Misfire - part 2

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"Station 51. House fire. 215 Mountain Lane. Two one five Mountain Lane. Six miles off Topeka. A patrol car will meet you there. Time out 1102."

"Station 51. KMG 365."

"Will you cut that out?"

John glanced over at Roy. He tipped his helmet up to see better. "Huh?"

Eyes on the dusty road going uphill, Roy didn't look over but he stuck out one hand and slapped it over John's left knee, stilling it.

Oh.

"Sorry," John offered. He tried to focus on the rising smoke pillar up ahead.  He leaned forward, squinted at the ranch house rising up on the horizon. There wasn't a patrol car there. Didn't Crockett say there was go—

"Johnny." Roy's exhale was sharp. "Knock it off."

John paused and heard the last bit of drumming on the dash before he sat on his right hand.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He sat on his left hand too. Just in case.

"No," sighed Roy. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't have...Sorry."

"S'okay." John grinned at him. He bumped a fist on Roy's shoulder. Roy huffed a laugh, eyes still on the road.

"I don't see anyone around," Roy murmured.

John sobered. "Thought Crockett said..." He straightened and pointed to the black and white parked just behind the gate. A familiar figure stood tall and alert next to a fidgeting, hand wringing homeowner.

"Vince," Roy murmured needlessly. He gave John a smile. "Ready?"

John didn't reply, but he was grinning, feeling loads lighter as he hopped out of the squad, grabbed his gear and hurried to the back of the arriving engine to tug out the hose.


 

"LA, Station 51. This fire is out. Available 15 minutes."

"Station 51."

"DeSoto?"

Roy glanced up from the canteen he was holding. He caught Vince giving John an arched eyebrow as his partner helped Marco finish up knocking down smoldering planks with a pike and axe. Each long, burnt piece dropped loudly into a pile. Off to the side, still wringing his gnarled hands, the homeowner flinched.

Green eyes tracking John, Roy realized what Vince was looking at.

"His coat got pretty messed up Monday," Roy explained. He tipped the canteen back and took a long drink. The fire plus the dry air kicked up a lot of dust. Everybody was covered more from that than ash. By the time the fire was out, Roy's throat felt closed up. His stomach had churned throughout the blaze.

It was because of the fire. Sure.

Roy, for the third time today, resisted the urge to ask LA to connect him to a landline. Calling Joanne constantly would only rouse her suspicions.

Vince was there to be reassuring and he was.

For the first three minutes.

Roy caught the others giving the officer a look. It wasn't standard procedure, but Cap didn't explain and Roy promised Crockett and Barton he would keep it a secret. John appeared relieved to see Vince there. He greeted Vince like it was everyday they saw the police showing up on their runs. But each time Roy caught Vince out of the corner of his eye, it reminded Roy there was another danger lurking in wait for him.

"Ah." Vince nodded, sympathetic. "Thought I saw John being carried out of there. He alright now?"

The memory of John staggering and stumbling between Chet and Marco gummed up his throat further. The stench of burnt rubber replaced wet wood. Roy could only nod as he took another draught from his canteen.

"That's good," Vince said, distracted. His hand drifted down to his holster.

"What is it?" Roy darted a look over his shoulder, nothing but distant mountains.

"Nothing," Vince muttered. He was still looking about though. "But you should get in the habit of standing behind the squad, Roy."

"Uh. Okay." Roy shifted to the left until he was behind the bay doors on John's side of the squad. He was acutely aware of his height, how his head and helmet stuck out above the roof.

"You should keep your head down too," advised Vince.

Roy laughed, strained. "Vince, we're in the middle of a—"

A crack in the air echoed loud.

"Roy!"

"Get down, Roy!"

Roy felt a body slam into him. Before he could brace himself, another grabbed him by the middle. He yelped as he crashed into the dirt, his air rushing out from the weight on top of him.

"Sorry!" the homeowner called out. "Dang muffler! Uh...you boys okay?"

Roy lifted his chin off the ground. He spat out the dust, blinked his eyes.

Chet and Mike were slowly getting up from their tackles. Dust rose as they patted themselves clean. Marco and John were frozen in position, their pike and axe in mid-air, caught in an interrupted downwards swing. They stared at Roy with huge eyes. It was almost comical, but Roy feared if he started laughing now, John was going to have to sedate him.

Vince was glaring at the red-faced owner on top of the tractor he was trying to move. He turned his glower to Chet and Mike, who rubbed the backs of their necks, suddenly fascinated with their boots. And Cap, he had a hand over his face. He was shaking his head.

So much for keeping it a secret. 

"Squad 51. Man fallen down steps. 55 West Hills Dr. Five five West Hill Drive. Cross street Coulson. Time out 1215."

"Squad 51."

"LA, Engine 51 responding with Squad 51."

"Engine 51."

"This is ridiculous."

John checked Roy out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time Roy had spoken to him since he found out everyone knew about him being a witness. He opened his mouth to say something but he saw Roy's hands wrap tighter around the steering wheel and decided he better not.

"We don't need an engine for this run." Roy's jaw clenched as he avoided a tan station wagon that tried to cut in front of the squad. Dumb drivers. John gave the car a scowl as they zipped past.

"'Man fallen down steps'," repeated Roy. Guess he wasn't expecting John to answer because he went right on. "Steps. Not stairs. I doubt we'll even need to start an IV."

John shifted in his seat. They could have been really tall steps.

"What?" Roy somehow managed to glare at John out of the corner of his eye.

Whoops, John must have spoken out loud. Shoot.

"Well..." John made a face at the crack in his voice. "Better safe than uh...sorry."

"For who?" Roy sighed. He seemed to deflate in front of John. "For the guy who fell or for me?"

The crack of that darn muffler still rang in John's ear like tinnitus. He absently stuck a finger in his ear and gave it a shake.

"I didn't see anything. The guy didn't tell me anything." Roy turned the corner that would lead them into West Hills. "I don't need an escort."

John finally spoke up. "Detective Barton thought so. And don't tell me seeing Vince there didn't make you feel better."

"Yeah. I guess so," Roy admitted, reluctantly. "I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about—"

Just then, the engine still doggedly behind them blared its horn at the idiot in the blue sedan trying to cut between them. 

"That," finished Roy.

"They thought it was better to be on the safe side. Just in case." John peered at his side mirror. Seeing the broad face of their Big Red trailing after them settled the queasy feeling in his belly.

"That reminds me..."

Uh oh. John ducked his head, letting the brim of his helmet dip over his eyes.

"How did the guys know about this? We promised those detectives we wouldn't say anything."

No, Roy promised. John didn't and when he was asked to leave the office, Roy stayed with the others to figure out what to do about his days off. John paced outside the office, finding himself liking Detective Barton even less as he spied through Cap's window to see the guy smirking as he wrote in his little notepad. Barton nodded to whatever Crockett told him but John doubted the younger detective was really listening.

John couldn't stand outside the office anymore. He found himself back in the dorm, remaking his bed, muttering under his breath about smug detectives, bad guys from Chicago and mob families. He was pounding his pillow so hard Chet practically tore it away from him when he checked to see what the commotion was. Somehow, John found himself sitting on Roy's bed, watching Mike and Marco smoothing out the sheets, Chet tossing them a new pillowcase. Suddenly, John couldn't stop talking until Roy called John into the kitchen to call Joanne.

Something must have been on John's face because Roy sighed.

"I guess I would have told the guys myself. It's just that...what if Joanne found out?"

John made a face. "How would she? I wasn't going to tell her! I can keep a secret, Roy!"

For some reason, Roy started, looked at John before he turned back to the road.

Their destination, a rental apartment building in pink and gray, rose into the horizon to meet them. Yeesh. It was fancier than John's building and it probably had two elevators and a swimming pool. Their patient tripped down the steps and probably landed on a pile of silk pillows.

