Freedom Is Just a State of Mind

Two uneventful hours—and two successfully administered ‘drug cocktails’ later…

The quarantine cubicle’s occupants were busy familiarizing themselves with the ‘controls’—all of the controls.

Roy finished with the ‘controls’ and resumed his exploration of their literary library.

Its shelves contained everything from Superman comics to the latest issue of Playboy.

The paramedic paged through one of the Playboy periodicals. A bare-breasted ‘Bunny’ appeared and he quickly flipped the magazine shut. “I guess this is a ‘well-rounded’ library,” he muttered beneath his breath. He noticed the titles on several pamphlets and couldn’t help but grin. “‘The Basic Survival Course’. ‘How To Survive The Basic Survival Course’. ‘Surviving The How To Survive The Basic Survival Course’.” DeSoto stopped reading and glanced up at his still exploring pal. “You’re right. Those astronauts definitely have a sense of humor.”

“They would have to have a sense of humor,” Gage grumbled, “in order to ‘survive’ living in this elaborate…guinea pig cage—for a whole month!”

Roy gazed at his peeved partner in confusion. “Whatever happened to ‘This would make an incredible bachelor pad’?”

“That was my initial reaction,” his pacing pal explained. “I’ve had an entire day to survey the situation, and I am now able to form a more accurate opinion.” He gazed glumly around at the cramped cubicle’s windowless walls—and locked door. “We’re prisoners!”

John Gage was a man of ‘action’. So it was not surprising that inactivity did not ‘sit well’ with him.

Roy flashed his ‘caged’ companion a sympathetic smile. “Freedom is just a state of mind.”

“Okay. Why do you want to get out of here? What is it you want to do ‘out there’, that you can’t do ‘in here’?”

“It’s not so much me wanting to get out. It’s more me knowing that I could—if I wanted to.”

“Like I said,” Roy triumphantly stated, “freedom is just a state of mind.” His blue eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief and he started heading for the control panel. “In the meantime,” he reached the panel and pressed a button.

Roy turned the thing on ‘brisk walk’ and set its incline to ‘steep’. “If it’s so important for you to feel like you could get out of here—anytime you want to, I happen to know—for a fact—that freedom lies…just beyond this mountain!” he dramatically declared, and motioned to the rapidly-moving mechanical device.

John just stood there, staring at his buddy in disbelief. Then he broke into a broad grin and began to giggle. “If we have to stay in here longer than three days,” he remarked, between snickers, “THEY will probably have to take us straight from here to a padded cell.”

Roy’s own grin vanished and he suddenly looked somewhat indignant. “What do you mean ‘us’?” he lightly inquired. “It’s your imaginary mountain. I was just ‘borrowing’ it.”

The two ‘maximum quarantined’ L.A. County firemen whiled away the morning hours: John with his eyes peeled to his pretty Sign teacher, and Roy either on the phone with his wife and kids, or with his nose buried in one of their library’s many ‘action packed’ adventure novels.

As time ticked slowly on, Roy noticed that his ‘imprisoned’ partner was becoming more and more restless.

Finally, his ‘cooped up’ companion turned his teacher off, slammed his Sign book shut, and slipped out of bed.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” Johnny announced.

“Don’t go too far, huh,” Roy taunted him. “Our lunch should be in the airlock, any moment now.”

The walker set their treadmill’s speed to ‘leisure stroll’ and its incline to ‘flat’ and then stepped aboard. “If I don’t make it back before then, send out ‘Search & Rescue’,” Johnny teased right back.

Roy saw the airlock’s red light come on and quickly closed his book. “Food’s here!”

His restless partner continued to walk, right up until the little red light went out. “We could really use one of these ‘airlock thingies’ at the Station,” John wistfully declared. He slid the compartment’s glass door open and removed its marvelous-smelling contents. “Wouldn’t that be cool?” he queried, as he carried their lunch over to the lab counter. “It’d be like having our very own ‘Aladdin’s Lamp’.” The grinning paramedic placed the steaming hot Styrofoam food containers down on the countertop and his posterior down upon his stool. “We could just order whatever we wanted—whenever we wanted it. And then, when we’re done eating, there’d be no mess to clean up. We’d just incinerate the dirty dishes.”

Roy plunked himself down beside his broadly grinning buddy and gave the ‘airlock thingy’ a thoughtful glance. “It’s too small. Joanne and the kids would never fit inside there.”

Johnny’s broad grin slowly transformed into a sad smile. “How are things going on the home-front?”

Roy peeled the plastic lid off of his Styrofoam bowl. “Joanne doesn’t mind being confined to the house. In fact, she claims the Health Department people are spoiling her rotten. They run all her errands for her and even deliver her groceries—right to the door, and never hand her a bill.” His own smile did a disappearing act. “Christopher keeps asking if his Daddy is coming home for Christmas.” He gave the quarantine cubicle’s locked door an exceedingly glum glance. “Like I even have a choice in the matter.”

Gage gave his glum chum a deeply sympathetic look, and then dug into his lunch. “Mmm. Mmm,” he declared, upon sampling his still-steaming chili.

John nodded. “I believe this stuff may be even better than Blain’s Red Dog.”

“Nothing could be better than Blain’s Red Dog,” DeSoto quickly determined, but hesitated to sample his own steaming bowlful of chili. “You sure this is such a good idea?”

“Wha-at?” his partner pondered, around a partially masticated mouthful of ‘hot’—er, really hot chili.

Roy glanced back over his shoulder, at their confined quarters. “Eating ‘beans’ for lunch.”

Gage giggled delightedly. “Sure it is! This stuff is incredible! Besides, we can just turn the ‘audio surveillance’ off, slap some headphones on—and then ‘toot’ the entire afternoon away. And nobody will be any the wiser.”

His ‘full a’ beans’ buddy’s light-hearted reply caused Roy to chuckle himself. He finally lifted his fully loaded plastic soupspoon to his lips and took a few cautious sips. “Say…this stuff is good. Isn’t it.”

The chili connoisseur smacked his burning lips a couple a’ times and took a careful poll of his ‘lit up’ taste buds. “Not bad. Not bad, at all. Certainly better than Chet’s. But Blain’s Red Dog is still the best.”

John blew a breath out of his flaming mouth. Then he opened and began gulping down the ice-cold contents of one of the four milk cartons setting on the countertop. “Man! Talk about nasal decongestants!” he declared with a grin. “This stuff’ll clear out your sinuses in a hurry! I bet I could a’ tasted this stuff, even when I still had my head cold.”

Roy returned his friend’s grin and then stared thoughtfully down at his chili. “Hopefully, it’s not as ‘deadly’ as that first drug cocktail…”

“I’ll drink to that!” his grinning chum agreed and took another long, refreshing chug of his ice-cold milk.

The firemen’s third slumber-less night in a row finally caught up with them. The pair ended up spending their second afternoon in NASA’s quarantine cubicle sleeping, instead of ‘toot’ ing.

Roy was the first one to awaken and he immediately became immersed in a Western paperback.

Johnny woke up, about four chapters later. He blinked the remaining sleep from his bleary eyes and then rolled stiffly out of his bunk.

“I wanna know how our counterparts in Seattle are doing,” his partner replied, in mid-stride.

