The tractor-trailer's terrified, temporary driver was so preoccupied with the attempt that was being made to rescue him, he failed to keep his eyes on the road.

 

Speaking of eyes…

 

DeSoto's already wide eyes got even bigger. A colorful expletive escaped from the paramedic's tightly pursed lips, as the big rig they were traveling beside suddenly left its perfectly straight path and came careening towards him—er, them. "Johnny! Look out!" he warned.

 

But his shouted warning came a couple of seconds too late.

 

Johnny had already begun his 'transfer'.

 

Roy watched in disbelief—and anguish—as the swerving semi slammed into his leaping partner. He hit the Squad's brakes and then the shoulder of the highway. "Hang on, Johnny! Hang on!" the fireman fervently urged—er, prayed, and promptly pulled back onto the pavement.

 

An “Ooof!” had escaped from the leaper's lips as the big rig suddenly collided with his already in-forward-motion self—knocking all the 'wind' right out of him. The breathless fireman's sweaty face filled with a grimace and his mouth immediately formed a silent 'Dammit!'

 

The rescuer's shiftmates saw the semi swerve, just as John jumped, and winced in unison.

 

"Oooh. That looked like it hurt," a deeply concerned Chet Kelly quickly determined. "C'mon, babe! You can't let a little 'collision with a semi' stop you!"

 

"Oh! Gawd! I'm sorry! I am so-o sorry!" the swerving big rig's young passenger assured his rammed rescuer and forced his straying eyes to return to the roadway.

 

John felt the running board beneath the soles of his boots and promptly braced his feet. The fingers of his right hand had somehow managed to lock onto the semi's doorframe. His left hand was still clutching the chrome-plated mirror brace. 'Ah, shit…' he silently said, as his oxygen-deprived brain began to 'shut down' and his vision began to 'tunnel out' on him. He could feel his grip starting to slip.

 

51's engine crew saw their shiftmate's knees beginning to buckle and exchanged anxious glances.

 

The group emitted another unified 'gasp'—of abject horror—as their friend's right hand suddenly let go of the runaway truck's doorframe.

 

The crew continued watching, as Johnny's right arm dropped limply to his side and his bruised body swung out and away from the driver's door he'd been hugging. Fortunately, the fingers on the now semi-conscious fireman's left hand remained firmly attached to the chrome mounting brace on the big rig's back up mirror.

 

"Ah! Shee-eesh! Hang on, pal! Hang on! That's an order!" their Captain proclaimed, just prior to covering his wincing eyes back up. He'd be damned if he was going to watch his young friend fall to his death.

 

Seeing that the petrified kid had put the runaway big rig back on a straight path, DeSoto pulled up alongside of it once again, being careful to keep far enough away, to avoid running over his friend—should he happen to…fall off.

 

Seeing that his cyanotic partner appeared to be just about ready to ‘pass out’, Roy realized Johnny's diaphragm must still be 'in spasm'. His friend wouldn't be able to resume breathing until the spasm stopped. The equally petrified paramedic cursed aloud and began encouraging—er, ordering his breathless buddy to remain conscious.

 

John was just about to ‘black out’ completely, when he heard his friend calling to him—screaming at him, actually. The semi-conscious paramedic couldn't be certain of what his partner was saying, but the fireman figured it had to be pretty dang important. In fact, if the volume of Roy's raised voice was any indication, the message had to be downright urgent. 'Something about staying with him…' he dazedly realized. His buddy also expected him to 'hang on'.

 

Just as DeSoto had done, Gage unquestioningly obeyed, and fought off the black veil of unconsciousness that kept threatening to envelop him.

 

At long last, the fireman's 'in spasm' diaphragm relaxed and his lungs resumed functioning. The agony of that first 'gasped' breath caused Gage to grimace again and cry out in pain. “Ahhh-uh!” He had to fight the urge to grab his damaged midsection.

