Run - Part 2
"LA, Engine 8 available."
"10-4, Engine 8."
"…notify Battalion 126…"
"126 on scene."
The sizzle of water instantly boiling the moment it touched the blaze was loud, but not loud enough that Hank didn't hear LA's requests rattling through on their radio in their engine parked reassuringly behind him like a retaining wall.
"LA, Ladder 45. Cancel requested engines. Fire contained."
"Ladder 45."
"…37. Squad 37. Unknown type rescue. 2255 Beaker Avenue. Two two five five Beaker. Cross streets Wilford and Main. Time out…"
"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame…"
Hank glanced up at the Wilshire hotel which just moments before was fully involved and easily went from two alarms to four in a matter of minutes. Ladder 24's cherry picker was finally descending, sluggishly as if it didn't believe the fire was truly contained. The structure still smoldered resentfully, plumes of white and charcoal black smoke puffed up against the horizon. The white smoke, at least, was reassuring. Black meant the fire was still hungry.
"Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."
Wait a minute…
"What the heck?" Hank muttered as he thumbed up the brim of his helmet to consider his radio with a mild frown.
No. Roy was back in Rampart, waiting for Sanchez of 37 to get off his shift and pull overtime as Roy's partner.
Temporary partner, Hank reminded himself as something flared up in his chest in response. He did not envy poor Sanchez. He was a good paramedic and what was happening with Gage was not his fault. No, DeSoto's a good fireman, by the book. Surely he wasn't impulsive enough to be out there without Sanchez because that would mean he was out there looking for Gage when HQ specifically told him not to. No, Roy would listen to orders. He was levelheaded, calm, collected—
And John's partner.
"Ah hell," Hank groaned before yanking up his HT, "22, take over the scene."
"10-4, 51. All units, be advised 22 is now handling the scene. South side, ventilate the…"
Muttering under his breath, Hank spun completely around to glower at the radio up in Big Red's cabin. Like it or not, it was DeSoto's voice when he answered the call to LA. Hank heaved himself up into the cabin, wiggling to reach past a surprised Stoker to grab the radio mouthpiece.
"Cap?"
"Did you catch the address?" Hank demanded as he activated the radio.
"Address? What address?" Lopez asked outside, puzzled to find their captain in the engine instead of tracking the extinguished building smoking feet away.
"Squad 51."
Too late, LA approved the change in assignments before Hank could radio that fool DeSoto.
"Damn!" Hank thundered, inches from Stoker and loud enough that the engineer stumbled out of the cab with a yelp.
"Cap?" Kelly's eyes looked wider than usual on his soot-smudged face when he poked his head into the cab. "Everything okay?"
"It will be," Hank growled as he gripped the radio mouthpiece close to his mouth, "when I lock that twit in his locker for the rest of his career!"
"Uh, okay, Cap," Kelly said hastily. He climbed back down with a quick jump.
"Chet, what did you do?"
"It wasn't me!"
Hank could hear his men gathering by the door, the smoky wet stench of their turnout gear making his nostrils flare. He only gave them a long enough look to silence them. He counted three sweat plastered heads (good) before he barked into the radio.
"LA, connect me to Rampart Hospital."
Hyperthermia.
Increased body temperature due to thermo…thermo…thermo what?
He knew what was happening to him.
He knew what this was.
He also knew he just needed to hold on. Just a bit longer. The guys would be here. Roy would be here. He knew it. He just needed to…needed to what?
John forced himself to breathe slowly; wouldn't do to drive himself into tachypnea although deep down, he knew that wasn't really in his control.
John swallowed.
Doug wasn't coming back.
Think, John, think.
The taillight by his head was at an angle above his head; John didn't have enough room to pull back a fist to punch it out. At least he was able to kick the other one out.
Loosen clothing: checked. Well…sort of. John managed to pull out the ends of his shirt, but in the cramped, suffocating quarters, he couldn't wiggle out of his trousers. Then again, the thought of the guys finding him in his shorts wasn't appealing. Chet would never let him hear the end of it.
Breathe slowly. Loosen clothing. Find ventilation.
All John needed now was D5W and some Lactated ringers.
John wanted to laugh but it got stuck in his gummy mouth.
John smacked his lips.
Boy, he was thirsty.
There was a moment Roy worried perhaps whoever was in Carson's Salvage had been watching them outside. When he jogged over with Vince with the gear to the rundown gates; one half of the lopsided iron wrought gate screeched open as soon as his boots had touched the curb.
A tall, broad shouldered man stood at the gap, his face shadowed, his mouth twisted in a way Roy could feel Vince tensing besides him when they simultaneously skidded to a halt. Roy caught a glimpse of what almost looked like lightning carved into the square jaw. This must be the older brother Doug, Roy thought. His gut knotted at the thought of Doug standing over his partner.
"Fast," was the only comment Doug offered, his blue eyes scanning both of them up and down. "You don't look like ambulance people."
"They're right behind us," Roy reassured him. "They're usually sent out with us after the 911 call is received. We're here to assess the condition and stabilize the situation before they arrive."
Doug's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Paramedics?" He grumbled darkly under his breath but stepped aside to let them through. "My brother's in that building there."
"What's wrong with your brother?" Vince asked and Roy winced.
"He's sick," Doug said curtly. He turned on his heels and led the way, offering nothing more.
Roy hurried his steps but Vince, perhaps forgetting he was supposed to be a fireman, wasn't deterred. Despite wearing the spare turnout gear over his uniform and lugging the IV box and defibrillator, Vince didn't sound out of breath in the afternoon heat. His long strides easily ate the distance between him and Doug.
"How long has he been sick? Did he see a doctor before? How long did you wait before calling 911?"
Roy grimaced when he sighted the building—if it could be called that—corrugated sheet metal gleaming under sunlight. Even a healthy person staying there would become sick.
"You ask a lot of questions for a fireman."
Roy froze at Doug’s growl. He shot Vince a look. Vince merely nodded and pretended to struggle with the gear, easing back a step.
"Have to know the medical history before we can treat your brother," Vince said, making a point not to meet the man’s eyes. Doug pursed his lips but said nothing more.
Roy pushed the door open. Doug didn't appear to be too convinced.
"Treat?" A pale-faced kid with stringy blonde hair twisted around from his position by the lone cot inside, his eyes hopeful. "So you can help him?"
Roy pasted a smile on his face with some effort. A part of him didn't think there was really a patient. He had hoped the moment he opened the door, Johnny would be there. "The sooner we could see your brother, the faster we can get him to help." He took a step towards the cot and the kid followed with scared eyes. "I'm Fireman Roy DeSoto and uh…this is Fireman Vince Howard. Were you the ones who called 911? What's your name, son?"
The boy's words tripped over each other as he wiggled away to let Roy crouch by the unconscious man. "Stephen C-carson. Doug thought we should wait, b-but the guy—"
"Stevie!" Doug snapped. Vince spun around and Roy was positive if the officer weren't holding onto his gear, he would have pulled out his gun.
"Stop jabbering. Don't distract the firemen from helping Jake," Doug grumbled. He yanked Stevie to his feet. Stevie stumbled before huddling next to the larger man.
"You can help him, right?" Doug asked reluctantly after a pleading look from Stevie.
Roy tapped the bell of his stethoscope and settled it over the thin chest he exposed with an efficient yank at the shirt. The wet rustling that echoed in his ears made the corners of his mouth tighten. He settled a hand over his patient's belly and checked his watch as he tallied the much too slow rise and falls. He glanced over at Vance, who stared back with a furrowed brow. The police officer was looking like the properly somber paramedic but his dark eyes lacked the comprehension of what was before him.
"Why don't you radio Rampart and see what that ETA is for that ambulance?" Roy murmured slowly.
"Ambulance?" Stevie stammered. He stepped away from his brother's shadow and hovered by the foot of the cot. His hands twisted around something he pressed to his chest. "Then…he really has to go to the hospital? Jake said he didn't wanna go to the hospital."
Roy pumped the pressure cuff ball and read the numbers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning. "I'm afraid this is not an option. Your brother here…he's very sick." Roy looked up at the pale face. Stevie's lower lip trembled.
"We should have listened. We shoulda called sooner…he said if his heartbeat got real slow then—"
"Who's he?" Vince asked, his eyes on Roy. He opened each box. Roy hoped the two men behind Vince couldn't see the hesitation as fingers fumbled over every compartment until Roy's tiny cough signaled him to stop at the right thing.
