Chapter Seven

 

“L.A., Squad 8 is on scene,” John notified the dispatcher, one minute and thirty-seven seconds later.

10-4. Squad 8 on scene,” L.A. acknowledged.

Roy killed the truck’s engine and sirens, but left its warning lights flashing.

He and his partner piled out and promptly opened the compartments containing their turnout coats and SCBAs.

As was their custom, the duo visually inspected the area while donning their protective gear.

1127 East Broderick turned out to be a stylish brick building with lots of large windows.

The three-story structure was lit up, inside and outso much so, that the whole place emitted a warm, inviting glow.

Conspicuously absent were the condominium’s occupants, who should have been milling about on the sidewalk, by now.

The rescuers exchanged a couple of concerned glances.

Gage removed their portable combustible gas leak detector from its case and clicked it on. The delicate instrument’s sensor needle sprang to life, and the two of them went trotting off across the street, in the direction of the condo’s main entrance.

“Man! You guys sure are fast!” a guy in grey coverallswith E. Russell embroidered above a pocketdeclared, as the pair approached the front doors. “I just hung up the phone!”

“We happened to be in the neighborhood,” Roy curtly explained, reaching back to crank the valve on his air-pac open. “Has the building been evacuated?”

The janitor’s facial expression instantly changed from one of astonishment to one of embarrassment. “I knew I was forgetting something. Guess that smell really shook me up.”

Gage already had his SCBA’s air going and its face piece in place. “What floor is the smell coming from?” he demanded, snugging his mask’s straps uptight.

“Three!” the forgetful guy shouted, to be heard over the sound of the fireman’s respirator.

Roy got his facemask situated. “We’re gonna go find the smell! You go find the nearest fire alarm box and pull it!”

The janitor’s face filled with horror and he immediately began backing away from the building. “Are you nuts?! I’m not going back in there! The whole place could go! At any second!”

“At least knock on some outside entrances!” DeSoto called after the departing fellow. “Thanks for the pep talk,” he insincerely added, this time keeping his already muffled voice low.

Johnny caught his comment and cracked a smile.

The rescue men switched their air-pac regulators from pressure-demand to constant flow. The intrepid pair then re-donned their helmets and ducked into the buildinger, potential bomb.

 

Roy spotted a red, glass-covered box on the left wall, halfway down the entrance hall, and tapped his buddy on the back. “I’ll get the alarm! You get a reading!”

“Right!” his partner acknowledged and placed the gas leak detector’s probe close to the hall floor.

Most gases are heavier than air, which is the reason for starting low. John waited a full fifteen seconds…nothing! So he moved the monitor’s probe to waist level and waited another fifteen seconds…still nothing! Lastly, he lifted the probe’s detector above his head. “All clear here!” he called out, following fifteen more seconds and another ‘nothing’ reading.

Roy watched in relief as the activated fire alarm produced the desired result.

The first floor’s occupants spilled into the condominium’s common area and then began heading for the exit.

 

 

The firemen repeated their actions on the condo’s second floor, with the same exact results.

The third floor proved to be another story.

As the rescuers exited the third floor stairwell, their ears were immediately assaulted with loud, pulsating musicreally, really LOUD pulsating music.

Gage recognized the tune. Ironically enough, it was The Sanford Townsend Band’s “Smoke from a Distant Fire”.

John’s monitor still didn’t detect the presence of any combustible gases, but, this time, there was no response to Roy’s pulled fire alarm.

Hopefully, the blaring music was just drowning it out.

Explosive gases having been negated, the paramedics switched their regulators back over to pressure-demand and cautiously began removing their facemasks.

Both firemen’s faces immediately scrunched up as an extremely strong, pungent odor assaulted their nostrils. The gosh-awful smell was sort of a combination between benzenepaint thinner and acetonepaint remover.

Perhaps somebody was doing a little remodeling?

The pair proceeded down the third floor hallway in pursuit of the sickening smell’s source.

Turned out the really LOUD music and really FOUL odor were both coming from the same residence: 312.

Their attempts to gain access to 312, by ringing the buzzer and banging on the door, failed.

‘Try before you pry,’ Roy reminded himself and reached for the knob. It turned so he pushed the unlocked portal open. The sound’s volume, and the odor’s intensity, instantly became even more overwhelming.

Both men’s jaws dropped as a half-dozen beautiful young ladies suddenly appeared, wearing nothing but their pajamastheir skimpy, see-through chiffon, brightly-colored baby doll pajamas.

Why, the scene was the stuff of every healthy American male’s dreams!

The room turned out to be a ridiculously large bedroom. The women were huddled in the center of the spacious space, dancing to the pulsating beat of the music, and waving their raised arms wildly through the air.

The dancing girls’ hands were open and their fingers were splayed. A dozen or so bottles of nail polish, in bold and brash colors, were resting on top of one of the room’s dressers, as well as an open canister of nail polish remover.

Mystery solved!

Benzene and acetone are the main ingredients in nail polish and nail polish remover. The volatile liquids evaporate quickly. It’s these potent gas vapors that give nail polish, and nail polish remover, their distinctive smell.

Roy pulled their HT from his coat pocket and thumbed its call button. “L.A., Squad 8. This scene has been secured. You can go ahead and cancel.”

Unit calling in, please repeat,” L.A. requested.

