal. Is there anything your men require—right this moment?...Building jacks? I’ll have my people contact your people for the specs. You should have them within the hour…Sometime tomorrow morning? My, that—that is a lo-ong ways off, isn’t it. Would it be possible for me to wait with you and your friends?...Splendid! Then, I’ll see you shortly. Thank you, Chet…Thank you for taking the time to share this wonderful news with me,” he repeated, his voice quavering. The fancy phone was slowly lowered back into its cradle. Following a fervently whispered prayer of gratitude, Edward rested his wrinkled forehead upon his folded arms and wept—openly—and, unashamedly.

His private tears of grief had just been transformed into public tears of joy. The woman he loved—so desperately—was still alive…for now. It wasn’t everyday that someone was given a second chance at love. “Mister Logan…could you please have the car brought around? I am obviously in no condition to be driving.”

“Right away, sir!” The manager handed the heavy, still-howling satchel back to his boss and promptly headed off to procure the promised car and driver.

Edward’s still a bit blurry gaze shifted, from the sack in his right hand, to his remaining employee. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you, Calvin?”

“N-No, sir,” the young clerk stammered back. “I-I’m actually quite fond of them…sir.”

“Excellent! Then…how does the idea of spending a couple of days cooped up in a penthouse, with a traumatized Siamese, and unlimited Room Service, strike you?”

Calvin gave the keys in his right hand a slight toss into the air. As they landed back into his open palm, he grinned up at his boss’ boss and declared, “I shall do my very best to keep ‘M’ company…sir.”

Edward passed him the pillowcase and picked up the phone.

Speaking of being cooped up and traumatized…

E.J.’s eyes narrowed in the flashlight’s dim, yellow light. “You mean, after all the two of you went through to rescue that man, he was arrested?”

J.R. nodded. “We barely had the guy out of the building when the cops slapped the cuffs on him. Turns out, he was wanted for murder—in three states!”

“So, the two of you could have been killed…saving a cold-blooded killer. There’s a terrible irony in that.”

“The main goal of the Fire Service is to save peoples’ lives and property. That duty is performed with due diligence and, occasionally, at great expense.”

“Far too great of an expense, in that maniac’s case.”

“It won’t always be an ‘equitable’ trade. Every firefighter has to come to terms with that fact before they pin on the badge. If a guy never calls his mother, or if he goes around kicking puppy dogs, or murdering people, we don’t want—or need—to know. Judging people is not a part of the job description. So, we just stick to the rescuing and leave the judging to the ‘Big Guy in the sky’.”

“Then, you believe in God?”

“I believe that creation requires a Creator…and that intelligent design requires an Intelligent Designer—” J.R. sucked in a breath and his face filled with a grimace.

E.J. was looking forward to what else her companion had to say on the subject, but one—or more—of her young rescuer’s leg muscles chose that moment to ‘lock up’ on him again.

Five minutes of ‘nerve bundle compression’ and ‘helmet breathing’ later…

“I can’t bear any weight on my right leg,” J.R. regrettably announced, once his respiration rate had slowed enough to allow him to speak.

“That’s perfectly understandable,” E.J. assured him, her voice sounding somewhat shaky.

“I can’t unclip this belt. That means, if this slab,” he paused to tap the steeply-slanting section of terrazzo flooring beneath the sole of his left boot, “slips any further, and the rope doesn’t snap, that rod’s either gonna be ripped out the side of my thigh, or my right leg’s gonna be ripped off at the knee. I’m not likely to survive either scenario. I just wanted to make you aware of the possibility. I don’t believe there’s a situation you couldn’t handle, if you were just given the chance to prepare for it. Right now, I need to straighten my left leg for a bit, because it’s really beginning to kill me. I’m either gonna pass out…or I’m gonna be screamin’ like a little girl. I hope, for both our sakes, that I pass out.”

“Don’t be afraid to scream.”

“I’m not afraid to scream. I’m afraid that, once I start, I won’t be able to stop.” That said, J.R. started to straighten out his incredibly cramped left leg—and to scream…like a little girl.

Edward Greenbough arrived at Station 51 just as his construction company’s equipment trucks were arriving on the collapse scene, with the needed building jacks and various other donated shoring materials.

Kelly escorted the billionaire business executive into their kitchen and introduced him to the rest of the crew.

“Captain, I can’t tell you how grateful I am, that you have allowed me to join you and your men, here at your fire station.” Edward earnestly stated, following four solemn nods and four extremely firm handshakes. “I would have gone crazy waiting alone.”

Hank could relate to that. “We’re glad to have you, Mister Greenbou—”

“—Edward.”

“We’re glad you could join us, Edward,” the Captain began again. “And, we’re all grateful to you, for the supplies. We just watched the trucks pulling up on the TV, there. Chet, since our guest is going to be with us for…awhile, why don’t you give him the Grand Tour and help him pick out a bunk.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Kelly eagerly came back. “As you can see, Mi—er, Edward, this area is sort of the station’s combination kitchen/rec’ room.”

Edward’s red-rimmed eyes appraised the space. He had never realized just how Spartan a life firefighters were forced to live. ‘They could certainly use some creature comforts,’ he silently mused and mopped the sweat from his brow. ‘An air conditioner, for starters.’ He noted that the fire station’s kitchen was devoid of ‘labor-saving devices’, and made a mental note to do something about that.

“Right this way, is the apparatus bay…” Kelly continued, once their guest had completed his reconnoiter of the kitchen.

Edward obligingly followed his tour guide back into the garage.

John Gage was engulfed in agony. The pain had taken his breath away and even helmet-breathing couldn’t quite seem to get it back. The panting paramedic picked his hanging head up. “I seem to have…run out of… passion…E.J.” he somehow managed to get out, between grimaces and gasps.

John Roderick Gage had a passion for life, itself. So, as long as her young rescuer was alive, he couldn’t possibly run out of passion.

The old woman cradled the young fireman’s pain-filled face in her hands. “Nonsense, dear! You just need to refocus.”

John’s entire body went taught and the pained look on his face was instantly replaced by one of concern.

E.J.’s hands were ice cold.

Oh, he needed to refocus, alright! He needed to get his primary patient off that damn chunk of cold concrete before she succumbed to hypothermia! Gage slapped his helmet back on his head, gritted his teeth and somehow managed to draw his left leg back up. Once he’d recovered from that move, he promptly slipped his belt off and then pulled the old woman back onto his half-a-lap. “Wrap the belt…around my wrists…in a figure 8…and then buckle it.”

She did.

“There…Now…if either of us…should fall asleep…you…won’t fall off.”

“Good thinking. Now, tell me…What else are you passionate about?

“Uhhh…bowling.”

“I love to bowl! What’s your average?”

“Usually, it’s in the 180’s.”

“That’s really good! I’m right around 130.”

“That’s not bad, either. Do you own your own ball?”

“No.”

“You really should consider getting one. A ball that fits your hand’ll make it easier for you to be consistent, so you can get strikes and pick up spares. You should buy a good pair of bowling shoes, too. You’ll slide easier and smoother which enables you to throw the ball better. It, uh, also minimizes wear and tear on your body.”

“When we get out of here, and my ankle’s all healed, you’ll have to help me purchase the proper equipment.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“What other activities interest you?

“Photography, especially silhouette photography. Just capturing the basic forms leaves so much to the imagination, yah know. I even bought all the chemicals and equipment so I could develop my own negatives. My landlady let me turn a corner of her tool shed into a dark room. I love music, too.”

“Playing it? Or listening to it?”

“Both. My album collection is incredible!”

“You have such long fingers…perfect for piano…or guitar?”

“I loved playing my guitar. Practiced every chance I had. Was getting quite good at it, too.”

“Was getting?”

