Disclaimer: The characters from Station 51 and Rampart General belong to Mark VII. They have been borrowed strictly for fun—and not for fortune.
At around 08:00 the next morning, Roy DeSoto and Dave Wright were standing at the Nurses' Station in Rampart’s Emergency Receiving, restocking their diminished medical supplies. They’d just been out on a run where a little girl was injured falling down a flight of stairs.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Dr. Brackett said, as he came stepping up to them.
“Mornin’, Doc! How’s the little girl?” DeSoto asked.
Brackett smiled. “You were right, Roy. No broken bones. Just a few dandy bruises. She’ll be fine.”
Roy returned his smile. “Great!”
Dr. Mike Morton stepped up to the counter and then stood there, scowling down at the chart in his hands.
“Bad day, Doc?” Roy inquired.
The physician glanced up, redirected his frown at the smiling fireman and angrily announced, “I just had a talk with the respiratory therapist who was supposed to give your partner his breathing treatments. He didn’t show up! Not last night! Not this morning!”
DeSoto seemed surprised—no-o, stunned by the doctor’s little announcement. “That’s odd. He told me he was planning on coming here.”
Morton slammed the chart down on the counter. “Yeah? Well, he must’ve changed his plans!”
Roy suddenly felt extremely nervous, and more than a little worried. “I think I’d better give him a call. He promised he’d be here! It’s not like him to break a promise…”
Wright signed the voucher, picked up their box of supplies and began heading off down the hall. “I’ll wait in the Squad!”
DeSoto nodded and started heading for the pay phone.
“We-ell?” Mike wondered, when the paramedic returned a few minutes later.
“No answer. He’s probably on his way here,” DeSoto determined. “He, uh, probably just overslept.”
Johnny’s doctor remained extremely skeptical.
The two LA County firemen rode along in complete silence for about ten minutes.
“Where we goin’?” Wright wondered, as DeSoto suddenly steered the Squad off course.
“Back to the Station,” Roy nonchalantly replied. “We’re just taking the scenic route…”
“I thought you said he wasn’t home,” Dave reminded the driver.
“No-o. I said there was no answer. There’s a difference,” Roy reminded Dave right back. ‘A big difference!’ Johnny’s extremely anxious friend solemnly reminded himself.
“Ahh, he probably just took off somewhere,” his passenger proposed. “After all, it is his vacation. I don’t blame him for not wanting to spend any of it in a hospital.”
But the Squad’s driver remained extremely anxious.
Several minutes later, Roy pulled up to 2190 West Ridge Street. The panicky feeling he’d been fighting back, since they’d left Rampart, suddenly overwhelmed him.
Johnny’s Land Rover was still parked in its space, right in front of his place.
That could mean only one thing!
Roy flicked the ignition off and reached for the radio. “LA, Squad 51. We are responding to a man down…at 2190 West Ridge Street…Apartment 3. Send an ambulance!” he requested. Then he piled out of the cab and began pulling equipment cases out of the side compartments. “Bring the O2!” he shouted to his slightly stunned partner—er, temporary partner.
“10-4, 51…2190 West Ridge…Apartment 3…Ambulance responding…Time Out: 08:27”
‘Man!’ Wright thought as they went running up and into Apartment 3. ‘If Gage has just overslept, DeSoto is gonna look like a real dufuss!’
“Johnny?” Roy called out for a fourth time, before finally finding his friend collapsed face down on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. “Johnny!” he exclaimed a fifth time and reached for the unmoving man’s carotid artery. ‘Thank God! He has a pulse!’ the paramedic silently pronounced and gently rolled his unconscious friend over onto his back.
“How is he?” Wright anxiously inquired.
“He has a carotid! Hurry up with that O2! He’s asphyxiating!” DeSoto added, having noticed their patient’s blue-tinged complexion. “Start him on 10 liters!” he advised. Then he opened the base kit, inserted the call stick and picked up the phone. “Rampart Base, this is County 51. How do you read?”
As Wright placed the oxygen mask over their victim’s nose and mouth, he couldn’t help but notice Gage’s elevated temperature. “Man! He’s really burning up!”
His partner nodded. “Get his BP!” he ordered, and re-depressed the transmit button. “This is Squad 51. Come in, Rampart!”
Dr. Brackett was standing in the corridor, just outside the Base Station, looking over a chart. He caught the call light flashing out of the corner of his eye, set his chart down and entered the little glassed-in cubicle that contained the hospital’s Paramedic Command Center. He stepped up to the radio and flicked the transmit switch. “Unit calling in, please repeat…”
“Go ahead, 51…”
‘Just pretend you don’t know him. Just pretend you don’t know him. Just pretend you don’t know him,’ Roy kept telling himself. “Rampart, we have a male vic—” the paramedic paused and silently informed his friend, ‘Sorry, but I can't just call you ‘victim’.’ “—Dr. Brackett, it’s John Gage. He’s unconscious due to asphyxiation.”
Brackett stiffened and his face took on a rather pained expression as he listened to Roy telling him about Johnny.
“Respirations are 26 and shallow…pulse is 110…BP is 100/80…He’s running a high fever, Rampart…He’s also cyanotic…We’ve got him on 10 liters O2.”
Brackett jotted down the victim’s—er, Johnny’s vital signs and then passed his prescribed treatment along to the two paramedics in the field.
“Squad 51. Roger, Rampart,” Roy replied and repeated the Doctor’s orders. He placed the phone down and took immediate steps to get their patient's prescribed IV established.
Dave Wright stared wonderingly across at his conscious colleague. “How did you know?”
Roy glanced up. “I know Johnny,” he simply said. “I knew something had to be seriously wrong…if he didn’t keep his promise…” his words trailed off.
Dr. Brackett was standing in the corridor outside of Exam Three, issuing orders to some nurses and medical technicians.
Mike Morton heard the commotion and strolled over to investigate it. “What’s up, Kel?”
“John Gage is coming in for his breathing treatments,” Kel informed him.
The fireman’s physician appeared pleased.
“In an ambulance!” Kel finished.
The younger doctor looked completely stunned.
“It seems he’s asphyxiating…”
Morton just continued to stand there, with his mouth open.
The ambulance backed up to Rampart’s Emergency entrance.
Wright backed Squad 51 in beside it and bailed out.
The attendants exited their vehicle, opened its rear doors and started reaching for its patient's stretcher.
DeSoto jumped out and followed Gage's gurney, carrying their precious cargo’s IV in his raised right hand.
“Put him in Three!” Dixie told them.
They did.
Roy had remained in Exam Room 3 until being asked to leave by two technicians towing a portable x-ray machine.
He was still leaning against the wall, just outside the door, when Dr. Brackett exited ten minutes later. “How is he, Doc?”
The physician held the door as two orderlies guided a gurney into the treatment room. “Get him up to ICU and put him to bed,” he ordered.
They nodded and disappeared inside.
The doctor turned to his questioner. “You got him here just in time. His latest pulse/ox level is up from the sample I had you draw at the scene. If it remains steady, we shouldn’t have to put him on a ventilator. Now all we gotta do is wait for the antibiotics to kick in.”
A somewhat relieved Roy DeSoto watched as his best—but no longer blue-tinged—friend was wheeled out of the room and off down the corridor. “I don’t get it…” he muttered. “How could he get so sick—so fast?”
Brackett folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Well, I haven’t seen the lab reports yet…but my guess is he was coming down with some form of viral infection before that incident in the river yesterday morning. His weakened condition—coupled with a few swallows of river water...”
“Damn!” Mike Morton exclaimed as he stepped out into the hall. “I never should have let him leave here yesterday!”
Brackett placed a hand on the discouraged young doctor’s slumped shoulder. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Mike. I saw his chest x-rays. His lungs showed no signs of pneumonia yesterday morning. Besides, you told him that you wanted to admit him. You can’t help it if he’s stubborn.”
“I should have been even more stubborn!” Mike insisted.
“You probably would have been—if he had been his old self. But under the circumstances…Well, I would have handled the situation exactly the same way you did. Treating him as an outpatient was better than not treating him at all. You couldn’t hold him here against his will.”
Morton mulled all that over for a few moments. “I guess you’re right. But I still feel miserable about this whole thing! It just shouldn’t have happened!”
“Yeah,” Roy sadly remarked. “That’s what really gets me, too.”
Wright rushed up to his exceedingly glum partner just then and waved the HT in his hand. “Roy? We got a run! 1411 South Polomar!”
DeSoto nodded in Dave’s direction, but then turned back to Brackett. “You’ll let me know if there’s any change?”
“Yes. Of course,” the doctor assured him.
