Godzilla and The Smog Monster

Brice saw Gage exit the building and breathed a silent sigh of relief. His relief was short-lived, however, as he took in his partner’s once dapper—now disheveled—appearance. The manager was apparently a hard person to talk to.

John’s once-white shirt’s tails had become un-tucked. His face was streaked with dirt. Why-y, he looked like he’d been crawling around in an alley!

But it was the fact that the paramedic was keeping a hand pressed over his left ribcage that was causing Craig the most concern. “John! Are you okay?”

Gage heard Brice address him by his first name. He glanced up from his ruined white dress shirt—the only one he owned—and flashed his concerned partner a grateful smile. “Yeah, Craig. I’m okay,” he assured him and kept right on smiling. “I took a magic wand in the hardhat and a boot in the ribs, but I’m okay.”

Craig motioned with his head in the direction of the disco. “I let them keep the bandages. And, when the crowd saw that our victims had recovered well enough to ‘bump’ and ‘boogie’ again, it added new life to the party.”

John’s smile broadened into a grin. “Great! I lo-ove happy endings!” He picked his helmet and turnout coat up from the sidewalk and slid his borrowed hardhat off.

“Karen wants you to keep that. And she says not to worry. Your ‘secret’ is safe with her.”

Gage grimaced. “Yea-eah…right…my ‘secret’. Man! I’d better go straighten her ou—”

“—Did they get the girl?” Lieutenant Bristol suddenly interrupted, as he came stepping up.

“I still don’t get ‘why’ they wanted to rob us,” Craig confessed. “We deliberately limit the amount of narcotics that we carry, so that we won’t be targeted.”

“Those kids were carrying enough cash on them to buy all the drugs their little hearts desired,” Bristol came back. “Which tells me that they weren’t doing it for the drugs. They were doing it for the excitement. They’re just a bunch a’ bored rich kids with too much time on their hands. I guess they figured stealing your drug box would be a lot more exciting than just going down to the street corner and purchasing drugs from a pusher.”

Gage exchanged a look of disbelief with his partner and then turned back toward the club’s front doors.

“If you’re going to try to straighten Karen out, don’t bother!” Brice advised. “I’ve already tried—twice!”

John was flabbergasted. “B-Bu-ut…why-y?”

“She really seems to thrive on excitement. When the truth gets too dull for some people, they simply choose to believe something more exciting.”

Gage saw that the Lieutenant was staring at his strange attire. “We got a run before I could get changed.”

“That must be the truth,” Bristol realized. “No one would ever ‘make up’ an excuse that dull.”

John noted that his partner had their equipment all safely locked away. “C’mon!” he urged. “I’ve had enough ‘excitement’ to last me the rest of the year!” He dragged himself up into their truck and collapsed onto its passenger seat. “The police nearly killed me back there!”

“We could’ve both been killed,” Craig quietly admitted, as he slid back in behind the wheel. He started the Squad up and quickly pulled away from the Diamond Groove Disco. “John, I would like to apologize for calling you paranoid, earlier. It turns out you were completely justified in being so cautious. I…I still am puzzled as to how you knew we were going to run into trouble, though.” He shot his seemingly clairvoyant associate a questioning glance.

John flashed him back a wry smile. “You want the TRUTH? Or, something more ‘exciting’?”

“I tell yah what. I’ll make it multiple choice. That way, you kin believe whatever you want. A: I figured any district where you have to keep all the compartments locked—all the time—has gotta be just crawling with criminal types! B: Because e-ver-y time I’ve ever gone on a response to a bar—around this time of night—something rotten always seems to happen to me. C: I wasn’t sure at all—just a little paranoid. Or, D: All of the above.”

“C is definitely the dullest. So it is obviously the truth. But I prefer to believe D.”

“I guess C is closer to the truth than any of them. But, if I am paranoid, it’s because B is also true! It’s true!” he repeated, upon receiving a skeptical glance. “I hate bars! I stepped out of one four years ago and became the victim of a hit and run driver. I stepped into one last Spring and became the victim of a black eye.”

“I tell yah, it sure felt like he hit me with a bookcase. But it was only his fist. And it’s not just here in LA, either. I stepped into a bar in Seattle two weeks ago and ended up having to spend five days locked in Quarantine. And then tonight—we-ell, tonight speaks for itself!”

“I confess that bad experiences have conditioned me and influenced my behavior, as well. In fact, I’m certain that is why I feel so strongly about keeping the compartment doors locked.”

Craig nodded. “It happened when I first started working as a paramedic. We were called out to a response in a…ba-ad neighborhood. When we arrived, we were told that the victim’s heart had arrested. So we just grabbed our gear and left…without locking the compartments. When my partner and I returned, we discovered that a bunch of juvenile delinquents had completely stripped the truck.”

“Probably because you don’t read any Boston newspapers. It made the front page of every one but one—the one my uncle owns.”

John had just been rendered speechless. It was a block or two before he could recover his voice. “You…were a paramedic…in BOSTON?”

Craig nodded. “I was born there. My family owns a sizeable portion of North Boston. I’d probably still be living there…if it weren’t for what I just told you.”

“I was born there, but I wasn’t raised there. You see, my family thinks very highly of education. So, as soon as I was old enough, I was shipped off to private schools and military-type academies, in both the United States and Europe. I grew up in an extremely cold, impersonal, highly regimented environment. Which Melanie says accounts for my extremely cold, impersonal, highly regimented personality.” He paused and turned to his once again dumbstruck partner. “Melanie is my fiancée.”

‘So-o…Roy’s suspicions were correct!’ John silently realized. He sat there for a few more blocks, staring at his temporary partner like he was seeing him for the first time. “Congratulations, Craig! I wish you both the best!”

“Thank you, John. Melanie is the best! She’s highly intelligent, sensitive, wise beyond her years and…understanding. Melanie is the most understanding person in the world! I have never met anyone like her before in my life!” Brice paused to compose himself a bit. “Anyway, when she heard that WE were going to be working together tonight, she made me promise to ‘try’ to be more understanding towards you…and to ‘try’ to get you to understand me, as well. You see, Melanie feels that anybody could get along with anyone, if they could just understand one another. She feels that understanding is the most important step in developing any relationship—even temporary partnerships.”

“Embarrassed,” Brice finally came back, “nervous, and terribly out of character. Being understanding isn’t like me—at all. It’s entirely new to me. In fact, until I met Melanie, I had never really tried to understand anybody before—including myself! But then, she helped me to understand who I was…and why I was. Then we got to understand one another…” his words trailed off. Craig composed himself again and continued. “Melanie makes me feel obligated to pass that understanding along. And, since we are working together, we might as well at least ‘try’ to get along. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Uh-uh…” John was still staring at his temporary partner as though he were seeing him for the very first time. “You’ll have to excuse me. Yah see, I’m in sort a’ a state of shock, here. Yah see, I figured we’d be able to put up with one another. Heck! I can put up with just about anybody—or anything—for half a shift! But the thought of the two of us…actually getting along? We-ell…that’s gonna take some getting used to!” he teased, and the two of them exchanged grins.

“We’ve only been on two calls together. I must be a very uncomplicated person to figure out.”

“Actually, you are much more complicated than I had ever imagined. For instance, I used to think that you were the most reckless, irresponsible, immature paramedic in the entire department.”

Craig nodded. “And now, I’m beginning to understand that—although you may present a carefree attitude on the outside—inside, you are an extremely self-conscious, level-headed, mature professional.”

Gage’s slightly miffed look was replaced by one of profound confusion. “You understand all that, do you?”

Another nod. “I’m also beginning to understand that—the reason you may get more bumps and bruises than most—is, because you seem to be willing to take more calculated risks than most…because you are obviously more dedicated than most.”

Gage gradually recovered from his ‘understanding’ partner’s profound comments. “Now that you’ve brought it up…I-I used to think you were the dullest, most arrogant, most conceited paramedic in the entire department.”

John sank back in his seat. “Yah know, I think I’m beginning to understand you, too…or, at least, to accept you,” he clarified, wanting desperately to keep things completely honest between them.

Brice was pleased to hear both the comment and the honesty. “Melanie says that acceptance is the very basis of understanding.”

“Yea-eah. Yah know, learning a little bit about your background really does help me to understand you better. And, working with you has allowed me to see three sides of your personality I’ve never seen before. You really are as talented as you’ve always claimed to be! You have a pretty wild imagination! A-and a great sense of humor! I cannot believe you actually have a sense of humor,” he stopped suddenly, looking more lost and confused than ever. “Ma-an! I can’t believe we’re sitting here having this conversation…”

“I know,” Brice agreed. “I’m having a little difficulty understanding it, myself.”

Brice backed their rescue truck into Station 16’s parking bay and killed its engine.

Gage reluctantly reached for the vehicle’s dash-mounted radio. “LA, Squad 16. Available at quarters,” he reported and quickly replaced the mic’.

John yawned…and stretched…and groaned, as all that stretching caused his sore ribs to smart some. Midway out his door, the overly-fatigued fireman finally realized something. “Da-amn! The police have my wallet!”

“That’s not the point. My badge and my I.D. are in my wallet.” He suddenly recalled something else and made a mad grab for Garnett’s assessment kit. Greg’s shears, bandage scissors, Kelly forceps and splinter forceps were all missing. The holster was completely empty. The cops had even confiscated his penlight! “Da-amn!”

“Welcome back, boys!” fireman Curtis Hill greeted his returning shiftmates. “Did the police catch the guys that were layin’ for yous?”

“They got my wallet, too!” Gage griped. “First, I have my badge—but no uniform. Now, I’ll have my uniform—but no badge.”

Hill shot the forlorn fireman a sympathetic glance, and then remembered something himself. “Oh. Yeah. The Cap’ wants to see you two in his office—right away.”

