We Gather Here Today

"Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"

"Go ahead, 51," Dixie responded. She could hear tension in Roy's voice. It wasn't something she was used to hearing from the normally unflappable paramedic, though it was certainly understandable today. Only four engines and four squads had been available to respond to the nursing home fire. In less than thirty minutes, more than fifty people had been carried to safety by the firemen. The eight paramedics had treated a total of twenty-four victims who had been injured at the scene, and at last word, several more were still in the building. The paramedics from Squad 27 and 38, and one from Squad 16 were in the process of transporting victims, some to Rampart, some to St. Joseph's Hospital. Other victims with less serious injuries were being transported with off duty nurses and newly trained EMT's so that the remaining paramedics could stay on the scene and provide immediate care. If Dixie had kept track of all of this correctly, that left Johnny Gage, Roy DeSoto, and Jesse Martinez at the scene.

"Rampart, be advised we've had a structure collapse. We have another 8 victims."

Dixie felt her breath catch. New victims likely translated to injured firemen. She grabbed Kelly Brackett as he walked by the station. "It's 51. The building's collapsed."

"Damn," Brackett swore under his breath. "Go ahead, 51. Tell us what you've got."

Dixie could now hear a flatness in Roy's voice.

"Rampart, the rear of the building has collapsed. We have four firefighters currently trapped in the basement. We have no radio contact and no information on their status. We have located and extricated the other four victims. Rampart, the last two residents of the nursing home and one fireman are code F due to crushing injuries. We do have one paramedic code I. He's being brought out right now. He's unconscious, but breathing on his own. Hold on for further information."

Dixie wanted to ask who had died. She wanted to know who was trapped. But if Roy hadn't chosen to tell them, she would have to wait. As for who was injured, she'd know that soon enough. Since Roy was on the radio, either Jesse or Johnny was the injured party.

A bustle in the hallway indicated the arrival of one of the ambulances. Rampart, like all other hospitals in the area, was on disaster alert, and all off duty staff had been called to work. With no instruction from Dixie needed, nurses and doctors appeared at the side of the two gurneys and followed them into available treatment rooms. Dixie was free to remain with Kel.

The station squealed and brought her attention back to the rescue at hand.

"Squad 51 to Rampart."

Johnny, Dixie thought, closing her eyes in prayer.

"Go ahead, 51," Brackett answered, before Dixie could respond.

"Rampart, we have a 28 year old, critical code I who is the victim of a structure collapse."

Johnny's voice was tightly controlled, but Dixie could hear a slight catch. This was going to be bad.

Gage continued his report. "The victim has multiple injuries and was placed on a backboard prior to moving him out. He's unconscious and shows no response to a sternal rub. Pupils are unequal. Left pupil is sluggish. The right pupil is blown. There is clear fluid in the ear canals. The victim's helmet was knocked off. There's an obvious, depressed skull fracture. He has a compound fracture of the left tibia and fibula. The bleeding has been controlled and bandages applied. He has numerous other abrasions and lacerations, but the bleeding is controlled. Vital signs are, BP 140/100, pulse 60 and weak, respirations 14. He's on 15 liters of O₂."

Dr. Brackett had been writing down all the information as it was reported, shaking his head the whole time.

"Okay, 51. Start an IV, normal saline, TKO. Continue to monitor breathing and be ready with an airway. Can you send me a strip?"

"IV normal saline and monitor breathing. Hold on for the strip, Rampart."

Dixie pictured the two men working at Jesse's side. She wondered if they had yet let themselves acknowledge the truth, or if they needed to maintain hope to make it through the next few minutes with their friend. Her thoughts drifted to an image of Jesse's wife chasing their two-year-old son at last month's pediatric fundraiser. The man standing next to her interrupted that line of thought.

"Dix, do we know who it is?" Dixie knew that Brackett would never ask over an open line. But she had also known he would ask her, hoping she had somehow kept track.

"Jesse Martinez. Unless other units have been sent to the scene, and I don't think they have."

"Do you know who died, who else is trapped?"

Dixie shook her head, but added, "None of our boys, Kel. I know where all the paramedics are. Jesse's the only one not accounted for." Kel closed his eyes and gave a slight nod.

Roy's voice interrupted her this time. "Rampart, this is squad 51. Sending you a strip on lead 2. Also, an update on the vitals. BP is up to 150/110, pulse is 60 but thready. There is now blood in the fluid from the left ear. Respirations are 12."

Another ambulance picked that moment to arrive. This time Dixie would have to move on. She heard Kel giving the men instructions on what medications to add to the IV, as she joined the EMT and his 2 elder victims. She mentally shook her head, clearing it enough to focus on the women in front of her.

"How are they doing, Jack?"

 

Dixie wasn't sure what brought her back to the here and now. She again told herself that it would do no good to relive this experience. She should get up and turn the TV off. She might have done so if they hadn't cut into the interview to go back to the Cathedral. Now Dixie watched, unable to turn her eyes away, as the procession approached the church.