Roy gave both physicians a grateful glance and then, reluctantly, took off.
Sheesh! He and his temporary partner were putting in some major overtime.
1411 South Polomar turned out to be an industrial complex.
As the two paramedics piled out of their rescue squad, a foreman came jogging up to them.
“Hurry! He’s inside!”
The firemen grabbed a bunch of equipment and followed the frantic fellow into some type of factory.
They filed past row after row of automated machinery and assembly lines filled with electrical components.
Finally, they reached what appeared to be the scene of the accident.
“What happened?” Roy asked a group of workers huddled around a young man standing next to a conveyor belt.
The young man grimaced. “I sneezed…and stapled my hand to this…thing!” he explained in a rather nasally tone. It was obvious that he had a bad head cold.
The firemen looked at each other and then down at the guy’s left hand.
Sure enough! A rather large steel staple was indeed holding the hand securely to some kind of very heavy looking electrical component.
DeSoto turned to Wright. “Get his vitals. I’ll call Rampart.”
His colleague nodded.
Roy opened the base kit, inserted the call stick, and picked up the phone. But, before speaking into it, he addressed their victim. “Hi! I’m Roy. This is Dave. What’s your name?”
“Stan…Stan Markum. Look, kin you guys speed it up? My hand hurts like blazes!”
“Hang in there, Stan,” Roy urged. “We’re workin’ at it. Rampart Base, this is Squad 51…”
“Go ahead, 51…” Joe Early answered.
“Ahhh, Rampart, we have a male in his mid-twenties…the victim of an industrial accident…” He paused a moment or two, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation. “The victim has stapled his left hand to some kind of electrical component. Standby for vitals…”
Wright pulled the stethoscope from his ears. “Respirations are 20. BP is 160/90. Pulse is 90. He’s in extreme pain and there is some superficial bleeding from the puncture wounds.”
DeSoto passed the information on to the doctor and then asked their victim, “Are you allergic to anything?”
The young man looked very pale. He gritted his teeth and exasperatedly exclaimed, “Yeah! Staples! Can’t you guys just get this…darn thing out of me?”
“Hang on!” Dave re-urged. “The doctor’s gonna want us to give you something for the pain first. Now, are you allergic to any medication?”
“Not that I know of,” Stan impatiently replied. He sniffled and then stiffened, as Roy started to insert a long, slender needle into his right wrist. “Whoa-oah! Hold on! Can’t you guys get this steel out before you put any more in?”
“The pain medication will work a whole lot faster if we administer it directly into a vein,” the paramedic with the ‘pokie’ patiently explained. “And, in order to do that, we have to establish an IV.”
Their patient still didn’t like the idea, but he apparently liked pain even less, because he allowed himself to be jabbed.
Roy taped the needle in place and Dave connected the IV bag’s tubing to it. “You can go ahead and give him 50 milligrams meparadine,” DeSoto informed his fellow fireman.
Wright did.
“Pain meds are on board, Rampart…”
“Can you feel the shot working?” Wright asked their antsy victim.
Stan sniffled again and nodded.
Dave turned to his fellow rescuer.
Roy turned to the foreman. “Okay, we’re gonna need a hammer and a pair of wire cutters.”
Stan’s co-workers managed a group grimace.
The foreman nodded and went trotting off.
The boss man returned in under a minute with the requested tools.
“Thanks,” DeSoto told him. The paramedic carefully raised the component.
The two points of the staple were sticking through the underside of the metal base.
Roy even more carefully tapped the staple points until they were flush with the component’s undersurface. The staple raised just enough on the top surface to allow him to slide the wire cutters under Stan’s trapped appendage. DeSoto quickly—and surely—snipped through both sides of the staple, freeing the young fellow’s hand.
“All right!” the grateful guy exclaimed. “Now get this…darn thing out of me!”
Roy reached for their phone instead. “Squad 51. Rampart, the victim is free. Transporting immediately. ETA twenty minutes.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” their victim demanded. “Aren’t you guys gonna take this out?”
Wright stepped aside, as the ambulance attendants pull a stretcher up. “‘Fraid not. You see, paramedics are strictly hand from component rescuers. Doctors do the staple from hand part.”
Their unhappy patient stifled another sneeze and then reluctantly allowed his initial rescuers to ease him onto the stretcher and strap him down.
Dave turned to his fellow firefighter. “You kin ride in with him,” he offered. “It’ll give you a chance to check up on that partner of yours…”
“Thanks…” Roy responded with a grateful smile. He gathered up some of their more essential gear and followed the attendants out of the factory.
“Okay! Shows over!” the foreman shouted. “Everybody—without colds—back to work!”
Forty-five minutes later, DeSoto backed the Squad into the apparatus bay of Station 51.
The engine crew stepped out of the day room and into the garage to greet them—still in uniform.
Stanley and his men had apparently been putting in some major overtime of their own.
“Please, tell me we didn’t really hear the dispatcher say ‘ambulance responding 2190 West Ridge Street, Apartment 3’,” his Captain pleaded.
“He was asphyxiating…” Roy reluctantly replied, through the open window of the Squad. “But Brackett thinks we got to him in time. He’s in Intensive Care…but he’s breathin’ on his own. They’ve started him on antibiotics…”
Stanley, as well as the rest of the engine crew, looked deeply saddened by the news.
“What, in heaven’s name—?” Hank stopped speaking as the tones suddenly sounded…and sounded…and sounded.
Wright and DeSoto vacated the Squad.
B-Shift’s paramedics quickly took their places.
“Engine 36…Engine 43…Engine 47…Engine 8…Station 51…Battalion 12…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3114 Austin Boulevard…Three-one-one-four Austin…Cross-street Meredith Avenue…Time Out: 10:28”
“Station 51, KMG-365,” B-Shift’s Captain, Pat Donnelly acknowledged. He passed his paramedics a copy of the call slip. Then he took his copy and started trotting towards the Engine.
Stanley’s crew watched Donnelly’s crew depart.
A-Shift’s off-duty, completely bewildered Commander waited for the wailing sirens to subside a bit before turning back to DeSoto. The Captain quickly rephrased—and then completed—his interrupted question. “How could he possibly get so sick—so fast?” he wondered, unwittingly repeating Roy’s question to Brackett, almost word for word. “What, in heaven’s name, has he got anyways?”
“Pneumonia.”
His Captain looked even more confused. “And he came down with it overnight?”
“Not exactly,” DeSoto angrily answered. “You might say he’s been working at it for over a month.”
“I should’ve intervened a lot sooner,” Stanley sadly admitted, beneath his breath.
But the paramedic caught his Captain’s quiet comment and shot him a questioning look.
“I’ve been asking ‘the powers that be’ to send over a replacement for him for the past three weeks!” Hank explained. “Headquarters kept giving me the same answer: ‘Request denied. No paramedics available’. Well, that turned out to be a big line of BS, didn’t it!” the Captain exclaimed, as his sadness gave way to anger, as well. “Because it sure didn’t take very long for Dave, here, to show up—once I’d relieved John of duty!” Following that little outburst of anger, 51’s Commander cursed under his breath and began heading for the locker room.
“Thanks, Cap!” Roy quietly called after him.
Hank halted and glanced back over his shoulder. “For what?” he wondered, sounding as disgusted with himself as he was with the Fire Department. Man! He’d really dropped the ball on this one!
“For giving a damn,” DeSoto quietly continued, “…a damn sight more than we deserve,” he added, and shot his Captain a look of admiration.
Seeing the look only served to incite Stanley to even greater anger. “I’m thinking you deserve better…a whole lot better!” he irately added. Then he returned Roy’s look—and quickly took his leave. Hank wasn’t sure whom he was angriest with, himself—or the asinine people in the personnel department!
When Roy reached his home—about an hour or so later—he exhaled a long sigh of relief.
The shift from hell was finally over!
The off-duty paramedic entered the front door and smiled, as his four-year-old son, Christopher, latched onto his right hand.
His little two and a half-year-old daughter, Suzie, latched onto his left pant leg.
Their big Black Labrador, Joshua, jumped up on his chest and licked him on the chin.
Roy’s smile broadened.
Heck, with a greeting like that, a guy couldn’t help but grin.
To top it all off, his beautiful bride, Joanne, threw her arms around his neck and planted a passionate ‘Welcome Home’ kiss right smack dab on top of his grin.
“Oh, Honey! I was beginning to worry about you!” the pretty woman pouted as she pulled back from her embrace.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I should’ve called. We got two runs—after the shift ended. Then, on the way home, I decided to stop and visit...a sick friend,” he further explained. He stooped down to the kids’ levels, to give them each a hug and a kiss. Then he swooped both children up into his arms, carried them into the living room and collapsed into an easy chair—completely spent.