“Tell ‘im I’ll be there in a couple a’ minutes,” Gage requested. “I wanna change before we get another ru—”

“—He, uh, sort a’ gave me the impression that he wanted to see you before you change,” Hill hinted.

John heaved a heavy sigh of disappointment and reluctantly followed his partner over to Mason’s office.

Craig tapped on the open door’s frame and called out, “You wanted to see us, Sir?”

Mason nodded and motioned for them to enter. “Hang on, Captain. They just walked through the door.” He placed a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ve got some police Captain on the line demanding to know why his department was never informed of our department’s ‘undercover firemen’ operation.”

The two paramedics exchanged looks of utter astonishment, and then stood there, gritting their teeth and pursing their lips—rather tightly.

“I told him I didn’t know what ‘operation’ he was referring to,” the Captain continued. “The guy claims his men reported that there was an undercover fireman working out of Station 16. I assured the Captain that his men must be mistaken, because we don’t have any ‘undercover firemen’ working out of Station 16. Do we!” he ordered more than asked.

“Ga-age, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that.” The Captain uncovered the mouthpiece and was about to converse with the cop…when the claxons sounded.

Brice took their copy of the call slip from the Captain and passed it to his partner.

Gage glanced at his watch, recorded the time, and then clipped the slip to the dashboard. “I hope you know where 1424 East Ames is,” he stated, sounding every bit as weary as he looked, “because I have no idea how to get there…”

Craig gave his tired partner a sympathetic glance, and a nod. He pulled the Squad out of the parking bay and immediately made a right.

Engine 16 followed the smaller vehicle into the darkened street in front of the Station.

Then both fire trucks headed off into the night—their lights flashing and their sirens wailing.

The fire had already vented itself and smoke was billowing from several of the structure’s popped first floor windows.

An annoying clanging/whining racket filled the air, as the building's fire alarms—and every smoke alarm in the place—wailed their distinctive warnings that something was burning.

The firemen bailed out of their respective trucks and began donning their self-contained breathing apparatus.

Captain Mason pulled an HT from his coat pocket and thumbed its call button. “LA, Engine 16. We have smoke visible at this address. Respond a third alarm…”

Mason pocketed the radio and started issuing orders to his crew.

Gage was standing in front of the compartment containing his air-pack, impatiently waiting for Brice to unlock the door. “C’mon, will yah!”

“It’s not locked!” Craig called back, from the opposite side of the truck.

John’s right eyebrow arched. He grabbed the handle latch and pulled. The compartment door swung open. “I don’t mind you forgetting to lock them, as long you don’t forget to tell me you forgot to lock them.”

Brice came trotting around the back of the Squad with his air-pack already in place. “I didn’t forget to lock them,” he corrected. “I decided to unlock them, and merely neglected to mention it to you.”

Gage finished donning his SCBA. “Bu-ut…what about Departmental Regulations?”

Craig gave his companion’s left shoulder a couple of comforting pats. “I wouldn’t worry too much about them, if I were you. After all, they don’t actually come right out and ‘say’ compartments, now, do they.”

The corners of John’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “No-o. No. I guess they don’t,” he was forced to admit.

Craig gave his partner’s shoulder a final pat and then the two men started trotting over to Engine 16, to receive their orders.

“Do me a favor, huh?” John requested, along the way. “Next time you see Melanie, I want you to give her a BIG kiss for me. Okay?” He saw that his partner wasn’t quite sure what to make of his odd request and added, “Well, you wouldn’t want me to give it to her. Would you?”

“You two!” Mason shouted, as his paramedic team came trotting up, “Go make sure everyone’s left the office party! And see what you can do about those damn alarms!” he added with a wince.

The paramedics nodded their compliance to their Captain’s orders. Then they donned their facemasks and followed several charged hose lines into the burning building.

The two men found and reset the main "Fire Alarm" box—mercifully putting an end to the infernal ‘clanging’. The smoke alarms' ear-piercing ‘whines’ would have to be silenced one-by-one, as they swept through the building.

The firemen stepped into an open elevator on the burning structure's smoky first floor.

Gage inserted a master key, set the Fire Service switch to “ON” and then pressed 4.

Brice held the "DOOR CLOSE" button down until elevator’s doors slid completely shut.

“We’ll be able to cover more ground, more quickly, if we split up,” his partner replied. “I generally prefer to work alone. I find that I can search faster—and more efficiently—when there is no one along to slow me up.”

Gage gazed disbelievingly out at Brice through his facemask. “Whatever gave me the impression that you were conceited?” he teased and then immediately tacked on, “I’ll race yah down!”

“Whatever gave me the impression that you were immature?” Brice teased right back. “No contest! I’ll take odds. You take evens?”

Craig transferred their HT from his coat pocket to his partner’s. “I’ll call you from the Squad…to check on your progress.”

Gage set the Fire Service switch back to "OFF" and returned the master key to Garnett’s coat pocket.

Craig watched his partner go skipping off down the hall. He grinned and headed for the stairwell to the third floor—at a rather high rate of speed.

John found most of the doors on the building’s fourth floor locked. Locked doors meant that he could sweep the floor a whole lot faster. He’d found a bucket in one of the utility closets he’d checked, and he stood on it to disengage the blaring smoke alarms’ batteries. Finally, the completely empty fourth floor was completely quiet. The sweeper snatched his step-bucket back up and bolted for the stairs.

As Gage searched the second floor, he again found most of the business offices to be locked.

He grabbed another knob on yet another door and tried it. Much to his dismay, it turned and the portal clicked open to reveal a large, dark office. The racing fireman frowned and reluctantly stepped into the room—to sweep it. He spotted a strip of light, coming from under the door to another, inner office and his frown deepened.

John shone his light over the outer office—er, the empty outer office. Then he stepped up to the inner office’s door and banged on it with the butt of his flashlight. “Fire Department!” he called out, over the blaring of the smoke alarms that were sounding out in the hall. “Anybody in there?”

So he tried the knob. It turned and the portal clicked open. The fireman stepped inside—to search the inner room. Suddenly, he stiffened.

A man in a beige business suit was bent over an office desk, rifling through an enormous stack of papers.

‘Humph,’ the paramedic mused. ‘I guess everyone hasn’t left the office party. And I thought firemen were the only ones who had to work tonight.’ “Sir? SI-IR?” he shouted louder, when the busy fellow failed to respond. “That noise you hear is the building's smoke alarms! There is a fi-ire in the building, and you are gonna hafta leave!” Gage exhaled an annoyed gasp, as the guy just continued to completely ignore him. “Mister! Are you DEAF?” The fireman suddenly realized something and his anger left him. “You probably a-are…” John set his light and chalk down on the floor, freeing his hands to ‘sign’.

The guy behind the desk finally found what he’d been searching for and started heading for the door. He caught his first glimpse of the fireman—and his face filled with alarm.

The guy in the business suit panicked and pulled a handgun from his coat pocket.

‘Ah-ah shit!’ the fireman thought, as the weapon was pulled and then pointed in his direction. ‘I must a’ walked in on a burglary or somethin'…’ His blood ran cold. His shaking hands stopped signing and started raising—in surrender. The barrel of the gun was now aimed directly at his head. ‘That can’t be good.’ That could never be good! “No-o! Plea-ease? Don—”

John saw the muzzle flash and heard a deafeningly LOUD explosion. He tried to duck, but something struck his left temple. There was another explosion—of brilliant light—in his brain, and then…nothing. The bullet’s impact threw Gage back against the door. His limp body sagged slowly to the floor and then slumped sideways. The panicked paramedic’s pleas for his life...had fallen on deaf ears.

The gunman stood over the fireman’s motionless body, looking more alarmed than ever.

Carl Iverson was faced with a bit of a quandary. He needed to ditch a body. But, in order to do that, he would have to get out of a burning building—crawling with firemen—unseen. He stared down at the fireman lying lifeless at his feet for a few moments…and then smiled. Ye-es! He would simply ‘blend in’, and thus blend out!

It was an interesting thing about a uniform. The fact that a man wasn’t wearing one didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a fireman…and the fact that he was wearing one didn’t necessarily mean that he was one, either.

Brice jogged out of the burning building…down the dark sidewalk…and up to their squad. He saw that Gage was nowheres near the vehicle and smiled, an incredibly smug smile—of victory! He jerked his driver’s door open and leaned into the truck, to snatch up its dash-mounted radio’s mic’. “Squad 16 to HT 16…” he gloated—er, called, a bit breathlessly.

Craig’s triumphant smile slowly began to fade. “Squad 16 to HT 16. Ga-age? Do you copy?”

The fireman frowned outright. He returned the radio’s mic’ to its clip and went running up to his Captain. “Excuse me, Sir, but have you seen Gage lately?”

Mason turned away from the Battalion Chief he’d been talking to, and gave Brice an annoyed glare. “He’s supposed to be with you!” He noticed that the paramedic appeared genuinely concerned and suddenly felt a bit concerned himself. “Why-y?”

The Captain’s concern level upped a notch or two. Brice was nothing, if not thorough. “Give ‘im a few more minutes. Maybe Gage is just a slow sweeper?”

Brice gazed glumly up at the multi-storied building. “He also happens to be a rotten egg.”

The Captain and the Chief exchanged amused glances and then returned to their conversation.

Iverson didn’t make it very far carrying a hundred and sixty pounds of dead weight across his left shoulder—and another forty or so pounds of air tank and harness on his aching back. The out of breath—and out of condition—criminal paused in the building’s stairwell, to lighten his load.

Brice made several more unsuccessful attempts to reach his partner via the radio. Then he replaced his SCBA’s air bottle and went running back up to his Captain, who was currently speaking to one of his engine crew. “Sir? Request permission to search Gage’s half of the building.”

Craig wasn’t exactly thrilled with his Captain’s order, but he didn’t protest it.

The two men replaced their facemasks and then began heading for the building’s front entrance.