Roy turned away from the din coming through the room’s open doorway and half-shouted his message back to the dispatcher.

“10-4, Squad 8. Scene secured…All units responding to 1127 East Broderick, cancel.

Speaking of shouting…

One of the young ladies finally spotted the two figures in the doorway. “Hey! Look, girls! We got company!”

Far from being upset by the appearance of their uninvited guests, the women seemed thrilled to see them.

All six of the scantily clad females flocked toward the firemen, shrieking and squealing with delight.

The rescuers attempted to retreat, but were quickly cut off.

The girls soon had their unexpected company completelyand closelysurrounded.

A little too closely, as far as the happily married father of two was concerned. Roy squirmed uncomfortably and cleared his vapor-irritated throat. “Don’t you think you should turn the music down a little?”

It sounded more like a suggestion than a question.

“Wha-at?” the only blonde of the bunch replied and moved in even closer…so that she could hear the blond fireman better.

Roy’s entire body suddenly went rigid. The happily married father of two cleared his throat, again, and then addressed the lovely young lady whose practically bare right breast was pressed against his chest. “Aren’t you worried about disturbing the other occupants?”

The blonde’s seductive smile broadened into a seductive grin. “We are the other occupants!”

“Yeah,” the brunette in the pretty peach-colored pajamas joined in. “We own this whole floor.”

“We’re a professional dance troop,” the brunette in the pastel green jammies explained.

The brunette in pastel pink nodded. “And on the rare occasions when we’re not booked in some club, we get together and have a nail painting party.”

“So…what brings you fellahs here?” the brunette in the even flimsier flame red baby doll pajamas pondered.

“The janitor got a whiff of your ‘nail painting party’, thought it was a gas leak, and phoned the fire department,” Roy replied, failing to hide the irritation in his voice.

The nail painting partiers suddenly looked insincerely repentant.

“I’m a happily married man with two kids,” Roy informed the seductive beauty that was still making a move on him, “and he’s not.”

The bevy of beauties surrounding Roy freed their happily married captive and began gravitating toward his bachelor buddy’s body, like metal filings toward a magnet.

Leo Sayer’s “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” began to play.

The nail painting party/dance troopers began to sway. They swayed right back to the center of the room, carrying their remaining captive along.

Gage, who’d never danced with six girls all at the same time before, gave his ‘happily married’ amigo an aggravated glare and tried to squirm free. It was strange…but all his normally girl-crazy self could think about, at the moment, was how mad Waring would be at him, if he were to get nail polish on his turnout coat. “Stay. Back! Gi-irls! Now stop it! You’re gonna break my probe!”

“Never heard it called that before,” the Brunette in neon pink bemusedly confessed, sending her gyrating companions into a fit of giggles.

“I mean it! Now cut it out! You’re gonna get nail polish all over my coat!”

The bombshell in neon pink pressed her moistened mouth right up to the fireman’s left ear and then said, in a breathy whisper, “Trust me…That is not what we intend to get our nail polish on.”

John’s bottom jaw went slack for the second time since his arrival.

The girl in pastel green sighed. “Ahhh…Look…Angie made the fireman blush.”

“That is soooo endearing,” the brunette breathing onto the back of his neck wistfully determined.

Their blushing captive regained ‘some’ semblance of his composure and assumed his best lecture stance. Well, the best lecture stance he could assume, considering his tight quarters. “There is a potentially dangerous level of solvent vapors in this room.”

The girls stopped swaying and stepped back.

Coincidentally, Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice” suddenly came on.

The lecturer’s warning caused the blonde in pastel blue to roll her eyes. “I’ve been painting my nails since I was twelve years old.”

“We all have,” pastel green agreed.

“Yeah. No harm done,” the brunette in the fiery red baby dolls summed up.

“Look, benzene and acetone are some pretty potent solvents. When they’re used in a well-ventilated roomand you arent opening a dozen different bottles at a timethey may be relatively harmless. Inhaling these fumes in such a high concentration as this can cause headaches and dizziness.” The dark-haired paramedic paused, as he realized that he was feeling a little lightheaded, himself. “Not to mention the irritation to your eyes and airways. Man! We really need to open up some windows and get some fresh air in here.” That said, he set his probe down on the bed and began opening windows.

The room temperature dropped dramatically, and the partiers’ previously merry mood all but evaporated.

The last thing the lecturer did was to screw the lid back onto the acetone container. “There! That’s better. Now, the next time you decide you’re gonna have a nail painting party, I want you to make sure the room you’re ‘partying’ in is properly ventilated. Okay?”

“Yeah, or your janitor will freak out and call the fire department.”

Upon hearing that, the chastised nail painters’ spirits promptly perked back up.

John retrieved his probe and the pair began taking their leave.

“I prob’ly shouldn’t a’ said that,” Roy realized in an aside to his hastily retreating associate.

“That ain’t the only thing you prob’ly shouldn’t a’ said,” his still slightly peeved partner was quick to point out.

The pair made it down the hall and were just about to step into the third-floor’s enclosed stairwell, when Player began singing “Baby, Come Back”.

 

“I noticed you didn’t ask for any names,” Roy commented as they began their descent.

“Damn straight! I was afraid to. That guy’s last name was Russell, Roy. Russell.”

“So I noticed. You’re probably not going to want to read any of the notes in your pockets, then.”

“Notes? What notes?”