 

Within seconds of inhaling the oxygen, the paramedic's color grew to a lighter shade of blue and the thoughts racing through his reeling brain became much more organized. 'The semi. You gotta stop the semi—before it reaches the freeway.' The rescuer gave his woozy head a couple of quick shakes. Then he swung himself back around, reached through the open driver's side window and latched back onto the truck's doorframe.

 

As a seemingly rejuvenated John Gage appeared up on their TV's screen, a joyous cry went out from Station 51's rec' room, that could have been heard from blocks away.

 

"Atta boy, Roy!" their Captain applauded. Hank had no doubts—whatsoever—that it was DeSoto's encouragement that had managed to keep Gage going.

 

John peered into the semi's cab.

 

The truck's 300+ pounds driver was slumped over sideways in his seat. The middle-aged man's non-moving head and right shoulder were resting on his young passenger's lap.

 

The paramedic didn't need to check the poor guy's pulse to determine if he was still alive, or not.

 

The driver had a definite 'death-like' appearance.

John looked up and locked gazes with the runaway rig's petrified 'co-pilot'. "Is this man…related to you?"

 

"No. His name's Bruce. I don't know his last name. I was just hitchin' a ride. He said he could take me as far as San Francisco. I'm sorry I slammed into you!" the terrified teen told him, sounding on the verge of tears.

 

"Look, don't worry about it," his rescuer warmly replied, speaking over the rush of the wind and the constant roar of the diesel engine's 450 horses. "Just keep your eyes on the road." That said, the forgiving fireman got a couple of fresh handholds and began hoisting his bruised body up and in through the semi's open side window—feet first.

 

John stood on the floor of the cab and then bent down, to peer through the truck's open window once again. "All right now, I'm gonna take the wheel. Once I have the wheel, I'm gonna need you to unbuckle the driver's seatbelt for me. Okay?"

 

The kid nodded.

 

"Great! Then I want you to climb back into the sleeper compartment, so I can move this man out of the way."

 

The boy gave his rescuer another 'ready, willing and able' nod.

 

Gage flashed the boy back a reassuring smile—and then grabbed the wheel. 

 

Once he had his left hand firmly planted on the steering wheel, Station 51's 'Main Squeeze' promptly proceeded to wriggle the rest of his torso into the truck's exceedingly cramped for space cab, as well.

 

As soon as he was 'all there', John chanced a quick glance away from his upside-down view of the road. 'Sheesh!'

 

The semi's dash was solid rosewood and its instrument panel contained almost as many gauges, knobs, dials, switches and levers as a jet airliner!

 

Once the Jake Brake was fully engaged, John blindly reached down and lifted the trucker's booted foot off of the accelerator.

 

The truck's engine immediately began to decelerate.

 

The Jake Brake's distinctive 'Ba-derrrrrrr…ba-derrrrrrr…ba-derrrrrrr' resounded inside the cab, as each of the eighteen valves it controlled were opened, releasing all of their compressed-air energy out into the engine's chrome exhaust pipes, instead of its driving pistons.

 

Unfortunately, the big rig's forward momentum remained pretty much the same.

 

The fireman frowned down at the speedometer.

 

Inertial energy was still propelling all 40tons of the runaway tractor-trailer forward—at close to 40mph.

 

Gage groaned inwardly and his frown deepened.

 

'Plan B' was beginning to look better and better.

 

The highway's three-mile marker had just whizzed by.

 

The frowning fireman was now beginning to seriously doubt that they were gonna have enough time, or distance, to stop—before they reached the freeway.

 

"Bruce is…dead. Isn't he," the rescuer's young helper quietly stated.

 

Since both lanes up ahead were currently clear, John was able to chance another quick glance away from his topsy-turvy view of the road.

 

Staring down at the driver's dead body was quickly causing the kid's resolve to crumble.

 

The fireman figured it was time for him to 'intervene' again. "Yes. He is. I'm sorry. What's your name?"

 

"Tony."