"Okay, we're back live at the scene." Carol Parks had to almost shout to be heard over the activity now surrounding her. "What you are now seeing are the three limousines, followed by Rescue Squad 16 and then Engine 16. In a ceremony such as this one, the engine serves as the hearse, bringing her two crewmen to one last destination. As we mentioned earlier, two of the Station 16 crew are still in the hospital and were unable to attend today's ceremonies. The other men of Station 16 have chosen to walk behind the engine with the men from Stations 51, 38 and 27 who helped fight this fire.

"If we can try to get a better camera angle … there. Walking in the front of the procession is Jesse Martinez's partner, firefighter/paramedic, David James. To his right is Captain Benjamin Witherspoon. We can only begin to imagine what these two men are thinking as they prepare to bury two of their team, knowing that two more are still in the hospital. Behind them you can see the men of Stations 51, 27, and 38. Okay, if you can move the camera just a little more to the right…, there…, now you can see Station 51 firefighter, Chester Kelly, who is walking with his comrades today, despite having been trapped in the building for close to two hours after the collapse."

Seeing the men on the TV screen, Dixie surrendered and curled up on her couch, knowing she would be spending her morning watching a funeral on TV.

 

Chet Kelly was vaguely aware of the TV cameras as he walked in the procession. He was grateful that the motorcade was proceeding so slowly. His leg and back ached with each step. That was the result of "deep bruising and muscle strain." "Take it easy for a few days" was all he had been told. He had done that. Now he was here, where he needed to be. To Chet, the aches were nothing more than a reminder that it could have been him being buried here today.

They think I don't know what they're doing, Chet had thought, as the men had lined up in formation 4 blocks back at the funeral home. DeSoto and Gage would have normally stood side-by-side, but here, today, they flanked Kelly, one on either side. The paramedics from 27 had managed to place themselves directly behind him. Nothing had been voiced, but clearly they all had doubts about his ability to make it through the procession. He further suspected that since they couldn't protect the men who had died, and there was nothing more they could do for the men in the hospital, they would now focus on the one victim they could actively watch over. Chet had to admit that he had mixed emotions about being the focus of all their concern. But knowing that they were his self-appointed bodyguards, he had to admire the fact that neither Roy nor Johnny had reached out the two times he had faltered. Of course after that, the formation had somehow become inexplicably tighter, and Chet could see the tense lines in Johnny's face and the tightened muscles in Roy's shoulders as they stood ready to grab him if need be.

Chet couldn't help but notice that while they looked at him from time to time, both Roy and Johnny had studiously avoided eye contact with each other. That's the way they were going to play this out. They would not acknowledge to each other that it could have been either one or both of them in that building when it collapsed. But Chet could know. It could have been any one of them. And it was a survivor's guilt that they all would have to live with in the months to come.

 

Chet and Marco exited the east wing of the building. The fire still burned, but everyone was now out, and the limited manpower was being refocused. The furnace room, the apparent source of the fire, had been in the east wing. Since the majority of the bed-ridden residents had been housed in that wing, it would be counted a miracle that they all had been brought out alive. But there were residents in the west wing as well, and not all of them were yet evacuated. Last Chet had heard, that portion of the building was not yet involved, but they were still working feverishly to get everyone out. The men grabbed some water and new air tanks, then proceeded on to their captain for their next assignment. They reached Stanley's side just in time to hear the call from Jackson and Lai from Station 16.

"The supply room seems to be under control but,…. DAMN, there goes the laundry room." Chet could hear the sudden roar of the fire through the HT. "This just got real bad, real fast. We're gonna need back up in here. Advise." Chet and Marco affixed their masks as they waited for the orders. Damn, how did this thing spread so suddenly to the west wing? I thought we had contained it!

"Engine 51 to HT 51, how many more to pull out, DeSoto?" Captain Stanley asked, as he looked at the floor plans with Captain Ben Witherspoon of Station 16.

Chet didn't hear Roy's answer, but it must not have been good because Witherspoon responded immediately.

"Kelly, Lopez, Stoker, and Williams, grab lines and get into the basement and help Jackson and Lai. Martinez, Martin, and Hank, help finish the evacuation. Let's get those people out of that wing now. We've run out of time. Grab and run. I want our men able to leave that basement in no more than 10 minutes."

Witherspoon turned to Johnny. "Gage, can you help?" Johnny handed his patient off to an EMT and grabbed his gear. "I'm there, Cap!" That was the last thing Chet heard as he ran with the hose back toward the burning building.

As Chet headed down the stairs he allowed himself to think about the fact that the situation was desperate enough to send in a captain and two engineers. This should have been a four or five-alarm fire. But he had heard that there was another major fire burning across town and a highway pile up to add insult to injury. God help the common Joe who happened to have a run of the mill chest pain or kitchen fire this afternoon. There was no one left to respond. But turning out of the stairway into the basement, all thoughts but those of survival disappeared.