Joanne smiled at the sight and shook her head. “Are you hungry?”
The giggling children squirmed out of their father's tickling grasp and back onto the carpeted floor. Roy hauled himself up out of the chair and headed for the breakfast counter. “Yah know, that’s probably why I feel so rotten." He collapsed again—this time, onto a stool. "Dr. Brackett bought me lunch, yesterday...and I haven’t eaten anything since then.”
His wife shot him a concerned glance and then crossed over to the ‘fridge. “Who’s sick?”
Roy took an interminably long time to reply. “Johnny.”
Joanne's jaw dropped. “You’re kidding!” she exclaimed and glanced up from the glass of milk she was pouring. “Did you tell him he’s not supposed to get sick during his vacation?”
Suzie was tugging on her Dad’s left pant leg again.
He picked the baby up and placed her back in his lap. “They wouldn’t let me in to see him.”
His wife’s look turned from one of mild amusement, to one of complete confusion. “Johnny’s in the hospital?” Upon seeing her husband’s nod, Joanne’s jaw fell open once more. “He must be awfully sick…if they wouldn’t let you in to see him.”
Roy avoided her eyes.
“Honey, how sick is he?”
“They’ve got him in the Intensive Care Unit. He’s got pneumonia. He’s not responding to treatment. He’s asphyxiating. He’s unconscious because his blood isn’t being properly oxygenated as it passes through his lungs,” the paramedic went on to explain, seeing that his spouse remained puzzled. “Anyways, he's still breathin’ on his own…and they’re pumpin' him full of antibiotics…”
The woman set the glass in her hand down and gave her glum husband another huge hug.
Joanne understood the real reason Roy felt so ‘rotten’.
DeSoto had visited his hospitalized partner quite frequently during his four days off.
Gage remained in ICU…still comatose—due to asphyxiation. It seemed that the pneumonia was not responding to the patient’s current antibiotic regimen.
The doctors were going to try changing his medication.
There was an arsonist on the loose in Los Angeles County—within Station 51’s jurisdiction, as a matter of fact.
The sick-o psycho had already torched twelve buildings—all on Austin Boulevard—and it seemed like there was no end in sight!
These arson fires, along with the raging brushfires, were spreading the Department’s already depleted ranks dangerously thin. There was even talk that some station’s crews might be called upon to pull double shifts.
Those dire thoughts, among others, were running through A-Shift’s Captain’s sooty, sweat-soaked head, as he climbed wearily down from Engine 51’s cab.
He and his exhausted engine crew dragged themselves into the dayroom and collapsed onto some chairs.
They’d had a real ball-buster of a start to their shift and were just returning from battling a big warehouse blaze...over on Austin Boulevard. The warehouse was the arsonist’s latest target.
The men were completely wiped out and their empty stomachs were complaining—rather loudly.
“Someone really should see about putting some grub on,” Marco mumbled, as his tummy rumbled.
The busy firemen had managed to miss both lunch and dinner.
“Whose turn is it to cook?” Chet wondered.
“I can’t remember,” Marco confessed.
“It’s Gage’s turn,” their Captain, who had collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly spoke up. “So that means it’s Dave’s turn.” Stanley, who was just sitting there, resting his forehead on his folded arms, didn’t even bother to look up. Since his paramedics were on a follow-up to Rampart, he then politely suggested that an order be placed for pizza. When nobody moved toward the phone, he rephrased his suggestion. “Kelly, call out for pizza!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’!” Chet acknowledged and forced himself back up onto his feet. “Three medium?…One—the works, one—sausage and cheese, one—pepperoni?” he proposed.
No one disputed his selections.
So he staggered over to the phone and then dialed a number from memory.
“Hey, Cap’,” Mike Stoker suddenly piped up. “Did the Fire Marshal confirm it was arson?”
“Yeah, Cap’,” Marco joined in. “Do they think that warehouse was torched, too?”
Stanley opened his smoke-irritated eyes, but never lifted his head. “They found some empty gas cans near the hot spot. I think that’s pretty obvious.” His eyes closed again.
“What was in all those crates, anyway?” Kelly queried upon completing his call.
Marco straightened in his seat. “That poor guy is now the proud possessor of five thousand very soggy, crisp-fried color TV sets.”
Chet whistled.
“Kelly, since you’re already standing…How about fetching the mail? Oh, and bring whatever’s in the inbox on my desk, too, would yah, pal?” Stanley further suggested.
The vertical firefighter did an about face and disappeared.
Kelly reappeared a few moments later, his mission accomplished. “There yah go, Cap’,” he quietly said and deposited a small pile of envelopes before his motionless—and quite possibly now sleeping—boss.
Stanley would have preferred a few more minutes to rest his sore eyes, but he snapped them open, and straightened stiffly up in his seat. “Thanks.” His shuffling hands froze as they found what they’d been searching for. Station 51’s Commander in Chief stared sadly down at the latest Department Newsletter for a few moments and then quietly commented, “John’s ‘latest’ vacation started March 15th and it ends March 29th…”
“Can I see that for a minute, Cap’?” Marco requested, seeing as how Stanley was now just sitting there, staring blankly off into space. “Thanks!” he acknowledged as his Captain obligingly forwarded the updated Department Newsletter to him. “Hey, Chet…I didn’t know you had a vacation coming up in two weeks.”
“I don’t,” Chet assured him.
“According to this, you do,” Marco corrected.
The Irishman stepped up behind Lopez and began reading over his shoulder. “That’s gotta be a mistake!” he insisted. “I switched with Newcomb!”
“You’d better read the first page, there, pal…” his Captain suggested.
Kelly snatched the newsletter from Lopez and flipped it back to the front page. “All personnel must take their assigned vacation on schedule?” he began reading aloud, his voice an equal mix of vexation and disbelief. “Will no longer tolerate vacation swapping?…Any requests for special consideration must be received six weeks prior to—” he stopped reading and started ranting. “This is un-American! They can’t do this to me! I don’t want my vacation! I want Newcomb’s vacation! I’ve already made reservations for Newcomb’s vacation! Newcomb’s already made reservations for my vacation! They can’t do this!” he angrily re-insisted.
His fellow firefighters gave him sympathetic glances.
Marco suddenly had an idea. “Hey, Chet, if you can’t swap vacations, why not just swap reservations?”
“That’s not a bad idea, Marco!” their Captain concluded. Hank turned to Kelly, looking curious. “Where’s Newcomb going?”
Chet shrugged. “Prob’ly someplace I’d hate!” He and the others turned their undivided attention to the doorway to the garage, as they heard the Squad backing in.
A few moments later, its passengers appeared in said doorway, looking equally exhausted.
“Holbrook’s gonna be just fine,” Roy informed them. “Just some second degree burns and mild smoke inhalation. Johnny’s still not getting any better. The doctors are gonna try another combination of antibiot—” he stopped speaking as the Station’s alarm suddenly went off…and off…and off.
“Engine 36…Engine 43…Engine 47…Station 51…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3101 Austin Boulevard…Three-one-zero-one Austin…Cross-street Champlain…Time Out: 18:45.”
Stanley answered the call. “Station 51. KMG-365.” He passed the paramedics a copy of the call slip. Then he crossed the bay, climbed up into Big Red, and began tossing his turnout coat and helmet on. “Looks like our arsonist has been at it again,” he grumbled to his engineer.
Mike frowned and nodded.
Twelve minutes later, Station 51 arrived at the fire scene—a two story building, totally engulfed in flames.
Firemen were pulling hoses from other engines, and enormous plumes of thick, black smoke were billowing up into the cloudless, early-evening sky.
Captain Stanley stepped down and went running up to Battalion 14’s Chief. “What do we got, Mac’?” he wondered, looking up at the blazing inferno.
“An empty apartment building,” Mac’ answered.
“It’s already been swept?” 51’s Captain queried rather incredulously.
“No need,” 14’s Chief replied and pointed to a sign laying on the sidewalk, which said that the building inspector had condemned the premises.
“Condemned buildings make great hang-outs for hypes, winos—and kids!” Stanley solemnly reminded him.
“Well, Hank, let’s just hope there’s none hanging-out in this one!” Even as the Chief was speaking, the second floor collapsed into the first floor. “We’ll just have to concentrate our efforts on protecting the exposures!”
Three exhausting hours later, the trucks returned to Station 51’s apparatus bay.
The overly fatigued firemen climbed slowly and stiffly down and began staggering towards the soap and sinks in the washroom.
“I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet…” Mike Stoker realized aloud.
