At Fire Station 51, the engine crew was watching television in the day room when they heard the squad pull in.  A minute later the company's two paramedics walked into the kitchen.  Captain Hank Stanley lifted his head to study them, as he always did when they returned from a run without the engine.  John Gage had an Ace bandage out, wrapping it around his left wrist.  Roy DeSoto was carrying a pill bottle.

"Gage," Cap said.  "That wrist is never going to heal if you keep straining it."

"It was my fault," Roy said tiredly.  "I slipped going down an embankment and he had to catch me."  He poured two cups of coffee.

"It wasn't your fault," Johnny contradicted his partner.  "It's all this rain.  That slope was nothing but slippery mud."  He took the coffee Roy offered him.

Roy braced himself against the counter with one hand, using the other to massage his temples.

"Another headache?" Cap asked, concerned.  "Maybe you should consider talking with someone at Rampart."

"I already did," the senior paramedic told him, shaking a handful of pills out of the bottle.  "They said it was nothing."

"They said it was stress," Johnny corrected him.  He scooped the pills from Roy's palm, gave him back two of them and returned the rest to the bottle, which he pocketed.  "Too many of those things'll eat a hole in your stomach lining.  You know that."

Roy scowled, but took the two pills, washing them down with coffee.  The two men wandered over to join the group around the TV.

"Doc says he needs a vacation."

"Maybe you should put in for one," Cap said to Roy.  "Surely you have some time coming?"

"Yeah, and I did," Roy told him, "but the paramedic program is still too short-handed.  They're not letting any of us take vacation time until the next class graduates, at least."

"When's that?"

"Ten weeks," Johnny said sourly.

Chet Kelly, sitting on the couch, tipped his curly, dark head back to look up at them and twitched his bushy mustache.  "Man, I don't believe you guys!  Whine, whine, whine!  'My wrist hurts!'  'Ooh, I've got a headache!'  Poor babies.  Why don't you sit down and watch how real men handle life's challenges?"

Johnny snorted derisively.  "You?"

"Well, John," Chet answered seriously, "actually, I am a sterling example of young, American manhood.  In this particular instance, though, I was not referring to myself.  I'm talking about the guys on this TV show.  Talk about raw courage, daring, hardiness and self-sufficiency!  This is a group of men that you can really look up to!"

"Chet!  Are you watching The Muppet Show again?"

Chet rolled his eyes.  "Hardy har har.  Very funny Gage.  Just sit down, glue your eyes to this television and prepare to be in awe!"

Roy pulled over a couple of kitchen chairs.  He sank gratefully into one and Johnny slid the other over behind the couch, sitting on the edge and leaning forward to rest his arms on the back of the sofa.

"So what are we watching, anyway?" Roy asked.

"It's a new game show," Marco Lopez offered.  "It's called Survival of the Fittest.  They take a bunch of guys out and dump them on a deserted island somewhere and whichever one is the best at surviving wins."

"Oh, yeah.  I think I've heard something about that. It isn't really that deserted an island, I think.  I think they're filming it somewhere just off the coast, to the south of here maybe?"

"Well it's deserted enough," Chet defended the show.  "No food, no phone, no one to call for help if they get hurt.  Man versus nature, baby!  Now that's what I call macho!"

"The guy in the loincloth gets my vote for the bravest," Mike Stoker offered.

"You think he's the bravest?"

"Well, he is wearing a loincloth on national television."

"Besides," Johnny chimed in, "think of the sticker bushes."

His partner squirmed.  "I'd rather not, thanks."

The six men returned their attention to the television as Mr. Whiffle and his Charmin disappeared and the show came back on.  "So what are they doing now?" Johnny asked.  "It just looks like they're sitting around fishing."

"Just fishing?" Chet bristled.  "And do you know how much rides on that fishing?  If they don't catch their supper, they're going to wind up eating bugs."

"What kind of bugs?"  Cap hated fish.

Johnny took a sip of his coffee, then used the cup to point at the television.  "You know what, though, Chet?  There's something wrong with this picture here."

"It looks fine to me.  Is the color off?"

"No, I don't mean the TV set.  I mean the show.  They say these guys are all alone on a desert island, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if that's true, who's filming them?"