“I had to give it to Chet. Yah see, all that strumming causes your fingertips to become really calloused. My fingertips were becoming so calloused I couldn’t palpate a patient’s pulse, anymore. Worked out okay, though, cuz Chet gave me his uncle’s Irish flute. Turns out, I love playing the flute even more than the guitar. Julie heard me playing and commissioned Albert Begay to make me an American Indian flute. So now, I play my flute. A flute’s a lot easier to carry around than a big ole guitar, anyway.”

“Do you enjoy reading?”

“Funny you should mention that, because books are a passion of mine. In fact, reading is my second favorite indoor activity. I don’t generally read non-fiction. But the last two are non-fiction. I just finished Steinbeck’s “Travels With Charley” and I just started a book about a guy backpacking through the Grand Canyon, ‘The Man Who Walked Through Time.’ Turns out, he didn’t walk through the entire canyon, though. I just heard on the news that some river guide named Grua, is the first person to ever walk the entire length of the Grand Canyon. He just did it this past year.”

“Has reading always been a passion of yours?”

“As far back as I can remember, it has. My parents subscribed to one of those ‘Book of the Month’ clubs. Our bookshelves were filled with all the literary classics. I used to love reading about King Arthur…and Camelot…and The Knights of the Round Table. I used to imagine I was one of them, and I’d go riding around rescuing all these imaginary people. My Mom, was altruistic, and she was always encouraging us to be public-spirited. One day, she handed me this book of short stories and told me to read it to her. I’ll never forget the first time I read Tolstoy’s ‘The Three Questions’. It was a life-altering experience. ‘The most important time is now, because it’s the only time we have any power to act. The most important person is the one you are with at the moment, because you may never be with another human being ever again. The most important thing is to do that person good, for that is the sole purpose of man’s existence’.”

“That’s always been one of my favorites, too. Is that what inspired you to become a firefighter?”

“No…no-o. That was my Dad’s doing…unintentional, though it was. Yah see, my Father was half Navajo and my Mother was full-blooded Aroyo. So, I grew up on the Aroyo Res’. The entire Aroyo Res’ school, from K to 12, only had 275 students. Only me, Alyssa, Arty and Teak were taking college preparatory courses. When we had a final coming up, the four of us’d get together to cram. I’d just got back from fishing and was on my way over to Teak’s, to study for a chemistry exam. I was sixteen. But, I’d just completed Driver’s Ed and had only had my license for about a week. So I was a little hesitant to ask my Dad if I could borrow his truck keys.

He was even more reluctant to turn them over. But, he finally did toss them to me, along with the constant reminder to ‘Drive responsibly, son.’

I assured him I would and headed over to pick up Alyssa. Once she was onboard, we both headed off to pick up Arty.

Between Alyssa’s and Arty’s, there’s this hairpin turn in the road. We rounded the curve and found both lanes had been blocked off by a bad wreck. A gasoline truck and a brand new Dodge Charger had head-on’ed and both vehicles were resting on their roofs. There were flames everywhere! I jumped out and told Alyssa to go back to Mr. McCabe’s place and call for help.

I wish I hadn’t stayed. Gary DeBruyn, the driver of the gas truck, was dead. At least, I hoped he was dead, because the truck’s entire cab was engulfed and he was still in his seat.

The driver of the Charger was still alive—and screaming for help. I couldn’t kick the window in so I looked around for a rock or a tree branch—anything that I could use to help me bust that damn window out. I’d just sent Alyssa off with the truck to phone for help. If I hadn’t I could a’ used the tire iron behind the seat to break through.

I had the power to act, still, I’d never felt so powerless in my entire life. My one big chance to really rescue someone—and I blew it. My hands got a little burned and I managed to fracture the distal ends of both my right tibia and fibula. But I couldn’t save that poor guy. I kept thinkin’ ‘If we’d a’ gone around that curve, just a few seconds sooner, that could a’ been me and Alyssa being burned alive...’

After she phoned for help, Alyssa had gone to get my Dad.

Man, the look on his face when he saw the accident scene. And then me, sitting in the back of that ambulance, with both hands wrapped and my right leg in a splint… He was so-o relieved to see me alive. You ever been bear-hugged by an ironworker?” John found it most amusing that his companion couldn’t come up with an immediate answer.

“No,” E.J. finally replied, right before hugging the fireman herself. It just seemed to her that the young man needed a hug right then.

The amusement immediately vanished from J.R.’s face. “I tell yah, E.J., not saving someone’s life is the absolute worst feeling in the world. I couldn’t eat…I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I would relive the nightmare. I could hear that guy scream in my dream and I would wake up screaming, myself.

My Father finally hauled me down to the fire station in San Jacinto, to be empowered. They showed me how to gain access to a locked vehicle. They also told me that, even if I had managed to break that window, I still wouldn’t have been able to get the guy out. They said he was pinned in there so bad, it took five of them 15 minutes to get him out—and they had all their extrication tools with them. I asked them to show me around their fire station, so I could see the rest of their equipment.”

J.R.’s grin put in another appearance. “Those poor guys had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

Their table was square instead of round and they wore drab, canvas coats instead of shining armor. But they were ‘knights’, all right. And I knew, right then, that I was gonna be joining their ranks.

I spent every free moment—for the next year-and-a-half—down at that fire station, learning everything I possibly could about the Fire Service. They tolerated all my questions and went out of their way to train me. What a great bunch a’ guys!

When Julie left for college, my Dad decided I couldn’t live on the Res’ alone. Besides, he wanted me to apprentice under him. So, he moved the two of us to Riverside. I hated the city. But, there was another Camelot/Fire station just a few blocks from our new place. That firehouse quickly became my ‘home away from home’, too.

My Dad’s plan was for me to spend all of my free time apprenticing under him, with any money I made going to help pay for my college tuition.

‘Fathers take their sons to work day.’ That was a pretty gosh darn unforgettable experience. Standing 27 stories off the ground—on just a 10-inch wide beam of steel—with twenty-five mile an hour wind gusts. I had a life-belt on and I was secured to the beam, but it still scared the cra—living daylights right outta me!

After Dad died, I had to move in with my relatives, back in San Jacinto, so I could finish my senior year.

A few weeks after graduation, I was standing on the front steps of the Los Angeles County Fire Academy.”

“Guess you could say, that’s when you got engaged, huh.”

J.R. smiled and nodded. “My firehouse friends, back in Riverside, had helped me send in applications to several different firefighting academies. I was accepted at three. I chose L.A. County, because they were doing the most hiring, at the time. I kept the lifebelt but traded the tag lines, spud wrenches and drift pins for fire hoses, airpacs and…medical equipment.”

“Obviously, a marriage made in heaven,” the old woman continued to tease.

J.R.’s smile broadened. “My partner was the first one to point that out. He claims that, in a way, we both ended up marrying our childhood sweethearts.

Not saving someone’s life may be the worst feeling in the world. But, saving someone’s life is the best feeling in the wor—” a faint whining sound caused him to cut his comment short. He’d recognize that whine anywhere. “You hear that? That’s a K-12!” he proudly pointed out, with a grin that lit the collapse void up even more than their flashlight’s beam.

“That is music to my ears,” E.J. quietly corrected, and then silently added another, ‘Please…hurry!’

____________________________________________________________________________________

Station 51’s visitor’s buzzer sounded.

Hank and his crew of four, plus one more, were seated in the rec’ room with their eyes riveted to the television’s screen. “Wonder who that could be?”

“That could be our dinner,” Edward answered, rising stiffly to his feet. “I hope you fellows don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering us some ‘take out’, compliments of the Chamberlain Suites’ kitchen.”

The famished firemen were momentarily dumbstruck.

Kelly was the first to find his voice. “We don’t mind.”

“Thank you.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Tell them to pull into the alley,” Hank directed. “They can carry the food in through the side door here.”

Edward left to relay the Captain’s message.

“One of the perks of having a billionaire bunking at your fire station,” Chet determined.

His fellow firemen were forced to smile.

A Chamberlain Suites’ van pulled into the alley beside the station. Four waiters piled out and began emptying the vehicle of its contents.