"Jake," Doug cut in smoothly. "Our brother told Stevie here to watch out for stuff. He was a medic in the Marines."
"That where you got that IV and stethoscope, son?" Vince nodded towards what Stevie clutched in his hands.
Stevie started. He looked down at what he held and gulped. "J-jake was a medic. This is his stuff. From when he was in Vietnam. Jake taught me to…" Stevie blinked rapidly. "He told me how to use it. Listen to his heart and stuff. Just in case."
Roy bit his tongue as he concentrated on pressing down on the belly and its unnatural rigidness. He couldn't let him think about how new the stethoscope looked for one stuck in the jungle before.
Doug's shadow eclipsed his ailing brother's prone body when he stepped forward. "What are you doing?"
"Your brother was right," Roy told him quickly but it wasn't enough to tear the oldest brother away from staring at Vince as he grabbed the biophone. Luckily, no one saw Vince first reach into the turnout gear for his handie talkie. "It's a good thing you called 911."
"What is he doing?" Doug repeated.
"Doug," Stevie whimpered. "Jake said no hospitals, but—"
"I said what is he doing?"
Vince squared his jaw but took great care to hold up the red phone for show. Everyone visibly tensed when the biophone chirped, the connection made.
"Rampart Hospital, this is Squad 51," Vince said slowly, his eyes on Doug. "This is Fireman Vince Howard."
Doug eased back but Roy's throat caught at the pause before the biophone finally crackled back.
"We read you, 51. This is Doctor Brackett. What do you have, Vince?"
Roy was pretty sure if he checked himself right now, he was probably diaphoretic; he could feel the back of his shirt starting to cling to his back. Roy swallowed and rattled off the vitals. Vince proved to be a quick learner; he remembered exactly what Roy had instructed him by the squad. He repeated everything back to Rampart.
The IV lines were established, tiny old syringe marks on blue lined arms were ignored. Roy kept one ear out to hear; what, he wasn't sure. Doug and Stevie weren't talking. Jake was definitely in no condition to carry on a conversation and the one voice Roy needed to hear was painfully absent. Where was Johnny? Roy was pretty sure now why his partner was brought here. And judging by the shadow Doug made over him and his patient, Johnny couldn't have risked escape either. Even if there was a chance, John was a paramedic before he was anything else. Roy knew his partner would save his patient before he would save himself. John Gage would never walk away from someone who needed help: especially not in Jake's current condition.
"Ambulance will be here in eleven minutes," Vince reported and it wasn't an ideal ETA and Doug caught the frown before Roy could hide it.
"That bad?" Doug's shadow seemed to have deflated before them. Stevie's head whipped up at his older brother.
"D-doug?"
"Quiet." Eyes zeroed in on Roy's face in silent challenge, daring him to lie.
"If we get him to a hospital fast," Roy said carefully, "There's a chance." He readjusted the breathing mask over Jake. An esophageal would have been better, but a quick check had revealed to Roy a mouth far too raw from repeated vomiting to endure the life-saving intrusion.
"A drug overdose is very damaging," Roy said, unable to stop himself when he thought of the numerous old track marks. What a waste. "If you had waited to call 911—"
"Who said it was a drug overdose?" Doug darkened and he tugged Stevie closer to his side by the sleeve.
Vince wordlessly turned one thin arm towards the pair. "What was he into?" Vince asked, in a calm voice Roy envied. "Heroin?"
"We can't help him until we know what's killing him inside," Roy told the pair of closed faces. "Your brother could die."
Stevie's blotchy face blanched further and he opened his mouth but at Doug's tug on his arm, shut his mouth again with a snap.
"You called 911," Roy directed it to Stevie now. "You must have had some idea your brother was getting worse."
The young, scared face finally crumbled. Stevie jerked away from his older brother.
"Heroin! It was h-heroin! But he was trying to quit! Honest! Jake told us how to help him and we got the stuff he needed. I thought it was enough…but the guy said it would kill Jake but Jake said—"
"What stuff?" Vince asked before Roy could.
Stevie eyed Doug, who gaped at his little brother, maybe too shocked at the outburst. When Doug did nothing, Stevie wiped his dribbling nose with the back of his sleeve, and then nodded to something under the cot.
At Vince's nod, Roy peeled his eyes away from the two brothers and crouched lower to look under the cot. He vaguely made out small shapes, but it was too shadowed to identify anything. Roy hurriedly reached in and grabbed the shapes with one swoop, his other hand whipping out to catch something that tumbled out of his too full grip. He sat up and opened that hand to stare at the lone and empty bottle of morphine sulfate.
Oh God.
"When did you give him this?" Roy whispered. The vial felt cool in his palm. He could see the faint imprints of a hospital stamp on them. All he could make out was the 'R' and 'A' on the MS vial but it was enough. His mouth went dry. He could barely get the words out.
"When did you give him this? How much?" Roy's chest clenched. There was no way Johnny would have administered this. No. Not MS.
"Forty minutes ago," Stevie whispered.
"Shut up," Doug hissed, recovering from his initial shock.
"How much?" Roy asked sharply as he squeezed the lone bottle. His other hand twinged painfully around the items it still grasped tight against his hip.
"All of it." Stevie burst into tears. "It's true what he said then? Jake wanted to die?"
Roy wasn't paying attention to the rest of what Stevie was blubbering about as he lunged across the cot for the biophone. He tossed everything from both his hands onto the cot, snatched the phone, barking for Rampart even as Vince questioned Stevie where the MS came from. Stevie was sobbing too hard to answer.
"We bought it," Doug answered, his words forced out between a snarl.
"Rampart, we have further information on the patient," Roy was speaking into the phone.
"From who?" Vince pressed.
"Go ahead, 51."
"I don't know who!" Doug snapped. "Some dude on the street!"
"Which street?"
"I don't know! Walker!"
"East or West?"
Roy was nodding at what Brackett was telling him. He adjusted the IV drip, his eyes darting to Jake's stricken face. He set his hand on Jake's belly again. Comparing it with what he got with the respiration number before, Roy's mouth pressed together.
"51. LA reports ambulance ETA is now six minutes," the biophone garbled out.
Roy set his jaw. He darted a glance over to Doug, glowering at Vince. The two men stood eye to eye. Stevie was sitting on the edge of the cot now, shoulders shaking, his head in his hands.
"The guy you got this from?" Roy asked tersely as he looked around the room again, his throat tight. "What does he look like?"
"Why are you asking all these questions?" Doug growled. "You should be saving our brother!"
"Look man, we need to know where these drugs came from—"
"I don't know!"
Roy swallowed. His eyes burned but he couldn't ignore Jake Carson's need either. Already, Jake's lower extremities were hardening into knotted spasms, legs twitching under the threadbare blanket. The bottles Roy grabbed with his other hand clinked under the tremors but they were also making another sound.
Something silver glinted dully among the empty vials Roy had blindly thrown down between the covered legs before. Roy reached for it, curled shaking fingers over the smooth, tiny piece of metal and drew it close enough to see the small caduceus.
"Vince," Roy choked out and he raised the pin up to Vince. "It's Joh—"
"Watch out!"
"Doug, no!"
There was no time to react or even see what was happening. Roy saw Vince leap over the cot, tackling him to the ground just as a sharp ping zipped over them and one of the metal walls shook from the impact. Roy felt Vince push his head down behind the cot and he found himself staring at Jake's IV line as Vince yanked out his revolver.
"You're a cop!" Doug roared.
Roy grimaced as he heard a hammer cocked back. No room, Roy thought. They were too close to miss…
"Doug, stop!"
"Get out of my way!"
"You can't do this! This has gone too—"
"Come on," Vince ordered, grabbing the back of Roy's turnout coat and heaved him to his feet. He jerked Roy towards the door when Roy turned towards Jake. He caught a glimpse of Stevie tugging Doug's arm, his gun wildly seesawing in the air. But Vince gave him another shove out the door and Roy found himself stumbling besides Vince.
There was another shot—Stevie probably couldn't hold his brother off—as soon as the door slammed shut. Roy felt it spit by his shoe, close enough to make him trip but Vince's meaty grip on the back of his turnout coat righted him.