"There's Vince," John pointed out as the squad rolled up behind a patrol car parked by the curb. He smiled when he heard Roy exhale. "Admit it. You feel better seeing him here."

"All right, all right." Roy nodded as he climbed out of the squad. John followed and slipped into his borrowed turnout coat from his side of the bay. Just in case.

"Still..." Roy waved towards Big Red as it huffed to a stop behind them.

John shrugged as he pulled open the doors to grab the Biophone. He made room for Roy to get the drug box. "Okay, I'll admit it. It makes me feel better seeing them here."

Roy said nothing. But he gave John a knowing smile and a clasp on the shoulder before he jogged towards the building, Vince hot on his heels.

John blinked at Roy's back, baffled. Then he shook out of his trance, hefted his equipment and followed.



 

"...thought it was an earthquake—hey, do you have to cut that, it cost me beaucoup bucks, man—because the ground wouldn't hold still and then oops-a-daisy!"

Roy resisted rolling his eyes as their patient, a Mr. Harry Price, hiccupped as he told his tale of woe from his spot on the ground of his foyer, his unshaved face splotched with pink, his lower left calf splinted. His audience of amused firemen and two scantily dressed blonde and redhead Good Samaritans surrounded him and John.

"I thought for sure you were dead, Harry," the blonde tittered. She waggled pink-tipped fingers at Chet. "And you firemen responded so quickly! I thought maybe there was a fire when I saw all you men!" She talked breathlessly, chest heaving up and down. Chet manfully averted his eyes and mumbled they were just doing their jobs.

"Our tax dollars at work, Chrissy," Price belched. Marco grimaced from where he was crouched by the victim's head. He sat back on his heels.

The brunette, stooped to peer over John's shoulder, pouted at Price. "I'm Chrissy."

"I'm Christine," the blonde piped up.

"I'm sorry, girls," Price waved a hand lazily in their general direction. He barely missed smacking Roy in the face. "You two are so gorgeous, I can't tell you two apart."

Roy stared hard at the pressure cuff as two giggles responded.

"...ambulance has arrived, Rampart." John was finishing up on the Biophone by the patient's feet. His ears were still pink under his helmet and he had drawn up his collar to cover his flushed neck. Chrissy had stooped down, asking John in a sugar sweet drawl if she could help. That's when he and Roy realized—although John discovered it first inches from his face—that she wasn't wearing a bra under the t-shirt that was too big to be hers.

"Maybe if you didn't have the tequila, the ground would have been steadier before you three tried to do the limbo," Vince remarked, waving towards the broomstick propped between two coat racks, bound with something suspiciously frilly.

"You're lucky you didn't break your neck, mister." Vince shot John's back an amused look. His hand, though, dangled against his side, hovering close to his holster.

Price belched again. "It was a business lunch."

At Cap's eyebrow, Christine explained, still sounding like she needed a liter or two of O2 herself. "Harry's our talent agent."

Chrissy nodded. "Harry was helping us with our auditions."

Roy exchanged a look with Marco.

"You sure you don't need any help, Mr. DeSoto?" Chrissy stooped closer as she read off John's coat.

"Say, yours say DeSoto too," Price noticed as Roy twisted around to clean up his equipment to make room for the ambulance attendants. "Is that some sort of team name or something?"

Roy caught John cringing, no doubt feeling Cap's glower on his back. Hopefully, his stuff would get in tomorrow as promised.

"Hey now. Hey, watch the threads!" yelped Price as John and the attendants lifted him onto the stretcher.

"I'll go with the ambulance," Roy told John. He bit back a smile when John mumbled a "Sure" and scooted out with the stretcher to escape Cap's disapproving stare and Chrissy's fascination.

"What's up with Junior?" Chet snickered as he followed everyone out of the apartment. Cap waved for the bystanders to part, to make way for them as they went for their vehicles.

"Junior?" echoed Vince. He had paused on the pavement until Roy caught up with him.

Roy groaned. He shot Chet a look as he stepped off the curb. "Knock it off, will you? I'm going to have to listen to him all shif—"

The rest of his words died in his throat when he heard the burning squeal of tires right behind him.

He was never going to hear the end of it.

John had to remind himself not to throw the IV box into the bays as Marco passed him, bidding him a "See ya later, Junior." At least Chris, Christine, or Chrissy wasn't hovering over him in her thin, baggy t-shirt, showing off her, well, shoot, just thinking about them—er—thos, no, no—it, was making his neck flush hotter as if the mild burns on his back had crawled up to his head.

The bay doors rattled when he closed them harder than he should. John ducked his head as Cap walked by him, distinctively clearing his throat. John mumbled a farewell to Cap, who clapped him briefly on his shoulder. He murmured to John they would meet up at Rampart. The tight feeling in his chest did ease somehow so it was with a faint smile, an eyeroll at the twin "Bye, Harry!" giggled by the building doors, that John jogged around to the squad.

Eyes glued to the back of the ambulance, John tracked Roy chatting with Vince, one boot on the step, about to climb in. John was watching so intently, he almost missed it.

A squeal of tires.

A roar of an engine.

John didn't look behind him. Everything screamed to him there was no time. He heard the squeal of rubber, Mike hollering out his window, so John flattened himself against the squad, arms out, spread out like a starfish. His back throbbed when he smacked the squad with a hollow sounding thud.

A blur went by, so fast, John smelled the oil, rubber and exhaust dragging their claws across his face. The wake almost peeled him off the squad and by the time the car was gone, John was winded. It was as if the car stole his breath when it tore past.

Crazy drivers!

John gaped at the trail of exhaust as the dark blue sedan fishtailed before screeching into a corner.

"LA, I need an APB on a..." Vince was shouting into his radio after he gave up his foot chase.

"Is he alright?" Mike shouted. "Is he okay?"

"Did you see that?" one of the girls squeaked.

"Johnny!"

"That guy was nuts! Who lets them on the road?" Someone was yelling in his ear. Why was he yelling? Hands gripped him by the arms, shook out what little air John managed to coax into his frozen lungs. "You okay?"

John smiled but it felt wrong on his face. His skin felt like it was pulled over him too tight. It was hard to move.

"Anyone get the license number of the truck that hit me?" John joked weakly.

"What? The truck that h—Roy!"

There was more yelling now, more hands on his arms as if they were trying to prop him up but John was already standing. The squad was a solid presence against his shoulders like a sturdy retaining wall. He could feel Roy gripping his elbow, talking over the shouting, just as loud, just as hurried, a bit high pitche—Wait, wasn't he supposed to be on the ambulance with the patient?

"Gage said he was hit."

"What? Where? Johnny? Johnny, where were you hit?"

Hands swept behind his head, knocking his helmet off in haste. John blinked dazedly. Oh, it was Roy and Chet—Wasn't Roy going into the ambulance? Wait, hadn't he already said that?

"What the hell happened?" Uh oh, Cap sounded really mad. "Is he okay?"

"Gage said he was hit, Cap—"

"Johnny, look at me." Roy framed his face with both his hands and forced him to look up. Stark green eyes stared at him, wide and unblinking. "Where were you hit?"

Oops. Dumb joke, Gage. John tried to focus again, tried to remember how to talk. His lungs still strained for more air. He smiled weakly but for some reason, Roy didn't grin back. He curled fingers over John's wrist, one hand now fumbling for his penlight from his utility belt.

"I wasn't..." Thank God, his voice came back. John shook his head. It'd be easier if everyone would just stop yelling!

"Keep your head still." Roy flicked the penlight into John's eyes. John flinched, nearly hitting his head against the side of the squad. Roy's hand whipped out between his head and the squad before he did though.

"I wasn't hit," John repeated. He weakly tried to wave Roy back. "Was only kidding—Roy, I'm okay. I was...just trying to be funny..."

"Well it wasn't, Gage," Chet snapped, inches from his face but his iron grip on John eased somewhat at whatever he saw.