Stanley stepped over to the side door and held it open for them.

The rest of the firemen assumed their seats and watched in jaw-dropping amazement as the Chamberlain Suites’ waiters carried an eight course gourmet meal into the Station’s kitchen.

A crisp white cloth was draped over their kitchen table for the first time in the Station’s 10 year history.

Hank and Edward took their seats and the waiters began serving the firemen their ‘take out’.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Chet addressed their guest. “How did you and Eleanor meet?”

The memory of that first meeting caused Edward’s still a bit red-rimmed eyes to light up. “I was stranded in a hotel in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. A typhoon had the city’s only airport shutdown. There was a woman sitting in the hotel’s lobby, painting. I really liked her work and, since I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I commissioned her to paint my portrait. The typhoon passed, and the airport eventually re-opened, but I found myself staying in Port Moresby for another two weeks.”

“How’d you ever end up in that apartment building?” Kelly further inquired.

“She said she couldn’t possibly marry someone who was already married…to their work. So I moved in across the hall, to be as close to her as I possibly could.”

___________________________________________________________________

Twenty minutes of fine gourmet dining later, the firemen thanked their ‘take out’ provider profusely and began pushing their chairs back from the table.

“No muss…no fuss,” Chet realized, as the waiters proceeded to parade right back out into the alley with all the pots, pans and empty plates.

“Lights out in ten minutes,” the Captain informed his no longer famished crew.

They probably wouldn’t be able to sleep, but they should at least be able to get some of that ‘ordered’ rest.

Less than five hours later, the station’s tones sounded.

The men didn’t need to waste any time getting dressed because they hadn’t undressed.

“Station 51…Respond to the scene of an ongoing rescue at 1126 East Berkley Avenue…Cross-streets: 5th and General…One-one-two-six East Berkley Avenue…Time out: 04:22."

Roy and Edward climbed up into the Squad.

“Station 51. KMG-365,” Stanley acknowledged. Out of habit, he passed a copy of the call slip through the Squad’s open window, before trotting over to the Engine and climbing up into its cab. “Michael, what d’yah say we go find our missing crewman.”

“Aye, aye, Cap!”

Six minutes later, Mike Stoker brought Big Red to an abrupt stop, directly across from 1126 East Berkley Avenue. The engineer shoved the truck’s tranny into neutral and gave the bright yellow knob in the center of its dash a sharp tug.

The engine’s air brakes engaged with their familiar ‘kacheee’.

‘Déjà vu.’

Hank and his men jumped down from their truck and went jogging off across the floodlit street to trade places with the crew working in the tunnel.

Roy parked the Squad beside an abandoned ambulance. The paramedic told his passenger to stay put, and then went trotting off to catch up to the engine crew.

____________________________________________________________________________________

36’s Captain, Mark Mitchell greeted all five of the new arrivals. “As soon as my guys are out, your guys can go in.”

51’s Captain’s helmeted head bobbed in acknowledgement.

Mitchell’s crew came staggering up, just moments later, looking like grey ghosts.

The grey fire brigade was plastered, from their helmets to their work boots, with pulverized concrete dust.

Chet, Mike and Marco promptly took their leave.

“We’re right at 27 feet, Cap,” 36’s engineer informed his captain.

“How on earth did you guys manage to make so much headway, in such a short amount of time?” Stanley wondered in amazement.

“The lady did say ‘Please’,” one of 36’s linemen reminded the amazed officer.

“She, uh, also said ‘hurry’,” the other lineman added.

“Which is why we just cleared a space big enough to crawl through,” Mitchell summed up.

36’s engineer turned back to his boss. “We’re close, Captain.”

“How close?”

One of ghosts raised the dust-covered LDT in his hand. “Close enough to hear voices.”

Roy noted the plural of voice and exchanged a hopeful glance with his Captain.

Where there was life, there was hope.

Speaking of voices, the collapse void’s occupants had managed to talk clear through the night.

J.R.’s current narrative suddenly ground to a halt.

It was hard to speak through gritted teeth.

That steel rod in his thigh was acting like the needle on a seismograph. It jerked every time there was an aftershock.

And there’d been dozens of aftershocks. Whether big, or small, it registered them all.

E.J. coughed as, once again, the air in the void was filled with pulverized plaster.

The airway irritating light grey powder sifted down on the pair, every time the ground shook. And it had been doing a lot of shaking.

Their chandelier’s crystal prisms gradually stopped swaying.

“Adults and dogs flee from danger,” the paramedic picked back up, once the worst of the pain had passed. “So we find them by doors and windows. Kids and cats hide from danger. So we find them under beds, in closets, behind couches…”

E. J.’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “M doesn’t know he’s a cat. He thinks he’s a dog.” She couldn’t help but wonder how the animal was doing. And her friends. How had they fared? “Were my fellow tenants hurt badly?”

“Nobody came to any of the doors we banged on. Were you the only person living on the fourth floor?”

“The others are off on a sightseeing tour of Europe. I imagine they must be in Spain, by now. They left for Barcelona, yesterday. Edward—Mr. Greenbough—and I were supposed to go, too. But I broke my ankle Saturday night. So we had to cancel at the last minute. What about the people on the other floors?”

“They must be a pretty tough bunch. Only one cardiac patient came into triage, and there were no ‘serious’ injuries.”

“We’re definitely not your grandmother’s retirement community. No surfing or sky diving. Still, we do manage to remain extremely active. And, when we’re not dancing, or breaking our ankles, we’re jetting off around the world. How are you holding up, dear?”

J.R. took stock. He had one hell of a low blood sugar headache, which was providing a distraction from the ever present pain in his right leg. His life-belt was digging into his lower ribcage and applying constant pressure to his diaphragm, which was making his already labored breathing even more difficult. To top it off, he was experiencing an insatiable thirst. “Forget the demerol. Just give me some good ole H2O.” He licked his lips, but they remained dry. “It doesn’t even have to be cold.”

E.J. witnessed the young man’s failed attempt to moisten his mouth. “The only good thing about not drinking anything is that you don’t have to answer the call of nature.”

J.R. grinned. “You remind me of my partner. Roy has this thing that he does. We can be in the direst of circumstances—I mean, it’s lookin’ like we’re both gonna buy it for sure—and he’ll say ‘It could be worse…’ And then he proceeds to come up with a dozen different ways the situation could be even worse. Sort a’ helps to keep things in perspective.”

E.J. grinned and gave it a go. “It could be worse…We could’ve been killed in the collapse.”

J.R. joined in. “It could be worse…The debris field could be on fire.”

“It could be worse…One—or both—of us could be claustrophobic.”

J.R.’s grin broadened. “Yes, sir. You and Roy are gonna get along just fine.”

Another ambulance arrived on scene. Its driver parked right alongside of the first ambulance.

The rig’s back doors popped open and two people in white appeared.

Doctor Kelly Brackett exited the ambulance and then helped RN Dixie McCall climb down.

Station 51’s captain and senior paramedic stepped up to greet them.

Roy was about to ask the pair how they’d managed to get there so fast, when he recalled that Rampart’s ER is equipped with its own fire department radio.

“I brought a surgical kit and a bone saw, in case—” the physician didn’t finish his sentence.

John’s partner mentally completed it for him,‘—we need to amputate.’

Dixie held up an insulated canvas satchel. “And I brought some warm IV solution and some warm blankets.”

The doctor turned to address Roy’s other boss. “What’s the time-frame on this?”

“The building collapse occurred at 16:02 yesterday afternoon,” Hank obliged.

Kel glanced at his watch. It was now 04:38 the following morning. The right corner of the doctor’s mouth twitched—twice.

Johnny’s ‘Golden Hour’ had come and gone nearly 12 hours ago.

E.J. had to purse her lips to keep them from quivering.

J.R.’s respiration rate was becoming increasingly rapid and shallow, and he hadn’t spoken two words in the past ten minutes.