Old drills from his service in the Army taught him to keep his head low, his path across the yard a zig zag. They twisted around one pile of smashed cars, ducked under another stack (Code 387 dictates they should be—oh shut up, Roy) and somewhere between going around the compactor and a pillar of crushed bikes, they discarded their turnout gear.
Vince, armed with his own training and his gun, was right behind him as they ran. The officer alternated from hissing to Roy to keep moving and returning fire. Doug stayed doggedly behind them until suddenly, he wasn't.
Roy skidded around a pile of smashed up cars and barrels of half emptied acetylates. He crouched, sheltered under its shadow. Vince nearly collided into him, sliding in the dust.
"Those should be upright," Roy mumbled as he noticed the barrels they were hiding behind. Vince only huffed in response. Roy raised his head cautiously. He could see the shed meters away.
A ping screeched past his ear and buried itself in the metal behind him.
Vince gave him a rough push until Roy was crouched down again, his chin nearly hitting his knees. "Stay down!" he ordered.
"But—"
"Damn it, Roy, will you just listen to me this time!"
Roy shot a scowl at him. "Jake Carson needs help." He opened the fist he had held close to his hip to reveal the pin he never let go of. "And Johnny's out there somewhere. They know where he is."
"Do you also need a hole in your head?" Vince countered. He checked his revolver with a flick of his wrist. Vince swore.
"What?" Roy watched Vince dig a reload out of his pockets, sliding a chamber of bullets into his gun with a somber click.
"No more bullets left," Vince reported shortly. He raised his head to look to his left. Another ping had him ducking fast.
"Maybe you should stay down," Roy suggested.
The glower Vince gave him told Roy what the officer thought of his advice.
Vince nodded towards their left.
"You see those barrels over there? The ones over—keep your head down!" Vince glared at Roy. "The gates are past that. Get to those barrels and then to the entrance and your squad."
Roy stared.
Vince, not understanding, gripped his gun firmly. "Don't worry. I'll draw his fire. It should give you enough time to—"
"I'm not leaving you here!" Roy burst out. "Or my patient. Or my partner!"
"We don't know if John's even—"
Roy slapped the pin against Vince's chest. "That's an LA County paramedic pin. John's pin. He's here."
Vince pressed it back into Roy's hand. "Fine. You're still going back to the squad."
"Vince—"
"Unless you have another biophone or a radio with you 'cause last I checked, everything is back there, I need you to get to the squad. Get some patrol cars here."
Roy paused. He squeezed a fist around the pin.
Two pings punctured the headlights of a wreck in front of them.
"You want Jake's ambulance to come into this? We're going to find your partner with this heat? We need backup!"
Roy swallowed. He pocketed John's pin and eyed the distant barrels. They seemed to stretch further away.
"Count of three?" Roy asked evenly.
Vince clapped him on the shoulder. "One…"
Roy took a deep breath, his shoulders rounding into a hunch. He could feel his gut clench.
"Two…"
To the barrels, duck behind that jeep and to the gate…
"Three!"
Vince's first return fire was the starter's gun. Roy bolted, head low, his arms close to his sides to be as small a target as possible. There was a shout, a line of heat that brushed by him but then Vince returned fire in a quick one-two succession that left him ignored. Roy stumbled into the barrels' shadow. He made a face at the smell (they weren't properly sealed) and he studied the space he just fled.
Why was it quiet now?
Roy panted quietly, his legs burned as if he had climbed ten stories in full turnout gear. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, his sleeves stuck into his armpits but all Roy could think was that it was probably twice as hot in the shed.
The stretch between the barrels and the jeep was as wide as the San Diego freeway. Nothing else stood between them. Roy bit his lower lip. He checked over his shoulder. The stacks and stacks of wreckage loomed, curtaining everything in shadow despite the afternoon sun creeping up to its zenith.
"Carson!" Vince abruptly hollered. "Give it up! You don't want to do this! Let us save your brother! The longer we're out here, the longer it will take before Jake will get help!"
"Shut up!" A couple of bullets barked back towards Vince.
Roy twitched. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. Roy just ran. He fixed on the crumpled jeep, poured on an extra burst of speed as he crossed the empty clearing. Get to the squad, get to the squad. Vince's words echoed in his head as his feet pounded across the distance.
Doug Carson stepped out from behind the jeep.
Roy's boots burned as he skidded to an abrupt halt, his body twisting vainly away as he saw Doug raise his gun arm. Roy threw himself to the ground just as he caught sight of Vince racing towards them, shouting but Roy couldn't hear past Joanne's crying out his name in his ears to hear what Vince was saying. The gun fired. Roy tensed.
Engine 51 roared as it shattered the gates, thundered in and stood between Roy and the gun.
"Geez!" Chet yelped as the bullet meant for Roy smashed into the side of Big Red. "He has a gun!"
"Hey!" Stoker bellowed in an outrage Roy hadn't heard from him before.
"Everybody out! Other side!" Cap could be heard shoving Mario and Chet out the doors. The two firemen tumbled out to land by Roy. "You too, Mike!"
"He shot her! Cap, he shot my—"
"Out, you twit!"
"Carson!" Vince veered sharply away from Roy and towards the older brother. Roy pushed himself up shakily on one elbow and squinted blearily at the dark uniform going farther and farther away.
Hands ran over his back, slipped under his arms to lift him off the dusty ground. Roy sat, cross-legged, his hands gripping his knees. He fought the urge not to hyperventilate. And to think Joanne was worried about him burning in a fire.
"Hey, you okay there, pal?"
"He all right, Cap?"
"I can't believe he shot my engine…"
"Aw, Mike. She'll live…"
Roy blinked and looked up at four grimy faces that filled his vision. The corner of his mouth tugged. Somehow, it was comforting to have the acrid odor of wet wood and smoke filling his nostrils.
"H-hi," Roy wheezed.
Cap scowled. He hauled Roy up to his feet. He whistled to something behind the engine and Squad 18 rolled into view.
Roy stared stupidly at the three paramedics climbing out of the squad. "How…?"
"Called Rampart and heard Sanchez was there twiddling his thumbs." Cap folded his arms across his chest. Roy gulped at the hard glare directed at him. "Apparently, his overtime left without him so he hitched a ride with Squad 18, seeing LA reassigned them to this call." Cap had the look of a summer storm on his face.
Oh. Roy offered Cap and the others a shaky smile.
"Roy, of all the crazy ideas you two get, this has to be—"
Roy pulled out the pin. Cap's tirade petered out.
"They have him." Roy dropped the pin into his captain's hand.
Cap looked down at the tiny metal in his hand. He sighed and wiped a palm down his face. His dark eyes lifted and met Roy's.
"Let's go find our boy."
"I don't know," Stevie hiccupped, his eyes glued to Squad 18 transferring Jake into the stretcher. "Doug…he took him outside and…and then he came back alone."
Roy's insides churned. He heard Marco mutter something in Spanish. Roy's hands were automatic as he adjusted Jake's drip, checked the leads and trailed alongside the stretcher into the newly arrived ambulance. Stevie looked dazed at the sight of patrol cars and fire trucks huddled in the only available clearing.
"Did you hear a gunshot?" Vince asked Stevie. He had come back empty-handed minutes before; he lost Doug to the yard's metal labyrinth.
Roy felt cold. He stared at Stevie. Even the head shake Stevie made didn't undo the knot in his chest.
"We're ready," Sanchez reported as he climbed into the back of the ambulance. No one insisted Roy should be the one in there.
Wet eyes turned towards Vince.
"Please," Stevie whispered. "I gotta go with Jake. I promise I won't do nothing."
Vince studied Stevie for a moment, lips pursed before he slowly nodded. "Adams," he called out to one of the officers who had arrived minutes before. "Take the Carson kid with you to Rampart?"
"You got it, Vince."
The teenager grasped Roy by the wrists before Vince could warn against it. Handcuffs clacked as he gave Roy's hands a shake.
"He tried to tell me. The other fireman guy. He told me to call if Jake got worse. He tried to warn me but I didn't believe him. He made Doug so mad when he wouldn't give Jake the drugs but Jake made Doug promise not to kill him."
Roy nodded numbly.
Stevie's face was wet, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I really don't know where he is. Doug knew but he's…" Stevie choked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Come on," Vince said. He gently pried Stevie's hands off Roy. "You follow that officer. He'll take you to Rampart in a few minutes."