"I know...I know..." mumbled John. He swallowed convulsively. He was starting to feel queasy. He shouldn't have gulped down that third taco back at the station. He patted Chet on the chest. Almost. He missed, got his chin.

"Sorry—Roy, I'm okay. Let up, will ya? Let me—whoa..."

John had tried to shoulder past Chet and Cap. He took a step. His knees wobbled. In a snap, hands were on his arms, hoisting him up again.

"Shoot," John mumbled. His head felt unbalanced, too big on his neck. John gulped fresh air and tried again. His knees refused to listen to him.

"I'm just gonna..." John waved feebly at everyone as he slid down against the side of the squad. Sitting felt like a really good idea now. "Just...just gimme a minute..." His head spun. His ears were ringing. At least everyone stopped yelling.

Roy caught John under the arms before John could plop down onto the road.

"Chet?"

"Sure thing, Roy."

There was a whole conversation John suspected he was missing. He raised his head to see what it was and discovered he was walking. Sort of.

"Easy," rumbled Roy by his ear. The hand on his elbow curled, accepting the added weight when John stumbled. "There's a step up over here."

No, there wasn't, John thought, confused. He squinted to where his foot was and realized that it was not the squad's running board.

John stiffened. "Wait..."

"Chet's going to bring in the squad." Roy's voice dropped to a coaxing tone that John wanted to obey, but then he heard the squad purring to a start behind them.

"I can drive the squad." John shrugged out of Roy's grip. "I can—" His foot slipped off the step.

Roy's arm slipped around his middle, stopping what would have been an embarrassing collision of his chin with the ambulance floor.

"Roy, I'm okay. It didn't hit me," John protested as he was hauled up into the ambulance by Roy's firm grip around his torso and someone's push from behind. "Wait..."

"I know it didn't hit you," Roy agreed too easily. "But let's take it easy for the ride over, okay?" He prodded John towards the bench. "Give yourself a chance to catch your breath."

John tried to ease down on the bench but at the last moment, his knees gave out again and he dropped into the bench with a grunt and a sore rear.

"Why don't you...here..."

Roy's hand slipped over the back of John's neck and pushed him gently until he was bent forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

"Deep breaths," Roy advised.

"Maybe..." John swallowed as he stared myopically at the tips of his boots. He couldn't lift his head up under the weight of Roy's hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at the base of his skull until the pounding in his ears he hadn't noticed before started to ebb.

"Maybe," John fumbled out. His tongue felt thick and stupid. He felt thick and stupid. "...I'll just sit here for a second."

The doors shut and the ambulance started to move; his belly rolled with it. John gulped.

"Sounds like a good idea," Roy said. He kept his hand on John's neck. "Come on. Deep breaths, partner."

Out of the blue, Harry Price woke from his alcohol induced nap on his stretcher. He whistled.

"Looks like you're having a bad day, DeSoto. Seems to me, you could use a drink." Price then began laughing, a sawing sound that ended in a belch.

John grimaced but didn't offer to correct Price. He exhaled, tried to settle his belly as it continued to flip-flop.

When Roy quietly suggested John sit back and rest his eyes for a bit, John didn't argue.



 

"LA, Station 51 on a Code I. Available from Rampart in twenty minutes."

"Station 51."

"Really, Gage. I'm flattered."

Roy stood there, leaning against the wall cabinet. He bit back a smile as he caught John's profile screwing up to a scowl when Morton entered Exam room three.

"You know I don't give discounts, but keep this up, I may have to consider it," Morton continued cheerfully. His good mood seemed to go up as John's went down. He didn't appear bothered at all that he needed to get past Vince to enter his own exam room. Morton sobered when he looked over at Dix though. She pulled down the stethoscope from her ears and filled out the clipboard with the latest BP.

"Looks good," Morton murmured as he scanned the readings Roy took periodically from the ambulance to the exam room.

"Holding steady," Dix commented. She patted John on the knee. John grunted but didn't say anything. He couldn't. Dix had threatened John that if he didn't keep the thermometer under his tongue, she was going to stick it somewhere else more embarrassing.

"Looks like you just got the wind knocked out of you," Morton decided.

The thermometer's silver bulb tipped up as John straightened from his perch on the gurney.

"Thass wha ah old..." John's shoulders slumped under Dix's glower.

"I think what Johnny's trying to say," Roy spoke up, taking pity on his partner, "was that's what he figured happened." Thank God. Roy still remembered how his heart seemed to slam hard against his ribs when he saw John abruptly hit the side of the squad, the car zipping by. It was so close; it hit and knocked the side mirror on the squad cockeyed although no one discovered it until they got to Rampart.

Morton folded his arms across his chest, his dark face furrowed in thought.

"I would recommend sitting out the rest of the shift..." Morton raised an eyebrow at John's frantic headshake.

Dix cleared her throat. John turned his eyes to Roy; they reminded him of Boot whenever Chet grabbed him to give the dog a bath.

Roy rubbed the back of his neck. Oh boy.

"Uh, is that really necessary, Doc?" Roy started but John interrupted with a series of muffled syllables and hand gesturing. Either his partner was trying to plead his own case or he was guiding a small aircraft down.

Dix snorted uncharacteristically, reached over and retrieved the thermometer from John's mouth. It slipped out with a pop.

And John went on as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"...fine. I can rest up when my shift is over. Don't even feel nauseous anymore."

Wait a second, Johnny didn't say anything about that.

John flinched; no doubt sensing Roy's glare boring through his back.

"Uh..."

"Temperature's normal," Dix reported wryly as she showed the glass piece to Morton. "There's some doubts about the patient though." She pointedly ignored the narrowed look cast her way.

"All right," Morton decided, "Against my better judgment, I think it's okay to stay on shift—"

"Great." John hopped off the gurney before Morton could finish.

Morton smirked as John shrugged into his turnout coat, barely missing hitting Dix in the eye. He waited until John ducked out the door.

"Take it easy...Junior!"

Roy hurried after his partner before the indignant squawk he heard became yet another tirade. He exchanged a look with Vince before rejoining the others gathered in the waiting room. Yes, he did feel better with Vince standing sentry, but he gets what John meant about seeing the rest of the guys. He found himself not checking each face that walked past him as he reunited with everyone.

So when everyone's handie talkies rang out again, Roy thought about heading out to the next run and nothing else. As he climbed into the squad, John sliding in next to him, Roy briefly forgot there was a man still out there who wanted to kill him.

"Station 51. Man trapped. Six miles off Verbena Overpass, Ramp 15 between the 17 and 45. Ambulance is responding. Time out 1327."

"Station 51."

"Oh man." John tipped his helmet back in dismay. He craned his head back as far as he could to consider the tan and white station wagon seesawing on the edge of the transition ramp. Even now, no wind in sight, it rocked, its front half hovering hundreds of feet above the grassy drop that stood between the 17 and 45. The wagon's crumpled bumper sneered down at the firemen.

"Witnesses say the car was fine but then it started swerving. It crashed through the guard rails and went right for the edge."

"Could be a cardiac," Roy murmured next to him. He passed a lifebelt to John.

John nodded. Luckily something must have caught under the car's undercarriage, stopping a fatal descent to the ground below. He strapped the belt on, his fingers easily finding the buckles. He kept his eyes on the car. The sun, now at its peak, glinted off the windshield and bounced back a white glare that was almost hurt his eyes to look at.

"Roy, I can't see how many people are in there," John said. "And Mike can't get the engine in close enough without adding too much weight on the ramp. You see anything?"

"No." Roy sounded as frustrated as John felt. "Sun's too bright. Might be able to get to the pedestrian side of the overpass behind us and get a look see, but..."

John's mouth twisted. There were already a bunch of cars stopped on one of the bisecting ramps, gawking at the scene across the system of overpasses and exits that crisscrossed high above the freeways.

"I'll see if I can get one of my guys over there to clear the area and take a look inside that car." Vince turned away and jogged back to his patrol car.