Iverson exited the back of the building—undetected—and then headed off down the dark, dank alley, in the direction of his car.

To avoid detection, Iverson had left his stolen vehicle parked a few blocks away. The now gasping from exertion—er, over-exertion man cursed his decision to do so and decided to ditch the body right there, in the alley. He flicked the fireman’s flashlight on and started searching for an adequate disposal site.

Somebody had recently purchased a clothes dryer. He propped the dead guy up against a brick wall and covered him with the appliance’s crushed cardboard carton. The criminal smiled again. It was both a holiday—and a weekend. It would undoubtedly be days before the body would be discovered. The no longer weighed down felon heaved an audible sigh of relief, and then quickly fled the scene.

Brice and Hill were following a trail of chalk X’s down the building’s second-floor hallway.

Brice turned back to the X-less door. “Fire Department!” he shouted, over the annoying whining of the smoke alarm above their heads. “Anybody in there?”

Craig stepped back, and was about to kick the door in, when he happened to glance down at the floor.

There was a trail of little crimson splotches leading up to, or away from, the door.

The fireman’s already elevated heart rate increased. He gave the office’s locked door a very forceful kick.

“Never mind the alarms,” Brice told his fellow fireman. “Just follow me.” That said, he flicked his flashlight on and disappeared into the darkened office.

Hill stepped down from the bucket and obediently followed the paramedic into the room.

Curtis saw that Craig was running the beam of his light along the floor. “What are we doing?”

“We are following a trail of blood,” the paramedic replied, rather matter-of-factly.

Brice followed the blood trail up to another closed door, to an inner office. He gripped the knob, but hesitated to try it. “Fire Department!” he called out and finally turned the knob. The door clicked open.

So Craig pushed the portal all the way open and shone his light into the smaller, darkened room.

The first thing its beam revealed, was that the crimson trail stopped—er, rather started at a bright red pool on the office’s tiled floor, near the doorway.

“Sweep the room,” Brice suggested, as he stooped to examine the crimson trail’s source. He ran a finger through the little red pool. It smeared. The fireman’s knotted stomach turned.

“Nothing!” Curtis announced, upon the completion of his search. “Or, should I say, no one.”

“Someone was here just recently,” Craig solemnly announced. “And, whoever it was…is hurt…” his words trailed off. Suddenly, he spotted a piece of unbroken white chalk lying on the floor, and made a mad dash out the door.

Hill caught up to Brice in the hallway and the two men headed for the far stairwell, tracking the trail of little crimson splotches.

John Gage’s badly bruised brain gradually began to process information again. That information brought back awareness, of both himself and his surroundings. He seemed to be sitting on—and up against—an extremely cold, damp surface…in total darkness…with a debilitating headache. He grimaced and groaned aloud. His head hurt soooo unbelievably ba-ad. It felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

Something warm was draining down the back of his throat. The sensation made him wanna gag. He grimaced again and attempted to swallow. The distinctive taste of blood caused him to gag even more, and the fireman suddenly found himself engulfed in a tidal wave of nausea. He leaned forward and to one side, and proceeded to empty his churning stomach of three slices of pizza, two large glasses of milk…and a cup of coffee.

That little upchuck episode left him trembling, from both pain and exertion. On top of the gripping agony of his vice-like headache, the sudden movement had produced an intense, searing pain—like he’d been eating ice cream too fast, or something.

Too top off his miseries, the smell of fresh vomit was threatening to unsettle his already tumultuous tummy again. He tried to move away from the offensive odor, but something was blocking his way—a box of some kind. He shoved the cardboard aside and attempted, once again, to move away from the sickening smell.

He spotted a dim, blurry patch of light and started crawling towards it on his knees and forearms. He didn’t have the strength to make it up onto his hands.

Somehow, the fireman mustered the where-with-all to make it a few yards toward that fuzzy, dim light, before collapsing, face first, onto the cold, dank pavement.

The debilitating, vice-like headache John is currently experiencing is an orthostatic headache. An orthostatic headache is caused by cerebrospinal fluid hypovolemia. In other words, his cranium is leaking—and thus losing—cerebrospinal fluid.

This loss of ‘cushioning’ ‘intercranial pressure balancing’ cerebrospinal fluid causes the brain to descend when the person is sitting or standing erect. This ‘brain drop’ puts traction on the brain’s pain-sensitive anchoring structures…which results in an orthostatic headache.

A patrol car was cruising down McKlellan Avenue, one of the streets the alley John Gage had been dumped in, entered into.

“Can’t,” its passenger informed its driver. “Maggie’s waiting up for me.” Out of habit, the patrol officer happened to glance down the alley as they drove past. He could have sworn he’d seen something white moving—and that something white bore the outline of a body.

Mike obligingly slowed the car and braked to a stop. He then turned to his partner, for an explanation.

“It will be, by the time we get back to the precinct. Besides, I thought you said Maggie is waiting up for you?”

Mike emitted an exasperated gasp and reluctantly shifted their squad car into reverse. He backed down the street and stopped in front of THE alley.

Nick grabbed the handle on his spotlight, flicked it on and shone it along the dirty, damp pavement. His hand froze, as the beam of his light illuminated something white—a motionless, white-shirted body.

The moaning paramedic heard the muffled sound of car doors slamming…and footsteps approaching. He lay there, in the cold dark alley, feeling almost too scared to breathe.

‘No,’ John thought to himself. ‘No-o. That’s not right…’ He felt someone frisking him.

Gage groaned as he was rolled over onto his back. He groaned again, as a bright light was shone in his face.

“Sheesh!” Nick exclaimed. “This guy’s a mess! How did you get that cut on your head?”

“He probably had a little too much to drink…stumbled…and fell,” Mike surmised, when the guy on the ground failed to reply.

“Na-ah. I don’t think so. I don’t smell any booze. He’s got a bloody nose, too. What’s your name?”

“If he ain’t drunk, then he must be stoned. He’s really out of it!” Mike gave the stoned guy a disgusted sneer. Then he grabbed one of his arms and tried pulling him to his feet. “C’mon, buddy! We’ll take you someplace nice and warm, where you can sleep it off…”

“No-o!” the paramedic pleaded, and struggled desperately to pull his arm free. “No-o…you got…you got…the…wro-ong…gu-uy!”

Mike managed an amused gasp. He stuck his nightstick in its holster. Then stooped down, grabbed ‘the wrong guy’ by his wrist and rolled his filthy white shirtsleeve up. The veins in the guy’s arm bore needle marks—from his wrist clear up to his elbow. “We got the right guy, all right! Buddy, you been makin’ more tracks than a centipede wearin’ golfer’s shoes!” He glanced up at his partner, looking more disgusted than ever. “Gawd, I hate hypes! I hate hypes even more than I hate drunk drivers! And I HATE drunk drivers! In fact, the only thing I hate worse than a hype, is a rapist!”

Nick completely ignored his partner’s comments. He just stood there, staring sadly down at the moaning young man at their feet. “Look, maybe we should take him in and have that cut taken care of.”

“Why-y? Why waste our time on a hype? You know, as well as I do, that he’s probably gonna be right back out here tomorrow night!”

The guy in the white shirt let out a particularly pitiful moan and started choking.

Nick dropped to one knee and quickly turned the choking fellow’s head to one side. He grimaced, as a stream of blood began trickling from a corner of the moaning man’s mouth. “We’re taking him in!” he adamantly stated. “If he’s gonna die in an alley, he’s gonna have to do it on someone else’s shift!”

Mike looked positively miserable, but then brightened. “There’s a paramedic squad parked at that fire, over on Ames! Let’s call it in and have them take care of him!”

Nick nodded his approval of his partner’s proposed plan and started heading for their car radio.

Firemen Brice and Hill were standing in front of Squad 16, talking with Captain Mason and a Battalion Chief.

“We found a pool of blood on the floor, where he left his chalk,” Brice informed his superiors. “Hill and I followed a blood trail to the stairwell, where we found his SCBA. We continued to follow the trail down the stairs, but then lost it in the alley—” He stopped to answer the Squad’s ‘bleep’ ing radio.

“LA, Squad 16 is Code 8 at the scene,” the paramedic reported, sounding annoyed by the disruption.

Craig replaced the mic’ and slammed the truck’s door. Then he aimed a deeply troubled gaze at his Captain. “Sir, Gage is a responsible fire fighter. He would never leave an incident scene without letting someone know why he was leaving and where he was going. I really think that we should look for him! He may be seriously injured!”

The Battalion Chief remained completely baffled. “I don’t know what to make of any of this, Jimmy. But, if you want to take your crew and go look for him, I certainly have no objections.”

Just two blocks away, a frowning police officer stood beside a patrol car’s open door. The unhappy cop pressed the call button on their radio’s mic’. “Roger that, Central. Then, show Unit 11 on a follow up to—standby…” He turned back to the alley. “Mike! Are we closer to St. Andrews? Or Rampart General?”

“The paramedics aren’t available! We end up taking him in, after all!” Nick heard his partner curse and was forced to smile. “—Rampart General, with our John Doe 218. Unit 11 out.”

John’s head was now hurting him more than he could stand. He tried to reach for his throbbing forehead, but somebody grabbed both of his wrists and began hauling him up onto his feet. He glanced wildly about. Everything was all dark and blurry. He tried to concentrate, but his mind seemed to be just as clouded as his vision. Memories of dark alleys and policemen with drawn guns and offices and agonizing pain flitted through his on-fire brain.

“On your feet!” Mike ordered gruffly, as the guy in the white shirt refused to stand.

Nick grabbed an arm and helped his partner with their now completely unruly John Doe.

“Let me go!” John begged. “Let me go-o!” he repeated, and finally succeeded in pulling an arm free. He tried to shove whoever it was that was keeping him upright away. He just wanted to lie back down. His head didn’t feel like it was going to explode as much when he was lying down.