The young man's apologies trailed behind him as he was guided to a patrol car.
Roy sat on the step of their engine. He felt numb, his mind blank. He cupped the pin with both hands.
"We got men searching the premises for the b—for John," Vince told Cap in a quiet voice.
"We can search too," Marco declared.
"Sorry. Can't. Carson might still be out there. This place is a maze."
"Cap—" Mike protested.
"Vince, my men could stay together and search one area and your guys the other. We'll cover more ground."
"Sorry, Captain, but—"
"Hey," Chet said suddenly. "Ain't these like those things this morning?" The fireman rose from his crouch to lift up two fistfuls of paper.
Roy lifted a heavy head and frowned. He levered off the step, shrugging away the concerned looks thrown his way. He took one from Chet and smoothed out the wrinkled slip.
Frog 1G9.
"Kelly, did you have these in your pocket?"
"Those are evidence," Vince pointed out, his voice disapproving.
"I gave every sheet to that Detective Richards when we found them. These were under the engine."
Roy fingered the sheet and studied the smudged scrawl. The lettering was crooked, running into each other. He stared out into the yard, at the piles of flattened cars reaching up towards the sky.
Roy's eyes widened.
"I'm so stupid," Roy whispered.
"Roy?" Chet called out as Roy pivoted on his heel and raced to the patrol car pulling out. He shouted, slapping his palms on the driver side window until the vehicle slowed to a stop. Adams rolled down his window, his freckled face puzzled.
"Let me talk to him," Roy said urgently, his head jerking back towards Stevie in the back.
The teen gaped wide-eyed as Roy ripped open the passenger door and stuck his head in.
"Was it the car?"
"W-what?"
Roy waved the paper at the boy. Stevie flinched.
"There was a car parked on 316 when we got there. A green—something. I thought it looked like a rusty—The car. Did you take my partner here with that car? A green car?"
"Y-yeah, it was J-jake's—"
Roy didn't wait for Stevie to finish. He slammed the patrol car shut, shouted an apology over his shoulder to Adams as he ran back to Cap.
"The car!" Roy gestured with the slip. "They took Johnny here in their brother's car. This car." He pointed to the lettering. "'Frog 1G9'. It's a partial plate. It's a green Cadillac, maybe a Buick. It wasn't parked outside—"
"So it must be in here," Vince finished. He spun around, his radio to his mouth. "All units…"
Roy sagged back into the engine. He smiled weakly at Cap as the older man dropped a hand to his shoulder.
"I should have realized sooner." Roy clutched tighter to the citation sheet.
"We at least know where to look now," Cap answered quietly.
Roy looked at his fist, at the paper. The tightness around him didn’t lessen.
"Cap," Roy said softly. "He's in that car. I know he is."
"Then we'll find him."
"You people are crazy," Vince grumbled to Hank.
Hank silently agreed but he said nothing as his men lined up in search and rescue formation. This wasn't a wooded area like Arrowhead but the mountains of improperly stacked cars were sure to be just as daunting.
Vince only agreed to let 51 search for their lost comrade, provided he came along. Mindful of the lone brother still out there, his men agreed and even armed themselves.
Kelly chose a crowbar. He hefted it in his hands like a baseball bat. He stalked DeSoto (the idiot chose an armboard as his weapon. Forget locking him in his locker. He was chaining him to the squad. Both of them.), even making a point on stepping on DeSoto's shadow. Apparently, Kelly didn't think an armboard was a weapon either.
Lopez decided a hammer and a wrench could hold up against a gun. Except he kept them in his back pocket because he wanted both hands free to brush over every wreck he could reach, as if the twisted metal would give up its secrets.
Stoker had wanted to charge a line and carry that with him until Hank pointed out that no matter how mad he was about Big Red, it wouldn't justify to HQ blasting Doug Carson with 800 PSI of water. It would probably kill the guy. Besides, it wasn't practical to be hauling around that much feet of hose in a yard this vast. To Hank's consternation, Stoker didn't immediately concur. He reluctantly chose the pole cutter instead, which was promptly left tucked under Stoker's arm as the engineer peered into each green vehicle he could find.
Hank chose the ax.
By God, he was leaving this wretched place with all his men.
Everyone checked each car for the right color. DeSoto was in the lead despite Vince's protests, the crumpled citation held tight in his hand like it was a map to El Dorado.
Vince's radio crackled with negatives as one by one, officers reported in. Hank watched as the shoulders of his men slumped then straightened out almost immediately after.
"Cap. There's a green car in the compactor," Kelly whispered. He pointed to something to their right.
DeSoto's head whipped around.
"Doesn't work," Vince said hastily. "From what that Carson kid told me, nothing in this place has worked this past year."
"Car's all rusted in there," Stoker reported. "That's been in there for ages."
DeSoto turned back as if he'd never looked in the first place but Hank caught him giving the compactor another glance when they drew closer. Kelly stole a peek. Even Hank couldn't help himself to crane his neck a little to reassure himself it was indeed empty as they walked past.
"There!" Lopez's sharp eyes once again proved his worth when he pointed to something in the distance.
DeSoto squinted.
And broke out into a run.
"Roy!" Vince warned. He shot Hank an exasperated look before he ran after Roy, his gun loosely gripped with both hands.
"Johnny?" DeSoto had already checked the front of the car by the time they reached him. He was now bent over the trunk, knocking at the lid. He jerked his hands back with a hiss.
"Cap." Lopez raised a mangled twist of familiar paper. "This was jammed into a hole by the keyhole."
Hank dropped to his knees and peered into the opening where there used to be a taillight. He could make out a shape, black, strings, leather—a boot!
"I think I see him!" Hank rapped on the trunk. Damn. DeSoto was right. The metal surface scalded his knuckles. "John? We're out here with you! Hang in there, buddy."
"Key's broken in the lock," Lopez reported.
"Cap, can you reach inside?" DeSoto asked as he stepped back. "Chet, I need your crowbar."
"We'll get your equipment," Stoker declared. He and Lopez jogged back the way they came.
"Vince," DeSoto said breathlessly as he dug one curled end into the lip of the trunk. Kelly leaned his weight on the bar with DeSoto. "I need the biophone that's back in the shed. See if they have any ice or cold water. Anything."
Vince nodded, already turning around. He ran, talking into his radio as he took off.
"Cap?" DeSoto gasped. "Chet, once more…Heave!"
Hank carefully snaked his hand into the gap and gingerly felt the leg there. He felt a twitch.
"Roy," Hank said carefully as he pulled his hand out. He didn't even grimace as the jagged edges of plastic scratched across his knuckles. "Feels like he's having spasms." God damn it all.
DeSoto's eyes narrowed, his mouth set to a grim line. Hank scrambled to his feet and threw in his weight into the bar.
"Together," Hank ordered. "One. Two. Heave!"
With a groan, the lock wiggled out of its hole, the trunk lip curled in, forming an 'O' before one more vicious upward jerk popped the lid open with such force, they all staggered back. By some miracle, DeSoto held onto the pry bar. But as soon as the paramedic righted himself, he threw the bar away and scrambled to the trunk.
Feet frozen to the dirt, Hank found he couldn't come closer. Kelly seemed to have the same problem but he found the ability to speak.
"Roy? Is Johnny…"
DeSoto's shoulders shook as he leaned into the opened trunk. Hank couldn't see his face with his head bowed. There was a cold lump in the pit of his stomach when the paramedic didn't immediately answer.
"Roy?" Hank spoke up when the wait became too much of a knife digging into his ribs.
There was a full body shudder before DeSoto straightened a little, his arms still deep in the trunk.
"Chet," DeSoto's voice was deceptively calm. "I need your help. I don't feel anything broken so I think it's safe to pull him out. Grab his legs. We gotta cool him down."
Hank wanted to whoop, his face stretching from the broad smile on his face. It faded, however, when Gage was lifted out of the trunk. His face was flushed far too red without a fire to blame, hair plastered to his skull giving him an almost depleted look.
"Is he all right?" It wasn't clear if Lopez or Stoker asked when they returned.
"He will be," DeSoto said tightly. "Get his boots off. I need the burn kit. And all the saline you can carry."
"I got his boots," Hank offered as Lopez and Stoker took off again for the squad. Thank God they decided to bring it into the yard.