Chet considered this.  "Probably they gave them a camera when they dumped them off and they take turns filming each other."

"But then who's running the camera when they're all in the picture?" Roy objected.

"They prop it up on a rock and --"

"No, watch.  It's following them when they move around."

"It's remote controlled," Chet looked around at his station mates, but no one was buying this one.  "Okay, so maybe there's one other guy there with a camera."

"More than one," Mike jumped into the discussion.  "See, there's the same shot from two different camera angles -- no three."

"Four," Roy said.  "That close-up was from another angle too."

"Okay," Chet was trying hard to salvage the show's awe factor.  "So it's just these guys and four men with cameras . . . ."

"And a director," Johnny put in.  "They have to have someone to tell them where to point the cameras."

"They'd need lighting too," Marco added.  "And those cameras are moving so smoothly, they must be mounted on booms.  They'd need boom operators for that."

"And an engineer and a bunch of technicians."  This from Mike again, their own engineer.

"And assistants, and gophers," Johnny tossed in.

"Okay," Chet said desperately, "so it's just these guys, alone on a desert island with --"

"A large film crew," Roy prompted.

"And a team of caterers," Johnny put in.  "You know the film crew isn't eating bugs.  Those people have unions, after all."

Chet opened his mouth, but before he could find any words in it the tones sounded.

"Squad 51, meet chopper ten at the harbor for an offshore rescue.  Time out 19:20.”

As one of the TV show contestants jumped around on the TV screen, celebrating catching a small fish, Roy and Johnny set their coffee cups on an end table and ran for their squad.

#-#-#-#-

Eight days later . . . .

As they had for the past week, Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez left work, got into Chet's Volkswagen bus and headed for the harbor to pick up Marco's brother-in-law's boat.  As they drove along the Pacific Freeway Marco reached over and turned the radio on, picking up the morning news broadcast.

". . . that legislation.  In southern California, today, high offshore winds continue to hamper the air search for two L.A. County paramedics, missing for over a week now.  Firefighter/paramedics Roy DeSoto and John Gage had responded to an emergency on the set of the television show 'Survival of the Fittest', being filmed on one of the hundreds of small islands off the coast to the south of Los Angeles.  Because of tidal conditions at the time, and the lack of a suitable landing site on the island, the two men had to be lowered from a helicopter.  As they were returning to the helicopter, however, the winch malfunctioned and the pilot was forced to drop them into the open sea.

"When last seen, the two paramedics were climbing into a rubber life raft.  Unfortunately, a storm in the area delayed rescue efforts.  Captain Hank Stanley of Fire Station 51 in Carson told KLRQ today that he believes his men would have made it to one of the islands in that region and that he has every confidence in their safe return.  Joanne DeSoto, wife of Roy DeSoto, echoed Captain Stanley's sentiments."

Joanne DeSoto's voice came from the radio speaker.  "Roy and Johnny are strong, intelligent, responsible men.  I have every faith in their ability to take care of themselves and I know I can rely on them to take care of each other.  I'm already planning the welcome home party."

The announcer returned.  "Again, that was Joanne DeSoto, wife of missing L.A. County paramedic Roy DeSoto.  In other news . . . ."

Chet snapped off the radio as they turned into the marina.  "Man, Cap and Joanne are just kidding themselves," he said mournfully.

"You don't think they'll be okay?" Marco asked.

"It's been eight days, Marco.  They're nothing but rotting corpses now, floating around the ocean in a rubber life raft."  He snuffled.

"That's a cheerful thought.  Come on, Chet!  You've seen all those islands on the map.  Any direction they went, they had to find an island eventually."

"Okay, so maybe they found an island.  Still, no food, no water.  We're not going to find anything but bleached bones scattered over the sand."  He sighed.  "I wish they'd had time to finish watching that show.  At least they'd know what kind of bugs are safe to eat."

On that pleasant note, they reported to the Coast Guard officer who was coordinating the rescue effort, picked up their search assignment and headed out.