She needed to keep him talking. Recalling how passionate the paramedic was about his work, she picked it as the next topic for conversation. “Do you need to breathe into your helmet again?”

J.R. shook his head. “Not…hyperventilating.”

“Then why are you breathing so fast?”

“Tachypnea.”

“Which is…?”

“A respiratory rate…above 20.”

“Which is indicative of…?”

The paramedic took a long time to respond. “Shock.”

“All those Advanced First-Aid courses I took…” E.J. wistfully whispered. “The Red Cross trained us to treat peoples’ injuries, to try to prevent them from going into shock, but they never once explained what shock is. What, exactly, is ‘shock’?”

“Shock talk…does not…exactly…make for…pleasant conversation.”

“You said I could handle any situation, if I were prepared. So…prepare me.”

J.R. managed an amused gasp, and promptly complied. “Shock is a situation…of relative hypoxaemia…due to failure of the circulation…to deliver and distribute…enough oxygen…to the body’s cells.”

His feisty companion was un-amused by his textbook reply. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to prepare me a whole lot better than that.”

J.R.’s mouth was almost too dry now to speak. And he was breathing way to fast.

Perhaps they both needed to be prepared.

The paramedic got his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth and did his damnedest to regulate his breathing. “Shock is hypoperfusion. Hypoperfusion is a medical emergency where the body’s organs and tissues are not receiving an adequate flow of blood. Hemoglobin carries oxygen throughout the body. An insufficient level of hemoglobin deprives the organs and tissues of oxygen and nutrients and allows the buildup of waste products.”

Try as he might, he could only manage to get a few words out between gasped breaths. “There are three stages of shock.

In Stage I, the body detects a low blood flow and takes all these really cool steps to compensate for it. The body tries to regulate blood gases and raise the blood’s pH level. It releases epinephrine and norepinephrine to increase the heart rate and blood pressure. The heart starts beating faster, blood vessels throughout the body begin to constrict, and the kidneys start transferring more fluid into the circulatory system.

While this additional fluid helps to maintain blood pressure, and maximize blood flow to the vital organs, it also dilutes the blood’s hemoglobin, or oxygen carrying capacity, causing further hypoxaemia.

Symptoms of Stage I shock are: Blood pressure within the normal range, with a normal respiratory rate between 12-20 breaths per minute. The patient is mentally alert but may be displaying some slight anxiety. Skin is a little pale, but capillary refill is normal. If properly treated, at this stage, the progression of shock can be completely halted.

In Stage II, the body’s compensatory mechanisms begin to fail. Sodium and potassium levels get all out a’ whack. The heart rate becomes so rapid, it doesn’t allow the heart’s chambers to fully decompress between beats. Blood pressure begins to drop. Decreased oxygen to the brain causes the patient to become confused and disoriented.

Symptoms of early Stage II shock are: Tachycardia—a heartrate above 100 beats per minute. Tachypnea—more than 20 respirations per minute. Narrow pulse pressure—systolic blood pressure is maintained and diastolic pressure is increased, so the gap between systolic and diastolic pressure narrows.

Pale, cold, and clammy skin, caused by blood being diverted from the skin’s surface to supply the heart, lungs, and brain. The patient is becoming increasingly anxious and restless. Capillary refill is delayed.

Symptoms of late Stage II shock are: Systolic BP falls below 100. Marked tachycardia—a heart rate over 120 beats per minute. Marked tachypnea—over 30 respirations per minute. An altered mental status. Sweating with cool, pale skin and delayed capillary refill.

Even at this late stage, the progression of shock can be halted and reversed…” The lecturer realized he was growing woozier by the second. It was becoming harder and harder for him to see. Either their flashlight’s beam, or his vision, was rapidly growing dimmer. “The definitive treatment we administer in the field is geared to prevent shock from reaching a NRP—Non-Return Point…”

The sounds of the men working below seemed to be getting closer.

Perhaps?

“E.J.?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I may have to…close my eyes…for awhile…But, don’t worry…My firemen friends will be here—“

“—before the batteries go dead,” E.J. finished for him. “I don’t give a rat’s behind about the batteries, J.R.! Your firemen friends need to get here before you go dead!”

Her rescuer managed another amused gasp. Whether they did, or didn’t, John Gage was at peace with the fact that he had sacrificed his life for such a remarkable woman.

The fireman’s faint, and slightly crooked, smile slowly faded from his face and his helmeted head flopped lifelessly forward.

His arms had also gone completely limp, but the buckled belt did its job and kept E.J. from falling.

She shoved the young fireman’s helmet back on his head a bit and soothingly stroked his cold, clammy brow. “That’s it….You rest now, J.R. But don’t you dare go doing any damn trading!” she sternly admonished.

The Advanced First-Aider took note of the time and then used the second hand on her watch to get a heartrate.

Her patient’s heart was hammering away so loudly, she could hear it without having to press her ear up against his chest.

‘21 beats in 10 seconds. 6x21=126 beats per minute.’

A heartrate greater than 120 bpm was marked tachycardia, and marked tachycardia was—

J.R. was right. Shock talk could be extremely unpleasant.

Her young rescuer’s condition was rapidly approaching Stage III.

‘NRP. Non-Return-Point…’

E.J. clenched the front of her young rescuer’s smoky fire coat with ice-cold fingers and began praying…and crying.

The exhausted old woman sobbed herself to sleep.

E.J. was startled awake by a sudden high-pitched whine.

It was that K-12 thing—and it sounded incredibly close!

When the disturbing sound finally ceased, she cleared her ridiculously dry throat and called out. "Hello?! Can you hear me?!"

Five feet down and about fourteen feet over, the two firemen working on the end of the flashlight lit rescue tunnel stiffened.

"I can hear 'em!" Chet called back over his shoulder. "Hang on! We're coming!" He set his heavy saw aside and began clawing at the chunks of concrete he'd just cut, in an attempt to clear the way.

If he were to shed his bulky coat and helmet, the opening he'd just created looked almost large enough for him to crawl through.

Kelly quickly removed his canvas coat and helmet . Then he picked his flashlight back up and attempted to do just that. "Take over for me, Marco," he breathlessly requested.

Lopez did.

____________________________________________________________________________________

The new opening dead-ended in another ridiculously tight crawl space.

The beam of his light cut through the dust and darkness.

A fireman's black work boot suddenly appeared, illuminated by a narrow shaft of soft, glowing light.

"Johnny?! JOHNNY!"

____________________________________________________________________________________

"I'm afraid he can't hear you, Chet. He lost consciousness about," E.J. gave her watch a quick glance, "twenty minutes ago."

____________________________________________________________________________________

Further inspection revealed that he was peering under two enormous slabs of the lobby's collapsed floor.

Mangled rods of rebar were supporting the slabs' weight, so that they were elevated up off the basement's tiled floor.

By twisting sideways, Chet somehow managed to slither between two of the bent rebar rods and into the cramped, incredibly narrow space beneath the slabs. He found the dangling leg the boot was attached to. The beam of his light illuminated the dried blood pool and the rebar— 'Damn!'

He undid the boot's laces, pulled it and John's sock off, and attempted to palpate a pedal pulse.

It should have been easy enough. He'd watched John and Roy do it dozens of times.

He pressed the tips of two fingers into the middle of the top of John's foot, just below the ankle joint, and waited. But, no matter how many times he repositioned his probing fingertips, he could not locate a pedal pulse.

Another reason for failing to palpate a pulse suddenly occurred to him. 'Damn!'

He unclipped the HT from his belt and thumbed its send button. "Cap, how soon can Roy get in here?"

____________________________________________________________________________________

Five sets of eyes suddenly riveted on the radio in Hank Stanley's right hand.

The owners of those eyes then exchanged extremely anxious glances.

It wasn't so much what Chet had said, as the way he had said it.

Dixie passed the requested paramedic her bag of goodies.