“There’s a green button on your headboard,” Roy reminded him, with a smirk.

“So I read.” His buddy reached their videophone and glanced back over his shoulder. “Force of habit,” he explained, sounding a wee bit embarrassed. He pressed the green button.

The monitor came to life and Naval Midshipman Cary Alan Greyson appeared. “Room Service…”

The quarantined fireman was forced to smile. “Yeah. Look, ‘Room Service’…Is there a Doctor in the house?”

The young man’s amused expression instantly sobered. “You wanna see Dr. McComas?”

“Hang on. I’ll get him for you,” the sailor promised and departed from view.

John rested his hands upon his hips. “I’d also like to know what the latest word from Atlanta is,” he further explained, solely for his buddy’s benefit.

John directed his undivided attention back toward their videophone’s TV screen. “Hi, Doc. Yeah. I was wondering how the two Seattle paramedics are doing, and if any more of those Romanian sailors have died.”

“As a matter of fact, I just this minute got off the phone with Dr. Michelson, up at Harborview Medical Center. As you already know, McKeese and Norquist are being held—er, kept under maximum quarantine there, in the Isolation Ward. Both paramedics’ vital signs are perfectly normal. They have not presented any symptoms—whatsoever, and they claim that they are feeling ‘perfectly fine’. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous. They also inquired about your health, and were tremendously relieved to hear that you and Roy were both feeling ‘perfectly fine’, too. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous.” The doctor’s smile suddenly vanished. “I’m sorry to say that fourteen more sailors aboard that freighter have…succumbed to the virus. The others continue to show some minor improvement after being given a second dose of the CDC’s new drug cocktail.”

The dark-haired paramedic exchanged solemn glances with his partner. “Any word yet from Atlanta?”

“Dr. Vandertine called while the two of you were sleeping. He said that your blood cultures have been in the incubator for about 24 hours now, and—so far—there is no sign of any ‘growth’ in any of the mediums. He also said that it takes time for the virus to propagate—if it’s going to propagate. The samples will need to be incubated another 48 hours, at the very least, before the two of you can be certified ‘contagion free’. And he said it could even take a little longer.”

“No it couldn’t,” the blond paramedic quickly countered. “We gotta be out of here by Christmas Eve. Christmas morning, at the very latest.”

McComas gave the family man a deeply sympathetic look. “Then I certainly hope that proves to be the case.”

John flashed the physician a grateful smile. “Thanks, Doc. That about covers everything.”

The doctor returned the young fireman’s smile. “I took the liberty of ordering you guys some dinner. It should be arriving shortly. Before the delivery guy gets here, I’d like to get a sixth PC reading on the two of you."

Johnny figured his fireman friend was onto something, so he snatched a magazine from their library’s shelves before plunking himself down onto his own stool. He glanced down at his lap and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the periodical that he had randomly picked up was—Playboy. ‘Oh. Joy,’ he silently mused.

Another delicious dinner—and two PC readings later, both firemen were sprawled back out on their bunks…

John rolled onto his side and saw that his buddy’s nose was still buried in his paperback book. “What time is it?” he groggily inquired.

Roy’s reading lamp was the only light source in the cubicle. So he couldn’t see their futuristic wall clock.

“Yeah,” John agreed. “But I don’t want to have to bend my bruised elbow…or crawl out of bed,” his whispered words trailed off.

Roy was in no mood for interruptions. He glanced up from his open book and gave his unbelievably lazy buddy an irritated glare. Then, curious as to the answer to the time question, himself, he directed his attention to his watch. “It’s just after midnight,” he announced and waited for his partner to acknowledge him.

Roy gave his dozing friend a final glare of extreme annoyance and returned to his Western.

The trail boss of a cattle drive was waiting for his Ramrod to give him some disturbing news.

The disturbing news turned out to be that several of the stray Longhorn steers that had joined their herd were down with ‘hoof and mouth’ disease—anthrax.

The local authorities were insisting that the entire herd be quarantined or destroyed, before they could infect other ranchers’ livestock.

It was beginning to look like they would never reach the cattle yards in Sedalia.

Roy suddenly lost all interest in the story. He closed the book and tossed it aside. Then he turned off his reading lamp and blinked up at the cubicle’s far from black ceiling in absolute amazement. Several of the larger luminaries were still visible, obviously having been created using ‘glow-in-the-dark’ paint. He lay there, staring silently up at the moon, and thinking negative…negative…NEGATIVE.

Roy lay awake in his bunk, contemplating the series of events that had led up to their becoming 'guests' in NASA's quarantine cubicle.

Roy strolled into the locker room and was surprised to find that his partner was not occupying the space in front of his locker. "Good morning!" he called out to his fellow firefighters.

Chet, Mike and Marco returned the paramedic's cheerful greeting, right along with the guy's from C-Shift.

Roy pulled his locker open and began to change—out of his civvies and into his uniform. "Anybody seen Johnny this morning?"

Lopez was in the process of tying his shoes. "I don't think he's here yet." He glanced in Kelly's direction. "Is he?"

"Huh. I didn't even notice," Marco remarked. He finished snugging up and tying his bootlaces, and then followed his engine crew buddies from the room.

The fireman hastily finished donning his uniform. Then he grabbed his department nametag, his badge and his helmet and went dashing out the door.

Henry spotted him in the doorway and started thumping his tail, rather loudly, upon his leather-covered couch cushion.

Three of his crewmates were seated at the kitchen table, enjoying their morning coffee.

Hank Stanley was seated at his desk. He glanced up from his paperwork and saw DeSoto standing in his office's open doorway.

Roy turned around and was about to head back over to the rec' room, when he spotted his missing partner.

Roy heaved a silent sigh of relief. Then he stomped around the front of their rescue truck and jerked its passenger door open. "What are you doing in there? I've been looking all over for you."

His friend put an end to his dazed gaze and slowly turned to face him. "Oh yeah? Why?"

Roy suddenly felt a wee bit embarrassed. "I dunno. I guess I was just wondering where you were. I thought we could go over the equip—"

"—I just did," Johnny interrupted. He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and passed it to his partner.

Johnny seemed pleased to hear that. Then he reached out, grabbed the handle and pulled his door shut.

Captain Stanley stepped out of his office. He gave Gage a puzzled glance and then directed his gaze toward his partner. "Tell the guys it's time for Roll. Will yah, pal?"

Roy nodded his compliance and stood there marveling at the fire officer's ability to make direct orders seem like polite suggestions.

Stanley flashed his senior paramedic a grateful smile and then disappeared back inside his office.

Gage exhaled an audible gasp of annoyance and slowly turned to face him—again.

Johnny snatched his dress cap from his lap, slid off his seat and quietly closed the truck door. He stepped across the garage and then stood there, just outside Stanley's office.

Roy gave his zombie-like buddy's back a worried glance and then obediently headed over to the rec' room.

Less than a minute later, Station 51's A-shift crew was lined up in front of the Squad.

Roy pulled his 'completely spaced out' partner's dress cap from his right hand and placed it upon his head for him.

Captain Stanley stepped out of his office, with clipboard in hand, and started calling off Roll. "Stoker."

Stanley exhaled an impatient sigh. He glanced up from his Duty Roster sheet and gave the 'zoned out' figure standing directly in front of him an annoyed glare. "GA-AGE!" he sternly, and rather loudly, repeated.