"Roy," John said as he pointed to the wagon. "You see that? I don't think we've got time to wait for Vince. Car's ready to tip over. We're gonna lose her."

As if to prove John's point, the car groaned, leaned and tilted forward a bit more. John could feel everyone tense around him. When the car tipped back though, no one really relaxed.

Cap was still talking low and urgent to the handie talkie he held close to his mouth. He sighed and pulled it away.

"Ladder's fifteen minutes away."

"Cap, I don't think whoever is in that car has fifteen minutes." Roy nodded to the car. "If we can get ropes on its rear bumper, I think it'll give us enough time to slide down the top of the vehicle and get whoever is inside out."

"I think it should be just one of us, Roy." John pressed his mouth thin, thinking. "Better be me." He flicked his eyes to Roy then back at the car, then at the drop. His stomach tightened. "Yeah, I think I should do it." Before Roy could protest—John could see it coming like a distant storm cloud—John added, "I'm lighter." He smirked.

Sure enough, Roy's mouth snapped shut and he scowled at John, but even with that, John could see from the furrow between Roy's brow, he wasn't fooled.

Cap looked at them both. He pursed his mouth, eyes darting between them before he grunted. "I'll radio Kelly and Lopez to anchor that car. Ambulance is already up there. Nice and slow, John, all right?"

John shifted from foot to foot. If he shimmied over the roof, he could probably go in through the passenger side door. Shoot, unless there was someone in there with the driver. He could try to go in through the rear window but breaking that glass could send the car over too. Maybe if Mike—

"All right, John?"

With a start, John realized both Cap and Roy were looking at him expectantly. He nodded quickly, too quickly judging how their frowns only deepened.

Cap looked like he was going to change his mind so John backed a step towards the incline that led up to the ramp.

"Come on, Roy," John muttered. He nodded again, slower this time as he grabbed the coil of rope Roy wordlessly gave him.

"Nice and slow, Cap," John promised. He looped the lines of rope over a shoulder. He jogged after Roy up the hill to the ramp. The car bobbed hello out of the corner of his eye as they reached its level.

John gulped. Yup, nice and slow.

Unless it really was a cardiac.



 

Please don't let it be a cardiac.

Roy watched from his position by the rear bumper as John cautiously slid on his rear across the roof. John wiggled forward inch by inch. His blue shirt was soaked through on the back by the time he'd made his way to the front. The car groaned when John tried to lean forward to peer through the windshield.

The lifeline John was tethered to, gripped tightly by Marco and tied to Big Red, appeared too thin, too inadequate as it trembled and shivered taut. Each time John asked for more slack, his words were tight, tossed over his shoulder, brisk and economical. And each time the line eased to give John the requested inches, Roy fought the urge to lunge for the line himself.

Roy's right foot bore all its weight on the rear bumper. His left heel dug into the soft dirt that lined the torn guardrail. He wrapped his right elbow around the frame of the shattered rear passenger side window.

Chet mirrored him on the other side with his left leg and arm. The look he gave to Roy across the shuddering car spoke volumes.

This wasn't going to be enough.

The car's heavy front half was completely off the ramp. The ramp hung over a drop of at least a hundred and fifty feet with nothing to offer below but hard ground with withered yellow grass.

The back of the wagon balanced on the soft dirt that was still dissolving and the edge of the ramp. Going through the rear window was not an option now.

Roy and Chet's combined weight added the necessary stability six ropes on the rear bumper couldn't provide. Still, Roy could feel the car rocking like a boat on the sea, its rear wheels briefly touching the ground before bouncing gently back up again.

"More slack," John bit out. "Almost there."

The car shifted. Metal keened as the remaining pieces of guardrail buckled little by little, unable to bear the weight.

John kept freezing, his limbs locked in place in a way that reminded Roy of his kids playing Red Light, Green Light in the back yard. But here, no one was laughing.

Abruptly, John leaned over the roof to peer upside down into the driver's side window. Roy's warning shout lodged in his throat.

"Geez, Gage!" Chet didn't seem to have the same problem. "Take it easy, will you?"

"It's just the driver," reported John. He sounded breathless. "He's slumped over the wheel."

Roy gritted his teeth as the car swayed too far forward under John's weight. His left knee ached, his leg stiff in position as he dug his heel deeper into the wet slush of dirt and sand.

"Can you get a carotid?" Roy asked between his teeth.

John straightened. He had one hand flat over the top of his helmet, one hand curled on the roof edge. He was flushed from hanging upside down.

"Nah." John looked grim. "Window's shut. I can't get a carotid. Breathing looks to be labored." He cautiously set both palms on the roof and inched closer to the other side.

"Roy, she's slipping," Chet ground out. "Whatever you guys are gonna do, do it now."

"You think you can get in through the windshield?" Roy shouted.

The car groaned and lurched. Roy found himself skidding forward. Damn it!

John's eyes were huge, his arms straight as he grabbed the roof on both sides.

"No way. If I get down there, it'll go over for sure." John swallowed as he eyed the left side of the roof.

"I'm gonna try to get in through the passenger's side. Backseat looks clear. Maybe we can risk putting him on a backboard and slide him out the—Whoa!"

There was a tiny ping that was almost drowned out by the crackling sound of the windshield shattering. Chet yelped when the rear windshield exploded simultaneously. Glass splintered. Roy felt the heat of a flying shard slicing over his cheek, missing his left eye.

John barely had time to yell before he slipped completely off the car.

Nice and slow, Gage. Nice and slow.

As John made his way to the front of the car, he caught a glimpse of all the cars stopped on the overpass across from them. He screwed up his face. Great. At least the bystanders were too far away to be in the way this time. He sort of understood the fascination, yet it bugged him how often they had to veer around people with no sense to stay back.

John had been tempted before to give them a wave, but that thought was only fleeting as he crawled to the front. The news wasn't good. And they were running out of time. He could tell from Roy's clipped response and how the car still bobbed despite the ropes.

There was no other way; they couldn't wait for the ladder. The driver became his patient the moment John sighted him. John's gone this far. He wasn't about to leave his patient now.

Teeth clenched, John eased his way to the other side of the car. The car began to rock not up and down, but side to side.

John's left boot skidded constantly on the roof, but his toecap would catch itself on the top of the windshield. John didn't think it was worth mentioning it though. Roy sounded like he was on the car and the last thing his partner needed to worry about (besides the whole 'there's a mysterious unscrupulous killer out there to get you') was the fact that John's boots felt like they were standing on oil right now. Roy was having a bad enough day.

Marco was being stingy about the slack he gave John's line. A few tugs got barely an inch from him. For Pete's sake, how was he gonna get to the other side like this? John told Roy his plan, was about to gripe to Marco to give him more than an inch of slack each time when his darn left foot slipped again.

Out of nowhere, there was a thin whine, like someone had tore a sheet of metal by his ear. John jolted.

The front windshield under his foot was suddenly...not there.

John heard glass breaking.

John heard Roy shouting.

John heard the car groaning as it tipped crookedly to his right. He tumbled off the roof and rolled off the hood.

Did he yell? It felt like he did. John's throat felt scraped raw, dry and strained as he felt the lifeline he was hooked to snap taut.

John yelped when he slammed into the front bumper.

His helmet tipped, banged against the hood of the car then flew off his head. Shoot. There went another one.

There were shards of glass raining down on him.

Chet was hollering something that didn't sound polite.

The ramp underneath the car groaned. The rail made an ear-piercing scratching noise as it clawed the car's belly. Concrete crackled like popcorn as it crumbled and fell.

The car crunched and the hood he had just rolled off of popped open with a screech.

And Roy was still shouting.

So much for nice and slow!

John grunted. His hands whipped out to grab anything and got a grip of the grill and the license plate. He hooked a leg on a piece of rail that had gotten dragged into the car's undercarriage. Just in time. The license plate popped out of its screws, it sliced across his right glove before spinning down below.