They reached the end of the first floor hallway.

John set his probe down and began emptying his coat pockets. ‘How on earth…?’

The only time the girls were out of sight was while he was opening windows, and they hadn’t come close enough to him after that.

John tentatively opened one of the four folded slips of paper and smiled. “Angela 555-6303. No. LAST. Name.”

Roy turned his attention to the building’s mailboxes that were built into the hall wall near the entranceway, and read the only A. listed on the third floor. “A. Stewart…Stewart Whitman.”

His partner opened another note. “Charlotte?”

“C. Cole…Cole Porter.”

“Rebecca.”

“R. Spencer…Spencer Tracy.”

“Rhonda.”

“R. Raymond…Raymond Burr. Wonder what the other two last names were…”

John’s right eyebrow arched in thought. “I wonder why they didn’t want me to call them…”

Roy draped an arm across his pouting pal’s shoulders. “Welcome back, Johnny! Yah know, for a while there, I thought maybe you’d been abducted by aliens.”

The taunt turned his friend’s frown upside-down. “I just didn’t want them to get any nail polish on this coat. It doesn’t belong to me, remember?”

“Right.”

“C’mon…” John stashed the notes into the back pocket of his duty trousers and then stooped to retrieve their gas leak monitor. “Let’s get out a’ here.”

Roy obligingly pushed his way out onto the sidewalk and then held the heavy glass door open for his partnerand his probe.

Engine 8 was parked across the street, right behind their squad.

Its Captain and crew paid them no heed, however. They were too busy looking up at the building they’d just exited.

“Not one word about the nail polish,” Gage pleaded. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

All four firemen were staring up at a well-lit third-floor balcony and the five skimpily-clad, wildly waving beauties that were standing out on it and leaning over its railing, baring even more cleavage than was already being bared.

“Baby, come back!” all five broke into song the instant the other truck’s crew of two came into view.

“You be sure to come back, Waring!”

“Yeah! And don’t forget to call!”

“Remember, if you don’t call us, we’ll be calling you!”

Harlin exchanged broad grins with his fellow hose haulers and then beamed one over to his once again blushing buddy. “Man! When you said you know a lot of brunettes, you weren’t kidding. Were you, Johnny…BABY.”

The jibe caused John to groan aloud and his co-workers to chuckle.

“What else did you guys manage to discover in there?” Captain Stoner somehow managed to straight-facedly inquire.

“Somebody left the lid off a canister of acetone, Cap,” Roy obligingly replied. “The janitor mistook the odor for a gas leak and called it in.”

“Nail polish remover?!” Harlin exclaimed, sounding more amused than ever. “Nail polish remover. Did you guys get your nails done? C’mon, Johnny Baby, show us your hands.”

More chuckles ensued.

Johnny Baby and his partner finished stowing their gear.

Gage obligingly displayed the backs of his polish-free appendages, and then used their fronts to wave goodbye to the five beautiful females on the balcony.

The lovely ladies waved wildly back and even blew the bachelor some kisses.

Before climbing into their rescue truck’s cab, John flashed an extremely smug smile back at his newlywed buddy. “Freedom is what it’s all about.”

Harlin managed an amused gasp and then sat there, shaking his head.

“One thing’s for sure…” Rick realized, as they watched Squad 8 drive off. “Waring’s gonna be getting a lot of really weird phone calls.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

Squad 8’s return to quarters was interrupted by a supply run to Rampart and a quick stop at a local hamburger stand.

The first thing the pair noticed, upon re-entering the station’s rec’ room, was that the kitchen table had been cleared.

Gage grimaced and grabbed the top of his head with both hands, to keep itand himselffrom exploding. It was a full minute before hed calmed down enough to be able to speak. I pleaded. I begged. I even said pa-lee-eeze.”

Harlin just gazed innocently back at him. “You told us not to ‘touch’ anything. So…we didn’t.”

The paramedic’s arms dropped back to his sides and he glared down at the empty tabletop. “So, our call slips have suddenly become invisible?”

“Relax, Johnny-Baby,” Harlin calmly continued. “We will salvage your paperwork for you.”

His Dodger watching shiftmates heard his comment and emitted a group groan.

Harlin ignored the groans and motioned for his team of co-conspirators to rise. “Gentlemen, to the rescue!”

Gage was disappointed to see ‘Stoney’ also getting to his feet. “Et tu, Cap?”

Stoner shrugged. “Harlin’s plan required a fourth man for it to succeed. And I wanted this to have a successful outcome.”

Harlin’s four man team surrounded the table and lifted it off the floor. It was then flipped completely upside down and lowered onto the spread out salvage and overhaul tarp that had been concealed beneath it.

On top of the canvas tarp was the paramedics’ inverted paperwork.

Each table flipper latched onto a corner of the tarp, which was then pulled taught and held tightly up against the table’s top as it was carefully re-righted.

Lastly, the salvage cover was painstakingly raised and removed, revealing the paramedics’ untouched paperwork.

Harlin’s accomplices promptly resumed their baseball watching positions, leaving the prank’s mastermind to deal with their impressed, but un-amused, paramedics.

“Hardy-har har,” John mirthlessly muttered, following an exchange of weary eye rolls with his partner.

Harlin snatched a soda from their fridge and went slinking out of the kitchen, smirking triumphantly all the while.