His co-workers couldn’t help but smile at the engineer’s accurate description of back-to-back multiple-alarm fires’ effects on a body.
“Yeah, well, just as soon as we get cleaned up, everybody’s gonna tie on the old feedbag!” Hank Stanley sternly ordered. “I know cold pizza may not exactly be your flavor of the month, and that it’s after ten and you’re probably feelin’ too beat to eat…but I expect everyone to partake of some sustenance—A.S.A.P.!” he tacked on, in a no-nonsense tone. “An army marches on its stomach. And, with that pyromaniac running around out there, we may be asked to march again at any moment!”
51’s crew nodded their compliance to their Captain’s wishes and began disappearing behind the washroom door.
“Hold it, Roy!” Hank advised.
The paramedic halted and obediently turned to face his now bewildered-looking boss.
“Did you say, they’re changing John’s medication?”
DeSoto nodded. “Hopefully, he'll be able to hang around long enough to give it a chance to kick in…"
If it was even gonna kick in…
Following a feast of cold, petrified pizza, the literally washed up Captain and crew of Station 51 had collapsed onto their bunks…and remained there until the wake-up tones sounded the following morning.
“Humph…” Hank groggily grunted, upon hearing the tones and seeing the light of day. “I guess even arsonists have to sleep sometime.”
A little while later, the members of B-Shift began arriving. The men donned their uniforms and then joined their cohorts in the day room for coffee.
“We heard you guys got two multiple alarms yesterday,” one of the incoming crew casually remarked to the rather bushed-looking members of the outgoing crew. “Must’ve kept you pretty busy, huh?”
“I don’t think you guys are gonna be too idle yourselves,” Chet Kelly shot back. “That pyromaniac is still playing with matches, over on Austin Boulevard.”
“Is that on the level, Hank?” B-Shift’s Captain queried of his counter-part.
Stanley frowned and nodded. “They’re finding empty gas cans near the hot spots. So far, he’s only torched uninhabited buildings.”
Captain Donnelly frowned as well. “So far…”
One of B-Shift’s paramedics stepped up to DeSoto. “So-o…we’ve got an arsonist on the loose, and Gage is on leave. I’ve got to hand it to him. Johnny really knows when to take a vacation!”
“Yeah,” Roy sarcastically agreed. “His timing is perfect!” the absent paramedic’s partner insincerely added. Then he vacated his seat and vanished out into the garage.
The paramedic from the opposing shift shot DeSoto’s colleague’s a ‘Did I say something wrong?’ look.
“Gage is in ICU,” Stanley informed him. “He’s got pneumonia. He’s not responding very well to treatment. They’re going to try changing his medica—” he stopped talking as the tones suddenly sounded.
They continued for some time.
B-Shift’s crew set their coffee mugs down and began taking their leave.
“Station 51…Truck 124…Engine 37…Engine 43…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3273 Austin Boulevard…Three-two-seven-three Austin…Cross Street Paquette…Time Out: 07:57”
Joanne was there to greet her guy as he came through the door. She gave him a warm embrace and then planted a kiss on him that left no question in his mind that she was glad to have him safely home. “How’s Johnny doing?”
“About the same.” Roy scooped his children up off the floor and kissed their dimpled rosy cheeks until they giggled.
“Sorry to hear that…” She gave her hubby’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Thanks for calling. Kept me from worrying and kept your breakfast from getting all dried out.”
“That’s great to hear! ‘Cuz I am famished! I didn’t get to eat anything, yesterday. Well, except for a couple a’ slices of petrified pepperoni pizza…”
“Oo-ooh, Ro-oy!” his wife irritatedly exclaimed, and went stomping off into her kitchen. “I’d like to get my hands on the slave driver who keeps you so busy that you can’t even eat!”
DeSoto set the kids down and followed after her. “You’ll have to stand in line,” he informed his frowning spouse, and collapsed onto a stool at their breakfast counter. “The police would like to get their hands on him, too,” he explained, upon seeing her questioning look. “The slave driver is an arsonist.”
Joanne’s jaw dropped. She set his plate down and threw her arms around him again. “Oh, Roy! It’s not bad enough that you have to risk your life for accidental fires and emergencies! No-o! Some…sick…twisted…maniac has to go around purposely causing you to lay your life on the line!”
“I’m sorry, Jo…” Roy wrapped his arms around his teary-eyed wife and held her tightly. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”
She pulled back a bit. “The arsonist is the one who upsets me,” she quickly clarified. “And I’m the one who should apologize. I know you must’ve had a rough shift. You don’t need anymore hassles.”
DeSoto was forced to smile. He pulled her closer to him and then held on tighter than ever. “Yah know, you’re a lot a’ things, but you are never a hassle…”
Their lips met again.
Another, even longer—even more passionate—kiss ensued, causing the firefighter’s racing heart to throw more than a few PVCs.
Joanne was the first to come up for air. “You’d better eat,” she whispered softly in his ear. “Before your food gets cold—or before you pass out…and I have to summon the paramedics,” she tacked on, with a rather wry, sly smile.
Her husband smiled. Then he kissed her tenderly on the forehead and reluctantly released her.
Roy was standing in the corridor of Rampart General Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit at around ten thirty that evening, talking with the respiratory specialist assigned to John’s case.
Suddenly, a nurse stepped out of 604—his partner’s room. “Dr. Stafford!” she called down the hall. “I think the patient may be coming around!”
Roy grabbed the physician’s arm. “Can I see him?”
The doctor hesitated for a few moments. "Okay," he finally allowed. “But only for a minute!”
DeSoto nodded his acceptance of Stafford’s stipulation.
The two men entered room 604 and stepped up to Gage’s bedside.
The paramedic’s impassive face looked deathly pale. There were oxygen tubes in his nostrils and IV tubes in his wrists. His eyes were closed, but he was tossing his sweat-drenched head slowly from side-to-side and moaning softly.
“His fever broke about five minutes ago,” the ICU nurse informed them.
At the sound of her voice, Gage stiffened and struggled to sit up.
DeSoto held him down with very little effort. “Take it easy, Johnny…” he soothingly said, and his partner immediately stopped struggling.
Johnny slowly opened his eyes and blinked them into focus. “Ro-oy?” he called out, in a voice barely above a whisper.
Roy took his friend’s hand in his. “I’m right here, Johnny…”
Gage turned his head in the voice’s direction, saw his partner smiling down at him, and untensed. “Hi…” he said softly and flashed his friend a very weak, slightly crooked smile. His drooping eyes closed.
Roy returned the greeting and gave his partner’s limp hand a squeeze.
Gage managed a feeble squeeze back. “How—?”
“—Dave and I rescued you.”
“Oh-oh…That’s…embarrassing.”
“It could have been worse.”
John forced his eyes back open and shot his partner a confused, questioning look.
Roy gave his hand another squeeze and grinned. “It could have been me and Craig Brice.”
Gage snickered softly. Then his eyes closed and he was perfectly still once more—deathly still!
DeSoto felt his friend’s hand suddenly go limp and glanced anxiously up at the doctor.
Stafford had finished his examination and was now scribbling instructions across the bottom of his patient’s chart. “It’s all right,” he assured the ICU’s concerned visitor. “He’s just gone back to sleep. Minute’s up, anyway,” he reminded the asleep on his feet looking fireman. “I suggest you go get yourself some shut-eye. You look like you’re about to fall over…”
Roy gave John’s hand a final, reassuring squeeze and then headed home, to follow the physician’s sound advice.
John’s partner paid the ICU another visit the following evening…
“Hi. I kin only stay a minute,” Roy informed his finally conscious, no longer feverish, but still unbelievably weak friend. “So, before I forget…The guys wanted me to say ‘Hi’ for them, and they want me to tell you that they hope you’re feelin’ better. Are you? Feelin’ better?”
Gage shook his head.
DeSoto looked somewhat alarmed. “Feelin’ worse?”
Again, Gage shook his head. “They’ve got me…so doped up…I don’t feel…anything…at all…‘Cept glad…ta see you,” he added with a smile. Then his smile faded, his eyes closed and he became very quiet. “Ro-oy?”
“Yeah, Johnny?”
“Thanks…for rescuing me.”
“Hey…There’s no need for thanks. Heck, no. That’s what you pay your taxes for. Just doin’ my job,” the fireman finished, with a grin.
His grateful victim returned his grin. “Speakin’ of your job…Did you…put the IV…in my right wrist?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You know…I’m right-handed.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. He stared disbelievingly down at his complaining partner. “Yeah. Well…I gave it a lot of thought,” he lied. “And I finally figured that you must have wanted the IV in your right wrist—or you would have been dying on the other side of the bed!”