"Johnny!" It wasn't clear who shouted. John could barely hear it past the roaring in his ears.

"Marco, do you still have his line?"

"I got it but I can't seem to pull it up. It's caught on something!"

In front of him, John could make out his line, blurry even though it was just off his nose, snarled around the wheel axle. Dimly, he knew he should call out, say something, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the rope.

"Johnny!"

"What the hell happe—Roy, she's going!"

John felt the car bow as it slid lower. He found himself staring at the bottom of the ramp. His right foot dangled until he swung it up and braced it into the crazy jumble of guardrail, steel and shredded car.

"Mike! Back her up!"

John grimaced. He could hear the muffler and the axle grinding against the dirt and concrete. Sparks spit angrily as metal scraped metal. Screws snapped. The car seesawed wildly. He swallowed. Oh no. He was getting seasick.

"Stop! Stop!" Roy sounded frantic. "We're just ripping the rear bumper off!"

Boy, John thought dazedly, those guys across from him were probably getting a real good show right now. He pulled himself up a bit more. He froze when he felt the railing his legs were wrapped around start to shift.

"Johnny! Johnny!" Roy was getting hoarse. "Marco, tie his line down and get mine."

That spurred him to speak. John coughed, pulled himself higher. He grimaced when he felt the grill shake. One of the screws was spinning out of its hole. He gulped.

"Roy?" John rasped. He started when he saw Roy's head poke out from the edge of the ramp. Roy didn't seem to notice (or care) the car was groaning and shaking by his ear.

"You all right?" Roy didn't even flinch when the car sank deeper into the dirt. He stuck his hand out but he was a foot short of even brushing against John's hair.

"Yea," John managed. He pulled up and managed to look over the front bumper, into the exposed engine when a loud creak vibrated through the car and into his legs.

"Roy, get back!" Cap barked out. Roy disappeared briefly after a couple of hands grabbed Roy by the shoulders.

"I can climb back up!" John shouted to be heard above Roy's "Let me go after him!" "Roy, get the guy! Window's busted. We should be able to slide him out of the back now! I—"

The car dipped, like those martial arts guys he'd seen in movies, bowing (kow kow—towing they called it) and John found himself staring at the undercarriage of the car again.

"Marco!" John yelled as he dug his fingers into the front grill. He jerked his head when a screw broke free and flew past his face. "Marco, throw me another line! I'm gonna cut the other one!"

"You're gonna what?" Chet butted in and hollering for some reason, drowning out whatever Marco was about to say.

"It's caught in the tires!" John spat. Mud kept sprinkling down his face. "I can't untangle it! Just throw me another line before this one bre—"

There was that weird sound again: short and shrill, like tearing metal and the rope around the wheel snapped.

Marco grunted, having fallen back like he was at the losing end of a tug-a-war.

"Johnny!" Again, John couldn't make out who it was yelling past the noise in his ears.

"I'm all right!" John eyed the grill's second screw slowly winding out of its hole. "But hurry!"

The new lifeline sailed over high, bounced off John's head and nearly poked him in the eye.

John was never so glad to see it!

Legs wrapped around the mangled mess of metal, one hand digging into the gap the front bumper made with the car, John knotted the line through the hook on his lifebelt one handed, tugged it tight with his teeth and thought to himself he really, really hoped that would be good enough.

"Alright!" John wondered if they could hear him; the car was grumbling as it kept slipping forward. The hood slammed down by itself as the car dipped.

"Heave!" Cap said. "Come on, heave!"

With jerks, John could feel himself being pulled over the hood. His boots caught briefly on the windshield frame, but it also gave John a glimpse of the empty car. Good. They'd got the victim out.

With a hard yank John was unprepared for; he was dragged halfway across the roof in one abrupt move. For one nutty moment, he wondered if this was how a caught trout felt. Then he yelped when another pull dragged him across the rest of the way.

Hands grabbed the back of his trousers, harder than he would have figured necessary. He tumbled, unable to catch his footing and crashed into Chet and Marco. They all fell in a tangle of limbs.

John lifted himself up on his elbows. He wiped the mud off his face with a sleeve just as muddy. "What's the big idea—"

With a roar, the car nearly folded as it edged closer over the ramp.

"Get down!" Cap shoved their heads down just as the anchoring ropes snapped.

The car seemed to hang there in mid-air for a second, before it completely tipped over.

It fell.

John didn't look, still lying there on his belly, gaping at the space where the car used to be. He heard a distant explosion down below. Cars below the ramp honked, a fire engine rumbled and there was the vague indistinct warbling of a police bullhorn but that was it.

"You were saying?" Chet asked archly. He sat there in his mud streaked turnout coat, his face smudged as if with soot.

John blinked at the open sky, across to the other overpass currently being emptied of onlookers by the police then back at Chet and Marco.

"Nice catch," John managed.

Marco snorted and chucked some mud at him.

"Charging at 400…"

"…run an IV of…"

"...good sinus rhythm, 51..."

Roy's hands were steady when he popped the ampules, sure and direct when he stabbed the syringe where it needed to be.

"Readings look good over here, 51. Transport immediately..."

His voice was clear when he had first called Rampart. Doctor Brackett answered when Roy radioed. He agreed with Roy about the v-fib; his voice brisk when he told Roy what was needed. Doctor Brackett was calm. Of course, he was. Why wouldn't he be?

Two lines. IV push. Ten milligrams. Charging at four hundred. Again. Sodium bi-carb. Again. Lidocane. Roy did everything as the training had taught him. But the whole time, from flat line to decent sinus rhythm, all Roy could tell himself, in-between performing the lifegiving instructions, was 'They got him. They got him.'

Roy trusted his station. He fought fires, ate smoke with those guys. He trusted those guys with his life.

Johnny was going to be okay. Roy wasn't going to consider anything else; they weren't going to allow anything else.

Still though...

They got him. They got him.

"Roy, what do we got?"

There was a steel thread that held up his spine the entire time he was with the patient. It kept his head bowed, shoulders turned away from the precariously balanced death trap.

That steel vanished as soon as John crouched down on one knee over their patient, penlight in his scraped hand.

Roy found himself suddenly lightheaded. He fought to keep his voice even. "Hey."

John looked up, quirked a smile at Roy and went back to business. He blinked away trickles of sweat so he could have a better look at the pupils.

"Uneven and sluggish," John murmured, his brow knitted together. "Roy, how many times you had to za—" He blinked when he raised his head. "Roy?"

Roy cleared his throat. "Three times. At four hundred." He motioned to the attendants pulling the stretcher along. "You alright?"

A pen was clamped between John's teeth as he flipped through his notepad for a clean sheet. "Yea," he mumbled around it. "How many times you said? Two?"

"Three." Roy gave John a scan up and down.

Pages crinkled as John flipped to a new sheet.

"Did Rampart okay for an IV with—"

Roy didn't wait for John to finish. They never have to with each other. "Yeah. Twenty milligrams."

John didn't ask for clarification or even the drug; he nodded as he scribbled.

Roy narrowed his eyes at John's bowed head. Aside from being covered head to toe in mud, spotted with chalky white concrete sand on his hair and pants, John looked relatively okay. Nevertheless, Roy's insides were knotted up as he tallied up the damage he did see.

"You sure you're okay?" Roy said. He kept one eye on his patient as they lifted him onto the stretcher.

John nodded, impatiently waving Roy off as he tucked the IV bag under the patient's shoulder and settled the heart monitor between his legs. They followed the stretcher to the ambulance.

"You hit that car pretty hard before."

"I'm alright. I'm alright...Well, er, except..."

Roy stiffened. "What?"

Sighing loudly, John pivoted around, walked backwards as he gestured towards his head. "I lost another helmet, Roy. And..." He pulled off his right glove with his teeth. He made a face. "Ugh. Mud. Look!"

Roy wasn't sure if he was relieved or wanted to haul his partner into the ambulance by his collar. "Again?"