Roy draped the satchel's strap over his head, then he picked their drug box and respirator up and went jogging off in the direction of the rescue tunnel's subterranean entrance.

____________________________________________________________________________________

"He's on his way!" the Captain finally came back.

Chet heaved a sigh of relief and then popped his helmet-less head up into the opening between the two slabs of collapsed flooring.

'The V-shaped void.' Kelly noted his fellow rescuer's current condition and winced. 'Sheesh!'

He had resolved to find his friend—dead, or alive. But he hadn't banked on finding Johnny a little of both.

'That does it, babe! That is the last time I am ever going first!' he silently resolved and finally turned his attention to the woman. "What about you? Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I'm slightly chilled…and extremely thirsty. I'd climb down, but John has me sort of 'buckled in' here, and I'm afraid my fingers are too cold and stiff to unbuckle. Is Mister Munsen okay?"

"M is doing just fine. Edward took him home with him."

If E.J.’s eyes weren't so dry, they would have welled with tears. "Does Edward know I'm all right?"

Chet smiled and nodded. "I called to let him know you were alive. He's been waiting with us all night. He's outside right now, still hoping to see you."

E.J. couldn't help but smile. "John was right. He said you boys would get here before the batteries went dead."

"Yeah? Well…" Chet gave his unconscious comrade a look of deep concern, but then quickly feigned indifference. "He's not always as dumb as he looks."

E.J.'s smile broadened a bit. "He was willing to bet five bucks that you would be the first one to find us."

Kelly was clearly moved to hear that. "Uhhh...Roy should be here any second, now. I better go help him with his equipment."

That said, the helmet-less head disappeared.

____________________________________________________________________________________

John's sweat-drenched and concrete dust-covered partner appeared moments later. Along with one of Squad 12's paramedics.

There wasn't enough room for both of the new arrivals. So 12's medic waited on the other side of the rebar barricade, while 51's medic slithered through to treat his partner.

Roy couldn't get a pedal pulse, either. The extremely anxious paramedic abandoned his equipment and climbed up into the little V-shaped void, to check on his partner.

____________________________________________________________________________________

"You must be Roy," E.J. greeted.

"Guilty," the really worried looking fireman replied, with a forced smile.

"With the exception of my broken ankle, I am uninjured," E.J. assured John's concerned partner.

Roy took the woman at her word and unbuckled the belt, freeing both E.J.—and his friend's wrists.

"We're ready whenever you are," the guy from 12's called up.

The medic locked his arms beneath the old woman's and she was carefully lowered below. "Watch her ankle, there."

____________________________________________________________________________________

Once below, E.J. was quickly wrapped in some wonderfully warm blankets and lowered onto a bright yellow plastic drop sheet, to await medical treatment.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Roy freed his partner's limp arms from his turnout coat and then began his IPS.

'Airway: Open.

Breathing: Respirations 30 and shallow.

Circulation: carotid pulse barely palpable and too rapid to count. No apparent signs of bleeding.'

His partner's complexion was deathly pale. Capillary refill was well over two seconds.

'Hypovolemic.'

Skin was clammy and cold, deathly cold.

'Hypothermic.'

He pinched the skin on Johnny's limp lower arm. It remained tented up.

'Poor turgor. Dehydrated.'

A sternal rub elicited no response.

He pulled the HT from his pocket and thumbed its send button.

____________________________________________________________________________________

In the back of one of the waiting ambulances…

Dixie and Kel stiffened as their fire department radio suddenly crackled to life.

"Doc, Johnny's unresponsive. Pulse is rapid and weak. Complexion is pale, skin is cold and clammy, turgidity is poor. There is extensive bruising to his left collarbone and to the left side of the base of his neck. He has a penetrating injury to his lower right thigh—a half-inch diameter rebar—reinforcing rod , through and through. He also appears to have a crushing injury to his right pelvic area."

"Do you need me in there?" Kel inquired, and sat there dreading Roy's reply. The doctor did not want to have to amputate.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Roy scrutinized the space between the two slabs of the lobby's collapsed floor, and calculated the distance between his partner's right boot and the basement's tiles. "Uhhh…no. No. I'm just going to unclip his life-belt and lower him down to Chet. The rebar should back out. If the wound starts hemorrhaging, I'll apply a tourniquet. We're just 12 minutes from the ER."

"Go ahead and transport, Roy! We can treat him out here!"

They couldn't get their patients out until they could get a Stokes in. They couldn't get a Stokes in until some rebar rods were cut. They couldn't cut the rebar rods until some jacks were placed under the slab, to support its weight.

"It may be awhile before we can transport. We don't have stretcher access, yet."

"Then send me some baseline vitals!"

Chet heard the doctor's order and passed a stethoscope and cuff up to the paramedic.

Roy informed Brackett of his partner's BP, pulse and respiration rate.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Kel listened to their extremely shocky patient's vitals, and Dixie dutifully copied them all down.

Brackett could not believe their young fireman friend was still alive.

Without 'timely' treatment, the shock should have progressed—Johnny should have been dead hours ago.

"Okay, go ahead and start him on O2—wide open, with a non-rebreather. Rapid infusion IVs with large bore needles—normal saline. And send me another set of vitals once he's free of the rebar."

"10-4."

____________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly heard the doctor's ordered treatment and passed the drug box and the respirator up to John's really worried looking partner.

Roy exchanged Johnny’s helmet for the equipment. "Thanks. I could use some more light up here."

Chet set the helmet down. Then he pulled his flashlight from his pocket and obligingly provided it.

Roy copped a squat on the chunk of concrete Johnny had been using as a wedge and went to work.

____________________________________________________________________________________

The paramedic got his patient's oxygen flowing, but couldn't seem to get his IV's going.

Due to the degree of dehydration, and hypovolemia, his partner was proving to be an especially 'tough stick'.

Hell, it would have been difficult to get a butterfly into his friend's nearly collapsed veins, let alone an 18 gauge!

"Johnny…don't do this to me. A person can't lose their partner…twice in one shift." The blond paramedic's plea paid off, as his fifth attempt to find a viable vein succeeded.

Roy had never felt so relieved to see flashback. He released the tourniquet and began pulling the enormous needle back out, advancing the equally large diameter catheter all the while. The IV was secured with copious amounts of tape. "Pass me one of the IV bags!"

Chet removed one of Dixie's pre-warmed presents from its insulated satchel and handed it up to him.

The second large bore IV proved equally difficult to establish.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Roy tied the plastic sacks of saline solution together with a 10” strip of gauze and then draped them around his partner’s neck.

Once the ordered 'rapid infusion' of warm IV fluids was finally underway, Roy set about readying his patient for transport. "I'm gonna need a cervical collar."

E.J. winced. "I almost forgot. John wanted me to tell you that spinal precautions wouldn't be necessary," she feebly informed J.R.'s firemen friends, speaking from beneath her raised oxygen mask, "because his spine was not injured in the fall. No broken bones—anywhere."

The firemen took their friend at his word.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Ten frenetically busy minutes later, the first Stokes was finally shoved into the ridiculously narrow space beneath the slabs.

"Take him," E.J. told the two firemen who were about to place her in the stretcher's wire basket. "Don't give me any of that 'ladies first' crap!" she warned, when their mouths opened to protest. "I'll be fine with a few sips of water. He needs to get to a hospital. Pronto!"

The firemen took the feisty little lady at her word, too.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Roy slowly slid Johnny's left boot over to the opening in the bottom of the void.

With the aid of some skillful maneuvering by Kelly, Johnny's left leg was carefully unbent and realigned with its dangling mate below.

The paramedic slipped the non-rebreather mask from his patient's impassive face and lowered it and the oxygen bottle down to Chet.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

DeSoto hoisted his partner's limp form up just enough to get his life-belt unclipped, and then began slowly lowering him down into the increasingly cramped and narrow space beneath the two slabs of collapsed lobby flooring.

____________________________________________________________________________________

"It's working, Roy! The rebar is backing out!"