His victim couldn’t help but snicker. Then his smile slowly suddenly faded and he was perfectly still—yet again.
“Take it easy, Johnny…” Roy quietly urged and quickly took his leave.
His partner had gone back to sleep—and his sixty seconds were up.
Because the arsonist was still at large—and still starting multiple alarm fires—and because the men battling these blazes were already finding 24 hour stretches too fatiguing—the Department didn't switch the shift rotations for any of the stations within the response area of Austin Boulevard. Which meant Captain Stanley’s A-Shift crew did not have to report back to work two days early.
When Hank and his men arrived at the Station for their next regularly scheduled tour of duty, they found the garage empty.
Stanley strolled over to the call desk and picked up the logbook. “Humph…” he announced. “It was quiet all night…and then they got a four-alarm call twenty minutes ago.”
“Wait! Don’t tell me,” Chet sarcastically said. “Let me guess…Austin Boulevard!”
“Close,” his Captain confessed. “He’s moved over to Meredith. The police were probably making it a little too hot for him on Austin.”
The men winced at his pun.
Mike started heading for the locker room. “Well, if they can’t catch him, I hope they can at least chase him out of our District. A couple more blocks, and he’ll be Station 20’s headache.”
“Good morning, gentlemen!” the Captain declared as Wright and DeSoto stepped into the Station. “Roy, what’s the latest on John’s condition?”
“He’s doing much better. That new drug combination seems to be doing the trick—” the paramedic paused. “Where is everybody?”
“Three guesses,” Marco told him. “The first two don’t count.”
“The arsonist? Already?” Roy frowned as his Captain nodded.
Kelly came back into the garage, buttoning the shirt of his uniform. “Yeah. And, if he would’ve slept in a half-hour longer, our shift would have been off to a really great start! As it is, we’ll just have to take it easy for a few hours.”
“I’m all for that!” Dave declared and started heading for the locker room.
Four hours later, C-Shift finally returned to the Station. The trucks backed in and the crews climbed down—exhausted, and covered with soot and sweat.
“Arson?” Stanley wondered as his counter-part came walking up.
C-Shift’s Captain nodded. “The Fire Marshal is getting quite a collection of charred gas cans.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Not so far. I sure hope they catch this guy soon! Like yesterday! I hope you guys have a dull and uneventful shift!” Captain Graham wished. “What’s left of it!” he added, after glancing at his watch.
“Thanks, Ron!” Hank told him. “By the way, you guys are welcome to stay for lunch…”
“Thanks, Captain Stanley,” one of C-Shift’s paramedics gratefully acknowledged, “but we never eat lunch before breakfast.”
The paramedic’s partner stepped up to DeSoto. “Hey, Roy…Sorry to hear about Johnny being sick and all. Lousy way to spend a vacation.”
“Yeah,” Roy agreed. “Real lousy…”
“By the way,” the paramedic continued, “you guys are gonna hafta make a supply run to Rampart. The Squad’s runnin’ low on just about everything. We’ve just been too busy to restock.”
“You two can head over there right after lunch,” Stanley determined and disappeared back into the dayroom.
C-Shift’s paramedics went to change while A-Shift’s paramedics went to eat.
An hour later, Wright and DeSoto were leaning against the counter at the Nurses’ Station in Rampart’s Emergency Receiving—restocking their Rescue Squad.
“Will that be it, gentlemen?” Dixie asked and handed them a larger than usual box of medical supplies.
“Yeah. Thanks, Dixie!” Dave told her.
His partner signed the supply voucher.
Wright took the box and they turned to go.
The phone rang.
Dixie answered it. “Hey, Roy? Wait up!” she called down the corridor.
The paramedic turned around and stepped back up to the supply desk.
The RN continued her phone conversation. “I see…Uh-huh…All right…Thanks, Jeanie.” She hung up and stood there, smiling. “That was a friend of mine up in ICU. She says Johnny’s doctor just upgraded his condition.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!” Johnny’s partner realized, with a grin.
“Well, I’m glad I got to be the bearer of it then!” Dixie declared with an even broader smile. “I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
“Thank you, Dix’.”
The RN’s eyes sparkled. “You’re welcome, Roy.”
DeSoto backed the Squad into the bay at the Station, jumped out and went dashing into the dayroom. “Johnny’s off the critical list!”
Johnny’s shift-mates all looked tremendously relieved to hear that.
Especially Captain Stanley, who exhaled a long sigh of relief and said, “Roy, I don’t even think a four-alarm fire could dampen that news!” He no sooner finished his sentence, when the alarm went off…and off…and off…
“How about a six-alarm?” Kelly inquired, as he and the others started heading for the garage and their trucks.
“Engine 23…Engine 8…Station 12…Engine 43…Engine 36…Engine 47…Station 51…Battalion 12…Battalion 14…Structure fire…Percy Auditorium…1014 East Hargrove…Cross Street 2nd…One-zero-one-four East Hargrove…Time Out: 13:30.”
Wright and DeSoto found themselves leaning against the counter at the Nurses’ Station again, five fatiguing hours later. They’d had to bring in an injured firefighter from the Percy Auditorium blaze.
“You two look like you could use a cup of coffee,” Dixie decided, as she came stepping up. “Well, actually, you look like you could use something a whole lot stronger than coffee, but you’re still on duty.”
The paramedics flashed her appreciative grins and began pouring themselves some of the pretty nurse’s proffered potion.
“How’s Porter?” Roy pondered.
“He suffered some second and third degree burns,” Dixie informed them. “But Kel’s confident he’ll make a complete recovery.”
The firefighters were both pleased and tremendously relieved to hear that prognosis.
“What about that maintenance man 12’s paramedics brought in earlier?” Wright wondered.
“Just some minor smoke inhalation,” Dix’ announced. “He didn’t even have to be admitted. I, uh, take it the arsonist struck again?”
Dave nodded. “He started four separate fires, this time! I think he thought he could divide and conquer us.”
“Well…Then he succeeded with me!” DeSoto wearily determined. “‘Cuz I sure feel divided and conquered.”
“There where 12 engines and two squads on scene!” Wright continued. “It took us almost as long to overhaul and pack up, is it did to put out the fires! But we were able to save the building…mostly smoke and water damage.”
“I sure hope they catch this guy—before somebody becomes a fatality!” the RN angrily added.
The two solemn firemen sipped their coffee and nodded their concurrence.
Mike Stoker and Captain Stanley were standing in front of the wall map in the garage when DeSoto backed the Squad into the Station twenty minutes later.
“Hey, guys!” Hank greeted them. “How’s Porter?”
“Hey, Cap! Dr. Brackett expects a complete recovery,” Roy replied, gladly passing the greeting and good news along. “What’s up?”
Stanley looked relieved and turned back to the wall map. “We’re trying to figure out where he might strike next,” he explained and traced the arsonist’s trail with his finger. “From Austin…to Meredith…to Hargrove…to—”
“—Brampton,” Mike volunteered and pointed to a street bordering their District. “If he follows his pattern, that is. One block! One lousy block more, and Station 20 will have themselves a pyromaniac.”
Dave looked thoughtful. “If this guy’s got a pattern, then why can’t the police catch him?”
Stoker and Stanley glanced at each other and shrugged.
The tones sounded.
“Station 51…Possible structure fire…Danfield Pharmaceutical Warehouse…118 South Brampton…Cross Street Presley…One-one-eight South Brampton…Time Out: 19:02”
Stanley answered the call. “Station 51. KMG-365.” He handed Roy a copy of the call slip and then climbed up into the front seat of the Engine. “Possible structure fire? South Brampton? Could this possibly be our pyromaniac?” he sarcastically inquired.
The trucks pulled out onto the dark street, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Station 51’s crew reached the scene of the possible structure fire fifteen minutes later.
Mike pulled Big Red right up to the Danfield Pharmaceutical Warehouse.
Roy parked the Squad behind three police cars and a waiting ambulance.
Both men cut their trucks' sirens.
Captain Stanley jumped down and went jogging up to a police sergeant, standing under a street light. “What is goin’ on?” he demanded, sounding somewhat annoyed.
“We’ve got the arsonist trapped in a corner of the warehouse,” the Sergeant explained. “It’s a stand-off. He’s poured gasoline all over the place and he’s threatened to light it if we try anything.”
“Good grief!” Hank exclaimed.
“There’s more. The watchman says he thinks he might have wounded the guy. The watchman also says that the warehouse is packed full of chemicals…some may be toxic—or explosive.”
“If he does light that gasoline, I’m gonna need more manpower!”