“Keep it up,” Mike breathlessly warned, as struggled with their burden down the alley, “and you’re gonna be under arrest for resisting an officer!”

Gage thrashed violently between his two custodians. He managed to get another arm free of their grasp and took a swing at the person who was clutching his right arm so painfully hard.

Mike’s already narrow eyes narrowed even further, into angry slits. “Okay, Buddy! You asked for it!” He half-dragged and half-carried the hype up to their car’s front grill and then forced him—face first—down onto the hood. “You are under arrest for resisting an officer!” He reached back and pulled out his cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent!” He jerked the junkie’s arms behind his back and slapped the cuffs on their unruly John Doe’s needle-scarred wrists. “Anything you say—” he gave up, as his squirming prisoner exercised his right to remain silent by suddenly going completely limp.

“Better make it Code R!” Nick suggested, as their unconscious prisoner was laid across their patrol car’s back seat.

Blood was trickling from the young man’s mouth again and there was some kind of yellowish fluid draining from his left ear.

Nick wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he knew it couldn’t be a good sign.

Mike slid back in behind the wheel and gave his partner an annoyed glance in the rear view mirror. “Do me a favor, will yah. Don’t look down anymore dark alleys!”

Brice and the rest of 16’s B-shift came straggling back up to their trucks, following an unsuccessful ‘search and rescue’ mission.

“Squad 16…Report to Rampart General Hospital at your earliest possible convenience…”

Upon hearing the request, the paramedic’s gloomy countenance instantly brightened. He turned to shoot his Captain a hopeful glance.

Brice latched onto the dash-mounted radio’s mic’ and thumbed its call button. “10-4, LA. Squad 16 en route to Rampart General. ETA ten minutes.”

Cheryl Norquist pulled the tips of her stethoscope from her ears. “Vitals remain stable,” she informed the two physicians who were standing across the treatment table from her.

The doctors glanced up from the lab report they’d been studying and nodded their acknowledgement of the nurse’s vital signs update.

“—Doctor Brackett,” Rita Moore suddenly interrupted, poking her head inside the room, “Craig Brice is here…”

“Thanks!” Kel told her. “Might as well go ahead and prep him,” he suggested and started heading for the door. “Kurtz must be here by no-ow.”

Joe addressed the nurse in the doorway. “Miss Moore, see if you can find the anesthesiologist.”

“Right away, Doctor!” Rita assured him and followed Brackett back into the hall.

Kel spotted Craig Brice standing—alone—in front of the Nurses’ Station, and hurried up to him. “Thanks for coming, Craig. Where’s your partner?”

The paramedic appeared to be both crushed and confused by his question. “I thought you knew! I was hoping that was the reason I was told to report here. I lost my partner at a structure fire, over on the 1400 block of East Ames. Actually, it may be more accurate to say that he walked away.”

“If your partner was John Ga-age, it would be more accurate to say that he crawled away,” Kel corrected.

Cheryl stared down at the cut on the unconscious paramedic’s left temple and suddenly realized something. “He would really have to strike his head with some force to cause a depressed skull fracture like this, wouldn’t he…”

Joe was speaking to the anesthesiologist about the condition of his surprise patient’s lungs. He paused to shoot the inquisitive nurse a quick glance. “Yes. He certainly would.”

“Dr. Early,” the woman quickly continued, “if John were a policeman, instead of a fireman, what would you say this was?” She pointed to the crease in their patient’s left temple.

Early stared down at the wound for a few moments, and then glanced at the nurse again, looking rather dubious. “Why would anyone ever want to shoot him?”

“Why does anybody ever want to shoot anybody?” the nurse asked right back. “I don’t know. All I do know is, that this crease has all the characteristics of a deflected bullet wound.”

“Yes. It does,” the physician was forced to concede. However, he remained highly skeptical. “If it was a bullet, what deflected it?”

“How is he?” Craig anxiously inquired, stepping up to his ‘newly found’ partner’s side.

Joe was still staring at his fellow physician in shock and disbelief. “Johnny’s been shot?”

Kel nodded. “Craig and I just examined his facemask. There is a crease in the metal rim that holds the mask’s face shield in place. The crease is on the left side—the same side as his.” The doctor’s gaze settled upon the horizontal fireman’s motionless body. “I just notified the authorities about our,” he hesitated, “gunshot victim…”

Early overcame his astonishment and directed an angry glare at the critically wounded paramedic’s partner—er, temporary partner. “What the hell happened?”

“We were at a structure fire over on East Ames,” Brice replied, keeping his eyes focused on his fellow firefighter’s impassive face. “The Captain ordered the two of us to make a routine sweep of the building. We split up—each of us taking half. John never finished his half of the search…” his words trailed off. “If John had odds…and I had evens…I would be lying on that table right now…” he allowed his soft-spoken words to trail off again.

Joe remained completely confused. “Well, who shot him? And how did he end up in an alley—blocks away? I seriously doubt he could’ve made it that far in his—” he stopped speaking, as two orderlies suddenly entered the exam room, guiding a gurney.

“—They’re ready for him in the OR,” one of them announced, as they slid the stretcher up alongside of the treatment table.

The surgical patient was quickly transferred to it. All attached wires and tubes were disconnected from the ER’s wall sockets and electronic monitoring devices, and the gurney was guided back out of the room.

“I’d…better call Captain Mason,” Craig realized aloud and followed the anesthesiologist out the door.

Speaking of calling people…

Cheryl exited the exam room and headed for the phone on the counter at her Nurses’ Station.

Roy DeSoto was seated on the sofa in his candlelit living room. His wife, Joanne, was wrapped in his arms, and the two of them were murmuring softly, in romantic undertones. Two half-full champagne glasses, and a half-empty bottle of bubbly, sat out on the couple’s coffee table.

The two lovebirds exchanged amused glances, as their half-asleep four-year-old came stumbling up to them.

Roy exchanged another amused glance with his spouse and then turned back to his son, trying his level best to look and sound stern. “Yes. It’s been 1978 for almost half an hour, already. What are you doing up again, Chris? You’re supposed to be sleeping, so you’ll be able to get up in time for the parade tomorrow. Remember?”

The child’s face lit up and he nodded. The boy wiped the sleep from his eyes and then did an about face. “I just wanted to know if it was the new year, yet…” he explained, as he went stumbling off, in the direction of his vacated bed.

Roy started getting stiffly to his feet. “I’d better go tuck him back in—again.”

“It’s probably your mother,” Roy teased, “calling to wish me a Happy New Year.”

Roy answered the phone with a big, silly grin. “Happy New Year, Mom!” he exclaimed into the receiver.

His already chuckling wife laughed outright. Joanne sobered, as her husband’s amused expression suddenly grew solemn.

“Uh-uh, no-o. No, Cheryl. No problem. Joanne and I are still up…” Roy’s face blanched and he staggered back a step.

“Uhhh…no…yeah…sure…I’ll be right there!” Roy replaced the phone in slow motion.

“That was the hospital,” her husband replied, as though he were in a trance. “Johnny’s been seriously injured. He’s in surgery, right no-ow…”

“Cheryl didn’t say. She said she’d explain everything when I got there…” Roy suddenly realized something and leaned back to lock eyes with his wife. “I said I’d be right there. I didn’t even think to ask if that would be okay with you-ou…”

The woman’s arms encircled her husband’s waist. She drew him close again and rested her head upon his tightened chest. “Of course it okay! Johnny’s fa-mi-ly!”

“How did I ever find such an understanding wife?” Roy inquired, in a whisper, and stood there, rocking her in his arms.

Joanne pulled back and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “Get your shoes on. I’ll find you a jacket,” she volunteered, and started heading for the hall closet.

In a three-room third floor apartment, several miles from Rampart General Hospital, a man stood in front of a gas range.

Carl Iverson held the files, which he’d stolen from that pile of paperwork on that office desk, over a lit burner. He smiled as he watched the flames consume the documents. He stared down at the remaining mound of black ash, looking extremely pleased and feeling tremendously relieved.

Then he crossed over to his kitchen table and began cramming a fireman’s bloody turnout coat and helmet into a large, black plastic trash bag.

“Hello?” Martha Jenner listened, as one of her husband’s friends from the LACFD requested to speak with ‘the Chief’. “Of course, Chief Brevik. Hang on. I’ll get him for you.” She set the phone down and started weaving her way through the clusters of laughing, chatting guests who were ‘ringing’ the New Year in, in her living room.

Martha found her husband swapping ‘war stories’ with some of his old Department buddies. “Bill, Chief Brevik is on the phone. He claims it’s important…”

Jenner exchanged mystified glances with his cronies. “What on earth could he possibly want at this hour?” he wondered aloud and stepped into the hall, to pick up the extension. “Jenner here. What’s up, Bobby?” His eyes widened with shock and his jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious!” he insisted. His hopeful reply, however, proved to be wrong. The Chief winced and bowed his head. “When did it happen?…Don’t they have any leads?…Well, don’t you have any of the details?…What was the name?” Jenner winced again. “Yes. I know him…All right, Bob…Just find out what you can…Right. And have Dalbert prepare some kind of press release…I don’t care. Just keep it brief…Right. Look, I’d appreciate it if you would personally keep me posted on this…Don’t worry about the time. I won’t be getting much sleep tonight, anyway…Thanks, Bobby,” he signed off and slowly returned the phone to its cradle.

“Bi-ill?” Martha rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “What was all that about?”

“A Los Angeles County firefighter was shot tonight,” Jenner regrettably replied.

The men demanded more details, like ‘How did it happen?’ and ‘When did it happen?’ and ‘How is he?’ and ‘Who is he?’

“No one knows—exactly. He was brought to the hospital about a half-hour ago. He’s still in surgery. I’m sorry, but his name is being withheld…pending notification of relatives.” Jenner exhaled a weary sigh and then hung his head—once more.