DeSoto never acknowledged Hank. He sat behind Gage, propping the younger man up against his chest. He was murmuring into his partner's ear while he stripped the sweat soaked blue uniform shirt off Gage. DeSoto was careful, but his actions still held an air of urgency as he tore the shirt open, scattering buttons in its wake. It was disturbing to see Gage so complacent, being moved around, limbs flopping like those rescue dummies they used for drills. He trembled every so often like he was cold.
Hank busied himself undoing the laces on the boots, grunting when Vince, then Lopez and Stoker returned with everything their arms could carry.
"We got men spread around us. Carson's not going to be able to ambush us," Vince announced. He dropped to one knee and opened up the biophone box. "Rampart, Squad 51."
That's right. Hank'd forgotten about Doug Carson.
Gage was set on the yellow burn blanket on the ground. It was wrapped loosely around him as Kelly poured saline over the material. DeSoto was pointing out IV lines for Lopez and Stoker to grab. Vince was repeating everything Rampart and DeSoto was telling him. And Hank? All he could do was hold Gage's darn boots as the rest of his men took on every task DeSoto called out.
"What's the ETA on the ambulance?" DeSoto asked hurriedly as he pierced skin to set up the IV line. Hank grimaced. Somehow, it never looked as painful on other victims. DeSoto must have agreed because he rubbed one trembling bicep and muttered an apology into Gage's ear.
"Thirty minutes."
"What?" DeSoto's head shot up.
Vince looked like he wanted to take Hank's ax to the biophone. His mustache wiggled into a decidedly downward tilt. "That last ambulance was the closest. Highway, multiple car collision. Most of them were sent to it."
"Roy, can he wait that long?" Hank demanded but the wide-eyed, barely hidden panic on DeSoto's face already answered. Thirty to get here, thirty to reach Rampart. Hank's head spun.
Before DeSoto could say anything, Gage gave a violent jerk, legs kicking up, unraveling the burn blanket as they thrashed.
"No, no, no," DeSoto wrapped his arms around Gage's shoulders, his mouth a hair's breadth from Gage's ear. "Come on, come on," DeSoto chanted, "Don't do this. Sh, it's okay. We got you. No, no, no. Come on, partner."
"Cap."
Hank could hear DeSoto asking Rampart what to do. He hoped they knew because other than a prayer, Hank was at a loss. He lifted gritty eyes to a grim-faced Kelly.
"I can get them there in twenty."
"Go," Hank barked. He snatched the biophone even as everyone grabbed a bit of the burn blanket to carry Gage to the squad.
"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes."
"10-4, 51."
"Well?" Dix asked as soon as she reached the rescue station. A panicking mother-to-be in Two had drawn her away. By the time she returned, Kel was talking to Nancy about an ice bath.
"Thirty minutes," Kel said evenly.
"Thirty minutes?" Dix stared at Kel in dismay.
"And that doesn't include getting Johnny back here." Kel clicked his pen shut and stared at the pen in his hand. He looked sorely tempted to throw it. "They're too far away."
"Harbor?" Dix managed.
"Even farther." Kel's brow furrowed. "He's seized already."
"Oh no. Isn't there—" Dix felt a light hand brush against her arm and she looked up to Joe's concerned face.
"They found him?" Joe guessed.
Dix could only nod as Kel explained about the ambulance.
"I already have Roy start Johnny on two IV lines but they couldn't find ice. Not even cool water in that dump."
Dix glanced over to Joe. She needed the doctor's usual optimism right now. "Thirty minutes there and back? Joe…"
"They've surprised us before," Joe replied without hesitation. He offered her a smile. "And Roy's not the type of paramedic who gives up so easily on his patients. And this is Johnny we're talking about here."
"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes." Hank Stanley's terse voice crackled through.
"See?" Joe patted Dix on the arm. "Sounds like the rest of them don't give up that easy either."
Kel's small smile was reassuring to see as he punched the panel to speak into the radio.
"10-4, 51."
Spilled saline on the seats soaked into the seat of Chet's pants. But he didn't care. Not really. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. He opened his mouth, wanting to holler, "Come on, come on" because the ladies were taking their time. But then Roy shuffled into the passenger seat, tossed in the rest of the saline bottles next to Chet and held his arms out towards the open door in silent plea for the guys to hand John over.
Chet held back his tongue. His fingers wouldn't stop drumming on the wheel though.
"Easy, watch his knees. Marco, hang the IV bags—yeah, over there. That's good."
Cap popped up by the driver's window. Chet jumped.
"Vince is going ahead to clear any traffic," Cap barked but Chet knew he wasn't really yelling at him. It was just that shouting made you feel like something was being done.
"Full sirens. Don't worry about leaving us behind. Engine's not going to be able to keep up." Cap rapped the door. "Get there in one piece, Kelly."
"You got it, Cap!" Chet promised.
"We're ready," Roy said as he pulled John in. With Chet's help, they settled John between them. John sagged and slumped against Roy, limp and breathing harshly between them.
"Go, Chet!" Marco hollered as he slammed the door shut.
Vince's patrol car suddenly wailed, red and blue sirens spinning in front of him.
Chet stomped his foot on the gas and chased after Vince like one of those skinny racing greyhounds running after a rabbit.
"LA, Squad 51. Notify Rampart we are on route. ETA twenty minutes," Roy shouted to be heard above the squad's own sirens as he called up dispatch.
"Squad 51," LA acknowledged.
Get out of the way, get out of the way, Chet growled in his head as cars edged to the side of the road to first let Vince past then the squad.
"Can we get him to drink something?" Chet asked because even dodging idiotic drivers, miles rolling closer to Rampart, it still felt like they weren't doing enough.
Roy shook his head. "If he was conscious. He'll choke if I try to give him anything now." He drew John closer until the dark head lolled into his shoulder. "The IVs will hopefully replenish what he's lost. He had already loosened up his shirt when we found him. He must have prepared himself for the possibility that he was trapped." Roy audibly swallowed.
"The taillight on the left was kicked out, too," Chet remembered.
"He was trying to get some ventilation," Roy said. "It wasn't a lot but it might have been what saved his life."
"Don't worry." Chet shook a fist as they zipped past a sedan making an illegal U-turn. "You and Gage are the best paramedics in this county. Sounds to me he did everything possible to hang in there." Chet paused. His mouth twisted but he didn't dare look over.
"But don't tell him I said that."
Roy sputtered a laugh. "He wouldn't believe me if I tell him."
"Oh, he'll believe it all right, Roy. He would believe smoke tastes like licorice if you tell him."
Roy grunted. He fumbled for one of John's wrists, two fingers pressed against reddened, almost sunburned looking skin.
"How much farther?" Roy asked after a beat.
Chet flicked a glance to the overhead highway signs. "Thirteen minutes."
There was a long pause before Roy's voice came back hoarse, barely audible.
"Can you make it in ten?"
Chet slammed the heel of his hand on the horn to scatter the cars in front of him and sharply cut in front of a delivery van.
"You got it."
The saline soaked gauze felt too warm, woefully inadequate when Roy pressed it against the back of John's neck. If only they had found ice; even water cooler than lukewarm would have helped.
An ice bath waited for his partner in Rampart. A process Roy knew might not necessarily save John. If he didn't get the body temperature down low enough, the sudden shock of the abrupt temperature drop could kill him.
Roy curled a hand over John's forehead, bracing him as Chet made a turn that felt like it sent his heart slamming into the other side of his ribcage. Chet was truly trying to get to Rampart in ten.
As soon as the squad straightened, barreling down the path Vince made, Roy pressed two fingers on John's carotid again. He swallowed, eyes blurring as the beats under his touch thumped almost too fast to count. The rapid panting, gasping John made sounded like it was trying to catch up to his racing heartbeat.
Saline spilled sloppily over his lap as he drenched more gauze and slipped it under the undershirt to rest on Johnny's belly. Roy replaced the pads on John's throat, the top of his head, under his arms, over his groin. John was getting soaked, water dripping off the bangs messily plastered to his brow and the tip of his nose. But pneumonia was the least of Roy's problems. Despite the wipe downs, the skin still too hot, the heat felt even through his own shirt. It was hot enough to cook the damp gauze, that when he peeled them away, they came off warm.