“That’s already been taken care of, Captain…” the Sergeant calmly said and pointed off down the dark street. “We have two battalions, four additional engines and a back-up paramedic squad waiting in the wings. Oh, also two foam trucks.”
Stanley stared disbelievingly out through the darkness at the row of engines and equipment parked just a block away. “How—?”
“—We called them on the phone and told them not to use their sirens,” the Sergeant interrupted. Then, seeing the Captain’s still completely puzzled expression, he further explained, “You see, the arsonist has a portable scanner rigged up on the Fire Department’s frequencies. He can hear all your calls. We don’t want him to think that this is anything more than a one-alarm call. He would probably like to go out in an eight-alarm blaze of glory. But he might not think a single-alarm possible structure fire is worth it.”
Captain Stanley stared incredulously at the Sergeant. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“We can’t use a marksman—not with all that gasoline around. So we’ll just have to wait.”
“For what?”
A patrolman left the warehouse and came running up to them. “He’s insulted, Sarge,” he breathlessly reported. “He wants more firemen here. He wants to know why only one alarm was sounded.”
“Will your men volunteer to go inside?” the Sergeant suddenly wondered, and pointed to 51’s paramedics.
Stanley considered a flat out no answer, but he had faith in his men’s sanity. “Why don’t you ask them?” he offered.
The Sergeant turned to DeSoto and Wright. “How ‘bout it, gentlemen?”
Roy looked uneasy. “Just what did you have in mind?”
“The arsonist may be wounded. You could offer to treat him. When you got close enough—you could jump him.”
“What happens if he lights the match?” Dave interjected.
The Sergeant didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all.
“Sorry,” DeSoto said, “but my wife made me promise her I wouldn’t do anything foolish. And it would be very foolish to volunteer for anything that would put my life in that maniac’s hands.” He turned to Stanley and offered a more sound suggestion. “Cap? Couldn’t we put some hoses inside to dilute the gas?”
“Sounds good to me, Roy. But I’m not sure who’s in charge of this circus—” Stanley stopped speaking as two more cars suddenly pulled up.
Two men exited the vehicles and came hurrying up to the Captain and the Sergeant.
“What’s going on, Hank?” Chief McConike inquired.
“What do we got, Sergeant?” the other man demanded
The Sergeant went first. “Lieutenant, we have the arsonist trapped inside. It’s a standoff. He’s poured gasoline all over the place and has threatened to set it on fire if we try anything. The warehouse is full of chemicals.”
“Chief,” Stanley spoke up, “we’d like to get some water in there to dilute the gasoline.”
“What’s stopping you?” McConike wondered.
“The Sergeant wants us to wait.”
The Chief and the Lieutenant turned to the Sergeant. “For what?” they both asked at once.
“He might be wounded. The watchman thinks he may have wounded him.”
“Are we waiting for him to bleed to death?” McConike incredulously inquired. “He may not even be injured!”
“I’m open for suggestions,” the Sergeant admitted. “Anybody got a better idea?”
There was a long silence.
“I think we could water down that gas without even letting him know we were pulling anything,” Captain Stanley finally determined.
The Chief apparently liked the plan because he turned to the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant looked thoughtful. “If your department is willing to assume full responsibility—go right ahead!”
McConike turned to Station 51’s Commander and nodded.
Stanley turned and issued several orders to his engine crew.
The firemen ran over to their truck and began pulling hoses.
DeSoto had been discussing something with Wright. He turned back to his boss. “Cap? Dave and I are willing to try to distract the arsonist. If we can keep him talking, he might not hear the water running. We’ll be careful…” he promised.
Stanley hesitated, but then slapped the paramedic lightly on the back. “Okay, Roy! But don’t get anywhere near that gasoline! That’s an order!”
The two distracters nodded and went trotting over to their rescue truck. They grabbed a few pieces of gear and ran into the warehouse.
The two firemen followed their noses over to where some uniformed police officers were crouched down behind some crates. They knew they had to be fairly close to the arsonist, because there was an overpowering odor of gasoline in the air.
“Where is he?” Roy asked one of the officers.
The officer pointed to the far-left corner of the brightly-lit warehouse. “Over there. Right behind those barrels.”
“Has anybody seen him?”
“No. Why?”
“I was just wondering if he’s been wounded,” DeSoto explained. “Have you been wounded?” he shouted, deciding to ask the arsonist, himself.
“Who wants to know?” the arsonist called back, from the corner of the warehouse.
“Roy DeSoto! Los Angeles County Fire Department!”
“Squad 51, right?”
The paramedic was surprised. But then he remembered what the Sergeant had said about the scanner. “Right!”
“I recognize your voice! Where are the rest of the firemen?”
“Outside! Have you been hurt?”
“What are they doing out there?”
“They’re waiting to see if we need their help! Have you been hurt?”
“You’re lying!”
“Look, if you’ve been hurt, we can help you!”
“Why would you wanna do that?”
“That’s our job! That’s what we get paid to do! We help people!”
“I meant, why would you want to help me—an arsonist?”
“Arsonists are people, too!”
There was some strained laughter…followed by silence.
Well, not complete silence.
Roy could hear the faint sound of running water. He watched as the warehouse floor gradually became covered with water. “Please! Let us help you!” he shouted loudly, trying to drown out the tell-tale sound.
“Just go away, and let me die!”
“You don’t have to die! Give yourself up! The police won’t hurt you! Please! Let us help you!” DeSoto’s voice was getting hoarse. He cleared his throat and turned to Wright. “You try.”
“What do I say?”
“Say anything!” Roy prompted. “Just so he doesn’t hear the water running.”
Ten minutes later, the distracters had just about run out of small talk.
But that was okay, because the whole floor of the warehouse was now covered with water.
“Tell Captain Stanley to bring the foam trucks up,” DeSoto told one of the policemen. The officer nodded and left the warehouse.
“Go tell your Captain to get some more firemen here! I’m going to light this match!”
“Why do you want to burn this building down?” Roy asked, just for something to say.
“I don’t want to burn it down! The firemen will put the fire out before it burns down! They always do!”
“Yeah! But there are only six of us here! And we only have one engine!”
“Get some more trucks! Get some more firemen! I’ve poured gas all over in here! Where are the firemen?”
The policeman re-entered the warehouse and came running up. “Everything’s all set!” he breathlessly announced.
Roy exhaled a long sigh of relief and got stiffly to his feet. “Now we can wait,” he croaked rather hoarsely, on account of his strained vocal cords.
He and Wright left the warehouse.
“How does it look in there?” Stanley asked, as his men stepped up to him. He noticed their bodies reeked of gasoline.
“It’ll still burn,” the senior paramedic croaked, “but it shouldn’t explode. It’s pretty diluted.”
Stanley turned to McConike. “Chief, I think we’ve just lessened his threat—substantially! The foam crews are all set…”
“Good work, Hank!” McConike declared. Then he turned to the police lieutenant. “It’s your move…”
The Lieutenant pursed his lips. “We’ll wait!” he determined, following a long, thoughtful silence.
A half-hour later, an officer exited the warehouse and came running up. “Lieutenant? We can’t get the arsonist to answer us. He may be unconscious…or dead…or bluffing—to lure us over to the gasoline.”
The Lieutenant turned to McConike. “Your move, Chief!”
The Chief turned to Stanley. “Hank?”
“We could move in with the foam crews,” Station 51’s Captain suggested. “That way, if he is bluffing—and does light the gasoline—we’ll be on top of it in seconds!”
McConike nodded his approval of the plan.
Stanley passed the order along.
The firemen got into position.
“Now!” the Captain shouted.
The doors on the end of the warehouse were slid open.
Two crews entered, spraying foam—and two more entered, spraying water.
They sprayed a path over to where the arsonist was hiding.
The paramedic team followed the foam sprayers.
Roy and Dave reached the arsonist’s position.
The guy was lying in a puddle of bloody, watered-down gasoline.
DeSoto shoved some empty gas cans out of his way. Then he stooped down and pressed his fingers over the carotid artery in the motionless man’s neck.
Nothing! No pulse…no respirations! His pupils were fixed and dilated.
The paramedic stared down at the bullet wound in the victim’s upper left thigh. He recalled Dixie’s comment earlier, about hoping the police caught the guy before somebody became a fatality. He turned away from the sickening sight and quietly croaked, “He’s dead.”
Dave turned to the police officers who had accompanied them. “Must’ve bled to death.”
The Sergeant didn’t seem a bit surprised.
Wright watched as the Lieutenant took an opened book of soggy matches from the arsonist’s clenched fist. “It’s a good thing he didn’t carry a cigarette lighter,” he solemnly realized.