His Captain exhaled another audible sigh—this one of resignation. "Never mind. Where ever it is you are, it obviously isn't 'here'."

Stanley gave Gage one last irritated glare, and then returned to the task at hand. "DeSoto."

The fire officer checked the last name off his Duty Roster list and flipped to the next sheet on his clipboard. "To be read to all department personnel and then posted: The International Union of Firefighters, Local 214, will hold their quarterly meeting at 7:30 p.m., this coming Friday. Be advised that there will be an election of officials. So all members are urged to attend and cast their ballots." Hank paused to draw in a long, bored breath. "There will be a Firemen's Benefit Fund Dance in the gym at Gilbert High, this Saturday night. The event will run from 8:00 until midnight and will feature…Orange Rind? Those wishing to donate their time and energy should contact Phil Driesen, at Station 43. There will be a special meeting of the Paramedics' Advisory Committee this morning, at 09:00 in—" he skipped down to John and Roy's jurisdiction, "—Conference Room A, at Rampart General Hospital," he paused again, to glance up at his paramedics. "The two of you can take off."

Roy gave their Captain a grateful nod. Then he tossed his dress cap onto the Call Station and climbed up into the Squad.

Stanley saw that DeSoto's partner was, once again, gazing blankly off into space. "Get with it, Gage!"

"We-ell? Get going!" Stanley re-commanded, sounding every bit as miffed as he now looked.

"Yes, Sir!" the paramedic snappily replied, but then his face slowly filled with confusion. "Where do you want me to go?"

Hank Stanley's shoulders sagged in defeat and he turned to his Engineer. "You tell him, Mike. I'm afraid of what I might be tempted to say."

Stoker struggled desperately to keep a straight face. "You've got a meeting at Rampart this morning."

John suddenly noticed his partner was no longer standing at his side. "Where's Roy?"

Stanley's shoulders slumped even further and he pointed, wordlessly, to the Squad.

His partner was seated behind the wheel of their rescue truck, patiently waiting for him to climb aboard.

Johnny was about to pile into the Squad himself, when he realized he was wearing his dress cap. He tossed it onto the Call Station beside his partner's and then scrambled into their rescue truck's passenger seat.

The engine crew watched the Squad pull out of the garage and then turned back toward their Captain.

Hank gave his head a few quick shakes and then reluctantly returned to his 'mandatory' reading.

Johnny snatched up their truck's dash-mounted radio's mic' and thumbed its 'SEND' button. "L.A., Squad 51. Show us Code 7 at Rampart General…"

John slid the mic' back onto its clip. Then he leaned back in his seat and turned to gaze blankly out his door's open window.

Over the course of the past couple of shifts, his out-going, talkative companion had become increasingly quiet and reclusive.

Now, he had actually come to dread them. "What's bothering you?" Roy quietly inquired, his voice reflecting the concern in his eyes.

"I wasn't going to bother you with what's bothering me," Gage glumly replied. "I'm always bothering you with what's bothering me." He turned to face his friend. "I thought you could use a break."

"Okay. Sometimes. Maybe a little," DeSoto was finally forced to concede. "You know what bothers me even more?"

Roy nodded. "I never thought I'd ever hear myself say this, but I actually miss all of your little 'rantings' and 'ravings'."

Roy managed another nod. "It's true. It's actually kind a' nice, knowing that somebody thinks highly enough of your opinion, and trusts you enough, to 'confide in you'," he hinted. "And to 'ask you for your advice and assistance' in solving their problems…" he hinted further, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his quiet—er, too quiet companion.

"Yeah. Well. Now you can do me an even bigger favor, and tell me what's bothering you…"

His buddy's slight smile broadened for an instant, but then vanished—entirely. "I wouldn't call it a 'problem'…exactly."

Finally, Roy spoke up. "This is where you're supposed to ask me for my advice and assistance in solving the problem you don't 'exactly' have."

His silent partner's smile put in another brief appearance. But then Gage's countenance gradually grew gloomy—again.

Having recently viewed several nature shows on PBS, Roy immediately envisioned his bachelor friend following the scent of pretty, perfumed nurses through the halls of Rampart, like a buck following the scent of 'in estrus' does through the forest. The paramedic had to purse his lips—rather tightly—to prevent himself from grinning, because, at the moment, he couldn't seem to get that 'mental image' out of his head. 'I am in a 'rut',' the family man silently, and amusedly, mused. 'You are in more of a 'groove'.'

Roy shot his puzzling partner a completely perplexed glance, but remained silent. 'What are you talking about?' he wordlessly wondered. 'We're always doing something different. No two calls are ever the same.' The paramedic pulled their squad into a parking spot in the hospital's Visitors' lot and killed its engine. Then he turned in his seat and gave his troubled buddy a deeply sympathetic look. "Heck, I don't even think THEY could come up with an answer to that question."

Johnny flashed his friend—er, his advisor back just the slightest of smiles.

Squad 51’s on-duty paramedics entered Rampart General Hospital’s Emergency Receiving ward and began making their way to Conference Room A.

Gage and DeSoto met up with some of their off-duty colleagues in the corridor, not far from where their ‘special’ Paramedics’ Advisory Committee’s meeting was to take place.

“Hey, Johnny!” Terry Macklin, from 45’s called out and grabbed Gage by the arm. “You seen that new nurse over in Pediatrics, yet?”

Macklin got a sort a’ moonstruck look on his face. “She’s gorgeous! And single.”

Terry tightened his grip on his wrist. “None of us have been able to get a date with her.”

Macklin pulled him to a stop once more. “Five buck’s’ll get you in on the ‘action’…”

“Thanks for the offer, Terry. But I am definitely not interested,” Johnny repeated, a little more forcefully, and finally succeeded in prying the off-duty paramedic’s appendage from his right arm.

“What do you suppose this ‘special’ meeting is all about?” John pondered, once he’d caught back up with his partner.

“I’m guessing it’s about that ‘Advanced Paramedical Research Program’,” Roy replied. “The deadline to sign up for it is noon—today.”

“Yeah. Well, how do THEY expect guys to volunteer for something that they know nothing about?”

“Yeah,” Gage agreed. “It would have to be someone who was either really curious, or really dedicated.”

The two of them traded smiles and then joined their fellow committeemen in the conference room.

“As you know,” Dr. Mike Morton addressed the Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedics in attendance, “the deadline for volunteers to sign up for the ‘Advanced Paramedical Research Program’ is noon—today.”

Morton looked tremendously disappointed. “C’mon, people! It seems to me, that out of sixty paramedics, we ought to be able to get at least two volunteers…”

“And it seems to me,” Mark Lawes cynically shot back, “that THEY ought to be able to at least tell us a little about what it is that we’d be volunteering for.”

“THEY don’t want the program’s objectives to become general knowledge—just yet,” Morton patiently explained. “If you want to find out more about the program, you’re just gonna have to volunteer.”

Lawes remained dissatisfied—and cynical. “Doc, how can we possibly find out more about the program, when we haven’t been told anything about it? All this ‘secrecy’ leads me to believe that what we’d be volunteering for must be so awful, that THEY are afraid to tell us.”