#-#-#-#-

"Chet!  Look!  Up there on that cliff!"  The Zacca, named for Errol Flynn's yacht, was approaching yet another of the tiny, undistinguished islands off the coast when Marco looked up and saw a flash of blue against the black rock on a high cliff.  He trained his binoculars on it and found letters formed from strips of blue cloth, the color of fire department uniforms.  "SOS!  It says SOS!  They're here, Chet!  They have to be."

Chet steered the boat around the island's perimeter, looking for a landing site.  "We'd better go see if we can find their remains," he said.  "Do we have any body bags aboard?"

Marco smacked him upside the head.

The tide was out and when they came to a small cove a line of rocks just under the water's surface kept them from entering.  They could see a rubber dingy pulled up on a sandy beach and further down a body lay stretched out just above the waterline.  With their hearts in their throats they anchored the Zacca and waded along the rocks to the shore.  Filled with trepidation, they crept up cautiously on the supine figure lying on the sand.  As they drew near they could see that it was John Gage.

Johnny lay on his back, one hand under his head and the other forearm flung across his closed eyes.  He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only his uniform pants, which had been cut down into a ragged pair of shorts.  A thin line looped around his left big toe and disappeared into the sea.

"Does he look dead, do you think?" Chet whispered.

"Actually," Marco considered it, "he looks kinda . . . asleep."

While they were debating it the line going into the water jerked, pulling Johnny's toe down sharply.  He jumped up and pulled it off his foot, then froze as he saw Chet and Marco.  A broad, crooked grin split his features.

"Hey, guys!  Long time no see!  Hang on a second."  Picking up a stick from the sand, he stuck it through the loop and then wound the line around it.  Presently a small fish appeared, firmly caught on a hook that had been improvised from a hypodermic needle.  Johnny unhooked the fish and held it up in front of his face.  "Aw, man!  Not you again!  Look, I told you yesterday, you're too little!  Now you go back and grow some more!"

He stooped to slip the fish back into the water, then stood and brushed the sand from his britches.  "So," he said, "what kept you guys?"

Chet swallowed an annoyed growl.  Marco spoke up.  "Johnny, we haven't found Roy yet.  Do you have any idea what happened to him?"

"Oh yeah.  He's over there asleep in the shade.  Man, these palefaces burn too easily!"  Grinning, Johnny reached out to tweak a corner of Chet's mustache, then led them back into the trees.  In the shade from a grove of coconut palms, Roy was stretched out on a makeshift lawn chair, put together from driftwood and vines and padded with palm leaves.  Like Johnny he was wearing only cut off shorts.  A woven grass hat covered his face and he was snoring lightly.

Johnny slapped his bare foot gently.  "Hey, sleeping beauty!"

"Just resting my eyes," Roy mumbled good-naturedly.

"Yeah, sure.  Hey, time to wake up, man.  Taxi's here."

"Taxi?" Chet sputtered.  "Taxi?!  Taxi?!"

"Oh, yeah?"  Roy sat up and put the hat on his head.  It made him look like an almost grown up Huck Finn.  "I guess we have to put our shoes on then, don't we?"

"All good things must end," Johnny told him.

"Yeah.  I'm looking forward to seeing my family, though.  Say, we've been on the clock this whole time, right?"

Chet opened his mouth, then closed it again when no words came out.  He tried a second time.  Finally, on the third attempt, he found his voice.  "The boat's out there beyond the rocks," he snapped, pointing.  "When you two get your act together, we'll be waiting for you."

He turned and stomped off around the cove.

"What's with him?" Johnny asked in surprise.

"He just wants to call the rest of the searchers and tell them we found you," Marco explained.  "He's relieved that you're all right."

"Are you sure he's relieved?" Roy asked.  "Because he sounded kinda . . . disappointed."

#-#-#-#-

Having passed their required physicals, Roy and Johnny both reported to work when A-shift returned to duty two days later.  Roy was grinning and humming softly to himself.  Johnny gave him a sly, sideways look.

"You're in a good mood!"

"Yeah," the blond paramedic blushed.  "Jo and I had a real nice welcome home celebration."

"Oh, yeah?" Chet looked up from tying his shoes.  "Who all was there?"

Johnny grinned.  "I don't think they asked anyone else."

Roy blushed harder and concentrated on pinning on his badge and paramedic pin.  "No, but, hey!  We are having a cookout.  Day after tomorrow.  We're expecting all you guys to be there, if you can."