Roy set the brown bags in his hands down on the table and the two paperwork’ers re-took their seats.

John eagerly opened the sack in front of him and began removing its contents. “Who we playing?”

“The Cubs,” Rick replied, “at Chicago.”

“Who’s ahead?”

“We are. 6 to 2. It’s the bottom of the eighth.”

“All right!” Gage exclaimed, around a mouthful of burger. “They win this one, and they’ll be 68 and 16 and I think they’ll have a pretty good shot at the pennant.”

It was Harlin’s turn to roll his eyes. “You said that last year and we never even made it into the playoffs.”

“That was last year. This is this year. I think they can do it this year.”

Harlin swung around in his seat. “You willing to bet on it, Johnny-Baby?

John just stared back at him in disbelief. “You would actually bet against the Dodgers?”

Captain Stoner, Rick and B.J. emitted another group groan.

Harlin turned in the direction of their TV. “What happened?”

“The Cubs’ shortstop just hit a home run with the bases loaded and no outs.”

Harlin swung back around in his seat. “Yes. I would.”

John ignored the fickle Dodgers’ fan and reluctantly returned to their paperwork. “Roy, is downdraft one word or two?”

“Two: Usually. Fatal. I tell yah, whoever invented hang-gliders ought ta be hung.”

John got that call recorded and moved on to the next. “Who would ever think that getting on a trampoline ‘blindfolded’ was a good idea?”

His friend’s frown deepened. “Somebody who doesn’t care if he ever has kids.”

The phone rang just then, putting a temporary halt to Roy’s rantinger, sarcastic remarks.

Rick was in the middle of a refrigerator raid, so he stepped over to answer it. “Station 8. Fireman Seeger speaking…” A strange look came over Rick’s face. He turned and held the phone out toward the table. “Joanne DeSoto is on the line...”

“Aren’t you going to take it?” John wondered when his friend failed to move a muscle.

“She doesn’t want to talk to Roy,” Rick quickly clarified. “She wants to talk to you.”

Gage splayed a hand across his chest. “Me-e?”

Seeger nodded.

John shoved his chair back and stepped over to accept the phone’s extended handset. He had intended to say ‘Hi’, but Joanne was already speaking. His face suddenly filled with confusion. “Hello Darling?”

B.J. snapped bolt upright in his recliner, and Harlin spit his cream soda clear across the rec’ room.

Seeger turned to witness DeSoto’s reaction to his partner’s little ‘term of endearment’.

Joanne’s husband seemed to be taking it in stride. In fact, Roy was laughing.

John didn’t say another word for a full two minutes and thirty-five seconds. He just stood there, wincing…and grimacing…and gritting his teeth. “No. No-o. I’ve never heard that before,” he assured the record player, once the assault on his right ear had ended. ‘And I never want to hear it again,’ he silently added. The claxons sounded just then and saved him from having to comment further. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Joanne. Look, we just got a run. I gotta go….I will. Bye.”

Station 8…”

 

“Your wife says ‘Hi’,” John dutifully forwarded as he joined his partner in the Squad, tugging Waring’s turnout coat on along the way. “Do you tell Joanne everything?”

Roy took the call slip from Captain Stoner and passed it on to his slightly miffed amigo. “Nahhh. Just the stuff I think she’ll find interesting.”

John donned Waring’s helmet and snugged up its chin strap. He gave his grinning buddy an ‘oh brother’ look and then glanced down at the run address. “This is just a couple a’ miles from here. Hang a right.”

DeSoto did.

 

At the ‘car versus pedestrians accident’ less than two miles from Station 8…

DeSoto pulled their rescue truck right up behind two police squad cars and parked.

The paramedics piled out, yanked their equipment cases from the truck’s side compartments and went to work.

B.J. parked Engine 8 right in back of the Squad.

The engine crew climbed down and went to work as well.

John looked up from one of the three badly mangled pedestrians. “Better request some backup.”

Roy nodded and pulled their hand-held radio from his coat pocket.

 

“L.A., Squad 8 available. Returning to quarters,” John informed dispatch, upon completion of their latest hospital follow up.

10-4,” L.A. acknowledged. “Squad 8 available.”

John replaced their dash-mounted radio’s mic’ and draped his left arm across the back of the seat.

Roy was sitting there, looking amused to no end.

“What’s so funny?” John finally inquired.

“The way you looked when Joanne put that record on. It was like someone had turned on a dentist’s drill and was trying to shove it into your ear.”

“It felt like someone was trying to shove a dentist’s drill in my ear. Did you put her up to that?”

Roy shook his head. “It was all her idea. She couldn’t believe that you had never heard of Conway Twitty, or ‘Hello Darling’.” The engine crews’ reaction to the song’s title caused John’s chum to begin chuckling anew.

“Yeah…well…I’m glad ‘one’ of us found it entertaining,” Gage griped, but then was forced to grin, as his glum comment caused his friend to laugh even harder.

 

Upon returning to quarters, the paramedics found Engine 8’s crew watching the Late News, hoping to hear the final score of the game they’d been watching.

Stoner’s head swung in the direction of the new arrivals. “How’s the streak holding up?”

“Kirk Mallory…Shelly Christopher…and Gerald Drake,” Roy disbelievingly responded.

The rest of the firemen’s faces also filled with disbelief.