“Know what I think?” J.T. suddenly piped up. “I think that this ‘program’ is some kind a’ ‘test’. I think that THEY are going to sign up everyone who doesn’t volunteer for this, just to teach us a lesson.”

Gage, who’d been just sitting there, staring blankly off into space, since the meeting first started, suddenly straightened up in his seat. His head slowly swung in J.T.’s direction and he locked gazes with him. “You think—you actually think—that THEY would go through all this, just to teach a bunch a guys with a lousy attitude a lesson about proper motivation?”

J.T. suddenly looked a little—er, a lot less certain of his theory. “Nahhh. I guess not.”

“Well, I do!” Johnny announced. That said, he reached across the conference table and latched onto the blank Volunteer sheet. Then he pulled a pen from his front shirt pocket and signed his name beside the number 1.

His fellow paramedics stared at him, and then at each other, looking completely astounded.

Johnny shoved the sign up sheet back across the table and the pen back into his front shirt pocket, and then resumed staring…blankly…off into space.

“Do you realize what you just did?” Roy angrily demanded, once he’d regained his speech. “THEY always use ‘partners’, partner! Two guys! By volunteering yourself, you just automatically volunteered me! Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m basically a curious, dedicated, dumb guy!” his partner smartly replied. “But, mostly curious.”

His buddy’s hard, accusatorial gaze softened and he was forced to smile. Roy didn’t say another word. He simply snatched up the Volunteer sheet and signed his name, right below his partner’s.

Their fellow committeemen exchanged thoughtful glances and then, one by one, they added their signatures to the sign up sheet, as well.

Dr. Mike Morton just stood there at the head of the conference table, smiling delightedly.

Johnny was standing in front of the counter at the Nurses’ Station, waiting for an ‘authorized person’ to come along, so he could get the drugs and medical supplies they needed to restock their rescue squad.

RN Toni Gilmore came down the corridor and stepped right up beside the waiting paramedic. “Hi.”

John jerked, startled by the pretty nurse’s sudden appearance—and extremely close proximity. “Uhhh. Hi,” he finally managed to get out.

Nurse Gilmore continued to ‘close in’ on his position, until the two of them were finally facing one another.

The young woman looked up and locked her beautiful brown eyes onto his. “Word around the hospital is, that you are no longer participating in the…‘betting pool’. Is that true?”

The fireman was completely flabbergasted. John wasn’t sure what he found most surprising—er, disturbing: the fact that the nurses seemed to know about their little ‘betting pool’, or the speed at which the hospital’s ‘grapevine’ could convey gossip. “Uhhh. Yeah,” he confessed, once he’d gotten his ability to speak back. “But how did you—?”

“—In that case,” Toni interrupted him, “give me a call sometime…soon,” she slyly added and slipped something into the right front pocket of his uniform shirt.

Gage was even more flabbergasted. He would’ve liked to have said something but, before he could get his voice back again, Nurse Gilmore was gone.

Johnny noticed the beautiful blonde behind the counter—for the first time—and his bottom jaw fell open. “How long have you been standing there?”

Gage was crouched down, and DeSoto was standing, in front of their rescue truck’s open side compartments, stowing their restocked medical supplies away.

“What did you mean, when you said that you want do something different…without doing something different?" Roy suddenly—and quite casually—inquired.

“I dunno,” his partner replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I guess I’d just like to be able to…fish a drunk out of swimming pool without getting knocked out cold and nearly drowned. Or fight a brushfire without falling into an abandoned bomb shelter and nearly breaking my neck. And it would be real nice, if I could respond to a freeway pileup or a refinery fire without being exposed to toxic gases. Or if I could maybe get an accident victim up out of a canyon without being buried by a rockslide. And it would be just dandy if I could deliver a cardiac patient to the hospital without being attacked by some psycho cop at a traffic stop. Or if I could prevent a freeway pileup without having to drive a semi off an onramp. Or if I could just climb a stinkin’ communication tower without ‘tripping out’ on some psychotropic incense shit!” The peeved paramedic finished shouting and slammed the lid shut on their refilled drugbox.

Johnny’s rant was music to Roy’s ears. However, the sad—and deadly serious—nature of the tune prevented him from smiling. In fact, he frowned outright, as he realized the ‘rut’ that his frustrated fireman friend had been referring to earlier was the rut of being ‘injured on the job’.

DeSoto extended his right hand and assisted his discouraged buddy back up to his feet. “You’re not thinking of quitting…Are you?”

Gage’s glistening eyes dropped down to the drugbox. The paramedic clutched its handle a little tighter. “This is the something I don’t wanna do different.”

Roy exhaled a silent sigh of relief. The paramedic gave his partner’s left hand a reassuring squeeze, and a firm shake, before finally relinquishing his grip on it.

Roy backed the Squad into its parking spot in Station 51’s apparatus bay and killed its engine.

“Could the two of you step in here for a minute,” their Captain suddenly requested—er, commanded.

John stepped up to his Captain’s desk and then stood there at attention. “Cap, about this morning…I’m really sorry and I promise I’ll try really hard to not let it happen again.”

Stanley suppressed a smile. “I’m really happy to hear that, John. But that is not why I called you guys in here.” Hank stared down at his recently hung up phone, looking somewhat amazed. “Headquarters has just informed me that the two of you have been picked for—” he paused to read his notes, “the ‘Advanced Paramedical Research Program’.”

“It seems the way the thing was set up—” Stanley stopped and began reading directly from his notes again, “the first two men to volunteer were going to be picked for the project because, according to a Mr. Edward R. Bowerman, ‘They deserve to be rewarded for their willingness, and commended for their eagerness to be of assistance.’” The Captain paused again, and stared up at his paramedic team, looking astonished. “You’ve barely been gone two hours. How did you ever manage to get yourselves into this?”

Roy gave his ‘eager’ buddy an annoyed glare. “It would a’ never happened…if my partner, here, wasn’t so dedicated, curious and—”

“Du-umb?” The look on their Captain’s face went from one of astonishment to confusion. “You call volunteering to spend two weeks in Seattle, Washington—studying their Paramedic Program, asking questions and taking notes, all at the County’s expense—dumb? I’d say it’s more like ‘brilliant’.” Hank gazed glumly down at his notepad. “Why don’t THEY ever ask Captains to volunteer for anything?” He glanced back up and saw the ‘Are you serious?’ looks on his paramedics’ faces. “It’s all right here,” he assured them, and gave his notepad a couple of taps with the point of his pencil. “You’re due over at headquarters in one hour, for a preliminary briefing. Brice and Kirk are coming in to replace you. As soon as they get here, the two of you can take off—” he paused again, to flash his paramedics a warm smile, “—on your new ‘research’ assignment.”

“A two-week paid vacation,” Roy suddenly realized—right out loud, and a smile finally appeared upon his still astonished face.

“Please, God…Please, let this have as happy an ending, as it had a beginning,” Roy prayed and continued to aim his deeply troubled gaze up at the quarantine cubicle’s ceiling.

Finally, at around 04:00, the moon’s unnatural glow faded completely away, and the overly fatigued fireman drifted dreamlessly off.

Five hours later, over at L.A. County Fire Station 51…

Since he and his men were not ‘on-duty’, Hank Stanley had no qualms whatsoever about ignoring the department’s ‘wake up’ tones.