Roy DeSoto entered Rampart General’s Emergency Receiving. He spotted Cheryl Norquist standing behind the Nurses’ Station counter, at the end of the busy hallway, and stepped quickly up to her. “How is he?”

The nurse glanced up from a medical chart and seemed stunned to see John’s partner standing there. “He’s still in surgery. How did you get here so quickly?”

“I’m married to a very understanding woman and I drive a very fast sports car. What ‘happened’ to him? I mean, what, exactly, are they ‘operating’ o-on?”

Cheryl stepped around the counter and took him by the elbow. “Let’s get some coffee,” she suggested.

Roy allowed himself to be escorted down the crowded corridor and into the doctor’s lounge.

DeSoto even permitted the woman to seat him at a table. But, when she started heading for the coffeemaker, the paramedic protested. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon pass on the coffee.”

The nurse returned to the table empty-handed, choosing to pass on the coffee, herself. “I assume you know he was working at 16’s, with Craig Brice, tonight…”

“Well, they were at a structure fire over on the 1400 block of East Ames. Captain Mason ordered John and Craig to make a routine sweep of the four-story building. They split up, each taking two floors. John never finished his half of the search.

When he didn’t show up, Craig, and another firefighter, went looking for him. They found his chalk…and traces of blood…in the doorway of an inner office on the second floor. They followed the blood trail and discovered his SCBA in the stairwell.

Captain Mason and his crew conducted a thorough search of the entire area, but they couldn’t locate him.

Two patrol officers found John, lying facedown in an alley, a few blocks from the fire scene. He had a small cut on his forehead and he was bleeding from his nose and mouth. They brought him in to the ER, as a John Doe 218—”

“John wasn’t wearing his uniform, or carrying any identification on him, when he was found.”

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Cheryl confidently predicted, “bu-ut…someone shot him and stole his coat and helmet.”

Roy’s confused look was quickly transformed into one of utter disbelief—closely followed by shock.

The nurse nodded. “He was shot.” Seeing that John’s partner was still too stunned to speak, she reluctantly continued. “The bullet struck his left temple, where it was deflected by the metal rim of his air mask’s face shield.”

“Why-y?” Roy angrily demanded, finally finding his voice. “Why would anybody ever wanna shoot Johnny?”

Cheryl shared his anger. “I can’t even begin to imagine! But Craig has come up with kind of a theory. He figures that John must’ve interrupted a burglary in progress, or something.”

“They used John’s coat and helmet to sneak out of the building. Then they dumped him in an alley and just left him there to die! And he would have been dead, too, if those two police officers hadn’t found him and brought him in when they did. He was awfully shocky. Dr. Early said, another ten minutes and—” the nurse stopped in mid-sentence and immediately changed directions. “Anyways, we got him in and got him stabilized, and he was still stable when they took him into the O.R.”

Roy’s completely puzzled look returned. “What are they operating on? I thought you said the bullet was deflected…”

Cheryl studied her folded hands. “The bullet’s impact caused blunt force trauma to his brain. He suffered a moderate concussion…along with a depressed skull fracture. The resulting bone fragments penetrated the Dura Mater—the outer membrane that surrounds and protects the brain—and lacerated blood vessels in the underlying periosteal and meningeal layers. Dr. Kurtz is performing surgery to remove bone fragments and blood clots…and to try to stop any further brain hemorrhaging. I’m sure he also plans to repair the fracture site.”

Roy absorbed all that, as best he could, and then angrily repeated, “Why would anybody ever wanna shoot Johnny?”

When DeSoto reached the surgical ward, he found Brice pacing up and down the corridor outside of the O.R. his partner was currently occupying.

Craig spotted Roy and stopped, right in mid-pace. “Squad 16 was taken out of service,” he said, in an attempt to explain his presence. “They…couldn’t find anyone to replace John.”

“—Johnny and I split up all the time—on routine sweeps,” Roy reassured him. “It’s a lot more efficient—and faster—way to search a large area.” A slight smile suddenly played upon his pursed lips. “Did he wanna race you down?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Craig’s mouth, as well. He replied with a single nod.

Roy’s slight smile graduated into a grin. The beat on his feet fireman spied a bench. “What d’yah say we both sit down, before we fall down,” he wearily suggested. “We may be here…awhile.” He hadn’t even begun to recover from his exhausting shift, and he knew Craig was coming off of pulling a double.

The two tired paramedics collapsed onto the bench…and then patiently—er, impatiently, waited.

Three members of the surgical team stepped out into the corridor, pulling their disposable caps and gloves off and untying their sweat-stained surgical masks.

The doors were locked open and four more surgically garbed people exited the room, carefully guiding a gurney.

The two waiting firemen rose stiffly to their feet, and Roy released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The gurney’s occupant’s heavily bandaged head was not covered with a sheet. There seemed to be tubes and wires attached everywhere! John’s eyes were taped shut and the anesthesiologist was still assisting his breathing.

The two off-duty paramedic’s watched, as the gurney was quickly wheeled off in the direction of the Recovery Room.

Paul Kurtz turned to the youngest member of his surgical team and flashed him a warm smile. “Lee, I don’t mind tellin’ yah…it was a pleasure startin’ the new year’s surgical schedule off with ‘a piece of the rock’,” he teased and motioned to the young man’s ungloved appendages.

Lee studied the backs of his steady hands for a few moments and then returned both the smile and the compliment. “I just never get nervous watching you work, Paul.”

The surgeon grinned and went to leave himself. He turned around to find two sets of worry-filled eyes gazing back at him. He studied the two guys the eyes were attached to for a few seconds, before finally acknowledging their presence. “Ye-es?”

The surgeon seemed surprised. “I’m sorry. When they told me somebody had shot him, I just naturally assumed he was a police officer.” He gazed off down the hall, in the direction of the Recovery Room. “Why would anybody ever wanna shoot a fireman?” he wondered aloud. He gave his head a quick shake and then turned his attention back to the two firemen. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss a patient’s condition with anyone other than immediate family members.”

“He’s my brother,” Roy replied, without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

“All firemen are brothers,” Craig quickly explained, upon noting the surgeon’s look of extreme skepticism.

The physician was forced to smile. “Then it appears to me that the two of you more than qualify. Look, do you mind if we sit down? It’s been a rather lo-o-ong day.” He saw that the firemen appeared to be every bit as exhausted as he was and they readily approved of his suggestion.

The three weary men dragged themselves over to the bench across from the O.R., and then dropped themselves down onto it.

“I left my wife at a dinner party across town,” Kurtz began. “She was upset because I wouldn’t dance with her. I told her she should just be grateful that I could even stand with her, after eight straight hours in the O.R.—not to mention the two and a half hours I spent making my rounds.” The physician finished with the small talk and flashed the fireman’s worried ‘brothers’ a broad grin. “The surgery couldn’t possibly have gone any better! We were able to stop the brain bleed and repair all the damages. His vitals are solid. His EEG looks good. Pupilary response is completely normal. Barring complications, I anticipate a complete recovery—in four to six weeks.”

The relief flooding through Roy’s body suddenly hit the Hoover Dam. “Complications?”

“As is the case with victims of traumatic brain injury, the next 48 hours are critical. Any time you have an open wound and unsanitary conditions, there is the threat of infection. Apparently, he breathed a bit of blood into his lungs. So there is a possibility he could develop aspiration pneumonia. Right now, we’re pouring antibiotics into him, and hoping for the best. He’s currently on an anti-convulsant and we’ll be keeping him under heavy sedation—to allow the healing to begin.”

The surgeon flashed the fireman’s brother a sympathetic smile. “How about…you ask me that question again…in 48 hours?”

DeSoto mustered up a small smile himself and extended a hand to his best friend’s physician. “Thank you, Dr. Kurtz. You can count on it!”

Three and a half hours later, at LACFD Headquarters…

Hank Stanley saw Craig Brice standing in front of an open door to a conference room. He stepped up to him and extended a hand. “Thanks for the heads up, Craig. What’s this all about?”

Craig took and shook the Captain’s hand. “I have no idea, sir. But I felt you should probably be here.”

Chief Jenner, and three other Department Chiefs, came strolling down the hall and up to the two firemen.

“Brice,” Jenner acknowledged, with a sympathetic smile. “Thank you for coming down.”

“What’s this all about, sir?” Craig queried. “I thought I had explained everything in my report.”

The Fire Chief glanced down at the photocopied report in his hands. “So did I,” he admitted. His gaze shifted to the open door. “Apparently, there are some in need of a little ‘clearer’ explanation. I realize you’ve been up all night. So we’ll try not to keep you too long.” He turned to the other fireman. “You’re John’s Captain, right?”

John’s Captain nodded and extended a hand. “Hank Stanley, Chief. Station 51.”

Jenner gave Hank’s hand a hearty shaking. “Glad you could make it.” He motioned for the Captain and the paramedic to precede them into the conference room.

Eight men were already seated around the room’s rather large conference table. They stopped talking and riveted their undivided attention upon the new arrivals.

One of the seated men aimed an icy glare at the Captain. “I don’t recall you being invited to attend this meeting…”

“An oversight Fireman Brice, here, has fortunately seen fit to correct, Chief Larson,” Jenner cooly stated, and gave the complainer a rather icy glare of his own. “Gentlemen, Fireman Craig Brice…and Fireman Gage’s Captain, Hank Stanley,” he introduced. “Left to right, Chief Baird, Department Regulations…IFA’s Union representative, Mr. Edward Row…Chief Larson, Internal Affairs…Lieutenant Tekely, LAPD’s Narcotics’ Division…Captain James Mason, Station 16…and Battalion Chiefs Geden…Novachic…and DeWitt.” He motioned to his companions. “Chief Brevik, Operations…Chief Dalbert, Public Relations…and Chief Hendrickson, Human Relations.”

Brice gave the men a slight nod and then he and the Captain assumed their seats.