"This is one expensive shift," mourned John. "My coat, my gloves, my helmet—"

"Looked like you got a rip in your pants too, Gage. Left side," Chet pointed out as he went by. "Ladder's here, Cap."

Cap grunted. "Good, they can put out the fire."

Roy patted John on the shoulder as John sputtered, glaring at the lower part of his dark trousers.

"Wha...do you believe this, Roy?"

Roy climbed into the ambulance, accepting the Biophone John passed him. "You okay to drive, partner? I mean, you practically got nothing on!"

"Now there's a scary image," Marco quipped behind them as he wound up the lines they used for the rescue.

John shot Marco and a snickering Chet a glower as he jogged to the squad. "I can drive. See you at Rampart!"

Roy could only afford a smile, a wave, his focus back on his patient as Cap shut the ambulance doors for him, a meaty slap on them to tell the ambulance it was good to go.

As the ambulance wailed into motion, Roy absently wondered what could have made that odd little round hole in Johnny's pants.

"LA, Station 51 returning to base."

"Station 51."

"I don't believe this."

John glowered at his bandaged finger, poking out of the rent of his right glove. He sat in his locker, newly showered, wearing his spare trousers and shirt. His boots lay on their sides, smelling faintly of polish.

"Roy, do you see this?" He wiggled his finger through the tear towards his partner.

Roy apparently ran out of sympathy. "I did see it. The whole time from Rampart and back. Dix saw it too. And Morton."

John scowled at the mention of Morton. He shook his covered finger again in the air.

"I think he did this on purpose. Why did it have to be Morton again? And did he have to wrap it up like this?"

"You tore off a nail right through the glove," Roy reminded him. The corner of his eye twitched. "Be glad he still let you stay on duty."

Like John has a choice. "I'm gonna need to pull overtime for three days before I can replace all this." John slapped the glove lightly on his knee.

"Don't you have spar—Let me guess..." Roy leaned on the wall by his locker. He folded his arms in front of him. "Those were your spares."

"My uniform allowance isn't big, Roy," John groused. "I can replace a helmet, maybe some gloves on it, but all this?" He poked at his trousers. At least he had spares back in his apart—He groaned.

"What?"

John wearily waved towards himself. "I had my spare shirts cleaned and left them in my apartment."

"Oh. Maybe the damage wasn't too bad." Roy was usually for the worst case scenario. Boy, John must really be in a bad way if Roy was trying to look at the brighter side.

"I guess I'll be eating peanut butter sandwiches for the next month." John made a face. It wasn't fun the last time he had to do that. Peanut butter used to be his favorite.

"You know, we could ask Cap to talk to headquarters. Maybe they'll let you hold out on the coat until next month. You could keep my coat and replace the cheaper stuff first."

John smiled wearily at Roy. He felt a warmth in his chest that quelled the restless turning in his stomach.

"No offense, Roy. But I would rather have my own stuff."

Roy shrugged, smirking.

"Aw, did you hear that, Marco? Junior wants his own gear." Chet emerged from the dorms with a smirk, his hands in his pockets.

Marco snickered. "They grow up so fast, don't they, Roy?"

Roy threw up his hands, not wanting any part of that conversation but John did catch the grin on his face before he suddenly became fascinated with washing his hands.

John growled, "Chet, knock—" He yelped when a pair of gloves dropped on his head then fell into his lap.

"I want those back, Gage," Chet said, head buried in his locker. "I got those specially made from that guy in Pomona."

John held them away from him. He made a face. "If you're that worried I'll break them, then why give them to me?"

Marco dropped a helmet on John's head. His spare. "Anything to stop your whining," he said but there was little heat in it. He crooked a grin at John.

Pushing the brim up with a thumb, John grinned back. He wiggled his fingers into the gloves. He frowned.

"They're too big," John complained. He tugged at the hems and felt the leather snap back loosely over his palms.

"Hey. Not my fault you got dainty hands, Gage. Remember, if you rip those, you're buying me two pairs." Chet swatted towards John. He missed but didn't bother trying again as he sauntered out, Marco following.

"Two?" John grumbled. He eyed Roy. "What's so funny?"

Roy shook his head, but his mouth was still curved up. "Nothing. Just thought it was nice of Chet, that's all."

John snorted but even the corners of his mouth wanted to twitch up. "I suppose. Although you hear him trying to get me to buy…Wait a minute." John bristled.

"Dainty?" 

Before Roy could reply, before John could tear after that rotten Chet, the tones rang out for Station 51, Engine 8 and Ladder 18. John shoved his feet into his boots and hopped after Roy.



 

"Station 51, Engine 8, Ladder 18. Possible gas leak. Corner of Wilson and Orange. Time out 1531."

"Station 51."

"Engine 8."

"Ladder 18."

"LA, deputy responding on scene with Station 51."

Roy heard John groan next to him as he parked the squad across from the five story structure. When he stepped out of the cab to take a better look for himself, Roy bit back a groan of his own.

"I thought the address sounded familiar," Roy muttered.

"I'm guessing it's the furnace," griped John as he shrugged into his gear. "Wanna bet his construction permits are expired? Again?"

Roy shook his head. "Not if I want to lose money," he muttered. He considered the drab dirt brown structure, still covered with scaffolding in front (the owner had never taken it down after his last failed inspection).

The engine rolled up behind the squad. Marco hopped out of it. Chet was already climbing up to the hose beds as soon as Cap told him to get the inch-and-a-halves.

"Hey, isn't that—"

"Yeah, Marco. We know," John said wearily. "Three violations." He shrugged into his breathing gear as he scowled at the building. "I bet the owner didn't fix any of them either."

Roy grimaced. "There was a full house in that hotel the last time we were there." He flicked a look to Cap.

Cap stood there, fists on his hips, darkly looking at the height of the hotel. Roy could see their captain remembered the reports he and John had submitted from their last round of inspections. He'd forwarded their recommendations about evacuating the residents to headquarters. That was last week.

"We're going to have to check each floor," Cap muttered. Louder, "Shut down the elevators. We'll check the upper floors. Chet, run a line—"

On the third floor, at the south face, a window blew out with a bellow of smoke. Glass sparkled briefly in the afternoon sun before dropping down on the arriving Engine 8 and Ladder 18. Roy saw the arriving firemen hunched down in their seats. Thankfully, they appeared to be okay as one by one, they emptied their engines to grab the hoses.

John exchanged a look with Roy. The explosion had very little fire with it. That was actually bad.

"Damn," Cap swore. He seemed to agree with John's silent assessment. "Marco, get on the horn with LA. We're going to need the gas and power turned off in case they never fixed the wiring—"

A window on the fifth floor shattered. Someone screamed. Others stuck their heads out of windows, hollering, panicked.

Again, there was little fire but a lot of smoke, thick and white, filled the sky. Briefly, the sun was shrouded, sending the street into shadows.

"They didn't fix the wiring," Roy sighed. They all exchanged a look, pulled their masks over their faces. Without prodding, they jogged towards the hotel, shouldering past the masses running away from it.

"LA, Station 51. Respond an additional ladder and a squad for a second alarm. Possible trapped victims."

"Station 51."

The woman, coughing and screaming, almost knocked John off the stairs.

Roy's hand planted on John's lower back, steadying him when John stumbled back down a step after the woman in a sky blue bathrobe and white slippers crashed into John.

"Easy! Easy!" John yelped as he fought the instinct to wheelbarrow his arms and used them to right the fleeing woman instead. "Stay calm! Fire department's here. Just two more flights to go, ma'am."

"...Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry! Sorry! T-there's all this smoke! We thought they were just fixing the furn—"

A small explosion above them sent the woman practically climbing John like a tree.

"We have to go! We have to leave! Help me! The building is going to—"

"I got her."

Roy's hand disappeared from John's back as he went up to drop a reassuring arm over her shaking shoulders.

"Ma'am, here, let me help you."