Getting a BP was hard in the jostling squad. Chet was more concerned with speed than comfort yet Roy wasn't about to ask him to slow down. It took Roy two tries before he could wrap the cuff around the elbow, his stethoscope slipping off his ears each time the squad hopped over bumps. One was hard enough Chet had whipped out an arm across John's chest to combine with Roy's to stop John from slamming face first into the dashboard.
"Sorry," Chet muttered but he didn't let his foot off the gas pedal. He kept his arm over John until he needed both hands on the wheel to swerve away from a motorcycle that cut across in front of the squad.
Johnny's head rolled and lightly butted Roy's chin. Roy snaked an arm around John's middle to keep him from sagging down the seat. He sighed.
"And to think I was worried about you eating the chicken," Roy muttered into the soaked hair.
"What?" Chet pounded on the horn, honking it repeatedly at the blue convertible taking too long to change lanes.
Aloud, Roy said, "I was worried he was gonna get sick again from the chicken."
"Chicken?" Chet parroted. Eyes front, his face scrunched up. "What are you talking about?"
"I had to drag him away from the kitchen this morning." Roy squeezed a trembling shoulder in apology. "Last thing he needed was to get sick again like before."
"Before?"
"You know, last month? After Mike got his head stuck trying to grab that cat in the pipe? You and Johnny here decided a midnight snack was in order and ate the chicken. You two clowns were sick for the rest of the shift. You even missed the next shift."
"Last month?" Chet frowned for some reason. "Roy, that was Mike's chicken. You can't get sick on Mike's chicken."
It was an odd echo. Roy checked his partner to see if maybe John had roused to defend Mike's fried chicken once again. But John remained slumped against him, his face still flushed with unnatural heat, mouth partially opened as he gasped. Roy closed his eyes briefly and dropped his chin on top of the damp head.
"I'm pretty sure it was the chicken," Roy argued half-heartedly.
"Nah. It was the meatloaf." Chet nodded to himself.
Roy darted him a look. "Meatloaf?"
"Yeah. Marco's sister was taking that home correspondence course on catering. Remember?" Chet grimaced in memory even as he gestured at the windshield, motioning drivers to get out of their way. "She had some dumb recipe for meatloaf but it wasn't really meat. It was turkey, of all things." Shaking his head, Chet snorted. "Who ever heard of using turkey for meatloaf? Anyway, she brought it over but no one would touch it. So we finished off that meatloaf." Pretending to gag, Chet spared Roy a look.
"I'm pretty sure it wasn't the chicken." Chet shook his head. "Turkey. What a crummy idea…"
Roy's face twisted and there was the strangest sensation to laugh even though he didn't find it funny. He drew John closer, fingers to the pulse. His eyes burned at what he found.
"Guess you were right," Roy murmured. He gave the rigid, spasming fingers a squeeze. "Sorry." Roy tried to clear his throat but the lump there wouldn't go away. "I'm really sorry, Johnny." His voice cracked.
Roy could see Chet past John's head, his jaw set, eyes resolutely fixed to the front, hands curling and uncurling on the steering wheel. Vince's lights were visible in front of them. The highway was cleared out but the emptiness did nothing to ease the churning in Roy's stomach. If anything, it served only to fill his mouth with bile.
"How much further," Roy croaked. He kept one hand on John's stomach to count the respirations. "How much more?"
"Not much," Chet answered gruffly. "Almost there."
Johnny seized one more time.
The kick to his hip had him turning around to tell John to quit fooling around. But when he turned, he caught sight of Roy and Chet snapped his eyes back forward.
Roy was bent doubled over John, who was curled, his limbs gnarled and jerky within Roy's protective hold. Chet knew enough first aid to know that probably wasn't the right way to treat the convulsions but the squad gave them no room to do anything rig—where did these drivers get their licenses?
The horn blared resentfully when Chet thumped on the steering wheel. Briefly, he wished for the engine and its bellowing horn, loud enough to carry, loud enough for everyone to know they needed to scatter.
"…easy…No, no, no, come on. Don't do this. Sh, sh, sh. Relax. You're gonna be okay. Johnny, please."
Chet blinked rapidly, trying to keep Vince's patrol car in focus. He squeezed the steering wheel. Where was it? He could have sworn they took the right off-ramp. Did…did they take the wrong exit?
Ice rushed down his arms and Chet's head swam like he inhaled too much smoke. He could feel his own chest heaving in time with the harsh sawing next to him. No one was kicking him anymore but he didn't feel good about that.
"We're here," Chet said needlessly when he sighted the tall sterile structure rising up into the horizon. "Roy, we're he—" He glanced over, his words dying at the pinched look on Roy's face. The paramedic had a death grip on John's wrist, knuckles white as if Roy was willing a pulse into the hand he held.
"Just get us there," Roy breathed out between his teeth. Chet numbly nodded.
There was a smokescreen over his memories. If Chet was to sit down later and really think about it, he would have realized the next few minutes were just a mess of images, like a window pane, shattered to ventilate an inferno. He remembered seeing the Receiving doors. He remembered Vince standing there, yanking open the squad door even before the squad completely stopped.
Saline spilled all over the well of the cab and sloshed under his boots. Roy had accidentally kicked the last remaining bottle when he slipped on the mess trying to carry John towards Vince and the stretcher. Roy snapped at Chet—he had never done that before—when Chet said he would help. Roy said something about no time, there was no time, damn it. Chet suddenly found himself alone in the cab, staring at Roy climbing onto the stretcher, straddling Johnny and starting CPR. The orderlies who waited by Receiving—he thought he saw both Dix and Brackett too—didn't bat an eye at Roy on the gurney. In fact, everyone seemed to move faster at the sight. In a burst of "Get the deliberator ready" and "We need that hallway cleared, Vince" and the sounds of hands slapping on doors, the whole crowd disappeared behind the doors. All that was left was the yellow burn blanket left as a wet slop on the ground, two candy strippers staring wide-eyed at the double doors and a squad parked with one wheel up the curb.
There was a knock on the driver's side window. Chet turned a heavy head towards it and rolled down the window so he could hear Cap.
"How is he?"
Chet opened his mouth then closed it. He looked down at the steering wheel and discovered he had sweated into the leather and now he couldn’t seem to be able to pry his palms off.
"I…" Chet gulped. "I don't know."
The first contact of what felt like needles on his skin made him scream. He arched his back off the sling but hands everywhere held him down.
He thrashed; he realized he could move more.
Out. He needed to get out.
Out!
"Easy! Easy! John, you're okay! Calm down!"
The trunk was cooking; he could feel its heated air like an oil slick on his skin. He needed more air. He kicked and contacted metal that wouldn't give under the force. He writhed and felt metal walls blocking him.
"Doctor, heart rate is now—"
"John, you're fine! Take it ea—"
It felt like he struck something. Something heavy sounding fell. An arm locked around his head and he thought he could now feel the cool round muzzle of a gun pressed into his cheek.
"Get me another IV! Keep his head above—"
A beeping thrummed into a maddening endless stream of high-pitched squeals.
"Do we administer a sedative?"
"John, you're all right! You're—Get Roy back in here!"
He lashed out, heard a grunt and the vise around his head released. Suddenly, he found himself drowning.
He tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy. He could feel himself rocked from side to side by whatever it was that surrounded him. He felt cold. Yet he also felt hot. He couldn't understand.
And then…
He felt hands reaching from above, under his arms and lifted.
Air.
"Turn his head. Over here."
He coughed. Why did it hurt to cough? He could feel the cool, thin edge of whatever fenced him in, pressing into his ribs. He flailed and vomited, his head guided by that hand again, over a kidney shaped dish he could vaguely make out with burning eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach roiled over and over.
When nothing more would come out, he felt himself rolled onto his back and he was…floating?
"What are you doing making such a fuss?" It was a voice that echoed of something he knew, a name just teasing the edge of his jumbled thoughts.
"Look at this mess." The gentle chide floated in and rearranged the inside of his head. A heavy hand settled over his heart. "Calm down before they make both of us mop this up."
He panted, too drained to move his limbs anymore. But he tried to lift a hand towards the voice.
Warmth and strength captured it, held it tight and anchored him.
"I'm right here, partner," the voice soothed. "You just gotta stay in the tub for a few more minutes. Okay? Try not to move around."
But he couldn't move before. The idea of staying frozen, trapped in a suffocating oven that shrank around him with each passing minute, shook his body. A sound in the back of his throat broke free.