 

"Hi, Tony. I'm Johnny. Did you get that belt unbuckled for me, yet?" Gage knew he hadn't, but his little reminder managed to spark the stalled boy back into action.

 

"There was this hu-uge hunk a' metal layin' on the highway, a ways back," Tony explained and began sliding out from under the top half of the trucker's…corpse. "We came around a curve—and ran right over it," the kid continued, as he turned in his seat and began fumbling with the dead driver's seatbelt buckle. "I asked Bruce why he didn't try to swerve around it—"

 

The boy's narrative was interrupted by a telltale 'cli-ick' and the dead driver's lap belt fell free.

 

"Bruce said, 'Because yah gotta keep the shiny side up, and the greasy side down'." Tony obediently began scrambling up over the back of the seat and into the cab's sleeper compartment. "I asked him what he meant by that, and he told me, 'You can't make any sudden moves when you're haulin' a full load, or you'll flip your rig, for sure!'"

 

Being careful to keep one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road, Gage stepped over the dead guy's legs and the semi's knobbed shift sticks and assumed a portion of the passenger's seat. He had to pause, to give his helmeted head a couple more quick shakes. The fireman was still feeling a little 'woozy'. He figured it was probably because his blood sugar was so low, or because he'd had to hold his head upside-down for so long—or it could a' been a combination of both. "Okay. Tony. Think you can reach the steering wheel from back there?"

 

The boy's head popped up from the sleeping compartment. "If I lean over the back of the seat."

 

"Do it."

 

Tony did as directed. "Right after we hit that hunk a' metal, Bruce said he'd lost the service brakes. He figured the tires must a' kicked it up under the truck and nicked an air hose."

 

John stood, as best he could, and latched onto the dead guy's belt.

 

"He pulled this knob out. But nothing happened. He said that hunk a' metal must a' hit both hose lines, because the emergency brakes weren't working, either. He was about to do something with that switch down there, when he just grabbed his chest—and keeled over. I-I didn't know what to do! I latched onto the steering wheel and tried to keep the truck as straight as I cou—"

 

"—You did…just fine…Tony," Gage breathlessly assured his now near to hysteria helper.

 

"Yeah. Til I plowed into you."

 

"Don't you…worry none…about me…I'm a lot…tougher…than I look…Just got…my 'wind'…knocked out a’ me…is all." Following a great deal of 'grimacing' and 'gasping' and 'gritting of his teeth', the 160lb fireman finally managed to maneuver the 300+lb dead guy out of his way.

 

'Bruce' ended up on his back, on the floor in front of the passenger's seat, with his legs bent at the knees, his arms folded across his chest, and his baseball-capped head shoved up under the dashboard.

 

The panting paramedic rested his right hand on the steering wheel and aimed his dazed gaze out the runaway truck's windshield. "Pass me…a blanket," he breathlessly requested.

 

Once again, the boy wordlessly obeyed.

 

Johnny gave the kid back control of the wheel and draped the blanket over the trucker's dead body. Following that, the exhausted fireman collapsed into the driver's seat and frantically began downshifting.

 

Gage could tell, by the horrific grinding sound he was making, that the teeth on the transmission's gears were 'stripping' instead of 'gripping'.

 

The truck was just too damn heavy!

 

The paramedic got his first glimpse of the freeway and cursed beneath his breath. Even from over a half-mile away, he could clearly see that the CHP hadn't been given enough time to avert disaster, either.

 

Heavy traffic was still flowing fast—and freely—in all five of the Pamona Freeway's northbound lanes.

 

Gage gasped in exasperation and glanced at the speedometer. Between engaging the Jake Brake and downshifting, he'd managed to cut the runaway rig's speed by more than half.

 

The problem was that they were going too fast to stop, and yet, not nearly fast enough to safely enter the steady flow of traffic.

 

The frustrated fireman gasped again, as he realized he didn't have any time—or gears—left, to get the big rig back up to freeway traffic speed, which was generally between 60 to 85mph.