"Any bleeding?"

"Some. But it's not coming from an artery."

"What about space?"

"There should be just enough for his leg to clear the bar…Okay, Roy. Our boy is down and the rebar's out." Kelly gently placed their unconscious collapse victim into the Stokes. He removed John's lifebelt and pulled his bulky canvas coat out of the way.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Roy climbed down and found his patient already wrapped in one of Dixie's pre-warmed blankets, already back on O2 and already secured into the stretcher. He gave Chet a grateful glance and then began gathering and relaying a fresh set of vitals.

"All right, Roy. Bring him out . A.S.A.P."

____________________________________________________________________________________

Five exhausting minutes of pushing and pulling later…

51's Captain watched as five members of his crew exited the rescue tunnel, the last three face-forward and the first two in reverse.

His dust covered guys struggled to their feet and then carried their no longer 'missing in action' shift-mate's Stokes up the wooden ramp and back to ground level.

Flashes of light exploded from a floodlit area to their right, which was filled with news media cameramen and crews.

The first collapse victim was transferred from the Stokes' basket to a gurney. The gurney was loaded and locked into the back of one of the ambulances. Roy climbed aboard and the emergency vehicle took off, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Edward hadn't taken his eyes off of the tunnel's entrance for an instant.

The other paramedic from Station 12 had disappeared into the crawl space, shoving another wire mesh stretcher ahead of him.

Five minutes later, the medic's rear end reappeared.

Edward caught sight of the love of his life. He flew out of the Squad and went racing off across the street and down the ramp.

His firemen friends from Station 51 panicked and promptly pursued him.

Hank halted his men at the top of the ramp.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Edward clasped one of E.J.'s ice-cold appendages in both of his warm hands and somehow managed to get his tightened throat to open enough for him to croak out, "Eleanor! Thank God! I thought I'd lost you. Are you all right?"

E.J. nodded and then used her free hand to raise her O2 mask, revealing a trembling smile. "Edward, dear, if your proposal of matrimony still stands, I wish to change my answer to yes. I know now that I could be perfectly content being married to a man who is already married to his work."

Edward returned her smile. "I was just about to tell you that I have decided to 'divorce' my work and devote the rest of my life to loving my new—one and only—wife."

E.J.’s Stokes was picked up and the newly retired business tycoon placed a tender kiss upon his bride-to-be's cool forehead.

51's guys watched as Edward followed along beside Eleanor's stretcher and then climbed up into the back of the ambulance with her, never once releasing his hold on her hand.

Marco sighed. "Muy romántico."

Mike sighed. "That was just like O. Henry's 'The Gift of the Magi'."

Chet sighed. "I love 'Happy Endings'."

"Me, too," their Captain quietly concurred. Hank was staring off into the darkness, in the direction their young friend's ambulance had disappeared. "Here's hoping we all get to witness another one."

In the back of the ambulance already en route to Rampart…

Dixie attached a heart monitor to their collapse victim’s heaving chest.

A staccato of electronic beeps immediately filled the compartment.

Roy watched wordlessly as a complete lab draw was made and all warranted drugs were administered. ‘Circling the drain...’ That was the grim term emergency medical personnel used to describe patients in Johnny’s condition. The two of them had even found themselves using it, on occasion. The paramedic quickly shoved the morbid phrase out of his mind, but couldn’t seem to shake the gut-wrenching feeling that, no matter what medical treatment he received now, his partner was just gonna keep getting closer and closer to that damn ‘drain’.

Johnny’s injuries were not life-threatening and his blood loss was not all that severe. The real killer would be Cryptic Shock—a direct consequence of ‘untimely’ medical treatment.

Roy continued watching as Brackett gave their patient a complete assessment.

Airway:

Brackett checked the position of the trachea and palpated the posterior thorax.

The patient’s airway was both open and intact.

Breathing:

Kel auscultated the fireman’s lungs.

Relatively clear.

Circulation:

The doctor palpated the patient’s abdomen.

No rigidity.

The leg wound seemed to be seeping.

Neurological evaluation:

Kel did the math in his head and winced.

Johnny scored a mere 6 on the Glasgow Coma Scale.

On the up side:

The wide open 100% oxygen treatment was increasing the efficiency of their shock patient's diminished supply of hemoglobin.

On the down side:

The wide open saline solution was diluting those remaining red blood cells. The seeping wound was an indication that the blood’s clotting factors were also being diluted.

Top priority:

CS, and whether or not it could be reversed.

Items of lesser concern—at the moment:

the untreated penetrating wound, with the potential for sepsis.

the threat of inhalation pneumonia

and the crushing injury to the patient’s right pelvic region,

with a potential for nerve and arterial damage.

Two things were certain:

One, it was a miracle Johnny was still alive.

And two, it would require another miracle to keep him that way.

The sirens cut out, signaling their arrival at Rampart.

______________________________________________________________________________

Benjamin Tyler, one of the ER docs currently on duty, met them at the doors. “We’re set up for him in Three!”

The gurney was unlocked and unloaded and it, and the assembled medical team, disappeared into the building, with the gurney’s occupant’s partner in tow.

Once again, the gallant doctor helped the RN step down onto the pavement. He saw the corked glass vials in Dixie’s hands and barked out, “U+Es/Chem7, FBC, Glucose, type and cross-match!”

Dixie nodded and suddenly realized something. “Remember that school bus roll over last week?”

Kel nodded.

“Hank’s whole crew stopped by, right after their shift, and gave blood. I’ll see if his is still available.”

‘That would certainly qualify as a minor miracle,’ the physician silently realized and headed for Treatment Three.

____________________________________________________________________________

Inside Treatment Three, following a flurry of activity…

Their collapse victim had been intubated.

40,000 units of antibiotics were currently being administered, via a piggyback IV.

Amazingly enough, the patient’s donated blood was still in the hospital’s bank, so John was transfused with a unit of his own whole blood and two units of plasma.

A pulse oximeter was attached to the fireman’s right index finger. The new-fangled instrument would use light readings to provide valuable information about arterial oxygen content and tissue perfusion.

A Foley catheter was inserted, so urine output and fluid input could be monitored.

Another sample was drawn and sent to the lab for arterial blood gases analysis.

The penetrating wound to his right thigh was thoroughly cleaned.

“Clean it again,” Brackett abruptly ordered.

RN Tammy Tiernan looked up at the physician in disbelief. “I’ve flushed it twice already, doctor.”

Dixie saw Kel’s eyes narrowing and quickly intervened. “The solution to pollution is—?”

“—Dilution,” Miss Tiernan meekly replied and resignedly sighed. “I’ll flush it again.”

Once everyone was satisfied that the wound had been thoroughly cleansed, two drainage tubes were inserted and sutured in place.

Openings to the wound would remain open, to allow drainage and, hopefully, prevent sepsis—blood poisoning—from developing.

Finally, a dressing was applied.

“His blood work is back,” Tyler proclaimed as he came barging into the room.

Kel latched onto the lab report and perused it.

‘Metabolic acidosis with lactate acidemia and negative base excess,’ he silently summarized.

Arterial blood gases, PH and PCO2, levels all pointed to inadequate perfusion. No urine output and unconsciousness were also indicative of poor end-organ perfusion, not to mention cellular hypoxia.

Hopefully, the next report would show some improvement.

___________________________________________________________________________

Treatment Three, ten minutes later…

John’s latest labs revealed what both doctors already suspected.

Lactic acid levels remained elevated, > 4 mmol/L.

In spite of their best efforts, tissue hypoxaemia remained unresolved. Microcirculation was being irreparably damaged.

Kel glanced up at John’s heart monitor.

Tachycardia in the presence of normalized pressures was yet another sign of cryptic compensated shock.

Just stabilizing someone’s BP or heartrate was no guarantee of survival.

Their CS patient was stably unstable, and still at a ridiculously high risk of death.