A hand brushed back the bangs clinging to his forehead. "You're out. It's over. Just relax. It'll be finished soon and they'll take you out of there." The hand gripping his guided him to curl around the edge he felt before. "See? You're not locked in. Few more minutes and we'll get you out of it." A brief squeeze over his knuckles. "It's all right, Johnny."
A name finally formed. He felt like he was wrapped in cotton, his tearing eyes only able to comprehend the brightness around him, blurry faces and vaguely familiar machines looming over him like shiny monsters. But the hand clasped over his was as familiar as his own.
"'oy," he croaked.
The hand over his flinched, pausing before giving his hand another squeeze.
"I'm right here. Relax."
Coolness lapped under his chin. He squinted blearily up towards where he thinks Roy was. A hand rested on top of his head. Roy whispered something that was lost in the flurry of voices surrounded them. He nodded sleepily, just glad to no longer feel the cloak of heat crushing him.
He felt a prick into his arm and then he knew nothing more.
Splintered metal coiled around him and squeezed out his air. As he gasped, the metal grew red hot and he began to burn…
"It's okay! You're okay!"
John roused mid-cry, body slumped over the bed rail in an effort to break free of a coffin he could still feel around him. He clutched the thin rail with both hands and repeatedly told himself it wasn't a wall; it wasn't the inside interior of a trunk.
But…it was so dark.
Hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders eased him back down to the center of the bed. John wheezed, dizzy even though the other person did all the work. His limbs felt leaden, foreign to him as if someone had clipped sandbags to his lifebelt.
On his back, John was more acutely aware of how dark it was, how narrow the bed felt, how the air felt thick and sluggish in his lungs.
"'ould…" John rasped. "T-the 'ights…p'ease…" He flinched at the plea he could hear and wished he could add some funny comment after it. His throat felt scoured. He couldn't get the words out right.
There was a pat on his chest and a tiny light winked into existence from a lamp on a bland end table cluttered with pitchers and cups.
"Better?" Roy came into view. He smiled faintly at John, his eyes empty of reproach. He didn't wait for a response; only reached over to offer him a spoonful of ice chips.
Quiet crunching filled John's ears and he wondered why Roy was just looking at him, his expression unreadable. When John coughed though, he caught a flicker in Roy's eyes.
John cleared his throat. "Thanks for finding me," he croaked.
An odd sort of grimace flashed across Roy's face.
"'oy?"
Roy shook his head. "Nothing. Get some rest."
John swallowed and couldn't stop a shaky hand from curling around the bed rail. It wasn't a wall. It was just a bar. He could get out if he wanted to (sort of).
There was a scrape of chair legs over linoleum. John turned his head and blinked heavy lidded at Roy settling down in a chair by his head.
"Mind if I keep the light on for a bit?" Roy asked casually. He lifted up a Life magazine. "Want to finish reading it."
"'ure," John said thickly. "'nteresting?"
Roy shrugged. He rolled the magazine up and lightly tapped John's head with it.
"Get some sleep, Junior. The guys want to come by tomorrow. Joanne, too."
John nodded, his eyes already sliding shut. The reddish hue behind his eyelids from the light soothed the churning in his stomach. He felt himself growing heavy, his fingers slipping off the cool rail. His heart thudded. No wall. Bedrail. No wall. Bed—
A hand wrapped over his fingers before they could complete drop off. Strong, it gave his fingers a careful squeeze, easing his hand back up to wrap around the bedrail.
With the sensation of open air around him, the railing frail and thin in his hand, the walls of his room retreated. John took a deep breath.
"Thanks," he murmured sleepily as he drifted.
The last thing he remembered was the tiny crinkle of a turning page in response.
One week later…
"…so Vince said since Doug confessed to everything, I don't have to take the stand."
Roy grunted as he looked at his partner's chart. His mouth pursed at Dix's notation about nightmares.
"Uh…so I promised Joanne we would steal Big Red and give it to your kids for Christmas. I mean, Cap will be mad, sure, but heck, it's for Christmas. What do you think?"
"Fine," Roy muttered as he flipped idly to the next page of John's chart.
"Roy."
Roy glanced over to find his partner frowning.
"Should I get Brackett?" Roy gave him a critical once over. John didn't look sunburned anymore but his color now went to the other extreme. "Feeling okay?"
John scoffed. "I'm fine. I've been fine for the past four days! Are you feeling all right?"
"Me?" Baffled, Roy could only stare at him. "I'm fine." He wasn't the one left to die in a trunk. He wasn't shot at or left behind by his part—Roy cleared his throat.
"Roy, since you got here, I got you agreeing to rob the First Valley Bank, put skis on our squad and steal Big Red to leave under your Christmas tree for your kids!"
The only thing Roy could think of was, "Mike wouldn't like that."
John glowered at him but after a few moments, he sagged into the pillows.
"You still hung up on that?"
After days of watching his partner slip in and out of delirium, painful convulsions and a coma, everything was reduced to 'that'.
"It shouldn't have happened," Roy sighed.
"Geez, Roy, where you've been these days? 'Cause I think it did."
Roy glared at John before his shoulders slumped.
"I shouldn't have left you at the squad alone. I should have realized what the clues you were leaving behind meant." Roy swallowed hard. "We could have found you faster." He could avoid the sickening lurch his stomach felt when the weak pulse faded under his fingertips. He could have avoided being stuck with the memory of watching his own partner arching up under the defibrillator.
"Aw, Roy. Cap showed me those notes. Heck, I don't think even I could understand what it meant."
The corners of his mouth tugged. "You always did have lousy handwriting."
"Hey, you try writing inside a moving vehicle." John gestured vaguely at Roy then himself. "If we're going to do this, I should have insisted on coming with you. I should have been able to convince that kid not to do this. And…" John's Adam's apple worked. "I should have been able to convince Jake Carson not to kill himself." Sighing, John stared glumly at the tray of food he'd been ignoring since breakfast. He sniffed loudly.
"I tried everything I could think of, Roy. I tried to talk him out of it. But…"
"He was too far gone in his head, Johnny," Roy said quietly.
"We've talked loads of jumpers off ledges." John scowled at his feet.
Roy shook his head. Only his partner would find himself in fault in all this. "It's not the same. He was going through some heavy stuff on his own. He was desperate enough to lie to his own family so he could get them to help OD him." Roy heaved a sigh. He punched John gently on a blanketed knee.
"But you got Stevie Carson to call 911. Him, you got to."
It was heartening to see Johnny nod, a tentative smile slowly spreading on his face. "I guess I did, huh?"
"Yup."
John blinked at the timid knock on the door.
"The guys?" John asked hopefully. He wouldn't mind a visit, especially after Morton put him on bed rest. He had one little fall trying to go to the bathroom yesterday and now there was a wheelchair parked by his bed and hourly check-ins by Dix herself. And boy, Brackett sure was loud yelling at him all the while he was checking John's pupils with his penlight.
"Doubt it," Roy said cryptically. He didn't move from his seat on the edge of John's bed.
John struggled to sit up higher but Roy was right on top of his blanket.
"Where do you think you're going?" Roy asked in a mild voice. He folded his arms in front of him and considered John.
"I was gonna let whoever that is i—Roy, would you get off?" John dropped back into the pillows, winded, his head spinning. Shoot, maybe that was a bad idea.
Roy studied him for a long moment before he said in a calm voice. "Nope." He leaned into the bed some more, resting his elbow on the pullout table pulled over John's legs.
Another knock.
"At least go see who it is! I mean, we shouldn't—they're knocking! We shouldn't leave them standing there." John fidgeted, but Roy wouldn't budge. Darn Dix. She came by and tucked him completely into the bed. He felt like one of those enchiladas from the stand on Murray.
The lazy and knowing smirk Roy wore rankled. John glowered but it only made Roy's smirk widen. Part of John, though, was kind of glad to see it; Roy had been moping around when he dropped by every day.
Roy craned his neck to look over his shoulder but moved nothing else.
"Come in," Roy said out loud. He snickered when John growled under his breath.
John paused though when the door opened, revealing Vince. John exchanged a look with Roy.
"Hey, Vince," Roy greeted with a wave.
"Hey, guys. John, how’re you feeling?" Vince stayed by the door.