While his fearless leader and fellow firefighters began making their way toward the sinks and the shower in the washroom, Chet Kelly slipped into a T-shirt and jeans and headed instead for the coffeemaker in the kitchen.

Kelly had made it about halfway through the garage, when the front door buzzer sounded. “I’ll get it!” he hollered back over his sagging right shoulder and reluctantly changed his course.

He picked the two fully loaded sacks of groceries up off of the brick building’s concrete porch and carried them inside.

Kelly placed the heavy brown paper bags in his arms on the kitchen counter and then stood there, gazing disinterestedly down at their contents.

Visions of his two shiftmates lying in an Isolation Ward somewhere—barely able to draw a breath, their minds and bodies ravaged with fever—had completely killed his appetite.

The depressed fireman turned his back on the food and stared sadly down at their kitchen table.

John and Roy’s first shift back should not have ended with the two of them being carted off somewhere by a bunch a’ guys wearing weird white space suits.

Just seventy-five hours earlier, all six of them had been occupied, and Roy had been regaling them with the highlights of their vacation in—er, their ‘research trip’ to Seattle…

“It was a working vacation,” Roy reminded his cynical shiftmates. “And you would not believe how incredibly difficult it is, to stand around and do nothing, when there is so much that needs to be done.”

“Yeah,” his partner agreed. “Can you picture yourselves being on scene, but just ‘observing’ a fire or a vehicle accident? It was practically impossible!”

“What about your free time?” Mike Stoker continued to taunt. “How difficult was it for the two of you to lie around an indoor pool in some really swank hotel?”

DeSoto’s face filled with disbelief. “Really swank hotel? I spent the first night in a barn!”

“C’mon,” Marco declared with a roll of his eyes. “The place couldn’t have been that bad.”

Roy grinned. “It was a real barn. You know, with cows and straw and—” his grin turned into a grimace.

Their Captain was most amused. “What? Was there no room left in the Holiday Inn?”

“To help cut costs,” Roy continued, “and make things a little more convenient, we talked the Seattle paramedics into letting us bunk with them. I stayed with Mike Norquist, otherwise known as ‘the Swede’. Swede is trying to build up a dairy farm. We were up—all night—with an extremely expectant two-thousand-dollar cow.”

Stanley directed his gaze, and his next question, to Gage. “What about you?”

“I got to stay with John McKeese, the Swede’s partner. I went to bed and woke up in a different place everyday, the entire time I was there.”

“How’d you manage that?” the fire officer finally came right out and asked.

The paramedic pulled a thick stack of 4”x6” photographs from one of the side pockets of his navy blue uniform jacket and passed the pictures on to his Captain. “The guy has a ‘floating’ apartment.”

John continued his narrative. “We’d turn in on Lake Union and wake up in Puget Sound…or we’d be in Elliot Bay and wake up in Bremerton Harbor.” He winced. “I can still hear those da—darn fog horns.”

The Captain completed his examination of the first photo and passed it on to his engineer. “Sheesh! I can’t believe you were actually sleeping on a boat. It’s winter up there. Isn’t it?”

Gage gave him a glum nod. “The temperature stayed in the thirty-degree range. McKeese kept the boat’s cabin heated for me. But then insisted on sleeping with the windows open.” He sniffled and shuddered. “I may never stop shivering.”

Gage winked at his fellow firefighters and then fought back a grin. “I, uh, brought some salmon back with me—”

“—Do not bring any of your salmon into this fire station,” their fish-a-phobic Captain promptly requested. “In fact, you can consider that an order!”

Stoker studied the sixth picture that was passed on to him. “Man, you can barely make out the car ferry through all that fog.”

“That’s right,” the Captain declared. “I remember hearing something about that on the news last week. Some twit filled the diesel tanks with gasoline.”

Mike finally seemed ‘somewhat’ impressed. “You guys got to lend a hand with that?”

Roy gave the engineer a shake of his head. “That was just one of the many things we got to ‘observe’ while we were in Seattle.”

Gage squinted down at the snapshot. “That’s Mount Baker, part of the Olympic Range—”

“—Not the mountain,” Chet chided. “Thi-is.” He pointed to a red stain on some roadway’s snow-covered pavement.

“That’s what I thought,” Chet muttered and promptly passed the ‘bloody’ picture on to Marco.

Gage saw Stoker staring down at another photo. “That’s the Henry Art Gallery.” He directed his gaze over to the pooch that was perpetually dozing upon their sofa. “Which, I’m sorry to say, was not named after you, kid.”

John finally leaned over and looked down at the picture in his Captain’s hands. “Uh-uh…That should’ve been the Japanese Tea Garden. I must a’ forgot to adjust the shutter speed.” He snatched the blurred photo, crumpled it up and tossed it into the nearest wastebasket.

Gage glanced at the photo in question. “That is what THEY like to call ‘a late afternoon frost’,” the paramedic replied and swapped grins with his research partner. John saw that Marco was now staring down at a picture of a great big ship. “That’s the USS Missouri, docked in Bremerton Harbor. The Japanese surrender, that ended World War II, was signed aboard that ship.”

Gage noticed the photo in Kelly’s hands. “That’s the six-hundred-and-five-foot tall Space Needle,” he promptly pointed out.

Chet gave his helpful chum an ‘Oh brother’ look. “Somehow, I sort a’ ‘guessed’ that’s what it was,” he sarcastically shot back.

Hank Stanley stood in their rec’ room’s open doorway, wearing a look of deep concern.

Instead of making their morning coffee, Chet Kelly was just standing there in their kitchen, staring sadly down at one of their six wooden chair’s empty seats.

“What was on the porch?” the Captain casually inquired, and finally stepped fully into the room.

“The ‘food fairy’ paid us another visit,” Chet lightly replied and pointed to the groceries on the counter.

The Captain couldn’t help but smile. “Ah nuts!” He saw Kelly staring at him in confusion and promptly explained. “I was hoping the ‘uniform fairy’ might a’ showed up, instead.”

He and his engine crew had been running around in just their jeans and T-shirts for the past two days.

Forget the ‘uniform fairy’! What they really needed was for the ‘morale fairy’ to put in an appearance.

“Think I’ll call headquarters and re-request a fresh change of clothing,” the Captain announced and quickly took his leave.

A-Shift’s Captain called HQ all right, but it was to inquire about the well being and whereabouts of his paramedics.

Stanley had been calling—several times a day—since this whole ‘quarantine’ business had started. But his questions had always gone unanswered.

This morning, however, the ‘powers that be’ gave the adamant fire officer a ‘number’ where his missing crewmen could be reached.

Gage stepped up to the device and pressed the green button. “Mornin’, Doc!” he greeted, as a familiar face materialized upon the phone’s monitor.

Dr. McComas returned his greeting. “Good morning, John. You have an incoming call. Your Captain is on the ‘red’ line.”

The news caused the young fireman’s forced smile to broaden into a genuine grin. “Thanks, Doc!” The paramedic picked up their videophone’s futuristic-looking receiver and pressed the ‘red’ button. “Mornin’, Cap!”

“John!” his very relieved sounding Captain came back. “Are you and Roy all right?”

“Everybody here is just fine, too. Well, except for Chet. He’s worrying himself sick. Where the heck are THEY keeping you anyways? I just had to go through a ‘mobile operator’ to reach you guys.”