"Roy..." Chet began. Even behind the breathing mask, it was audible how bad of an idea he thought it was for Roy to go anywhere alone.

"It's fine. Cap and Vince are right outside."

John flicked a look towards the staircase rising higher into the ever increasing thick smoke. There were sounds of panic above: the clamor of footsteps, screaming, doors slamming.

"I'll be checking upstairs," John said. He caught the blink Roy gave him, the expression of relief which he waved off before he grabbed the inch-and-a-half behind Marco.

"See you up there! Watch yourself!" Roy supported the woman in the bathrobe and somehow, another woman, older, shorter but just as scared, latched onto his other arm.

John glanced back over his shoulder, watched Roy take the stairs with his two victims. He squared his shoulders and gently went against the flow of evacuees as he followed Marco and Chet up to where the smoke smelled the strongest.



 

A burst of flame broke out of a fourth floor door so John left Chet and Marco to fight that demon while he ventured higher.

The fifth floor was empty. All the doors were flung open, some taped off with clear signs of construction.

Regardless, John poked his head into every door. "Fire Department! Anyone in here?"

The fires on the third and fourth floor sent thick black smoke rising to the fifth and sixth floors. Even with the mask on, John thought he could taste it: a gritty, charcoal tang in the back of his throat. He swallowed repeatedly, gulping tanked air to soothe a dry throat he was pretty sure was only imagined. It still took some getting used to: breathing normally despite everything around him telling him he probably shouldn't.

John didn't hear anyone above him. He hoped that meant everyone was evacuated. He tugged his mask lower to cover his chin. He sucked in another breath of air from the tank.

"Fire department! Anyone in here?"

John checked his boots uneasily when he heard the floor groan. He hoped it was due to age and not fire that made the floor feel like it was a slab of mud. Falling through the floor had little appeal; like a ceiling falling on him.

At the reminder, John spared the ceiling above him a glance. The ceiling was unblemished save the patches of peeling painting. He tore his gaze away and moved on to the next door.

"Fire dep—"

There was a creak.

Not under him. Not over him.

Behind him.

"Don't worry. I'm from the fir—"

John felt a large hand clamp over the back of his neck. Before John could finish, before he could register the glint of silver that reflected off his mask, John was shoved forward through the very door he was going to check.

"Hey! Take it easy! Calm down! I'm with—"

The hand tightened. His mask jerked.

John realized whoever it was, he wasn't going to let John finish.

The edge of his mask dug into his face as it was tugged again, the hose it was connected to was caught on something. John twisted away. Tried. The hand gripped his neck, forcing him to hunch forward. John stumbled as he was hauled deeper into the room.

The construction warnings were kicked aside, planks of unfinished wood scattering when John was shoved down to his knees. A boot dug into his lower back when he tried to get up.

A flash of light.

John flinched, but couldn't go far. All he could do was raise his arms up when he saw the steel edge glint above him as it swung down in a striking arc.

Hiss.

With a violent yank, dragging the air mask halfway down his face, his hose was cut. He could feel air sputtering from the slashed hose and the dying remains of air in his mask.

John lurched back. He tried to get the boot tip he could feel digging into his back to get off. The exertion drew tainted air into his lungs. The last of his air mixed with a noxious soup of smoke and gas. His coughing shook his entire body. He was unable to break free of the iron hold around his neck.

Eyes watering, chest heaving, John tried to regain his footing as he was dragged to a hole in the wall.

Blinded by the burning tears in his eyes, his feet dangling because they couldn't touch the ground, John fought. His elbows felt like they struck a solid wall behind him. The arm around his throat squeezed. John clawed what felt like a two-by-four digging into his Adam's apple.

Abruptly, the arm vanished from under his chin. Before John could twist free, the hand was back on the back of his neck. A hard push and John crashed into the wall. The mask was torn from his face so quickly his skin burned.

Hands splayed on the wall he was pressed against. John pushed off. A knee dug into his lower back, hard enough he could feel it through his gear.

Another push and his cheek scraped against the wall, to a gaping hole raw with splinters. John could see billows of smoke, thick and black. John could see a wide black pillar, still gleaming with tar, a jagged mouth vomiting smoke.

The furnace pipe.

It was like being pinned behind the engine. John tried to push off with his feet, his aching hands, but no sooner did he gain an inch, when his face was forced down towards the hole again.

John could hear the furnace pipe groaning, straining as it belched more black poison into the room, into his face. Behind him, the attacker didn't make a sound. He didn't seem bothered by the smoke, while John coughed and gagged. He didn't even grunt when John jabbed an elbow back. John knew he hit him. He did! But he wasn't making a sound.

Wood creaked under them. John could hear his attacker's boots, heavy heeled and scraping along the floor. The guy stayed where he was, unbothered by the fumes, unmoved at the elbows and kicks John tried to rain on him. He stood there, large hands forcing John's face over the hole.

John could feel himself fading.

No! A jolt went up his spine, one last desperate surge that got him to lock his elbows, flexed his shoulder blades and pushed. Pushed!

The back of John's head struck something hard and round. He heard a crack. A breathing mask. The man gave a startled grunt. He staggered back, giving John a few precious inches away from the hole in the wall.

But John's lungs burned.

John's knees buckled.

There was a hard knock across his lower back. Or a kick. John wasn't sure. He garbled out a cry, maybe a "No" before he crashed into the wall again. Boneless, he slid to the floor.

As the fumes swirled around him, darkening his vision, John heard his attacker stumble out of the room. The door slammed shut. He heard something outside grind and scrape across the floor before stopping at the door. A thud indicated the door was now blocked.

Chest heaving, John tried to push up on his elbows. Coughing, coughing, coughing so hard, his elbows folded and he dropped to the floor. He reached up, clawed the edge of the hole above him to give him leverage. He pulled, hauled himself up. John got his chest off the floor but his knees wouldn't move, wouldn't lock and he fell back down again.

He didn't try again.

...Get up.

Get up!

His chest felt tight, like a giant fist was curled around him, squeezing, crushing. With each pulsing throb, his mind screamed for him to get up.

John gagged, coughed, but he moved.

The tank dug into his aching back when he rolled feebly away from the wall.  Or at least he hoped he was rolling away. His eyes streamed with tears and his hands were numb. He barely felt the floor. It was like he was floating. Each lungful of air hurt. If only he could rest for one—

No!

With a cry that incited more violent coughing, John moved his limbs. He used his knees like oars, rocking himself to the side, rolling himself away. Once more. Come on...

The foul stench of tainted air eased as he moved away, but John could smell it filling the room. Eyes closed—they were swelling shut—John got on his hands and knees. He crawled.

In training, they were once put in what firefighters jokingly called 'the oven', an enclosed bunker with no windows, slowly growing hotter and darker. Rookies learned to search with their hands, made their way through mazes with the map they drew in their heads, they were often guided by the count they were advised to make the moment they entered the inferno. Lifelines were too susceptible to fire to rely on.

There had been no chance to make a count.

John crawled, hands numb and heavy as lead, knees shaking. Blind, choking, John almost collapsed when his head struck the doorknob. He grabbed it with both hands, used it to haul himself up to his feet.

It wouldn't turn.

A shoulder against the door didn't move it. John threw all his weight into it, back, shoulders, hip, even the air tank. But the door wouldn't move.

"Hey!" John pounded at the door. "H—" He couldn't finish. He sagged against the door. Only his desperate hold on the doorknob kept him up.

John forced his eyes open. He squinted through tears and looked around the room he was trapped in.

The thin slits of light nearly blinded him.

John had to push away from the door to give himself enough power to lurch towards the boarded up window. Slivers of light, almost golden bright, cut through the black. John tripped over his own feet, got up again, then fell when his boot crunched over the mask that had been torn off him.

No. He needed to keep moving.