 

'Plan C' immediately replaced 'Plan B' in his slightly woozy brain. "Tony, I want you to get back up here," he solemnly ordered.

 

The boy climbed up out of the sleeping compartment and back into his seat, being careful not to step on 'Bruce'.

 

"I am gonna pull over onto the right shoulder of the highway, and you are going to open that door and jump."

 

"What are you gonna do, after I jump?"

 

His rescuer completely ignored the question. "I want you to jump out—as far away from the cab as you possibly can—and then keep right on rolling away from the road."

 

Tony saw where the truck was headed and put two and two together. "You're gonna put the 'greasy' side up and the 'shiny' side down. Are-ent you."

 

Gage couldn't help but grin. "So-o, what's a smart kid, like you, doin', runnin' away from his problems?"

 

"Maybe I'm not nearly as smart as you think I am."

 

"O-or, maybe you're a lot smarter than you think you are," Gage suggested right back. "Now, go on! Open the door and get ready to jump!"

 

Once more, Tony did just as his rescuer directed. "I'm sorry, Johnny. If I hadn't a' rammed into you, you might a' had enough time to stop this thing…"

 

"Na-ahh. The load's just too dang heavy," Johnny reassured him. He buckled and then snugged up his seatbelt. "I prob'ly couldn't a' stopped it in time, anyway. Besides," Johnny paused to tighten his helmet's chinstrap and flash his concerned young friend a mischievous smile, "I've never wrecked an 18-wheeler—before," he wryly added, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from the kid. "Remember. Jump as far away as you can from the cab and then roll clear. I'd really hate to run you over with the trailer wheels."

 

Tony gave the crazy fireman one last, eternally grateful glance—and then jumped from the truck's cab.

 

Station 51's engine crew watched, in stunned silence, as the runaway tractor-trailer reached—and then started heading up—the freeway's onramp, still traveling at a pretty good clip.

 

Marco turned his troubled gaze away from their television screen. "I don't get it, Cap. Why isn't John jumping?" he anxiously inquired, giving voice to the question that was on everyone's mind.

 

The Captain had a nagging suspicion as to why Gage had—so far—failed to abandon the big rig. "Apparently, he hasn't finished 'intervening', yet!" he angrily stated, and then covered his eyes for the tenth time, in as many minutes.

 

Roy was still following along in the Squad. "John-ny, don't do this to me! Jump already! You said you were gonna jump! You as much as promised me you would jump!"

 

Via the semi's side mirror, John had watched the leaping boy land at the bottom of a grassy gully. He waited until the tail end of the truck's trailer had passed the kid's position. "We-ell," he muttered to himself, "here goes nothin'."

 

That said, the runaway big rig's driver cranked its steering wheel, as hard as he could, to the right.

 

As the tractor's chrome bumper crashed through the steel guardrail that ran along the edge of the onramp, Gage dropped down onto his right side and planted the soles of his boots up against the driver's door. The fireman latched onto the stick-shift levers with both hands and then held on—for the ride of his life!

 

Squad 51's driver glanced in his right rearview mirror.

 

The kid that had jumped from the truck's cab was apparently uninjured, because he was currently clawing his way up out of the gully.

 

The flustered fireman saw the semi veer sharply to the right and prayed he'd be able to say the same for his crazy, crashing crewmate. His numb right arm reached out and his hand fumbled blindly for their radio's mic'. "LA, this is Rescue 51! Respond an engine company and an additional squad and ambulance to our location!"

 

"10-4, 51…"

 

"Dammit, Johnny!" Roy angrily exclaimed.

 

He didn't bother to replace the mic'. He just tossed it aside.

 

Squad 51 skidded to a stop alongside the hole Gage had just made in the guardrail.

 

DeSoto jumped out, screaming his partner's name—over and over again.

 

With the wrecking vehicle's speed now down to only around 20mph, the scene up on Station 51's TV screen appeared to play out in sort of slow motion.

 

As the big rig left the roadway, its back end folded in on its front end.