 

It was well after 3:00 am and Station 8’s crew still hadn’t gotten to bed.

The firemen returned from a malicious false alarm and trudged wearily up the stairs to the dorm, where they proceeded to collapse, face first and fully clothed, onto their bunks. Captain Stoner and his men were simply too fatigued to care about whether or not they looked ‘frumpy’.

Less than three minutes later, the station’s tones re-sounded.

It was like Gage had said. Firemen never get any sleep on weekends.

 

In the day room, just a half hour before the shift change…

The sleep-deprived crew was seated around their kitchen table, sipping coffee…and working on log books.

Gage yawned his way over to their coffeemaker. “Thirty minutes and counting.”

Harlin swung around in his seat. “You’re forgetting, Johnny-Baby. We always get a run just before the shift changes. It’s tradition.”

“And, rather than break with tradition,” B.J. joined in, “Harlin would go out and place a call in himself, if he had to.”

The group exchanged weary grins.

“No need,” Harlin assured them. “We’ll get a call. Just wait. You’ll see.”

 

Ten minutes later…

The engine crew’s drooping eyes remained fixed upon the kitchen’s wall clock.

“The other shift’ll be arriving in about five more minutes,” Rick warned.

Harlin didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

 

Three minutes later, the Station’s tones sounded.

Station 8…”

Harlin gave the guys a smug smile and they all began heading for the garage.

Grass fire411 South Court DriveCross streets 4th and PrestonFour-one-one South Court DriveTime out: 07:47.”

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

Station 8 arrived on scene.

The grassfire was in a neighborhood of spacious homes and sprawling lawns.

A smoky haze dulled the brilliant blue sky, and one of the sprawling lawns had been scorched black.

Some neighbors had grabbed rakes and shovels and formed a grassfire brigade. The volunteers had the bulk of the fire already contained.

Some fire had followed the tall, dead grass along a fence line, like a lit fuse cord, and a column of smoke was rising up from a small grove of trees toward the back of the property.

“Thompson! Seeger! Grab an inch and a half and go see what’s burning back there!”

Seeing as how he and his engineer, and a half dozen able-bodied neighbors, had the grassfire covered, Stoner turned to his paramedics. “You two can head back to the station…if you want.”

Gage and DeSoto held an unspoken conference and came to an equally silent agreement.

Six would make it back to the barn faster than four.

DeSoto raised their HT to his lips and thumbed its mic’, “L.A., Squad 8 is available on scene.”

“10-4…Squad 8 available on scene.”

Roy passed the radio on to his partner and began flushing the ash and soot out of some of the civilian grassfire fighters’ red, watering eyes.

Johnny pocketed the HT. Then he grabbed a hose roll from the back of the engine, a gated Y valve and a nozzle from a side compartment, and followed the limp hose line that snaked off in the direction of that half-hidden smoke column.

Several hundred yards of hiking later, a fully-engulfed red metal shed appeared.

“Why anybody would put a storage shed in such an out of the way place,” Gage grouched, “is beyond me.” He dropped the items in his arms onto the ground and fished the radio from his coat pocket. “Engine 8 from Squad 8,”

“Stoner here. Go ahead, Gage…”

“Cap, we have a 10’x12’ single-story wood frame metal storage shed fully-engulfed. No exposures. Standby…”

Thompson and Seeger completed the gated Y valve connections and gave him two thumbs up.

John waited until the guys had firm grips on their hoses’ nozzles before re-keying his radio’s mic. “Engine 8, send us some water.”

“10-4. Charging the line…”

The limp hoses jerked and stiffened, and the nozzles spit and sputtered as the air was bled from the lines.

The water began dousing the flames.

The fire began hissing, as it was extinguished and cooled.

“Does make one wonder what’s in there,” Rick belatedly agreed.

John donned his gloves and started striding toward the mystery building. “Let’s find out.”

The shed’s door was locked.

John busted its blackened window out, reached a gloved hand in and unlocked it. He pulled the portal open but the interior was too smoke-filled to see anything. He held his breath and was just about to step inside, when Harlin placed an arm across his chest. “Hold it! You forgetting air-pac protocols? No one is to enter a structure fire unless they are on air.”

“Yeah. But—”

This is a structure, isn’t it…”

“Yeah. But—”

and its on fire, isn’t it…”

“Yeah. But—” John didnt bother to say another word. He just turned and went jogging off in the direction of his air-pac.

Rick and Harlin exchanged grins.

 

Station 8’s engineer watched in amusement, as John jerked the Squad’s air-pac compartment open.

The paramedic donned the apparatus. Then he snatched an axe and a pike pole and went trotting off, grumbling all the while.

 

Stoner followed the fire’s blackened path back to the point of ignition.

Some careless smoker had tossed a lit cigarette out of a car window.

 

The Captain returned to Roy’s ‘rehab’ station. “Anybody know who resides at 411 South Court Drive?”

One of the soot-covered neighbors nodded. “The Sandovals. But, they’re not home.”

Another nodded. “They spend every Sunday morning over at the Sportsman’s Club, skeet shooting.”

“Yeah. Those two are crazy about guns. Milt even loads his own shells.”

The two firemen exchanged looks of alarm as a possible reason for the shed’s inconvenient location suddenly occurred to them.

Stoner whipped the radio from his coat pocket and keyed its mic’. “John, that shed could be filled with gunpowder! Clear the area! Repeat, clear the area! Edwards, sound EVAC!”