DeSoto entered ICU’s Room 604 the following morning, and was pleased to find his usually sleeping partner wide-awake. “Hi there!” he croaked with a broad smile, and stepped right up beside the bed, containing his conscious comrade.
“Roy…?” Gage said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, Johnny?” his partner responded, his voice barely audible as well.
“What happened…to your voice?”
“It’s a long story. And they said I can only stay a minute. So I’ll have to tell you about it some other time. All the guys over at the Station wanted me to say ‘Hi!’ for them and they wanted you to know that they’re glad to hear that you’re finally doin’ a little better.”
“Tell ‘em…I said ‘Hi!’…an’ ‘Thanks!’…Will you?”
“Sure thing! No problem! I’ll gladly pass that message along. Anything else I kin do for you?”
“Could you…raise this bed…a little?” his wishing-to-be-perpendicular partner pleaded and fought desperately to keep his drooping eyes open.
“I’ll have to check with your doctor and get back to you on that. Feelin’ a little bed-sore?”
John nodded, sleepily. “Sorry…not much company…the…antibiotics…make me…real…drowsy…” his words trailed off as he lost his battle to stay awake.
Roy patted the back of his snoozing associate’s hand and slipped silently from the room.
A few hours later, Gage awoke and glanced around his ICU room.
Roy was gone.
He also noticed his backside was killing him from having to lie in the same position for so long. So he tried rolling onto his side.
He forgot that he was being watched by a closed-circuit TV camera, and—before he could even turn over—two nurses had rushed into his room and up to his bedside.
They forced him onto his aching back again and then held him there. It didn’t require much effort on their part. He was still extremely weak.
“Let me u-up!” their antsy patient pleaded and began squirming around.
“You can’t change your position, Mister Gage!” one of the nurses told him. “You’ll start coughing!”
“Please, let me up! I have to get up!” John informed them, and kept right on struggling with them. He couldn’t stand being confined—and he hated being called ‘Mister’ Gage!
One of the nurses held him quiet, while the other injected something into his IV's med's port.
“Cheaters!” their now peeved patient pouted— just prior to going completely limp.
“How’s this?” RN Dixie McCall inquired, as she came stepping up to Gage’s bedside the following morning. She’d been in to see the paramedic earlier, and had promised a return visit on her coffee break.
John stared up at the aerial photograph of Rampart General Hospital she was holding in front of his face, and smiled. “Dixie, it’s perfect!”
Miss McCall smiled, too and her devious eyes sparkled. “Now what?”
The patient stared down at the IV in his right wrist and his smile vanished. “Roy’s screwed up my writing hand…” he muttered, sounding dejected.
Dixie took the hint, reached into the right pocket of her uniform and pulled out a pen. “Mine works okay…” she told him and twirled the writing utensil around with her fingers. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to write—and what I’m supposed to write it on.”
The fireman flashed her a grateful grin. “The back of the picture,” he announced. Then, upon seeing her look of complete confusion, he calmly went on to explain. “We’re making a postcard.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched. “Of course…a postcard,” she mumbled rather matter-of-factly.
The ‘postcard producer’ promptly proceeded to dictate a brief message to her.
She glanced up and asked in amazement, “That’s it?”
The paramedic nodded. “I promised them a postcard—not a novel.”
Dixie just stood there, looking highly amused.
Later that same day, John watched as one of his nurses—a Mrs. Gotterd—hung another 500 cc’s of D5W and adjusted his IV. “How about some real food? I’m starving!”
“Nothing through the mouth until you’re off the IV,” she replied and quickly exited the room.
“When—?” Gage groaned as she disappeared.
Twenty minutes later, another nurse entered the room with his meds—a Mrs. Dreyfuss.
“Nurse? When can I get rid of this?” her patient asked and raised his right wrist, with the IV needle and tubing taped to it.
“We’ll be feeding you intravenously until you can handle solid food again.”
John just stared up at her in disbelief. “But...the other nurse just said—” he began, and tried propping himself up on his elbows.
“Mister Gage, you must lie still!” the woman sternly stated, and shoved him back down onto his pillow—for added emphasis. “Still...as in no movement of any kind!” she tacked on, seeing the patient’s mouth reopening.
“But I’m hungry!” the body in the bed disobediently blurted.
“Shhhhh!” the lady urged. She finished administering his medications and immediately took her leave.
John just lay there, fuming…quietly.
Mrs. Gotterd returned after about an hour, to secure a fresh set of vital signs. She stiffened, as her patient suddenly grimaced and let out a pitiful moan. “Where are you hurting?” she anxiously inquired.
“My stomach,” the famished fireman informed her. “I have these terrible hunger pains…”
His nurse was not amused. “I told you—nothing through the mouth until you’re off the IV!” she impatiently repeated. Then she shot him a mean look and started searching for a thermometer.
The moment the woman turned her head, John reached over and yanked the IV from his wrist. “Ou-ouch!”
Mrs. Gotterd heard him cry out and glanced back up. Her mouth dropped open in amazement. “Mister Ga-age!”
Mister Ga-age glared defiantly up at her and calmly stated, “I’ll have a chocolate malt…make it thick.”
Roy stepped up to John’s hospital bed, later that night.
His partner was awake, but seemed to be drugged.
“Hi!” the visitor cheerily declared.
Gage slowly turned his head in his friend’s direction and, when he went to talk, his mouth moved in slow-motion, as well—first, forming a slight smile…and then a barely audible, “Hi-i…”
“I heard you got a little rowdy this afternoon…” the vertical paramedic began, and noted that the IV was now in his patient’s left wrist, “…and they had to give you another dose of sedatives…”
“Yeah…” John shamelessly admitted, and even proudly tacked on, “…but…this time…it took...two... to hold me down.”
The naughty patient’s partner’s expression turned deadly serious. “Yah know, Johnny…if you use up all your strength fighting the nurses, you’re not going to have any left to fight this pneumonia. Dr. Stafford tells me you’ve been making a pretty good recovery—so far. But he’s worried about a relapse. He thinks you’d be too weak to fight back. He said a relapse would probably...kill you.”
The tranquilized patient’s jaw s l o w l y dropped open. “He told you that?”
Roy nodded.
“Why didn’t he tell me-e?”
“He said he heard you have a reputation for not listening to your doctors. He thought maybe you’d listen to a fellow paramedic.”
There followed a long silence, as DeSoto’s stunned partner pondered over all that he’d said. “All right,” Gage finally agreed. “No more fighting. But there are terms…to this surrender.
All of the nurses…on this floor…are either married or engaged. I demand to be moved…to a different floor!
Also, I’ve been lying here in one spot for so long…they’re gonna have to surgically remove…my backside…from this bed! Don’t they realize how incredibly difficult…and danged uncomfortable…it is…for an active guy…like me…to have to lie here…day after day…staring up at the ceiling?
I want a room with a view…a-and some company!”
Speaking of surrendering…
Roy held both of his hands up. “Okay! All right! Just take it easy, Johnny! I promised I wouldn’t let you tire yourself out by talking too much. I’ll give Dr. Stafford your list of demands,” he further promised and began backing towards the door. “I’ll pop back up again sometime tomorrow.”
“Hey! Wait! Don’t leave ye-et,” the prisoner-locked-in-solitary-confinement pleaded. “You just got here!”
“You’re not supposed to have any visitors, at all. If I stay too long, they’re not gonna let me in to see you anymore. Now, get some rest! Okay?”
The now frowning fireman exhaled a resigned sigh and nodded...glumly.
DeSoto flashed him a sympathetic smile. Then he waved and disappeared.
The following afternoon, Station 51’s current residents were sitting around their rec’ room, trying to squeeze in a little rest and relaxation between calls.
“Man! With that pyromaniac gone, it sure is quiet around here,” Chet Kelly commented, on his way over to the sink to get himself a drink of H 2 O. “Did any of you guys catch the news last night?” he inquired, and began sipping the water like it was fine wine.
Paramedic Dave Wright was seated at the dinner table, resting his head on his folded arms. “What news?” he asked, not bothering to open his eyes.
Chet set his glass on the table and sat down beside him. “They said this drought could go on for another nine months,” he glumly responded.
“What drought?” Wright sleepily wondered.
Wright’s partner—er, temporary partner glanced up from the cup of coffee he was nursing. “Who are THEY?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “I mean, THEY say this…and THEY say that. Haven’t you ever wondered who THEY are?”
“What drought?” Wright repeated.