 

Because both sides of the onramp were steeply sloped, the truck's fully loaded trailer listed sharply to the right, until gravity finally caused it to flip completely over.

 

The engine crew emitted another group 'gasp' and then—all but one of them—watched, in wide-eyed horror, as the heavily loaded trailer continued to tumble down the grassy slope.

 

The attached tractor was whipped wildly about, like a stuffed animal that was being shaken in some playful pooch's mouth.

 

One of the tumbling trailer's sidewalls burst open and cases, of whatever cargo it was carrying, came cascading out. Upon impact, the cases split open. Smaller boxes spilled out. The boxes, and their contents, were then scattered—everywhere.

 

The wreckage finally came to rest at the bottom of a grassy gully.

 

It took a few moments for KXLA's usually unflappable lady traffic reporter to recover her voice. "Oh…Wow! For our viewers at home, who may be just tuning in, KXLA has been bringing you live coverage of an LA County Fire Department Rescue Squad's attempts to prevent a runaway semi-tractor-trailer from entering the Pamona Freeway's northbound lanes. As you can see, we are currently over the Highland Highway onramp, where—in a last ditch effort to stop the brake-less vehicle—one of the firemen has just driven the truck off of the roadwa—"

 

The remainder of the rattled reporter's comment was drowned out by the sound of muted claxons, coming from the garage.

 

The firemen leapt to their feet, but then froze, as Station 16 was dispatched to the scene.

 

"Why didn't we get the call?" Kelly questioned and turned to their Captain. "Couldn't you ask headquarters to send us, instead?"

 

"Of course I could," Stanley solemnly replied. He knew how badly they all wanted to be there for their shiftmates. "But our response time would be over twice as long as 16's, and they need help right now."

 

The firemen exhaled audible sighs of frustration, and then reluctantly sank back down into their 'front row' seats.

 

Speaking of front row seats…

 

With his feet braced against the driver's door, and both hands locked on the stick-shift levers, Johnny had managed to remain in the same, safe position for the entire duration of his 'wild ride' down the grassy hillside.

 

Unfortunately, everything else in the cab—that was not attached or tied down—had promptly become a projectile…including Bruce's corpse.

 

The semi's tractor had come to rest sort of leaning towards its driver's side, and its former driver had come to rest on Johnny.

 

Another “Ooof!” had escaped from the prone paramedic, as all 300+ pounds of the dead trucker's weight landed on his chest, effectively dispelling the air from his already traumatized lungs. The fireman tried—with all of his might—to free his pinned arms, so he could shove the ridiculously heavy burden off of him. But he was too weak and too 'woozy'—and becoming even woozier every airless second that passed by.

 

Roy was in the process of emptying their squad's compartments of equipment, when the kid from the truck cab came running up. "You hurt anywhere?" the paramedic anxiously inquired.

 

"No," the teen gasped back, a bit breathlessly. "Need any help?"

 

"Uh-uh…Yeah. Can you grab that green case for me?"

 

Tony latched onto the oxygen case's plastic handle and then joined Johnny's partner in a controlled slide down the slippery slope.

 

Due to the dangers inherent in his job, Gage didn't exactly have his heart set on dying of old age. Hell, the fireman figured he'd probably end up buyin' it in an explosion…or at a fire…or even from a spectacular fall—all noble, and rather dramatic, ways to 'go'.

 

But never, even in his most morbid daydreams, did the paramedic ever imagine that he would—or could—ever be killed by a…cadaver.

 

Because the paramedic had also been buried beneath the entire contents of the cab's sleeper compartment, he couldn't see a thing. But he could hear perfectly. And what he heard was his name being called.

 

Sheesh! His buddy sounded really worried.

 

Too bad he couldn't respond. He had tried to call out. But he had no air. So there was no sound.

 

'Air is…pretty damn…important…It takes…air…to talk…It…takes…air…to…live.'

 

More sounds. Somebody was climbing on the truck's cab.