John couldn't get back on his feet again. So he belly crawled. The taste of smoke seemed to get thicker in his throat, closing his airway. His eyes burned. He could hear his tank, still strapped over his shoulders, hissing away precious air. John wheezed. He feebly caught the flailing cut end of the hose and pointed the thin geyser of air towards his face.

The air revived him briefly. John clamped his mouth shut, shakily knotted the cut hose closed and held his breath. He wanted to pull the tank off, breathe in the escaping oxygen but he knew he only had enough in him for one last shot. His only shot.

When John bumped into the wall, the boarded up window above him, he wanted to cry out in relief. Instead, he clawed the boards above him until he shakily got back to his feet. The planks rattled but they didn't move beyond that. They were nailed shut.

The room felt saturated with fumes now. John's lungs burned as he struggled to slip the tank off his shoulders. The tank dropped to the floor.

John couldn't pick it up.

Come on. Come on!

The air he held in exploded out in a whoosh when he lifted up the tank with rubbery arms. Gasping loudly in his own ears, John staggered under the weight of the tank, used its momentum to drop him forward.

The tank barreled through the planks, through the glass.

John held on tight as he could to the tank so it wouldn't hurtle down on to the guys below. Through the gaping hole he made, he could see the tan turnout coats amassed below. Were they looking up? They must be.

Please. Let someone see that.

"Hey!" John croaked through the hole. He weakly stuck an arm out. The air coming in reeked of smoke from the fire below. "H-hey! Up...up...h-here..."

The smoke seemed to gather around the edges of his vision, darkening what was already a small patch of light. John clung to the edge of the hole he had made. He tried to shout again but nothing would come out. His chest heaved as he pressed closer to the window. The board he clung to groaned under the strain.

The split board broke free from the wall and John dropped to the floor.

 

The first thing Cap did when Roy came out of the building was throw him against the engine.

Three victims were clustered around Roy by the time he made it downstairs. Their panic attached them to his arms despite his reassurances they were okay. Their relief, once they were outside, scattered them like his boy Chris' marbles in all directions.

Before Roy could warn them to go to the squads to be looked over, Cap's sharp "Watch out!" interrupted him.

Roy felt arms around his middle. His feet briefly left the ground and then Roy slammed into 8's engine. Air rushed out of him but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the clear, almost ear-piercing sound of glass raining down from above.

Glass and wood shattered on impact; tiny explosions splintering just a few feet away.

"You all right?" Cap demanded. Behind him, there were similar exclamations as firemen got back to their feet.

Roy nodded numbly. He stared at the glass then slowly tilted his head up.

"Fifth floor," Cap answered his unspoken question. He drew his HT to his mouth. "HT 51, Engine 51. We have a possible victim trapped on the fifth floor on the north side."

"Engine 51. This is Kelly and Lopez. We're on fourth, south side. We need another line here. Gage went up ahead to fifth."

Roy tensed. At Cap's nod, he adjusted his helmet, tugged his mask securely over his face and dove back into the building.

People were still evacuating the building, coughing, eyes shut, hands reaching out frantically in an effort to navigate through the smoke.

"Easy! Keep moving!" Roy called out when one man barreled into him as he tore down the stairs. The man almost pitched Roy over the railing in his haste. "Careful! Keep moving, sir!" Roy pushed him towards the stairs behind him, prodded another. He could hear firemen from 8 coaxing residents in their direction. He could hear distant sirens outside. More help was coming. Roy could keep going.

The fire on third had spread up to the fourth floor. By the time Roy reached the fourth floor, he could make out Chet and Marco's damp backs, their gear soaked as spray bounced off blackening walls. Steam from fast evaporating water filled the level, mixing with black smoke. Everything felt hot and muggy on what little skin was left exposed. Roy shrugged deeper into his turnout coat and looked up at the staircase that rose into the higher floors.

"I'm going up to find Johnny!" Roy hollered over the roar of the fire and hoses. "18 is right behind me with another line. You got this?"

Chet, two hands curled around the head of his hose, nodded jerkily. Marco, straddling the hose behind him, spared a hand to give Roy a thumbs up before he went back to wrestling the hose before that much PSI could cause the line to whip out like an angry snake.

Roy continued on up the steps just as 18's men thundered up to the fourth floor to join Chet and Marco's line in battle.

The fifth floor, while untouched by fire, bore the scars of the random explosions the building had experienced. Smoke from below streaked the walls and obscured flickering light from the random bulbs that somehow survived. Construction cones, most likely from the renovations the building seemed to be perpetually undergoing, lolled on their sides. One looked crushed by a stampede.

Parts of the ceiling had also caved in, blocking the center of the hallway with jagged torn wood braided together into a bramble of debris.

"Johnny!" Roy shouted to what doors he could reach unobstructed. He cocked his head. Nothing. He leaned into the staircase. He took a deep gulp of air from his mask, before yanking it down from his face.

"Johnny, you up there?" Roy hollered up as loud as he could. He had to quickly put the mask back on. The air on the floor was a sour mix of fumes, smoke and steam that made him gag.

No one called down from sixth.

Roy glared at his surroundings. He clambered over debris, one hand on the wall to keep track of where he was going; the hallway was rapidly losing its light. He silently calculated where the north side and that window would be. He wiggled under broken rafters, pulled down torn four-by-fours and found the room was blocked.

He also found, by the blocked door, Johnny's handie talkie.

"Johnny?" Roy pounded a fist on the wall. "Johnny, you in there?" He yanked off his helmet, pressed an ear to the wall. But he couldn't hear anything. The fire below bellowed furiously, firemen shouted in muffled yells behind their masks, he couldn—Wait!

There was someone coughing behind the wall.

"Johnny?" With two fists, Roy hit the wall again. "I'm going to get you out!"

There was a weak thump inside; something hollow dropping to the floor. Then after a beat, the thump was heard again.

Roy eyed the destruction piled up against the door. There was no way he could fit in there to get to the door. He fumbled out his handie talkie.

"Engine 51, HT 51. This is DeSoto on fifth. I need the K-12."

"10-4, 51. Stoker's on his way."

It should have made him feel better. Cap's words, while distorted on the radio, were still calm and even and reassuring. The wall could easily be cut down with the saw. The smoke around him seemed thinner; the fire was being handled. Help was coming.

But Johnny stopped coughing on the other side.

Roy flattened himself against the wall.

"Johnny?" His fist ached as he hammered the wall. "Johnny, you okay?"

Nothing. Not even that strange thump like before.

Chest pounding, Roy eyed the mess blocking the door. He ducked under one rafter that shot out of the middle of the pile like a lever. He tucked his right shoulder under it like a fulcrum. Hunched, knees bent, Roy could feel the hard edges digging into his deltoids. He gritted his teeth, braced his hands on the wood and straightened up his knees.

The debris, like a great beast, groaned. But that was all.

Roy, his breathing ragged, heaved. His knees trembled as they tried to push up, lock, gain some elevation. Anything.

A burst of heat cracked deep in his shoulder and raced down his back. Roy grunted, ignored the sudden urge to vomit and tried again.

Above him, on top of the pile, something shifted and fell off on the other side.

Encouraged, Roy spread his feet apart, braced his hands a shoulder width apart and heaved.

His right shoulder spasmed and his arm jerked. The rafter on his shoulder stirred, slipped off, disturbing the top layer of jagged wood.

A hand grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back just before a cascade of wood and metal tumbled down to where he'd been standing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mike was practically shouting to be heard through both masks.

Roy gripped his right shoulder; it felt like it was three times its normal size now. Shakily—his knees wouldn't stop trembling—he nodded towards the handie talkie barely visible now by the still-blocked door.

Even through the haze, through the masks, Roy saw Mike's eyes widen in comprehension.

"Stand back," he told Roy curtly. He jerked the chain back and the circular saw roared to life. It screeched as its teeth dug into the wall in front of them, a rough dark line splitting the surface.
 

Hang in there, Johnny, Roy thought as he stared at the line, willing it to lengthen faster.

We're coming.

Part 3