Jenner cleared his throat and continued, “I think it should be pointed out, right from the start, that this is not an ‘Official Board of Inquiry’, but merely a little fact-finding session, which will—hopefully—clear this ‘matter’ up, to everyone’s satisfaction,” he tacked on, and stared directly at Baird, Larson and Tekely. He held up the photocopied report. “Is there anyone here who hasn’t had the chance to read Fireman Brice’s report, yet?” He saw Stanley raise his hand and motioned for Chief Brevik to present the Captain with a copy of the report.

The Fire Chief then decided to wait until John’s Captain was caught up to speed, before continuing with the meeting.

Station 51’s Captain glanced up from the report and gave Jenner an appreciative nod.

Larson slowly lowered his arm. “Fireman Brice, why was Fireman Gage out of uniform?”

“Article 4, Section 7, Paragraph 3 of the Los Angeles County Fire Department’s Handbook of Rules and Regulations clearly states that a firefighter’s turnout gear shall be constituted as his regulation uniform while said firefighter is engaged in Fire Department activities. John was engaged in Fire Department activities. So he was not out of uniform,” Craig corrected. “Except for the four occasions mentioned in my report. If you have read it, then you already have my answer to that question.” He turned to Jenner. “I have nothing further to add to my report, sir. Could we please go on to the next question?”

Jenner watched as Larson’s face filled with indignation. He pursed his lips and forced himself to look away. “Ye-es. Yes, of course. Lt. Tekely, you had a question?”

The Lieutenant nodded. “I have also had the opportunity to read the official police reports on all three of the incidents mentioned in your report.” He gave Brice a smug smile. “Perhaps you’d care to explain your partner’s reckless, even downright careless, behavior at the second incid—”

“—Lieutenant,” Craig interrupted, “I don’t know what the official police reports have to say. Unlike you, I was not given the ‘opportunity’ to read them. I can only comment on what I know for a fact to BE the facts. As I have already stated in my report, my partner’s behavior at the second incident was neither reckless nor careless. In fact, I criticized him for being overly cautious. John requested the ETA of a police backup unit—even before we arrived on the scene.”

“Then why did my men find him parading around out of uniform and carrying on his own private ‘under-cover’ investigation into police business?”

“As I have already stated in my report,” Craig repeated, doing his level best to remain calm, “Dispatch informed us that there would be no police backup to our incident. We were told the police were too busy to take care of their business.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he took it upon himself to investigate the situation! He should have called for backup sooner, instead of carrying on his own little ‘under-cover’ operation!”

Brice was waaaay too tired to be ‘understanding’. But he drew a deep breath into his lungs and tried anyway. “It is rather difficult to explain matters of judgment. However, I shall attempt to do so.

Because no two incidents are ever exactly alike, we had no past experience to draw back on.

John was the first to suspect trouble. But he had no positive proof that we were, in fact, being set up. He was relying solely on judgment and instinct.

A-and, since headquarters had just advised us to call for backup only after assessing our situation thoroughly, John felt obligated to prove that we did, in fact, require police assistance.” The paramedic paused. “I must confess, my initial reaction to John’s unconventional approach to evidence gathering was a negative one. But then I realized that his way would expose us to the least amount of danger.” He paused again and sat there, looking rather pleased. “As it turned out, John’s unorthodox approach proved to be both safer, a-and highly successful.”

The Lieutenant saw the others were forced to nod in agreement. Hell! Even he couldn’t argue with that last statement. The officer stared down at his official police reports, and remained silent.

“Captain Mason, do you intend to take disciplinary action against Fireman Gage?”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly thrilled about that. However, I can certainly understand why he felt compelled to do so. Besides, Gage wouldn’t have been put in position to have to disobey that order in the first place, if I hadn’t told him to climb into that Squad. The only thing Gage is guilty of, is helping a fellow paramedic out in a bind.”

Mason glared at Baird in disbelief. “You wanna talk about disrespect? How about the way this Department disrespects him—and every other firefighter in the Paramedic Program? These guys give their all—every damn day! And how are they repaid? The Department uses some bullshit regulation about California’s State Civil Service Pay Scale laws to force them to choose between the job they love—and providing for their families financially, by taking their promotions.

The most skilled, most qualified, most experienced, most dedicated guys the program’s got—are being forced out! It’s going to take months, maybe even years, for the new trainees to complete the learning curve they need to go through to get to where these veterans are at!

Squad 16 had to be taken out of service last night, because the paramedics’ ranks have been so depleted by this cockamamie Civil Service Pay rule, there just aren’t enough guys to fill in when somebody gets sick, or injured—or shot!”

“Jim’s right,” Hank spoke up. “John’s partner, Roy DeSoto, has already passed up his promotion three times, in order to stay with the program. But he can’t keep doing that indefinitely. He’s got a couple of kids he has to put through college. If something isn’t done to change the ‘equal pay for equal work’ law, a lot more squads are gonna hafta be parked!”

Brice exhaled a weary sigh and turned to his Supreme Commander. “Sir, as I have already stated, I have nothing further to add to my report. And, after spending the past three hours typing a written report, I can see no reason for me to have to make the same report all over again—orally.

Besides, it is becoming more and more apparent to me, that the questions being asked here are directed more at fault finding than fact finding. Captain Mason and I should not have to sit here, defending Gage’s actions. If there are those who wish to bring accusations against him, I suggest they wait until he can be here to defend himself.

Not that he has any need to defend himself. John Gage is one of the most competent, totally dedicated firefighters I have ever had the honor to work with!

It was unfortunate enough that some ‘sicko’ had to put a bullet in his head! I do not intend to sit here, while certain members of this ‘session’ attempt to knife him in the back!

So, if you will excuse me, sirs…” Brice slowly slid his chair back…rose stiffly to his feet…and left.

Station 51’s Captain popped up out of his seat. “What he said,” he bitterly remarked and immediately exited the conference room.

“Fireman Brice has summed up my feelings, as well, gentlemen,” Jenner announced. “If this ‘situation’ requires any further ‘clearing up’, it will just have to wait until Fireman Gage is in a position to do the clearing.”

Chet Kelly was awakened from a sound sleep, by an irritatingly loud ringing sound. He snapped bolt upright, swung his legs off of his sofa and started reaching for the bottom half of his turnouts. He suddenly realized where he was and untensed.

The off-duty fireman grimaced and glanced at his watch. He noted the early hour and grimaced again. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Okay,” he grumbled. “Now that you’ve ruined my first big chance to ‘sleep in’ all week!” he further grouched and started crawling across couch cushions, to pick his phone up from the lampstand. “Hello?” he answered, in mid-ring. “Marco, have you lost your mind—calling me this early? Couldn’t whatever it is have waited until you pick me up?…What d’yah mean ‘you won’t be picking me up’? I hope you didn’t call just to tell me your car’s broke down…” Kelly listened to his friend’s really good reason for calling him so early. Then he just knelt there, too numb—from shock and disbelief—to reply.

Iverson shook the thing open, expecting to find some news about a ‘missing fireman’.

Instead, he discovered a small article, in the front page’s bottom left corner, announcing that a Los Angeles County fireman had been shot and wounded, accompanying story on 12-D.

The criminal could not believe his eyes! He’d put a bullet in the guy’s brain—from practically point-blank range! He was certain he didn’t miss! He’d seen the fireman’s head snap back from the bullet’s impact!

Carl read the rest of the article. Then he crumpled the paper up into a big ball and tossed it toward his wastebasket.

The ‘shooter’ stood there in his kitchen, kicking himself for not checking to make sure the fireman was dead.

It was a mistake he could ill afford to make. It was a mistake he would not make again!

“You’re in early,” Paul Kurtz told the doctor who had just tapped on his office’s open door. He motioned for his friend to enter and have a seat.

“I’m just coming off,” Kel Brackett corrected, and collapsed into a heavily padded chair.

“What’s the point of being the head of your department, if you can’t give yourself the night off?”

“I actually had the night off. But then my New Year’s Eve dinner date ended up in bed, with a bad case of the flu, and I got the noble notion to swap shifts with Ben Tyler. How did John Gage’s surgery go?”

“I sent someone over to Medical Records, to dig up a little background info on this patient. Look at this!” Kurtz waved an arm over the mound of folders and manila x-ray packets that were strewn across his desk. “And this is just from the past twelve months! They said they would’ve needed a wheelbarrow to haul it all over here!” The doctor gazed down at the mountain of clutter in amazement. “What is this guy’s problem? I mean, is his line of work really that dangerous? Or is he just the most accident prone fireman in the entire country?”

Kel stared sadly down at the stacks of hospital records. “Let’s just say his job has been extremely hazardous to his health…and leave it at that.”

“Wait a minute…” The surgeon had detected the bitterness in Brackett’s voice. “This guy wouldn’t happen to be a paramedic…and, hence, a personal friend of yours…would he?”

“He’s not just a paramedic. Johnny’s one of the best paramedics this hospital has ever trained! And, yes! He happens to be a close personal friend of mine!” Brackett slammed the palm of his hand down on the padded arm of his chair. “This whole ‘shooting’ business is just so da-amn senseless!”

“Agreed!” Kurtz flashed his frustrated fellow physician a sympathetic smile. “Barring complications, I am extremely optimistic that he’ll make a complete recovery…in four to six weeks.”

Kel exhaled a deep sigh of relief and got stiffly to his feet. He gave the good—er, great news bearer a grateful grin and extended a hand across the cluttered desk. “Thanks, Paul! That is what I was hoping to hear!”

“Tell Dixie I hope she feels better real soon!” Paul called after the disappearing doctor.

He didn’t even bother to turn his TV set on. If he couldn’t watch the bowl games with his buddies, he’d just as soon not see them, at all.

His sullen mood may have had something to do with the fact that he kept hearing his words, “And, by the end of the shift, LA will be completely destroyed…and only one of them will be left standing. I’m betting it’s The Smog Monster,” over and over, in his head.