“I need some air.” The frustrated physician locked gazes with John Gage’s partner. “Care to join me?”

The paramedic’s reply must have been in the affirmative because he immediately began heading for the door.

Kel caught up with him out in the hall and the two of them began strolling toward the ER’s exit. “Ben didn’t wake us until he heard you guys called out. So we managed to get a few hours of sleep. What about you? Were you able to get any sleep?”

Roy shook his head. “Just about five hours of mandatory ‘rest’.”

They reached the end of the hall.

Instead of turning toward the exit/entrance, Brackett stepped up to the ER’s public waiting room. The doctor just stood there in the wide doorway, staring.

A wooden crate was occupying a large portion of the already crowded space and blocking access to the ER’s Admitting desk.

The doctor stepped up to said desk and demanded, “Donna, what is this crate doing here? Besides obstructing Admissions...”

Donna pointed to the crate in question, “That is our new hyperbaric oxygen chamber. It wasn’t supposed to arrive for another six months, but a hospital in Riverside cancelled their order, so we ended up with theirs. Seems it was delivered to the wrong door and the wrong floor. Guess this was as ‘out of the way’ as they could get it.”

Something suddenly occurred to Kel and his look of annoyance quickly transformed to one of jubilance. “Wrong! It was delivered to the right door and the right floor! Donna, get Respiratory Medicine on the line. Tell the Hyperbaric Oxygen therapist to report here—on the double!”

Donna hesitated. “I don’t think his shift starts until eight.”

“I don’t care! Just get him to the hospital and this crate up to ICU! Roy, come with me!”

The paramedic did as directed. Roy had no idea where the doctor was headed or what he was up to. He was just relieved to see the physician’s haggard face filled with a look other than hopelessness.

____________________________________________________________________________

Twenty minutes later, up in ICU Room 604...

Doctor Tyler had gotten wind of what his colleague was up to. "What are you doing with the hospital's hyperbaric chamber?"

"That isn't just a hyperbaric chamber, Ben," Kel calmly corrected. "You happen to be looking at a bona fide miracle!"

"Kel, hyperbaric treatment is contraindicated in these cases."

"Treatment protocol for CS is 'oxygen as required'. Well, he happens to require more than he is currently receiving."

"CS patients only qualify for hyperbaric oxygen therapy when they are unable to receive blood products for religious or medical reasons. HBOT is known to decrease heart rate, a-and it has the potential to decrease cardiac output. It can also cause a loss of hypoxic drive to breathe. It could trigger respiratory arrest."

"So? If he gets the treatment, he could die. If he doesn't get the treatment, he WILL die! Even without all the lab results to back me, Johnny's altered level of consciousness is proof enough that his vital organs aren't being sufficiently perfused. You know as well as I do that patients with an oxygen debt greater than 9 seldom, if ever, recover. Well, he's already at 9!"

"Kel, we're not just talking 'hospital reprimand', here. You could be brought before the Ethics Board you could lose your medical license."

Kel swung an arm in the horizontal paramedic's direction. "That young man risks everything to save others—and does so on a regular basis. It's time someone risked a little to save him. This isn't debatable, Ben. I've already signed the treatment order."

Upon hearing that, Tyler promptly took his leave.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tyler returned ten minutes later, with the signed medical order. "Take a look."

"I don't have to take a look. I know what it is. I signed it. Remember?"

Ben held the paper up in front of his stubborn colleague's face and forced him to 'take a look'.

Kel's jaw dropped. He wasn't the only one who had signed the order for treatment. Every physician working the hospital's graveyard shift had also signed it. Ben Tyler's was the first signature below his. He shoved the paper out of his line of vision and directed his dazed, amazed gaze at his fellow doctor.

Tyler shrugged. "Somebody had to play devil's advocate."

Kel couldn't help but chuckle. "Thanks, Ben. John Gage obviously has a lot of friends at Rampart."

Tyler couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

Only one signature on the treatment order was saving the paramedic's life. The other signatures on the order had been added to save Kel's career.

"He can't possibly be that clueless," Ben said in an aside to Dixie.

The RN arched an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

____________________________________________________________________________

Roy heard the sound of wheels rolling across floor tiles and looked up in time to watch Eleanor come banging, backwards, into the ICU lounge. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?”

“If they didn’t want me to go A.W.O.L., they shouldn’t have left this contraption in my room.”

Several seconds passed and no attempt was made to wheel her back to her hospital bed prison.

“That’ll teach ‘em,” Roy played right along, and even managed a fleeting smile.

Eleanor gave her co-conspirator a grateful grin. “John said the two of us would hit it off,” she fondly recalled and rolled her escape ‘contraption’ right up in front of the forlorn-looking fireman. “That partner of yours is a remarkable young man.”

The paramedic’s smile made another brief appearance. “Took me all of five minutes to figure that out. We met when he came into headquarters, to have some questions answered about the paramedic program. This job is rewarding, but it takes a toll—both physically and emotionally. For a paramedic partnership to work, you have to find someone who is as dedicated to saving lives as you are. After five minutes of listening to him talk, I knew I didn’t need to look any further. I’d met my match.”

E.J. placed her right hand over Roy’s and gave it a comforting squeeze. “John’s partner is a pretty remarkable young man, as well.”

“I don’t know ab—”

“—Okay, Roy, where were—,” Brackett caught sight of the woman in the wheelchair and cut his interrupting comment short. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?”

Eleanor found the tall, dark-haired doctor a tad more intimidating.

“If you don’t want your patients going A.W.O.L.,” Roy parroted, “you shouldn’t leave these contraptions in their rooms.”

The physician fought back a grin.

“You were saying…” Eleanor urged the no longer ‘gruff’ looking guy.

“I was about to explain to Roy, here, how hyperbaric oxygen therapy works.”

“Splendid! Now you can explain it to the both of us.”

“Very well.” Brackett turned one of the chairs at the table around, dropped exhaustedly down onto it and began, “Hyperbaric oxygen therapy, or HBOT, is breathing 100% oxygen while under increased atmospheric pressure. Hyperbaric treatment has been around since the 1600s.

The patient is placed in the chamber in a reverse Trendelenburg—a reclining position. The chamber is then sealed and pressurized with 100% oxygen. All patient care is rendered from outside of the chamber. All medical equipment remains outside the chamber. Only the patient’s intravenous line will penetrate through the hull.

Patients in late Stage II CS, Cryptic Shock, have lost significant oxygen carrying capacity in the blood. The major oxygen carrier in human blood is hemoglobin, transporting 1.34 mL of oxygen per gram. The Central Nervous System and cardiovascular system are the two most oxygen-sensitive systems in the human body. Whether organs fail, or not, depends on the level of ischemic damage and on the different organs physiological reserve in terms of hemodynamics and metabolic capacity. It is crucial to recovery that any oxygen deficit be reversed A.S.A.P.

Most oxygen carried in the blood is bound to hemoglobin, which is 97% saturated at standard pressure. Some oxygen, however, is carried in solution, and this portion is increased under hyperbaric conditions. Because the oxygen is in solution, it can reach areas where red blood cells may not be able to pass and can also provide tissue oxygenation and increased plasma oxygen content and microvascular blood flow.

By increasing the atmospheric pressure in the chamber, more oxygen can be dissolved into the plasma than there would be at surface pressure. So, when a patient is given 100% oxygen under pressure, hemoglobin is saturated, but the blood is also hyperoxygenated by dissolving oxygen within the plasma.

HBOT is administered at 2-3 ATA, Atmospheres absolute, for periods of up to four hours per treatment. As many as 3-4 treatment sessions per day may be necessary. Treatments continue until the patient no longer demonstrates end stage organ failure, or no longer has a calculated oxygen debt. Any questions?”

“I’m afraid you lost me back at the first ‘hyperbaric’,” E.J. confessed. “I would just like to know, is the shock reversible?”