 

Gage’s face filled with alarm. He dropped his helmet and the overhaul tools and went racing toward his fellow firefighters screaming, “GUNPOWDER!!! GET BACK!!! IT’S GONNA BLOW!!!” over and over, at the top of his burning lungs.

 

The pressurized jet of water from the nozzles was dampening more than just the fire. The sound of the spray striking the shed’s metal walls also prevented the hose handlers from hearing the shouted warning.

The steady blast from Engine 8’s air-horn caught the two men’s attention, though. They immediately flung their hoses and turned to flee.

 

The messenger was about eighty feet from the shed when it exploded.

The violent blast produced a shock wave that went radiating outward at super-sonic speed, blowing windows out for blocks around.

That rapidly expanding wall of air slammed into all three firefighters.

The primary blast instantly emulsified Seeger and Thompson’s lungs. The secondary blast propelled hunks of wood and metal into and through their bodies with ballistic speed and force.

The third fireman’s right eardrum was ruptured and he was thrown about fifteen feet through the air. John landed on his back on his air-pac. His already breathless lungs were left even more breathless, as the ‘wind’ was knocked out of him.

His traumatized diaphragm gradually recovered. The first gasped inhalation was expelled with a groan.

He lay there for a few more moments, staring dazedly up at the sky.

There was an annoying, high-pitched ringing in both ears and he was extremely disoriented. He gave his woozy head a quick shake, but couldn’t dispel the annoying sound or the dizziness. Slowly, he rolled off his back and began crawling toward the blast crater…and his two non-moving friends.

Rick was…dead.

There was just no way he could be anything but dead.

The paramedic moved over to where Harlin’s equally mangled body lay.

John just knelt there, recalling an article from one of his Paramedic journals.

‘Explosion protocols: Explosions can cause a variety of intrathoracic injuries including pulmonary contusion, pneumothorax, pneumomediastinum, air emboli, hemothorax, and subcutaneous emphysema. The pressure differential between the inside and outside of the body induced by the blast wave produces injuries. The pressure differentials that develop at the interface between media of different densities tear the alveolar walls, disrupt the alveolarcapillary interface, and cause the emphysematous spaces to fill with blood, resulting in primary blast injury to the lung (blast lung) significant blast wave impacts the chest wall, there is little time for pressure equilibration. When blast lung occurs in patients, it has high associated morbidity.’

 

DeSoto, Stoner and Edwards came running up, equipment cases in hand.

Captain Stoner and his engineer stopped dead in their tracks and then stood there, looking like they were going to be sick.

Roy quickly checked Rick and Harlin for signs of life.

None were expected, or detected.

Both men had sustained ‘injuries incompatible with life.’

His partner was kneeling over Harlin’s body gazing disbelievingly down at all the carnage.

Hunks of Harlin’s torso had been blown away, exposing muscle, bone and cartilage.

‘Grass fires aren’t lethal,’ John silently reminded himself. ‘Firemen don’t die fighting a grass fire. A guy doesn’t get married one weekend and buried the next.’

“Johnny, we need to get your gear off.”

No response. Gage was either shell-shocked or he’d been deafened by the blast.

Roy swallowed hard and rested a hand on his friend’s slumped shoulder.

John finally realized his partner was kneeling at his right side. “None of this is real. It can’t be real. Nobody would ever really be stupid enough to pack a shed full of explosives and not post a WARNING. This is just a nightmare. Right Roy?”

Roy failed to validate his wishful thinking.

John inhaled sharply and sat back on his haunches.

Roy pulled the notepad from his front pocket and began writing.

We need to get your gear off. You need to lie down.

“I don’t need to lie down. I am perfectly fine.”

I’d be more inclined to believe you, if blood wasn’t draining from your right ear.

John swiped absently at his right earlobe. Sure enough! His fingers came away smeared with bright red blood. Reluctantly, he allowed Roy to remove his air-pac and turnout coat.

A gurney rolled up a short time later.

“No sirens,” Roy requested.

The attendants nodded.

John tried to stand, but was hit with a tsunami of dizziness.

Stoner ordered Gage to get on the gurney.

The paramedic even more reluctantly complied with his Captain’s order.

But, not all of him climbed onto that stretcher.

A big part of him remained behind…with his fallen brothers.

 

 

Chapter Ten

John could tell, by the ceiling tiles, that he’d been brought to Treatment Room Three. There was an excruciating pain in his right ear. His left ear felt like it was filled with fluid and that damn, incessant high-pitched ringing was driving him to distraction. The grief and exhaustion was overwhelming. His chest was so tight, he could barely breathe. He was about two seconds away from screaming, when his breathtaking view of the ceiling tiles was suddenly obstructed by a handwritten note.

Mister Gage, my name is Jeff Perry. I’m an otologist on staff here, at Rampart. Dr. Brackett has asked me to give you an otologic evaluation. Is that okay with you?

The note was lowered.

Mister Gage gazed up at the ‘last name also a first name’ ear doctor and nodded, numbly.

 

Another note appeared, just a few minutes later.

Otoscopic examination reveals that you have suffered a tympanic membrane (TM) perforation of your right ear. The injury displays jagged edges, with blood clots, medial to the rupture. Both ears have experienced temporary threshold shifts. Hearing loss, tinnitus, otalgia, and dizziness are all symptomatic with audiovestibular injuries.