 

"Johnny?! Johnny, can you hear me?!"

 

'Ro-oy?…Oh…gawd…help me, Roy…I can't…I can't…brea—' Johnny never got to finish his thought.

 

The breathless firefighter's head rolled limply to the side, as he finally slipped from semi-consciousness to unconsciousness.

 

Roy leaned over the tilting tractor's mangled hood and peered through its shattered windshield.

 

The driver's side of the cab was buried beneath a mound of debris.

 

Somewhere under that mess, his best friend lay, either seriously injured—or, perhaps, even dying!

 

The frantic fireman set his equipment down and started climbing—and calling for his partner.

 

Roy reached the open passenger's door window within seconds. "Okay. Pass me those two cases!" he ordered down.

 

The boy set his case down and promptly passed the paramedic his equipment.

 

DeSoto dropped the cases, and then himself, down into the truck's tilting cab, and immediately began flinging all the papers, books and magazines, and shoes, boots, shirts, pants and blankets back into the empty sleeper compartment, calling his partner's name out, all the while.

 

Roy got down to the dead guy, and his gut knotted.

 

The reason his partner had not been responsive quickly became apparent.

 

In an almost superhuman display of strength, DeSoto picked the 300+lb trucker's body up off of his partner's chest and tossed it aside. Hell, there was so much 'adrenaline' currently coursing through the panic-stricken paramedic's arteries, he could have probably lifted 500+lbs—every bit as easily.

 

Johnny's chest was not moving—which, no doubt, accounted for both his unconscious state, and cyanotic appearance.

 

Roy dropped to his knees on the steeply slanting passenger seat and braced himself, to avoid toppling forward onto his friend. Then he reached numbly down and forced himself to feel for a pulse. The rescuer exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

 

His non-breathing buddy still had a faint corotid!

 

Roy opened his victim's airway and pinched both nostrils shut. He cocked his head at a near forty-five-degree angle, fitted his open mouth over his partner's—and began to breathe for him.

 

Johnny's blue-tinged lips pinked up a little, but he did not spontaneously resume respirations.

 

AR—alone—wasn't working.

 

Roy glanced anxiously around and silently cursed the fact that there wasn't nearly enough room for him to work on his respiratory arrest victim. His partner needed a cervical collar, an airway and some pure oxygen. The paramedic paused between breaths, and aimed his deeply troubled gaze upward.

 

His young helper was perched on top of the passenger door, peering anxiously down at him, through its open window.

 

"Can you pass me…that green case?"

 

The kid did.

 

DeSoto took the equipment case and knelt there, marveling at the fact that the youngster had had the presence of mind to carry their O2 up onto the truck cab with him.

 

51's engine crew saw the oxygen being lowered into the semi's slanting cab.

 

Apparently, they were not the only ones who were having difficulty breathing.

 

Tony watched as the blond paramedic worked frantically to save his partner. "Please don't die, Johnny!" he desperately pleaded, tears accompanying his heartfelt words. "I know you were just trying to make me feel better. If I hadn't crashed into you, you could have stopped this truck. If you could have slowed it down—just a little sooner—rolling up the onramp would have stopped it."

 

Almost as if in response to the boy's plea, the dark-haired paramedic obligingly began to breathe again.

 

Roy sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, as his partner suddenly gasped in agony and then resumed spontaneous respirations. "Easy," he gently urged, as his friend's unfocused eyes fluttered open. "EASY!" he repeated, with more emphasis, and promptly pulled the airway from his now gagging victim's throat. "Where are you hurting?"

 

Gage gazed dazedly up at his upside-down partner. 'What was the question, again?…Oh…Yeah.' "Everywhere…but my fingernails…and my hair."

 

DeSoto found his patient's reply both amusing and alarming, but mostly alarming.

 

"Relax, Roy," Johnny urged, as his alarmed partner promptly replaced his O2 mask and then began taking an initial patient survey. He reached up and raised the mask, so he could be heard. "Nothin's busted…My entire body…just feels like…one big…bruise…is all."