Chet stared down at the sleepy form sprawled across their table and sadly shook his head. “Sheesh! Do you lead a sheltered life! What do you mean, ‘What drought?’? Where have you been for the last 18 months? We haven’t had a decent rain since last July! Why do you think the department has been averaging three and a half brush fires a day? It’s so dry right now, if we don’t get some rain pretty quick, the whole state is gonna go up in smoke!”
Stoker was seated on the sofa.
The Station’s mascot was lying next to him, resting his head on the engineer’s lap.
Mike scratched the mutt behind the ears for a moment or two and then turned to his crew-mate, seated a cushion and a half away. “Hey, Marco? How do you put out half a brush fire?” he insincerely inquired.
Lopez looked up from the magazine he was reading and shrugged. “A quarter at a time?” he proposed, and his fellow firefighters chuckled.
Well, all except for Chet, that is. “I should a’ known better than to try and discuss something serious around he-ere…”
DeSoto stepped over to the kitchen counter and began pouring himself some more coffee. “Sounds pretty serious all right,” he sarcastically conceded. “The entire state of California is going to catch on fire, and then THEY say a big earthquake is going to come along and put it out—by dropping it into the Pacific Ocean.”
Mike and Marco enjoyed another good chuckle—at Chet’s expense.
Even old ‘half-asleep Wright’ was forced to grin and snicker.
“Yeah, yeah…we’ll see who gets the last laugh,” Kelly quickly came back and took a big swallow of his cold—and precious—commodity.
“What are you guys complaining about now?” their Captain inquired as he came walking in with the day’s mail.
Kelly replied with a quick question of his own. “What do you think of this dry spell, Cap?”
Stanley poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat down at the table to sort through his stack of envelopes. “As long as we can hook a hose up to a hydrant—and there’s water when we turn on the valve—I’m not gonna worry about it…” he paused to glance around the room. “Besides, before you know it, we’ll be getting more rain than we can handle. And then I suppose you’ll be complaining about mud sli—” he stopped talking suddenly and smiled. “Hey, you guys! John sent us a postcard!” he announced and held up the aerial photograph of Rampart General Hospital.
His men gave their Commander their undivided attention.
Hank’s smile broadened into a grin. “Listen to this…‘Dear Cap, Roy, Mike, Marco, Chet and Henry…Having a miserable time…Be glad you’re not here…John’.”
“That’s it?” Chet asked, amazed.
“No-o…” Their Captain continued. “There’s a P.S. . ‘P.S….He said he promised you a postcard—not a novel…Love, Dixie’.”
The missing fireman’s friends glanced at each other…and grinned.
“I see you got some company,” DeSoto declared, as he came strolling into his lonesome partner’s hospital room later that afternoon, carrying a long, slender tube.
Gage glanced glumly over at the intensive care patient that had been placed in the bed beside his. “Huh! Some company! I waited all day for him to wake up. Come to find out—he’s in a coma! Some company!” he sadly repeated.
“We got your postcard…” Roy announced, determined to keep the conversation upbeat.
“Already? We just sent it yesterday…” the body-in-the-bed said, and his gloomy mood did brighten—but only for a moment. “They won’t let me leave this floor…and they won’t let me move,” John announced, looking—and sounding—sadder than sad.
“Yeah…well, I brought you a view…” the frowning fireman’s friend quickly continued, making yet another attempt to cheer his depressed partner up. The tube in his hands turned out to be a couple of rather large posters—glued back-to-back. Roy unfurled and uncurled them.
The view on one side was an awesome picture of the sun rising—or setting—upon a peaceful, pastoral landscape. The view on the other side was an even awesomer picture of a beautiful, long blonde-haired, bikini-clad girl running on a sunny, sandy beach somewhere.
DeSoto stared thoughtfully at the skimpily-dressed, deeply-tanned, richly-endowed maiden for a few moments. “She looks kind a’ like that ‘Miss Ferrel’ from headquarters, don’t yah think?” He glanced up and was relieved to find his friend grinning back at him…well, at the beach scene, actually.
Speaking of thoughtful…
John flashed his one-in-a-million—exceedingly thoughtful—partner an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Roy…for the beautiful views!” he said aloud. Then silently he added, ‘…and, for bein’ such a goo—great friend!’
“Hey…no problem,” the beautiful view provider proclaimed and shrugged the whole thing off. “I’ve got it on a string, see…So, when you get tired of one view, you just have someone flip it over.” Roy pulled a roll of industrial-strength tape from the front pocket of his uniform and then took great pains to position the poster for the patient’s optimum viewing pleasure. “This okay?”
John nodded. “Yeah…that’s fine right there…thanks!”
DeSoto secured the sights to the wall and then wondered, “Where would you like to go first? To the country?…Or to the beach?”
“The beach! Definitely the beach!”
“You’re not so sick, after all!” Roy realized with a grin.
Speaking of ‘that Miss Ferrel from headquarters’…
Stacey stepped up to Doctor Brackett’s office and timidly tapped upon the obviously busy physician’s open door.
Brackett was embroiled in a losing battle with bureaucracy. He glanced up at the girl, briefly, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I, uh, have the paperwork you requested for John Gage…” his visitor announced, and promptly proffered some official-looking LA County Fire Department documents.
“You didn’t have to hand deliver it,” Kelly informed the gal with the folder, “but thanks! Just set it on my desk. I’ll try to get it filled out and sent back to you…” he paused to shoot the stack of folders already piled high before him, a distasteful glance, “as soon as possible.”
The girl set her delivery down and then stood there for a few moments, trying to muster up the courage to interrupt the busy gentleman again. “How is he?” she finally just blurted out.
Kelly put his pencil down and took a longer look at the lovely—and apparently concerned—young lady. Great minds must indeed think alike, because he suddenly came up with DeSoto’s absolutely brilliant idea for brightening Johnny’s day. “Why don’t you go on up and see for yourself,” he proposed, suppressing a smile all the while.
“They told me he’s not allowed visitors,” the girl glumly replied.
Brackett flashed the blonde-haired beauty standing before him the smile he’d been suppressing. “I think we could make an exception in your case. I think a visit from you might even have a ‘therapeutic’ effect on him…” he figured and began reaching for his phone.
Stacey stepped quietly into ICU's Room 604 and cautiously approached the seriously ill paramedic’s hospital bed.
The fireman’s dreamy, dark-brown eyes were open and focused upon a poster that someone—obviously another male—had given him.
Once again, the girl found herself standing around, trying to muster up the courage to speak. “Hi, Johnny!” she finally blurted out, and just about gave the poor guy a heart attack.
The startled young man swung his gaze in the girl’s direction and his heart rate and respirations slowly returned to normal…well, nearer to normal. “I must be delirious…” he quietly confessed and blinked his wide eyes a few times in disbelief. But his new beautiful view remained right there beside him. “Are you for real?…Or am I just imagining you?”
Stacey smiled and then reached out to place her right hand over his.
John returned her smile, but kept her hand. “I didn’t think my imagination was that good. How did you get in here? They won’t let anybody but Roy in here to see me…and then about all he can do is say ‘Hi’ and ‘Bye’…”
“Doctor Brackett fixed it so I could see you.”
“Oh, yeah? He fixed it, did he? We-ell, bless his heart!” the fireman found himself staring into his lovely visitor’s emerald-green eyes—again. ‘A fella could drown in those eyes…’ he suddenly—and silently—determined. ‘Ah, yes…but what a way to go!’ It also abruptly occurred to the eye-gazer that he just might be getting ahead of himself. “Is this an official visit?” he nervously inquired.
“Well, I did come to the hospital on some official business,” the girl began, and the fireman immediately released his hold on her hand. “But I came up here because I wanted to see—for myself—how you were feeling…”
“For a second there, I thought you were going to say you came up here to tell me that my vacation was cancelled again—for the fourth time!”
“Actually, it was canceled again. You’re on sick leave.”
“With pay?” the paramedic pondered.
The pretty personnel employee nodded.
Gage looked ecstatic—and then glum again. “What about my vacation?”
“It’s been postponed—indefinitely.” Stacey stopped talking and stood there, staring at all the medical paraphernalia that was attached into, onto, and around the handsome young man in the hospital bed. “I thought you told me you weren’t going to sacrifice your health…”
“I didn’t sacrifice it!” the paramedic innocently proclaimed. “It committed suicide!”
“Time’s up!” Mrs. Dreyfuss told her patient’s pretty visitor, as she came charging into the room to administer Mister Gage’s latest dose of meds.
“Don’t worry,” Miss Ferrel said, seeing the look of tremendous disappointment on the young firefighter’s face. “Doctor Brackett also fixed it so that I can come back!”
“I really must remember to thank that man…” John realized with a wry smile.
The girl with the emerald-green eyes smiled…and waved…and was gone.