John turned back to the monitor and gave their hotel manager a questioning look.

“We’re onboard an aircraft carrier in L.A. Harbor—the USS Fitzsimmons. We are currently ‘confined’ to NASA’s quarantine cubi—”

“Phone call! My office!”

Chet promptly appeared in front of his Captain’s desk. He took the phone from the fire officer’s extended hand and then muttered a tentative, and somewhat breathless, “Hello?”

The look on his lineman’s mustached face was priceless, and Hank had everything he could do to keep from chuckling.

Chet uncovered the phone. “Hey, babe. So…How’re you guys doin’?…Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Uh-huh.” He placed the palm of his right hand back over the phone’s mouthpiece and turned to his Captain. “He claims they’re staying in a five-star hotel and that they get to eat steak and lobster every night for dinner,” he skeptically reported, and then quickly uncovered the phone. “You sure you ain’t delirious? Where are you guys really?…Gage, you are such a bull-shitter…Are too! Put your partner on the line, so I can get a legitimate answer…Sleeping? What’s he still doing in bed at this hour of the morning?…Yeah. I know you said sleeping. But why is Roy still sleeping?…Uh-huh…Uh-huh…”

As the Captain sat there, listening to his two crewmen’s familiar banter, he couldn’t help but smile. “Mission accomplished,” Hank triumphantly muttered to himself…and the ‘morale fairy’. ;)

Later that same afternoon, over in Rampart General Hospital’s Emergency Receiving…

Dr. Kelly Brackett returned the phone, on the counter of the Nurses’ Station, to its cradle and exhaled a frustrated gasp. He caught his two anxious co-workers’ questioning glances and obligingly filled them in. “Atlanta claims it’ll be another 24-hours, at the very least, before they know anything for sure.”

“C’mon.” Dixie McCall latched onto the two glum ER doctors’ arms and began escorting them off down the corridor, in the direction of the Doctors’ Lounge. “I’ll buy us a cup of coffee.”

The trio entered the lounge, poured themselves some coffee and then took their seats at a table.

“None of this would have happened,” Kel gloomily predicted, “if it wasn’t for my ‘precious program’!”

Mike recalled how close Kel’s ‘precious program’ had come to being cancelled. He also remembered how happy he’d been to be the bearer of some good news…

Following the Paramedics’ Advisory Committee meeting, Morton had snatched up the signed volunteer sheet and dashed out of the conference room.

The physician flew through several corridors and then skidded to a stop in front of the open doorway to his colleague’s office.

Kel was seated at his desk, gazing glumly down at a stack of untouched paperwork.

“Congratulations, Kel!” Mike exclaimed, as he stepped up to the older doctor’s desk. “You’re a father! Your ‘Advanced Paramedical Research Program’ has finally given birth! May I present…your ‘sons’,” he lightly added and passed the program’s creator the list of signatures.

Kel looked deliriously happy and leapt to his feet. “All right! Wait til THEY see this!” he triumphantly declared and grinned down at the sign up sheet. “Looks like the entire committee volunteered…”

Kel gazed down at the first two names on the list and his grin broadened. “It’s funny how things turn out sometimes. Roy was just telling me the other day, that he and Johnny wouldn’t be volunteering for anymore ‘research’ programs.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, his own grin broadening. “And now, here they are, practically on their way to Seattle!”

Mike snapped back to reality. ‘Who knew…’ he glumly thought to himself, and sat there, staring silently—and sadly—down at the steaming mug of coffee that was cradled in his hands.

Kel gazed glumly down at the vapors of steam that were rising from his coffee cup and allowed his mind to wander back a week, to the morning of December 16^th…

John and Roy had just flown in from Seattle, and the Advanced Paramedical Research Committee had convened in Rampart General’s Conference Room A, to debrief them.

The committee consisted of a panel of six emergency room physicians, several local politicians, and another half dozen County Health and Fire Department officials.

The two recently returned researchers were well into their ‘debriefing’ before somebody from the LACFD finally wondered what the two of them were doing back in L.A. already, when their Seattle assignment was slated to last two weeks.

“Like I said earlier,” Roy replied, “Captain Wallace wasn’t just a guide. He also seems to be the driving force behind the advancements being made in Seattle’s Emergency Services Program. He was able to supply us with a great deal of the information you requested. The majority of the seven days that we were there were spent in the field, observing the Seattle paramedics. So we didn’t get to hang around Harborview Medical Center a whole lot. Still, we managed to accomplish everything we were asked to accomplish. Sorry it didn’t take the entire two weeks. I guess we just must be fast researchers,” the fireman finished with a bashful smile.

A lady from County Health looked up from her notes. “What impressed you the most about their Emergency Services Program?”

“Speaking for myself,” DeSoto began, “I’d say it was the skill the Seattle paramedics displayed in performing emergency surgical procedures in the field. Both the emergency thoracostomy and the emergency pulmonary intubation we witnessed them perform, resulted in saved lives. Lives that would not have been saved, if the victims would’ve had to wait until they reached the surgeons, back at the hospital—” he heard the two white-smocked doctor-types, seated directly across the table from him, murmuring—rather loudly—and stopped talking.

Gage gave the murmuring physicians an annoyed glare and then glanced down at his notes. “I was really surprised to find that, instead of a firetruck full of fancy rescue gear, the Seattle paramedics drive their own ambulance type truck and transport their victims themselves. They said the reason for this is that, while they have fewer people to serve, they also have a much greater area to cover than we do. So they said they have to expedite the transportation of victims from the scene to the hospital. Also, as Roy just mentioned, Seattle’s paramedics are certified to perform various emergency surgical procedures in the field—upon a doctor’s orders, of course,” he stressed, for the benefit of the still murmuring ER docs. “But I guess what really impressed me the most, is their treatment procedure for handling coronary patients. The Seattle paramedics deal with their coronary patients on their own. They read their electro-cardiograph telemetry scopes, form their own diagnosis of the symptoms, and then they decide what drugs and definitive therapy—if any—should be administered. The Seattle doctors we spoke with, say that they find this method works most efficiently—and effectively—for their circumstances. And, as everyone there frequently pointed out, increased efficiency means decreased spending of valuable time and, least importantly—but not to be ignored—taxpayers dollars.”

The two murmuring ER docs stared at one another, and then at the fireman, looking completely flabbergasted.

“Are we to understand,” one of the two upset physician’s finally demanded, “that it is better procedure to allow paramedics to authorize drugs and definitive therapy—on their own?”

Gage glared defiantly back at his questioner—er, accuser. “If a competent doctor has certified them as being capable,” he arched an eyebrow, “yeah!”

The two irate ER doctors turned to one another once more, looking absolutely appalled.

“Why did we even bother to go to medical school?” one of them sarcastically inquired.

An elbow in the ribs from his buddy, kept John from commenting on the ER doc’s snide remark.

“Look,” DeSoto declared, sounding more than a little peeved himself, “our opinion really doesn’t matter. Does it. What really counts, is that the Seattle doctors are confident that they have trained their paramedics well enough to make them perfectly qualified to interpret coronary surveillance and administer the necessary drugs and definitive therapy. The Seattle doctors trust their paramedics’ skills and judgment. If the doctors didn’t think their paramedics could handle it on their own—they wouldn’t certify them.”