 

DeSoto pressed the oxygen mask back down over his friend's mouth. "If I'd a known you weren't going to jump, I'd a never let you crawl out that window."

 

Gage lifted the mask—again. "Sorry…But I just had to stop it…I couldn't bear the thought…of having to respond…to another freeway pileup…I positively hate…freeway pileups!"

 

"Yeah?" Roy's voice ratcheted up an octave, or two and he pressed the O2 mask back in place. "Well I hate having to respond to a semi roll over! Especially when my partner is inside the semi—when it rolls over!"

 

"Sorry," his partner solemnly repeated, this time, speaking through his oxygen mask.

 

"No you're not. You'd do it again—in a heartbeat!"

 

Gage looked guilty as charged.

 

While his partner was attempting to contact Rampart on their Bio-phone, Johnny swung his long legs back around and then sat stiffly up in his seat.

 

"Where do you think you're going?" DeSoto demanded, looking more than a little astounded.

 

His ‘victim’ unbuckled his seatbelt and then calmly pointed up at the open passenger's window.

 

His partner appeared downright appalled. "You can't just climb out of here!"

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because you were just unconscious! That's why not! You were just in full respiratory arrest, for cryin' out loud!"

 

"So-o? You would be, too—if you had 300 plus pounds parked on your chest!"

 

Since he couldn't raise Rampart on their radio, and since his victim's vitals were all perfectly normal—for him, Roy reluctantly permitted his antsy partner to exit the truck's cab—without being completely immobilized on a backboard.

 

For nearly fifteen—interminably long—minutes, 51's engine crew had remained on the very edges of their seats, and for nearly fifteen—interminably long—minutes, their Captain's eyes had remained closed.

 

The engineers back at KXLA's studios had managed to turn the helicopter's live footage into videotape, and the TV station had been running an 'instant replay' of the horrifically violent wreck—over…and over…and over.

 

The firemen saw their dark-haired friend's helmeted head finally pop up through the tilting tractor cab's open passenger window—sans a cervical collar or a backboard.

 

Another raucous shout reverberated out from Station 51's rec' room, and much 'back-slapping' and 'high-fiving' ensued.

 

Gage allowed his assistants to help him out of the tilting truck cab and back onto solid ground again, but then balked, when they attempted to drape his arms across their shoulders. "I kin walk, yah know."

 

Bryce and Bellingham came sliding down the slippery slope just then, carrying a Stokes filled with their medical gear—and a backboard.

 

"It's either us…or them," DeSoto informed his stubborn buddy.

 

John mumbled something incoherent, and reluctantly allowed Roy and Tony to drape his arms around their necks and begin assisting him away from the wreckage.

 

Speaking of the wreckage…

 

The semi-wrecker got his first good look at all the carnage he'd caused.

 

The entire hillside seemed to be awash, in a sea of nuts and bolts—and washers.

 

The 'responsible party' didn't feel all that guilty, though. The paramedic would rather see spilled bolts than spilled blood—anyday!

 

"There's a Code F inside the cab!" Roy called back to their puzzled counterparts. "Oh…and could you see to it that our gear gets topside?! Thanks!" he tacked on, without bothering to wait for a reply.

 

That said, the three of them started working their way up the steep, debris-strewn hillside.

 

Johnny's imaginative mind immediately began to formulate a solution to the 'spilt bolts' problem. "Say, yah know what would work slick? If they were to bring in one a' those giant Electro-magnets. You know? Like the kind they use to move cars around. I'll bet one a' those babies would make short work a' this mess. A' course, then somebody'd hafta sort it all out…and I s'pose the nuts and bolts would all be 'magnetized'…"

 

Tony studied the scene of mass destruction for a few moments and then glanced up at Gage. "You sure you've never done this before? Because you seem to be very good at it."

 

Once again, his fireman friend was forced to grin. "Beginner's Luck."