His comments in the parking lot, after their last shift, had been made strictly in jest.

Still, Kelly couldn’t help thinking that he’d somehow jinxed Johnny’s shift.

Joanne watched as her four-year-old placed one too many plates down on the dinner table. “Chris, honey, you’ve got one too many. Put one back on the cupboard and then go upstairs and get your Grandmother. Tell her it’s time to eat.”

Christopher looked completely confused and carefully recounted the dishes. “I got just enough,” the boy assured his mother.

Joanne saw that her son seemed pretty determined not to remove any of the plates from the table, and suppressed a smile. “Very well. Then go get your grandmother and your sister. We’re going to eat just as soon as they get down here.”

The boy looked even more confused. “We can’t eat ye-et. Uncle John’s not here.”

Roy stood there in his kitchen, struggling for the right words to explain a very unpleasant situation. “Your Uncle John can’t come over tonight, Chris.”

“—I know,” Roy interrupted. “Your Uncle John can’t come because he got…hurt last night.”

The boy stood there, staring up at his father with big, sad eyes, and biting his lower lip. “Is he in the hopspital again?”

Christopher stared up at the extra plate. “Kin I eat after a while?” he quietly inquired. “I’m not very hungry right no-ow…”

Roy could relate to that. He bent down and swooped the boy up in his arms. “Sure, Chris. The two of us’ll eat…later.”

At around nine that night, Patrol Officers Nick Fedrizzi and Alexander Michaelson were summoned back to their stationhouse and told to report to the Desk Sergeant.

Sergeant Les Grange glanced up from his reports, saw the two uniformed officers standing before him, and grinned. “Uh-uh, yea-eah. We just got a call from some hysterical old lady who swears that there is a fireman hiding in the trash bin behind her apartment building.” Grange struggled desperately to continue, without losing control. “I, uh, called you two ‘experts’ in here…because finding firemen is…right up your alley!” The Sergeant could no longer contain himself, he—and everyone else within earshot—cracked up laughing.

The officers snatched the incident address from their still chuckling Desk Sergeant, and beat a hasty retreat.

“I’m tellin’ yah,” Mike warned, “this has got to be a gag! If there is an ‘old lady’, she’s probably the Sarge’s grandmother, or somethin’!”

Locks clicked. A deadbolt rattled. Chains jingled…and the portal slowly swung open. “He’s still in there!” the elderly lady who appeared in the apartment’s doorway blurted. “I’ve been watching the Dumpster the whole time, and he hasn’t come out ye—”

“—Ma-am,” Officer Michaelson interrupted, “what’s this all about?” The policeman didn’t have a whole lot of patience when it came to practical jokes. Heck! He didn’t have a whole lot of patience—period!

The ‘hysterical old lady’ was rapidly becoming a bit impatient herself. “This is about a fireman in my trash bin! My word! Don’t they tell you anything before they send you off somewheres?” She took the two officers by the elbow and started hauling them off down the hall. “Come along, boys! Before he gets away, and you two cart me off to the ‘funny farm’, or wherever it is they take crazy old ladies, these days!”

The ‘experts’ glanced at each other with arched brows and reluctantly allowed themselves to be towed along.

The woman ushered the cops out of the back of the building, down a dark alley a ways, and right up to a rather large, shiny red trash bin. She then released her captives and stood there, waiting for them to ‘raise the lid’ on their investigation…so to speak.

Nick flicked his flashlight on and finally started reaching for the bin’s lid.

“You’re not really going to go through with this?” his partner hopefully inquired.

“Yes. WE really are,” Nick calmly replied and carefully raised the heavy metal cover.

Neither officer was surprised to find the rubbish container completely empty—save for one large, black plastic trash bag. The men exchanged ‘knowing’ glances.

Which the old lady noticed. She raised herself up onto the tip of her toes and peered down into the bin. She did appear to be genuinely surprised to find it empty. “He’s go-one!”

“Yup!” Mike snidely remarked. He picked the black plastic bag up from the bottom of the bin and then dropped it. “He just dropped his trash and ran!”

Nick shot his partner an ‘oh brother’ look and then turned back to the old woman. “Are you related, in any way, to Sergeant Les Grange—or anybody else over at the 12^th Precinct, for that matter?”

The woman completely ignored the cop’s question. “I’m telling you, there was a fireman in this trash bin! I heard him talking—just as plainly as I just heard you!”

The lady replied with another shrug of her shoulders. “I dunno. I can’t remember, exactly. Just the sort of things a fireman would sa—”

“—LA,” a man’s voice suddenly blurted from out of nowhere—er, from out of the trash bin, actually.

The two police officers stiffened and their hands dropped instinctively to their hips.

“The fire on the 1200 block of Lakeland Avenue is now under control. Cancel additional units. Squad 16 is available. Engine 16 out one hour…”

“Things like that!” the old lady declared and pointed toward her trash bin, in triumph.

The ‘experts’ were momentarily too dumbfounded to speak. They stood there, staring at the ‘talking’ trash bin, in disbelief.

“10-4, Engine 16…” another man’s voice piped up and out. “All units responding with Station 16, cancel…”

Mike finally regained enough of his composure to take action. He reached down into the bin and picked the trash bag back up. He set it carefully down at their feet and undid the twist tie. Once the bag was open, he carefully dumped its contents out onto the pavement.

Neither officer seemed all that surprised to see a fireman’s bloody turnout coat and a black helmet, with a paramedic’s emblem on it, fall out of the bag.

Nick pulled a clean hanky out and then crouched down to check the coat’s pockets. He discovered a handheld radio in a black leather case.

“Squad 16…” the handy-talky crackled to life once more. “Standby for a response…”

The two policemen exchanged ‘knowing’ glances for the third time in as many minutes.

Then Nick looked up at their informant. “Ma-am, you didn’t happen to see who dropped this bag into this bin, did you?”

The old lady looked thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never really paid all that much attention to my trash bin…until it started ‘talking’, of course.”

At around two in the morning, Craig Brice was awakened by a loud ‘BANG’ing on his apartment door. He buried his head beneath his pillow and tried to put the annoying noise out of his sleep-deprived mind.

So he tossed his pillow and covers, climbed stiffly out of his comfortable bed and staggered off, to put a stop to the disturbing racket.

The paramedic placed one of his half-open eyes up against the portal’s peephole.

Brice unlocked the door and allowed him access. “What are you doing here, at this ungodly hour of the morning, dressed like that, Dave?”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Bellingham replied. “But this was the only way I could reach you. Your phone seems to be out of order.”

“Paul Seachrist and Brian Moschetti were in a building collapse a little while ag—”

“I guess they got pretty banged up. Headquarters wants us to fill in for the rest of their shift.”

Craig stood there, staring incredulously at his early-morning visitor. “If this is supposed to be somebody’s idea of a joke, I do not find it amusing.”

“I’m serious!” Dave assured him. “I’ve got Squad 36 parked right outside…”

Jim Mason’s rant, about how the Fire Department disrespects its paramedics, replayed in the overly fatigued fireman’s brain. Speaking of his tired brain…Brice had half a’ mind to just tell Headquarters to ‘Shove it!’, and crawl back into his cozy, warm, inviting bed.

Alas, the Captain’s further comment, about paramedics being so highly dedicated, was also accurate.

A stolen van backed up to a loading dock at the ‘Service Entrance’ behind Rampart General Hospital.

Carl Iverson used the vehicle’s rear view mirror to make a few minor adjustments to his phony wig and beard. Then he zipped the front of his stolen coveralls up and exited the van.

He pulled the vehicle’s back doors open and wheeled a large cart out onto the loading ramp. He pushed the cart across the deserted dock and then stood there, fumbling with a set of stolen keys. He tried several, before he finally got the ‘Service Entrance’ unlocked. The keys were shoved back into a pocket and he and his cart disappeared into the building.

One of the nurses, on duty at the Nurses’ Station on the sixth floor, heard the elevator ‘ping’. The woman glanced up from the patient chart she’d been studying, to watch who got off.

The doors slid open. A guy stepped out into the deserted corridor and pushed a cart into the ICU’s Visitor’s Lounge.

The nurse gave the back of his blue coveralls a disinterested glance and turned her attention back to the medical chart.

It was just the ‘Shaefer Vending’ guy, as usual, coming to fill the coffee vending machine, as usual, and the coffee would probably be ‘lousy’…as usual.

The woman glanced up again, as a couple of loud ‘crashing’ sounds suddenly came from the lounge. She set the chart down on the counter and hurried over to investigate.

Doris Mestnik stood in the room’s open doorway with her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

The ‘Shaefer Vending’ cart and the vending machine were overturned and coffee was pouring out onto the carpeted floor of the lounge—in gushes!

As the woman’s head cleared the doorway, the not so usual ‘Shaefer Vending’ guy brought a heavy metal pitcher down upon it.

Iverson raised the pitcher back over his head and calmly waited, pressed up against the wall beside the open doorway, for another unsuspecting victim to step into his trap.

The criminal’s ‘clanging’ and ‘crashing’ trap claimed two more casualties.

Finally, five full minutes passed—and no other hospital personnel appeared at the Nurses’ Station, and no one else showed their head into the room.

So Carl lowered the pitcher, stepped calmly over an unconscious nurse and back out into the deserted corridor.

RN Patricia Sandstrom was seated at a console, in a glassed-in cubicle behind the ICU’s Nurses’ Station, staring at a wall of closed-circuit television screens. She heard the doorknob ‘cli-ick’ and turned her head, for just an instant, to see who had opened the portal. “Thanks, anyway,” she told the ‘Shaefer Vending’ guy with the pitcher, “but we have our own coffe-maker, here, at the Nurses’ Sta—” The woman stopped speaking, as something smacked the top of her head—very hard. The TV screens—and everything else—went blank.