‘So, I ruptured my right eardrum and I have an earache,’ the patient impatiently, and silently, summarized.

More writing.

TM ruptures and temporary threshold shifts are very common injuries following blast exposure. Most tympanic membrane perforations heal spontaneously. Inferior perforations, which is what you have, are the most likely to heal spontaneously. Unfortunately, we cannot rule out traumatic brain injury (TBI), at this time. I am recommending that you be admitted.

“I have to stay?”

Dr. Perry nodded and began writing anew.

We need to begin treatment immediately. I am ordering IV antibioticsto combat infection, steroidsto reduce acute nerve injury (oedema), and analgesicsto help you deal with any discomfort you may be experiencing. Okay?

John managed another glum, numb nod.

There wasn’t an ‘analgesic’ in the entire hospital that would take away the pain he was currently experiencing.

 

A whole host of firefighters rose to their feet as Kel Brackett entered the Doctor’s Lounge.

Two of the men belonged to Station 8’s B-shift, five were members of Station 51’s A-shift, and the remaining three were LACFD Chiefs.

Kel motioned for the men to retake their seats and then poured himself some coffee. The physician took several tentative sips of his beverage before beginning his briefing. “As you may already be aware, John has experienced a ‘blast-explosive acoustic trauma’. A small tear in the tympanic membrane of his right ear. A ruptured eardrum. John’s tear was not substantial enough to require surgical intervention. In fact the tear should be completely healed in about two weeks. The loss of hearing in both ears is being caused by a temporary threshold shift. A temporary threshold shift is just that. A temporary shift in the ear’s auditory threshold. We also suspect that he suffered a mild concussion.”

Captain Stanley exchanged an anxious glance with John’s partner and then asked the question. “Will his hearing ever return to normal?”

“Dr. Perry is extremely optimistic.” Brackett took a few more swallows of caffeine before continuing. “In the interim, he will have to cope with a sensitivity to loud sounds, sound distortion, dizziness, nausea, tinnitus and the mother of all earaches.” The doctor stared into his coffee cup for a few somber moments. “He is also suffering from griefover the loss of his fellow firefighters, and exhaustionfrom coming off a double shift.”

Roy shook his head. “They weren’t just his fellow firefighters, Doc. Johnny and Rick went through the Fire Academy together. They’ve been close friends ever since. Johnny subs for Rick at 8’s when he has to bring his wife to medical appointments. And Harlin…Johnny was an alternate groomsman at Harlin’s wedding last weekend. He’s got a lot of…grief…to process.”

“I think I can help with that. The constant high-pitched ringing can be debilitating. ‘They’ claim it caused Van Gogh to cut his ears off. Blast related tinnitus can last anywhere from 48 hours to 4 weeks. I’ve been debating whether or not to keep him sedated until the worst of it passes, generally within a few days. You just provided me with sound grounds for the sedation.”

Roy gave Brackett a grateful nod but, postponing the grieving process until his partner was well-rested was just delaying the pain.

With, or without, the delay, John Gage was gonna be in for a whole lot a’ hurt.

 

Three days of heavy sedation later, Roy stopped by to offer his bed-ridden buddy some reassurance and comfort…and support.

DeSoto just stood there in the doorway to 283, staring.

His friend’s haggard face was filled with anguish. Johnny was in so much pain it practically emanated from his pores.

Roy blinked his stinging eyes and stepped into the room. “Does that thing pick up any radio stations?”

Some of the sadness left John’s eyes. “The, uh, threshold shift is dulling my hearing. And, since I have to avoid loud noises, I can’t have people shouting at me. So, this thing is the solution.” John motioned to the hearing aid in his left ear. “Dr. Perry says it’s only temporary, though.”

Roy pulled a chair up and took a seat at his pained partner’s bedside.

The two friends just sat there in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Johnny cleared his tightened throat and spoke. “I ran as fast as I could.”

“I’ve never seen you run faster,” Roy reassuringly replied, his own throat threatening to close up on him. He hoped his hurting friend was finding some comfort in his presence, because he sure as hell couldn’t come up with anything comforting to say.

Grief was keeping a vice-like grip on John Gage’s chest. He felt it lessen its hold just a bit.

After about an hour, it had relaxed enough to allow him to sleepwithout the aid of sedatives.

 

When John woke a few hours later, Rick and Harlin’s widows were standing beside his hospital bed. “I’m sorry…I am soooo sorry. I wish I could have helped them…I so desperately wanted to help them…but there was nothing I could do…nothing anybody could do.”

The women could see the pain in John’s eyes and they heard it in his voice. It broke their hearts to see him hurting so and they took turns hugging the stuffings out of him.

“Oh, Johnny!” Cindy choked out. “We can still love them…remember them. The doctors told us how…severely…they’d been injured. You mustn’t think of them that way. Remember them the way they were before the blast. Just a couple of goofy, fun-loving guys.”

“Yeah,” Jan Seeger joined in, choking back a sob herself. “And, whenever something strikes you as being particularly funny, enjoy a good laugh for them, too.”

The vice-like grip on John’s chest was back and it was several minutes before his throat opened enough to allow him to speak. “They…sent me back for an air-pac…ended up…saving my life.”