“Right!” Gage agreed. “Besides, they claim they save a bundle, by not having to place very delicate, sophisticated, expensive continuous bio-telemetry units in the field.”

His partner nodded. “They also save time. The Seattle paramedics save precious minutes, by not having to wait for the EKG strips to reach the terminals at hospitals, and then get evaluated by ER doctors, who eventually give them the orders to act.”

“Most importantly,” John summed up, “it works…in Seattle,” he specified.

“Just the same,” one of them declared, sounding rather aloof, “we think the Seattle doctors are making a big mistake.”

His equally aloof associate nodded in agreement. “They’re definitely giving their paramedics too much lee-way and responsibility—virtually opening up a ‘Pandora’s Box’.”

Gage glared right back at them. “Think what you will. The Seattle system works—so well, that the Seattle doctors said that they are willing to allow their paramedics to take on all the additional responsibility they are capable of handling—and willing to assume.”

As committee chairperson, Kel had been sitting quietly at the head of the conference table, taking in all the questions and comments. He saw the frustration on the faces of his two ‘debriefed’ friends and finally felt obliged to pose a question of his own. “John, Roy, have you anything more to add?”

“I think we’ve just about covered everything we evaluated about Seattle’s paramedic program,” Roy replied. “But you may be interested to hear what they had to say about ours. The doctors and paramedics in Seattle asked us almost as many questions as we asked them, and they were as…astounded by our program, as certain ones here are of theirs. The Seattle doctors told us that they consider Los Angeles County’s Emergency Services’ Program to be ‘backward’, ‘inefficient’ and hence, ‘terribly wasteful of time, talent and taxpayers’ dollars.”

All except Kel’s, that is. “I see,” the head of Rampart’s Emergency Receiving calmly acknowledged. “And, did they have any suggestions as to how we could improve our system?”

John nodded. “They all agreed that we have to update our laws. They said that, sooner or later, the taxpayers are gonna put an end to wasteful spending and demand ‘quality’, but not ‘costly’, emergency health care.”

“I see,” Kel repeated. “Well, it may interest you to know, that the taxpayers of this county are currently in the process of doing just that.” He paused to pick up a folder. “This is a copy of Proposition 13—a proposed amendment to the California State Constitution—which, if passed, will cut public property taxes by as much as 50 percent. Which, in turn, would cut the funds available for public spending in half.” The doctor saw a look of dawning understanding come over his fellow committee members. “That’s right, people. We all operate on tax dollars. We get less tax dollars to spend, we’re gonna have to spend less tax dollars—”

“—That proposal will never get off the ground,” one of the two grumpy ER docs interrupted. “It can’t! They can’t cut public education budgets in half! They can’t operate on what they’re given now!”

“Proposition 13 has already been placed on the ballots for next June’s elections,” Kel informed his cranky colleague. “And, as for dealing with reduced budgets,” the ER physician paused again, to flash his paramedics an appreciative smile, “John and Roy, here, just set a fine example of saving taxpayers dollars, by cutting expenses and by completing their assignment in half the time they were allotted. Thereby allowing the funds that were originally allocated for the program’s research, to be reallocated toward training.” He turned to his fellow committee members. “We could all learn from them and force ourselves to become more efficient.”

“And ‘open-minded’,” John quietly tacked on.

The two cantankerous ER docs looked more ‘close-minded’ and aloof than ever.

Kel flashed the both of them another warm smile. “We’ll recruit some new committee members,” he promised. “You’d be amazed at how many Seattle-type doctors there are in L.A..”

John and Roy returned his smile and then glanced at one another, looking more than a little relieved.

Kel sat there, feeling every bit as steamed as his coffee. ‘Damn it!’ he silently swore.

He’d sent his paramedics to Seattle on a fact finding mission, not some deadly virus finding mission!

Dixie caught Kel’s curse and gazed glumly down into her own cup of untouched coffee.

Before leaving the hospital, the two fully ‘debriefed’ firemen had paid their favorite ER nurse a visit…

Johnny and Roy rested their elbows upon the counter at the ER’s Nurses’ Station.

“So…Dix,” Gage began, “How long has this ‘Advanced Paramedical Research Program’ been around?”

“Kel has been busy organizing this thing since the middle of August,” Dixie replied and passed them both a cup of coffee.

“Then, why haven’t we heard anything about it, until just now?” the dark-haired paramedic further inquired.

“He’s been getting opposition from all sides,” the RN explained. “He didn’t want you guys to get your hopes up, if it didn’t look like the program was gonna make it. Now, he’s got two state senators and three representatives who say they’re willing to back the program’s passage. Senator Joseph Unvers has already introduced the new Emergency Services bill to the state legislature, so they would have time to think about it over the holiday break. Kel is flying up to Sacramento, when the state legislature reconvenes, to do some more ‘lobbying’.”

“Why is he doing all this?” John wondered. “I mean, Brackett’s already one of the busiest guys I know.”

“Maybe,” Dixie replied, with a wry smile, “it’s because he once told me he feels our paramedics have the same skills, knowledge and abilities as the Seattle paramedics. And, that it would be a dirty rotten shame if you guys didn’t get the chance to utilize your skills, knowledge and abilities.”

Dixie slammed her coffee mug down hard on the table. “Damn it!” she parroted her angry boss.

It would be a dirty rotten shame, if Johnny and Roy didn’t get the chance to participate in the training part of Kel’s ‘Advanced Paramedical Program’—and all because of some lousy damn virus!

The angry RN glanced up from her spilt coffee and saw the deeply concerned looks on her colleagues’ faces. “Sorry,” she grumbled. “Guess I don’t do ‘waiting’ very well.”

“Yeah. And just imagine what Johnny and Roy must be going through,” Mike Morton solemnly proposed.

The maximum quarantined firemen’s three friends exchanged extremely gloomy glances.

Twenty-four agonizing hours later, in NASA’s quarantine cubicle…

Of the two of them, John seemed to be taking the transition—from ‘going non-stop’ to ‘not going at all’—the hardest. The cooped up fireman had taken to viewing the doctor’s videotapes whilst walking, simply because he could no longer sit still.

Roy had been using ‘reading’ as a distraction. That is, until his ever-increasing worry began causing all the words to run together. When he had to read the same paragraph twice, just to get the gist of it, he’d finally given up. To release his ‘pent up’ energy, and to avoid climbing the cubicle’s walls, he had also started taking long, leisurely walks on their treadmill.

The restless rescuers were keeping track of the miles they were traversing. Between the two of them, they had covered a vast distance.

“I can see a sign up ahead,” John jokingly announced, upon completing a combined total of fifty miles.

Roy looked smug. “I told you we would prob’ly reach Riverside, before news from Atlanta reached us.”

His breathless buddy stepped off the treadmill and collapsed into an exhausted heap on his bunk. “Your turn.”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Roy irritatedly inquired. “Why can’t you just ‘look at the clock’?”

"Because that would require me to move more than just my mouth," John replied, with wry grin, and just lay there, staring up at their painted ceiling.

Roy rolled his eyes, but then obligingly glanced at his wrist. "It's twenty minutes past seven."

"I feel like an astronaut must feel, at T-minus 10 and holding," John realized, sounding every bit as miserable as he looked.