Carl smiled and quickly left the cubicle. He didn’t hear the phone ‘ringing’ and ‘ringing’ on the counter at the Nurses’ Station.

“That’s odd,” Craig Brice muttered to his partner, and slowly lowered the phone from his ear. “No one’s picking up…”

“They’re probably too busy to answer it right now,” Dave Bellingham informed his zombie-like companion. “C’mon! You can try again, once we get back to ou-our Station.”

Craig ignored him. He quickly clicked the receiver down, waited for a dial tone and then rang the hospital switchboard back. “Yes. Room 600-A, please…” he requested and then stood there, impatiently drumming his fingers on the countertop. The paramedic’s impatience rapidly turned to panic. “Something’s wrong!” he determined and shoved the phone at his startled partner. “Send hospital security up to the sixth floor and call the police!”

“Bri-ice—?” Bellingham began to protest, but gave up, as his panicking partner disappeared down the hall, in the direction of the elevators.

John Gage couldn’t move. Smoke was pouring into the room he was lying in and it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. He tried to crawl clear of the smoke, but his arms and legs seemed to be paralyzed. “Ro-oy!” he called out, in complete desperation.

Roy DeSoto awoke with a start, fully expecting to find his partner standing over him. Instead, he found himself lying—alone—in his living room. He’d fallen asleep, fully clothed, on his sofa, and his thoughtful wife had covered him with a blanket.

He gazed around the empty room in confusion. He could’ve sworn he’d heard Johnny calling him. The unsettled man settled back under his blanket and closed his eyes.

Gage was growing more and more light-headed, from oxygen deprivation. He tried, one last time, to summon his partner. “Help…me…Roy! I can’t…I…can’t…brea-eathe!”

This time, DeSoto sat bolt upright. He’d just heard his partner calling for him—again. He got stiffly up off the couch and started heading for his bedroom.

“Jo?” Roy quietly spoke and gave his sleeping spouse’s shoulder a gentle shaking.

“Not exactly,” her husband replied. “Look, I can’t explain it—I don’t even understand ‘why’, myself—but I gotta go!”

“What’s the point? They’re not going to let you see him. Why can’t you just ca—?”

Joanne wasn’t exactly thrilled with his ‘can’t explain it’ explanation, but she smiled in surrender. “I guess if you gotta go, you gotta go.”

Roy planted a kiss on his understanding wife’s forehead and then disappeared out the door.

Carl Iverson stood beside the fireman’s bed, in ICU’s Room 604, holding a pillow pressed firmly over the unconscious young man’s face. He met with no resistance. But then, even without being heavily sedated, the gravely injured guy’s strength would have been no match for his own.

Carl continued to hold the pillow firmly in place. He stood there, watching a little green line dance across the monitor screen above his head. It seemed to take an eternity, but, at last, its constant, steady rhythm began to change.

Iverson didn’t hear the ‘clanging’ of alarms automatically being triggered by his victim’s sudden coronary distress.

Brice exploded from the elevator and bolted down the corridor. ‘Wonder what happened to them?’ he thought, noting the motionless bodies on the floor of the Visitors’ Lounge.

Speaking of what had happened to them…

The paramedic suddenly recalled what had happened to the last fireman who had entered a room unexpectedly—and immediately skidded to a stop. He turned around and went racing back over to the Nurses’ Station.

The paramedic’s probing fingers told him that the nurse slumped in front of the ICU’s closed-circuit TV console had a strong and steady pulse. His focus shifted to the wall of lit screens.

“No!” the viewer exclaimed. “No-o!” He turned and ran from the room.

“Sto-op!” Brice begged as he burst through the door to ICU’s Room 604 and tackled John’s assailant from behind. The fireman’s momentum, along with the Law of Gravity, pulled the guy in the blue coveralls off of Gage and sent them both crashing—headlong—into the wall.

Fortunately, the coverall-ed creep decided to flee instead of fight—or fire!

Craig exhaled a sigh of relief and quickly scrambled to his feet. He snatched the pillow from his new friend’s face and whipped it clear across the room.

Gage’s airway was gone. His chest was not moving, and he had a deathlike appearance.

No pulse…no respirations…deathlike appearance—John was dead!…Clinically speaking.

“No-o!” Craig exclaimed, for the third time in less than two minutes. ‘Time! The difference between clinical and biological death is all just a matter of precious time!’ the paramedic reminded himself and immediately went to work. The first action he took was to press the red button on the wall above the hospital bed’s headboard. He needed to start CPR. But, if Gage was hemorrhaging again, forced ventilations could cause him to aspirate all that blood that might be trickling down from his sinus passages and into the back of his throat.

He dashed over to one of the room’s glass-doored cupboards. He found what he was looking for and returned to John’s side.

‘Time! Precious time!’ the paramedic mentally repeated and expertly guided the airway into place. Then he placed his mouth over the end of it, pinched the patient’s nostrils closed, and blew four quick, building breaths of air into his oxygen starved lungs.

Next, Craig grabbed a metal tray from the medicine stand and flipped it upside-down. He whipped the bed sheets off and slid the tray under the patient’s bare back. He needed a hard surface, if his chest compressions were to be effective. He stepped up onto the bed’s side rail, to get the proper angle—and needed leverage. Then he clasped his hands together and carefully positioned them over the patient’s sternum. “One,” press. “And,” release. “Two,” press. “And,” release.

The paramedic performed five complete series of fifteen compressions to two ventilations, before the door to 604 finally flew open.

“What happened?” Doctor Tyler demanded, as he and two nurses from Emergency Receiving burst into the room, towing a crash cart.

“Someone just tried…to kill him,” Brice answered, between breaths. “Again!”

“Has he been shot?”

“Tried?” Tyler stood there, watching the paramedic at work. Since CPR is only performed on clinically dead people, it appeared that ‘they’ did more than just ‘try’—they’d succeeded! The physician put off the half-dozen other questions he’d like to have answered and turned to the two nurses. “All set?”

One of the nurses had placed the form-fitting mask of an ambu-bag over the cyanotic fireman’s face and attached a resuscitator. She began force-ventilating their still non-breathing patient with 100 percent oxygen.

“Four hundred watt seconds,” the other nurse announced and attempted to pass a pair of lubricated defibrillator paddles to Tyler.

The doctor declined the offer and motioned for her to hand them over to Brice. “You’ve done just fine without me…” he explained, upon seeing the paramedic’s puzzled look.

‘So far…’ Craig took the tools and unhesitantly positioned the anterior paddle below John’s right clavicle, lateral to the sternum, and the apex paddle lateral to his left nipple, with the paddle’s center on the midaxillary line.

“Clear!” Craig called out. Upon seeing that all personnel were clear of the patient, the bed and any equipment connected to the patient or bed, he simultaneously pressed and held the SHOCK buttons on the paddle grips, until the electrical discharge occurred.

The flat green line remained, stretching from one side of the screen to the other—without any deviation whatsoever.

“Try your drugs and then zap him again,” the doctor ordered, his voice remaining completely—and ridiculously—calm.

Craig inserted the tip of the hypo’s long needle and injected its contents directly into John’s stalled heart, in an attempt to chemically jump-start it. Next, he administered a lidocaine bolus and two ampoules of sodium bicarbonate into their patient’s IV port.

“Where you able to start CPR right away?” Tyler wondered, while they waited for the charge to build.

“I don’t know. He could have been in full arrest for quite a while—before I got here. I was afraid he might aspirate, so I took the time to insert an airway…”

The physician noted that the paramedic had some self-doubts about delaying CPR. “You did the right thing!” he assured the unsure young man, without moving his gaze from the cardiac monitor. “That was quick thinking on your part!” he commended.

“Clear!” Craig called out, feeling a bit more confident in himself and his abilities.

The little green line shot up to the top of—and clear off of—the monitor’s screen. Then it abruptly settled back down to a very flat—unwavering—band of green light again.

“No conversion,” the doctor determined, extreme disappointment evident in his still surprisingly steady voice.

‘Time! Precious time!’ Craig kept repeating, over and over, to himself. He suddenly realized that, at some point, he had broken into a cold sweat. He turned to the doctor for some sound counsel. There was simply no time for any wrong moves!

Tyler could see that the paramedic’s self-doubts had returned—in full force. “What would you do if I wasn’t here?” he calmly inquired.

“I’d pump some more adrenaline into him and then hit him again!” Brice came back, without a moment’s hesitation.

“That is exactly what I would do if you weren’t here!” the physician informed him.

Craig inserted an IC syringe again and injected John’s still stalled heart with another powerful dose of adrenaline.

“I think that caught his attention,” the doctor determined, as the straight green line began to oscillate a little. He personally set the charge and then passed the lubricated paddles to the paramedic. “Go on! Zap him again—before we lose it!”

For a third time, John’s motionless body was jolted up off the bed, from a strong electric shock.

And, for a third time, the little green band of light shot completely up off the cardiac monitor. But, this time—for the first time—when it returned to the center of the screen, it produced one…two…three feeble, somewhat erratic, jerks. The faint electrical activity could hardly be dubbed a heartbeat.

Then a seventh, stronger jerk suddenly caused the flat green band of light to dance up on the screen.

“There!” Tyler shouted, finally losing his cool. “That’s it! That’s the stuff heartbeats are made of! The adrenaline must’ve finally kicked in!” he determined, as the next dozen or so beats duplicated the dance of the seventh. “Well done, people!” the physician further exclaimed, giving the paramedic a congratulatory slap on the back, and the nurses an approving nod. “We’ve got sinus rhythm!”

Speaking of staring anxiously at the nightclub’s front entrance…

John was flabbergasted. “B-Bu-ut…why-y?”

The relief flooding through Roy’s body suddenly hit the Hoover Dam. “Complications?”

Three and a half hours later, at LACFD Headquarters…

Speaking of what had happened to them…

“Has he been shot?”