Cindy cleared her throat. “If Rick and Harlin could see the three of us right now, we’d be on the receiving end of a couple of good, swift kicks in the abackside. They would never want to see us so sad.”

“Yeah,” Jan joined in again. “So we got ourselves something. This one is yours.” She picked a tissue wrapped package up from the medicine stand and passed it on to their husbands’ grief-stricken friend.

John obligingly tore the tissue away.

Their group gift turned out to be a wooden plaque with a quote from Robert Louis Stevenson. Over a flame red image of a broken heart, there was the silhouette of a firefighter on bent knees, his hands clasped together and his helmeted head bowed in grief. Right beneath the picture, there was an inscription.

It is an ill business

turning to the world a smiling face

when we carry in our breast

a broken heart.

Robert Louis Stevenson

 

Chet Kelly tapped on the doorframe to 283. He didn’t particularly care if John wanted to see him, he wanted to see John. Besides, he was a man on a mission.

The nurses had asked him to encourage John to start eating, so he could get rid of his IV.

John saw Chet staring down at his untouched food tray. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Can’t say as I blame yah,” Kelly admitted, as he stepped into the room. “The few times I’ve been a guest at this establishment, the dining experience left much to be desired. I mean, let’s face it. Hospital food sucks!”

So much for his mission.

Gage’s eyes got a glint of amusement in them. “What d’yah say we test that statement out,” he proposed and pressed his call button.

“Could you bring us about a dozen more straws and four more cartons of milk, please?” he requested of the candy-striper who responded to his room.

The girl didn’t question the weird request. She was just glad to see the patient showing an interest in food.

 

The straws and milk arrived and the two ‘statement testers’ proceeded to ‘suck’ up the contents of John’s food tray.

Their straws kept collapsing and milk had to be added to the already ‘sucky’ mashed potatoes, to make them even suckier.

Their little test turned out to be a noisy endeavor. The Jell-O, in particular, caused quite a commotion.

“What is going on in here?” RN Mavis Mitchell demanded, when she came to investigate the cause for the racket. “We can hear you clear down at the Nurses’ Station.” The woman saw what they’d been up to and fought back a grin. “Aren’t you two a little old to be playing with your food?”

“We are not playing,” her unrepentant patient quickly corrected. “We are conducting an experiment.”

“Yeah. To see if hospital food really sucks.”

“It does.”

“Literally.”

“Yeah? Well, aspiration pneumonia, from inhaling hunks of Jell-O into your lungs, sucks, too. So, stop plaexperimenting with your food, and do what I do…order some take-out. Trust me, it’s safer…all the way around.” The RN’s wry smile escaped and her relief escalated as both fire guyser, boys grinned back.

 

The day for Rick and Harlin’s funeral arrived.

Kel would only allow John to leave the hospital if he agreed to medical supervision.

Dixie volunteered to ‘supervise’ him. She even replaced John’s bandage with an eye patch, so he could wear his dress cap at the funeral.

 

John was ‘officially’ released two days following the funeral and Roy offered to give him a ride over to pick up his car.

 

DeSoto pulled his Porsche into the parking lot behind Station 8. “Captain Stoner said the stuff in your locker is now in your car.”

“Thanks for the ride and…the support.”

“Anytime,” Roy assured him.

The two friends exchanged some sad smiles.

John climbed out of his buddy’s car and into his own. He flicked the ignition and headlights on and pulled forward.

A horrible loud rattling and clanking noise came from the rear of the Rover and he quickly killed its engine.

Roy saw John’s brake lights come on and rolled his Porsche’s window down, “What’s wrong?”

John threw his door open. “I dunno. Sounds like my muffler’s dragging.” He snatched a flashlight from the glove compartment and both men got out to take a look.

They stepped up to the rear of the Rover and found several strings of tin cans and an old fireman’s boot fastened to the vehicle’s back bumper.

There was a white board wired above the strings. Printed across it, in big, bold, black letters was a JUST MARRIED sign. Between JUST and MARRIED, someone had scribbled the word ‘ABOUT’ on an angle, so that the sign now read JUST ABOUT MARRIED.

John gazed blurrily down at the prank and managed a mirthless smile. “Looks like the last hardy-har har…is on me.” That said, he raised his blurry gaze to the station’s back door and tried to picture Rick and Harlin standing there, doubled over in laughter. His attempt at an amused gasp came out sounding more like a sob. It was, after all, an ill business, and it was going to take a great deal of practice.

Roy didn’t say a word. He just rested a hand on his hurting friend’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

‘A great deal a’ practice…and a whole lot a’ support.’

The End

___

 

Epilogue

After two weeks, John’s TM showed complete healing of the perforation and a normal hearing levelexcept for high (4kHz) frequencies. [The frequency range between 1.0 and 4.0 kHz are most susceptible to extensive damage following explosive acoustic trauma.*]

Dr. Perry prescribed spending some time in a quiet place and continued avoidance of any loud sounds.

So John loaded his fishing gear into his Rover and headed up to the San Gabriels for a couple of weeks of quiet time.

Milton Sandoval was charged with illegal purchase, possession, and storage of explosives, and two counts of criminal negligence and reckless endangerment resulting in death. If convicted on all charges, Sandoval could face up to fifteen years in federal prison.

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* info gleaned from the web

 

 

 

 

 

 

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April Picture 2007             Stories by Ross