"Sounds great!" Johnny told him.  "Count me in!"

After roll call the men gathered around the kitchen table.  The engine crew was eager to hear all the details of their paramedics' adventure.

"So what was the emergency at the film location?" Cap asked.  "We never did hear."

"Oh, that."  Johnny waved a hand dismissively.  "The director had a bad reaction to a bug he ate."

"So the director really was eating bugs?" Chet brightened, as if this somehow vindicated his praise for the show.

"Well, not on purpose," Roy told him.  "It landed on his Twinkie.  They thought he was having an allergic reaction, but he was only hyperventilating.  All he hadda do was breathe into a paper bag."

"And for that you guys got a week on a desert island of your own," Mike said.  "Without a film crew."

"What did you do all that time?" Marco asked.

"Johnny spent a lot of his time carving driftwood.  You should see some of it.  He's really talented."  Roy turned to his partner.  "The kids loved the animals you made them, and Joanne really flipped over the necklace!  That seahorse pendant was perfect with the seashells."

"Yeah?  That's great!  Hey, what about those pots?"  Johnny dropped a hand on Roy's shoulder as he explained to the other guys.  "Roy found a deposit of high quality clay and improvised a pottery wheel so he could throw some pots.  Really neat stuff!"

"Thanks.  I left them to be fired.  They should be ready to paint tomorrow."

"I don't believe you guys," Chet exploded.  "Here we are, worried sick about you, and you're making like Girl Scouts at arts and crafts camp!"

Roy and Johnny stared at him in surprise.  "Chet," Roy asked, "would you rather we'd been suffering?"

"Well . . . no.  It's just . . . ."  The young fireman sputtered for a minute before finding words.  "Well, what about food and water?"

"There was a nice spring inland, though even if there hadn't have been we'd have been okay.  It rained a lot.  Besides, we could have set up a distillery with our canteens and some IV tubing."

"Actually," Johnny said, "we did set up a distillery with our canteens and some IV tubing.  We just weren't distilling water is all."  The two paramedics snickered.  Chet's glower deepened.

"What about food?"

"Oh, there was tons of food on that island! Fish," Johnny grinned, "sorry, Cap!  And clams and lobsters.  We caught some shrimp in a tidal pool.  A lot of edible plants.  Jicama, wild onion and garlic, salad greens . . . .  Remember, my ancestors were living off the land around here long before there were supermarkets and fast food joints!"

"And there were fruit trees," Roy added.  "There were fruit trees growing wild everywhere.  Oranges, grapefruit, pineapple, mangoes, avocados --"

"Bananas?" Marco asked.

"No bananas."

"Yes!  We had no bananas," Johnny warbled off-key.

Everyone laughed but Chet.  "So let me get this straight," he said.  "You go out there, you get yourselves stranded on a desert island, and you come back a week later as good as when you left."

"As good as?"  Johnny snorted.  "Better!  Check it out!  Remember my sprained wrist?"  He held up his left hand.  "Totally healed!  And Roy's stress headaches?  Gone!"

"Really?"  Cap looked over to Roy for confirmation and the blond paramedic nodded.

"Really.  I haven't felt this good in months!"

"Well great!  You both know we're all glad you weren't hurt and we're delighted to have you back safely.  Isn't that right, Kelly?"  Cap's last sentence held a threat.

"Oh, yeah.  Absolutely!  Delighted!"  If Chet's words were enthusiastic his tone lacked sincerity.  "I just don't understand, that's all."

"What don't you understand?" Roy asked, going over to the refrigerator and getting a couple of bottles of soda pop.

"How you could have enjoyed what should have been a horrible ordeal!  How you could spend a week alone on a desert island and come back as good as -- BETTER THAN -- you were when you left!  That's what!"

"Oh, that."  Johnny took the bottle of pop Roy offered him, grinned his trademark crooked grin and raised the soda towards his partner in a toast.  "Survival of the fittest, eh, Pally?"

Blue eyes dancing, Roy tightened his own mouth in a small, merry smile and clinked his bottle against Johnny's.  "Couldn't have put it better myself, Junior.  Couldn't have put it better myself!"

The End.

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