Brackett suppressed another smile, but then his countenance quickly sobered. “We’ll know soon enough. Johnny will either respond to the pressurized oxygen administration…or he won’t.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

‘No news is good news. No news is good news,’ Roy kept telling himself as he pulled into the hospital’s parking lot the following afternoon. A line from Brackett’s lecture also kept playing back in his brain.

‘The Central Nervous System and cardiovascular system are the two most oxygen-sensitive systems in the human body.’

It’s a good thing he wasn’t on duty. The Squad would have been on its umpteenth ‘supply run’ to Rampart by now.

The paramedic’s first stop was Emergency Receiving.

His partner had received a total of twelve HBOT treatments.

Blood work showed signs of remarkable improvement. Still, his buddy remained in ‘an altered level of consciousness’.

___________________________________________________________________________

The paramedic had just stepped off the elevator and onto the sixth floor, when a page came over the hospital’s P.A..“Doctor Brackett to ICU…Doctor Brackett to ICU…Room 604.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“It’s okay,” the ICU nurse assured her patient’s panting paramedic partner, as he exploded through the door to 604. “In fact, he seems to be regaining consciousness.”

Roy’s grim countenance instantly brightened.

That was more than just okay. Heck! That was downright fantastic!

Sure enough! John’s lashes fluttered and his lids lifted a little. His vision was all blurry. So he blinked, and kept right on blinking, until the fuzzy form leaning over him finally came into focus.

Roy saw the recognition in his friend’s half-open eyes and smiled. “I can’t leave you alone for a second.”

Johnny was forced to grin.

Roy pressed a straw up to his partner’s parched lips.

They parted, and the patient took several long, soothing swallows.

“You weren’t supposed to cause any kerfuffles while I was gone. Remember?”

“I didn’t cause…any kerfuffles…I joined a kerfuffle…already in progress.”

It was Roy’s turn to grin.

“Man! I cannot believe we survived tha—” Johnny’s face suddenly filled with dread. “WE did survive that…” he all but pleaded.

Roy nodded. “Eleanor is doing just fine.”

John’s face filled with relief, and then dread again. Had ALL of him survived? His anxious gaze suddenly shifted to the lower half of his body.

“Yes. Your leg is still there,” Brackett assured him.

Neither of them had noticed the doctor enter the room.

Kel picked the chart up from the foot of his patient’s bed and perused it. “The wound was through and through. Remarkably, muscular and vascular damage was minimal. But, if that rod had penetrated just a fraction of an inch to the left of where it did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

John couldn’t seem to keep his vision from blurring, or his eyelids from drooping. “Why am I…so damn drowsy?”

“That would be a side effect of your medication. We’ve got you on IV antibiotics, to combat infection. How are you doing?”

“You tell me,” John countered.

“There is some minor wound infection and we’ve been monitoring your lungs. Apparently, you inhaled a great deal of dust. What about the leg? How does it feel?”

“I can’t really feel the wound. But I must have aggravated some nerves, cuz the pain is pretty…intense.”

“We can take care of that.” The doctor scribbled something onto his pained patient’s chart and then left, to take care of that.

“How’d you guys ever get us outta there?”

Roy proceeded to tell his buddy all about the rescue, being careful to leave out the part where John was practically pulse-less when they finally reached him.

The nurse returned and emptied a hypo into her patient’s IV port.

John’s already ridiculously heavy eyelids instantly became even weightier. “Considering how…dehydrated I was…did you have any trouble…getting a line in?”

Roy suppressed a shudder. That was certainly an understatement. “Let’s just say you were a ‘tough stick’…and leave it at that.”

“Wanna hear something weird? I keep having this same dream—over and over again. In the dream…I’m being buried alive…and the casket…has this big… window in it.”

Roy couldn’t keep from grinning.

His practically asleep partner seemed peeved that he had found his nightmare so amusing.

Roy shrugged. “There are good dreams, and there are bad dreams. That is a very good dream.”

The look on Johnny’s face went from perturbed…to perplexed…to impassive.

____________________________________________________________________________

As a token of his gratitude, Edward Greenbough wanted to supply his new friends at Fire Station 51 with some practical, labor—and life—saving devices. So he had his people contact their people.

When his people informed him that it was against department policy for individual firefighters or fire stations to accept gratuities for services rendered, Edward proceeded to circumvent the policy by giving every Los Angeles County firefighter a short-range radio, and every Los Angeles County fire station an automatic dishwasher, an automatic coffee maker, a microwave, a washer and dryer , new mattresses, a floor scrubber and a 36” color television.

_____________________________________________________________________________

A few days later, John was moved out of ICU and in to a regular room.

Dixie happened to be sitting with him when Roy and Chet dropped by for a visit.

“Sheesh, Gage!” Kelly exclaimed. “If I’d a known you were gonna go getting yourself all shish kabobbed—“

“—Sh-Shish kabobbed?” John cut in, looking amused to no end.

“Yeah. Shish kabobbed. You know, the way you had that rebar rod all skewered through your thigh there,” he motioned to the patient’s injured right leg. “Anyways, if I’d a’ known, I’d a’ made you and Eleanor go first.”

Dixie’s right eyebrow arched in thought. “But then you would have been ‘all shish kabobbed.’”

Failing to refute the nurse’s logic, Chet quickly changed the subject. “Before I forget…What’s a kerfuffle?”

Roy pointed to his partner, who promptly pointed back.

Leaving Kelly more confused than ever.

E.J. entered just then, in a wheelchair that was being pushed by her doting fiancé.

The horizontal fireman’s whole face lit up. “Dix, this is the lovely lady who risked her neck to save my life.”

“Edward, this is one of the gallant gentlemen who risked their necks to save my life,” E.J. quickly countered and pressed something into her rescuer’s right palm.

John gazed down at the glistening object in his hand and smiled.

It was one of their chandelier’s prisms.

E.J. pulled a matching crystal prism from the front pocket of her blouse. “A habit of mine. I always bring home souvenirs. Little reminders of the amazing places I’ve been, and the remarkable people I’ve met.”

Gage glanced up at E.J.’s beau. “You, sir, are a lucky man.” His gaze returned to E.J.’s gift and his smile graduated into a grin.

It truly was an ‘equitable’ trade.

Six months later…

A package arrived at Station 51. It was addressed to J.R. Gage. The parcel’s return address was Passion Press, Inc.

Chet teased that romance novels were one of Gage’s guilty pleasures.

The paramedic ripped the package’s plain brown wrapper off.

It was, indeed, a romance novel.

A blue-eyed version of J.R., dressed in full turn-outs, and looking incredibly heroic, adorned the book’s front cover. In the young fireman’s arms was a beautiful figure skater in a skimpy skating costume.

“Fire and Ice” written and illustrated by E.J. Rigby

John flipped the book over and read the blurb on the back:

His whole life was the Fire Service. Her whole life was the Olympics. Until a twist of fate brought the firefighter and the figure skater together in “Fire and Ice”

He opened the paperback. There was a Dedication.

It read:

for J.R. my knight in a drab canvas coat

Below that, was a penned autograph and personal message from the book’s author:

John quickly closed the book and took another, longer look at the voluptuous young lady lying in the heroic fireman’s arms.

His wry smile broadened into a wry grin.

Yessiree, Edward was a very lucky man!

Author's Note:

My Father had a really rare blood type, for our area, anyways. AB- , I believe.

As a result, he was occasionally called upon to donate blood.

Fast forward to mid-November 1968. Another hunter mistook my Dad for a deer and blew most of his upper left arm off.

Of course this happened out in the middle of the middle of nowhere.

By the time they got my Dad to the hospital, the doctors couldn't palpate a pulse.

My Dad's own donated blood was banked at the hospital and the doctor's used it to save his life. One of the many lives he saved turned out to be his very own.

I always wanted to include a scenario like that in one of my fics and this story gave me the opportunity to do it. Real life IS stranger than fiction, and fiction is, at times, every bit as odd as real life. :D

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