"Fine." John tugged at his blankets, hoping Roy would take the hint. He didn't. "I'm just—Roy cut it out—just fine, Vince."
"Have a seat, Vince!" Roy offered cheerfully. He made a show of gesturing towards one of the chairs.
"Uh, thanks. I can't stay long. Just wanted to see if John was up for a visitor."
"So long he doesn't have to get up," Roy quipped.
"Roy!" John hissed. He yanked hard on the covers but it was like trying to pry a car out from under a truck without the jaws.
"Okay," Vince said slowly. He looked to his left and nodded.
John stilled when Stevie stepped into view. The teen looked a little different, younger now, his hair combed back, his clothing straightened and tucked in.
"Hi," Stevie said with a quaver. He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. "I uh…I wanted to see how you were doing."
"Good. I'm doing great." John offered the boy a broad smile even though his stomach was still doing funny flip flops. Even though he knew Doug was in jail, John couldn't help expecting to see that bear coming out with that gun of his.
The Carson kid stumbled in a step after a nudge from Vince. Stevie rubbed his hands on his jeans.
"I uh…wanted to tell you. Jake's doing lots better. The doctors just got him off that list."
It was easier to smile now. "The critical list? That's great news."
Stevie looked at him wide-eyed. "Really?"
"Sure," Roy jumped in, "It means your brother is improving."
"No, no, I mean…" Stevie ducked his head. "I thought you would be sore at us; at Jake. After everything…um…"
"After everything Doug did?" John cut in. He paused when Stevie flushed. "Vince told me Doug Carson turned himself in. Told the police it was all his doing: the robbery, the kidnapping, everything."
It made his belly go into knots when Stevie screwed up his face, looking like he was about to cry. Aw, man.
"Guess you're gonna have to take care of Jake while Doug's away," John added hastily.
Startled, Stevie stared at John.
"Your brother has a hard road ahead of him," Roy added. "He's gonna need your help."
John met Stevie's gaze, waiting. He relaxed when Stevie slowly nodded. John slumped into the pillows even deeper.
Roy patted John's knee, his eyes on him, dark with understanding.
"Stevie's going to stay with Mr. Dunning while Jake cleans up," Vince told them. He dropped a hand on Stevie's shoulder. "Jake's going to check into the VA hospital. Stevie here is thinking of asking Mr. Dunning to help them fix up that salvage yard of theirs. Get it back in business again."
"Mr. Dunning's been cooped up in his apartment since his kid didn't come back from the war." Stevie shrugged. He smiled shyly. "Figured maybe it'll keep him busy." Stevie paused. "He's all right for an old man."
"Well, all right," John cheered. The day was definitely looking up and once Roy got off his bed, the day would be even better.
"Thank you for what you did," Stevie whispered. He rocked from foot to foot. "You tried to warn me. I-I wished I listened earlier. I wished a whole bunch of stuff was done different."
"Sometimes things happen," John replied, sobering. He glanced over to Roy and gave him a poke on the leg. "Doesn't make it your fault."
Roy glanced over to John and smiled faintly. He nodded.
"And it all turned out good," Vince assured Stevie.
"Except for Doug," Stevie pointed out softly.
"Your brother turned himself in and confessed to everything," John said somberly. He swallowed and tried to ignore the sensation of that gun digging into the back of his neck. "He's your brother; probably thought he needed to do what he had to do."
"Yeah, but he…I mean, the car…he stuck you in that c—"
"I'm fine," John interrupted in a firm voice. "My friends got me out. I'm fine."
"He's going to be all right," Roy added. He nodded farewell as the two left.
"Going to be?" John repeated archly once the door was shut
"The minute you can sit up without passing out, you're fine."
"I can sit up if you would just get off!"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means someone here has been having too many helpings of Marco's chili."
Roy glowered at him, mouth opened to retort when there was another knock on the door.
"Come in," Roy called out. He pointedly ignored John's glower.
"Hey, guys!" John grinned broadly as Cap and the others filed in.
"How's it going there, pal?" Cap—even in civilian gear, it was hard not to think of him as 'Cap'—rapped the foot board. Cap frowned. He nodded towards the bandage on John's forehead.
"Now, wait a second. That looks new."
If Roy wasn't pinning him on the bed, John would slide deeper into his covers. "Well," John fumbled. "It was…I kinda…"
"Have a seat, Chet," Roy said loudly. He reached over and patted the other side of the bed with a grin.
Chet looked at Roy then at John, his eyes narrowing on John's forehead. He grunted, a thumb idly scratching his mustache before he sauntered over and dropped down on the edge of the bed.
There was a slight bounce and when John tried to wiggle up higher on the bed, he found he couldn't and no, it wasn't because his legs still felt like mush or his head felt like it was barely attached.
"Chet, there's a chair over there," John gritted out.
"I'm good."
John tried to reach over to shove Chet off but that meant stretching and moving; energy he didn't have right now. He found himself slouched back into the pillows again, chest tight like he had just ran the 440.
"Forget it," John grumbled. He picked at the edge of his blanket.
"Cheer up," Marco said as he and Stoker sat down on the empty bed next to John. "Dix said you're only here for another two days."
"And Joanne has the guest room ready when you get out of here," Roy reminded him.
"And you're back on duty a week later," Cap added, his brow furrowed. He gave John a look which pretty much told John that his plan to cajole Cap to let him come back sooner was not going to work. John made a face but he peered up at Roy and thought about how the shadows were still under Roy's eyes. Guess being waited on hand and foot for a few days couldn't hurt, John thought. He gave Roy a toothy grin, to which Roy rolled his eyes as if he knew what John was thinking. Somehow, Roy always seemed to have the knack for that.
"Great." John offered the rest of the guys a crooked smile. "Appreciate you guys coming here on your day off." He squinted at the box Stoker set down on the pull out table. "What's that?"
"Heard you missed out on this before." Cap patted the box like it was a big, friendly dog. "We thought we’d bring you some."
"Unfortunately," Chet snickered, "We couldn't get Marco's sister to make that meatloaf again."
John blanched. Wait, he remembered that greenish gray lump. "Uh…"
"Glad to hear you liked it so much," Marco piped in. "My sister's trying something new. Hey, I'll bring some over for you guys to try!"
Cap hesitated. He asked carefully. "What is it?"
"Tofu burgers."
Roy fidgeted. He cleared his throat. "T-tofu…tofu burgers?"
John made a face. "Ain't tofu that white, wiggly…oh…" John swallowed. "Sounds delicious."
Chet guffawed. "No turkey or tofu in there. Just some good ole fashion Stoker fried chicken."
"Bon appetit!" Mike quipped.
"Um…" John hedged as he watched Chet and Marco eagerly open up the carton and steam from Mike's chicken wafted up. Cap clapped his hands together in appreciation.
"What is it?" Leave it to Roy to know something was wrong.
John scratched his jaw. He laughed awkwardly, looking up at everyone. Chet already had a drumstick in each fist, getting crumbs over John's bed, Cap stopped midway from pulling out his favorite piece (Cap only liked the dark meat) and Mike cocked his head at John, his hands still holding onto the plates he was passing around.
"Well," John averted his gaze but that didn't work because everywhere he tried, there was a mild frown turned in his direction. John brushed a hand over his chest.
"You see, I guess with everything going on…I-I and well, Doc said it's only natural I was still feeling kinda tired…" And drained, dizzy, wobbly and so darn thirsty all the time. "And the food here is just…well…you know…" John squirmed.
"No, we don't know…" Roy said. He leaned forward, a hand on John's arm, his brow furrowed. "What?"
John cringed and he shrugged one shoulder at them, his eyes on Roy. He smiled sheepishly.
"I'm not really hungry."
Roy's eyes widened and crinkled into that mix of exasperation and humor John pretty much knew and relied on when things got rough. If nothing else went right, John knew at least he could count on Roy; more reliable than any lifebelt or line he held on to. His partner never stayed mad at him too long and it didn't matter if John was drowning, choking or flailing in the dark, John knew whose hand would be reaching down to pull him up.
Roy shook his head even as the others groaned. Mike slapped a hand to his face. Cap and Marco pretended to throw a piece of chicken at him. Chet set down a plate hot and heaping full of chicken and coleslaw on his lap while muttering "Well you're eating anyway, Gage."
John grabbed a drumstick, raised it up in salute and grinned.
The End
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