"Not necessarily…THEY said: At least 72 hours…Which means, it could be…even days longer."

Gage's sweat-glistening face instantly filled with concern and he snapped bolt upright in his bunk. "Whatever happened to your 'No, it couldn't!' attitude?"

"Guess I've just come to accept the fact…that I'm probably not…going to be spending Christmas…with Joanne and the kids," Roy breathlessly replied, his soft-spoken words reflecting the disappointment and heartache he was quite obviously experiencing.

His fireman friend's sadder than sad statement caused John's own heart to break. "You can't just 'give up'—just like that," he emphasized, with a snap of his fingers. "Look. THEY say that our minds possess tremendous amounts of potential 'kinetic energy'. Dr. Vandertine was right. We should never underestimate the 'power' of positive thinking. What a' yah say, we 'harness' that power…and use it to open that door?" he proposed, and pointed to their prison's sealed portal.

The corners of Roy's frowning mouth turned up somewhat and he gazed disbelieving back at his delusional partner.

John was not least bit deterred by his buddy's highly doubtful look. "Okay then. I'll do it—alone. I'm just gonna sit here…and stare at that door…until it opens." The fireman directed his 'fully focused' gaze toward the sealed entrance to their quarantine quarters, and started concentrating—very hard.

The thought of his partner 'thinking' the door open amused Roy to no end, and helped ease the tension of the moment—considerably. He kept right on walking, and staring at his friend—who was staring so intently at the little compartment's locked exit.

The walker continued to find his friend's expression of serious concentration highly entertaining. "Good thing I haven't been…holding my breath."

"Oh, hush," John lightly scolded. "Your 'negative vibes' are gonna interfere with my 'positive energy flow', here."

His breathless buddy's grin broadened. "You've got something…flowing over there…all right.

Roy's latest remark caused an exasperated gasp to escape from his 'concentrating' companion. But John's brow remained deeply furrowed and his intense gaze remained riveted upon the quarantine cubicle's locked portal.

A loud 'hiss'ing sound filled the compartment, and there was a slight change in pressure, as the airtight seal around the door was suddenly broken. The portal slid open and a breeze entered the cubicle, carrying along with it the distinctive salty aura of ocean.

Roy stepped off the treadmill and aimed a look of utter astonishment at his equally stunned partner.

The cubicle's dumbstruck occupants turned their attention back to the open door.

Dr. Jack McComas and Midshipman Cary Greyson were standing there on the carrier deck, doubled over in silent laughter.

"We were eavesdropping on you guys, when the news came in from Atlanta," NASA's Contagion and Contaminant expert explained, between mirthful chuckles. "And…well…we just couldn't resist. Besides, we had to inform you of the results 'somehow', and this seemed to be as good a way as any," he innocently added.

The two unquarantined Los Angeles County firemen/paramedics looked extremely skeptical as to the truthfulness of the still-grinning physician's last statement.

"Congratulations, gentlemen!" the doctor declared, stepping into the cubicle and extending his hand.

"Your bodies' immune systems successfully conquered the virus, and you have been passing 'immunity' on to everyone you've had 'close personal contact' with."

The cubicle's guests glanced at one another again, this time, looking tremendously relieved.

McComas made a point of examining the little black book that lay open on one of the cubicle's counters. "There's been a slight oversight, gentlemen. Your signatures are missing from the hotel's Guest Registry."

McComas sighed. "Yeah. I know. And it's a darn shame. Because the two of you would make damn fine ones! However, this is a 'guest' registry—not an 'astronaut' registry, and it's been a real pleasure to have you as our guests!" That said, the hotel's manager shoved the open book across the counter and passed them a pen.

"This just doesn't seem right," John muttered, as he and his partner reluctantly took turns signing the registry. "I mean, we're not from 'out of this world'."

The doctor's eyes sparkled with amusement and he and 'room service' swapped grins. "No comment," was all their hotel manager would say on that particular matter.

"Well, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm sure you're both anxious to get out of here. So, if you'll just remove each other's IV catheters…" McComas hinted, "the Health Department van is waiting down on the dock, to take you back to your fire station. You can keep the clothes, if you like."

Dr. Jack McComas and Midshipman Cary Greyson exchanged amused glances once again.

Once their catheters were removed and their clothes were changed, John and Roy re-shook their hotel manager's hand.

"Thanks for everything, Doc," John told him. "Your little...'hotel', here, certainly deserves its five-star rating."

"You are most welcome," McComas assured them. "I'm just glad it all turned out so well for you guys. Take care of yourself, John. Try to slow your pace a little and don't forget to take that prescription I gave you...or this," he added and passed the paramedic his Sign book.

"Actually, I still only have one. The other Sign book I have is just borrowed," John explained.

The two paramedics took one last parting look around their hotel room, and then promptly 'checked out'.

The health department van deposited its unquarantined cargo in the pick up spot: Station 51's back parking lot.

"Thanks for the lift!" the two freed firemen told the vehicle's driver, in tandem.

"The first thing I'm gonna do," Johnny announced, "is call Toni, and find out if she's even still speaking to me."

Gage flashed his partner a grateful grin. "I appreciate the invite," he noticed that their engine crew's cars were absent from the lot, "but it looks like B-Shift was called in early, to replace us." The 'on-duty' paramedic pointed to the unfamiliar vehicles that were parked beside theirs. "Which means, I gotta bunk here for the next two nights."

"My elbow is just dandy. It's not nearly as sore anymore. Don't worry. I promise, I'll keep it 'cushioned'," he added and swapped smiles with his 'mother hen' friend.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny!" Roy called out, as his partner began heading for their fire station's back door. 'Johnny's home away from home,' the family man silently realized.

Roy slipped in behind the wheel of his little yellow sportscar. He couldn't wait to get home to his wife and kids—his healthy wife and kids.

Gage suddenly remembered something. "Oh. By the way…"

Johnny was more than a little amused to hear his partner's reply. "In that case, I suggest you drive extra carefully," he strongly advised. "It's too late now to get her something else," he lightly explained.

DeSoto ignited his car's engine and then drove—extra carefully—off in the direction of his home…and his 'other' family.

John stepped up to his locker and jerked its door open. The dreaded 'sprong' sound resounded in the room and he got a face full of big, fluffy-white snowflakes.

The flakey fireman's head slowly turned in the direction of another dreaded sound, that of hearty laughter. John cracked his eyes open and fluttered the flakes from his lashes.

Gage gave the giggling group an icy glare and the front of his snowflaked shirt a cold stare.

The snowflakes were not melting. They couldn't melt. They were artificial—but very realistic looking.

So much so, that gazing down at them almost made him wanna shiver. The paramedic bent over and shook the flakes from his hair. Then he straightened back up and began brushing them from his chest and shoulders.

"Cap," he heard Chase Powell say, "There's this guy I know at work. Great looking hair—but that dandruff!"

Gage flashed his fellow firefighters a grin and then glanced up at the top shelf of his locker.

There was a typewritten note taped to the bottom of the spring device's little shallow bowl. It said simply:

From

John Gage's grin returned and broadened. "Ho. Ho. Ho," he bemusedly declared and then left the locker room, to fetch a dustpan and a broom. It felt good to be free again.