The monster raged before him.

"Madre de Dios," Marco muttered, as he and Chet activated the line and prepared for the stream of water that was about to surge. Next to them, Mike Stoker and Josh Williams forged forward with their hose. Ahead of them, Jackson and Lai acknowledged their presence by moving to the side to make room for the two new teams to join the fight.

The fire was confined to the large laundry room, but fueled by the hundreds of pieces of clean and dirty linen. The flames consumed every inch of the room. As Chet stepped closer, he could feel the suffocating heat surround him. He took a deep breath to assure himself that his tank was working correctly. Then, with Marco on the line in front of him, he stepped forward and joined the battle.

With the six men fighting its onslaught, and with its available fuel now being rapidly consumed within the concrete walls of the room, the fire quickly began to lose ground. Stoker and Williams headed deeper into the basement to check for other hot spots as the other men finished the job of putting out this section of the fire.

Although the flames had been fought back here, Chet knew that with the intensity of the fire that had just been burning, it was likely that it was burning in the walls of the floors above. Just the dryer vents alone, which were surely full of lint, would have spread the fire upward. The fire would also have spread through the electrical wires and air vents, and any other thing that it could burn. And of course, however it had traveled from the east wing, it was likely still burning in those passages and others. Extinguishing the flames in the laundry room did not mean the risk to this wing was over. It had simply relocated.

The heat had been intense and was still sweltering. Chet could feel the sweat pouring down his face, his breath now mixing with the moisture and fogging his facemask. His uniform under his turnout gear was sticking to every inch of his body and the suit designed to keep him safe from the flames now kept the built up heat from escaping. It was time to get out of here and go help elsewhere. Chet signaled the others who nodded their agreement. Hoses were turned off, and Chet reached for his HT to update Witherspoon and get instructions. Unable to get a signal, he backed up 10 feet and tried again.

It was then that he heard the sound. His heart knew before his mind could grasp it. His body felt it before his eyes could confirm it. The building was collapsing. With Lopez, Jackson and Lai in front of him, Chet had just enough time to scream, "MIKE! IT'S COMING DOWN!" and whisper "Mother Mary, pray for us," before the world went dark around him.

 

Sixteen men lowered the caskets from the back of the Engine. Sixteen men surrounded the caskets and lifted them as one. Only fifteen men carried them up the steep front stairs of the cathedral. As Chet grabbed his handle to prepare for the ascent, a gloved hand rested on his opposite shoulder. From behind him Johnny spoke quietly.

"Chet, you can't. It's okay. We have it. Stay in formation next to the casket and grab hold again once we're up the stairs. Can you make the stairs?"

Chet nodded.

He knew he could argue with Johnny, but this was not the place or the time. He could ignore the paramedic and try to help carry the casket. But if he faltered again, this time the results could be serious. So he did the only thing left and released the casket, only then realizing how little he had actually been contributing to the lifting of its weight. Once again, there was little that he could do to help his comrades. Once again, he didn't have the strength to bear the burden.

 

Chet opened his eyes to determine the source of a persistent pounding. If Gage is tossing a ball against the building while I try to sleep, I'll kill him, was his first thought. But somehow that wasn't right. Why is it dark? Why is my gear on? Where is everybody? With the last question, Chet remembered the answers. He moved to stand, but was halted by the sudden pain in his left thigh, hip, and back.

He stopped and did a quick assessment of the situation. No one else was in view, but somebody else close by was moving. He could hear a pounding, which he was quite sure was different from the pounding happening in his head. Despite the pain, he was mobile. He didn't think he was bleeding. His helmet and SCBA were still in place. With a sudden thought, he checked the gauge on his tank. Unless the gauge was broken, he still had almost six minutes of air. So in all he hadn't been down here more than twenty-four minutes. Damn, he would have thought they'd fought that fire for hours. It was clearly more like minutes. But all in all, he didn't think he'd been unconscious long.

Mindful this time of the pains in his leg, Chet tried again to get to his feet. Rising up, he slowly limped toward the direction of the pounding. Cautiously lifting his mask, he called out to anyone who may be listening.

"Marco! Brian! Parker! Where are you guys?"

The pounding stopped and was replaced by the voice of Parker Lai. "Kelly! We're still in the laundry room. The door's gone, but if you follow my voice, I think there's a way in."

Chet's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, and he could now see more than shadows. He couldn't tell for sure if the air was still full of smoke, or if the problem was now more a matter of concrete dust particles and other debris. With the air running out in his tank, he decided to try to save what was left. Shutting off the valve, he removed the mask and took a cautious breath. It was thick, but breathable. Once he could stop, he'd fashion himself a mask of some sort, and that would help. He called out again.

"Hey Parker, talk to me again."

Parker's voice sounded pained this time. "Over here, Chet. I'll keep pounding. It's easier than talking, man. You still got your HT?"

Chet remembered now why he wasn't right next to the others. He had moved away to try and get a signal. He looked around and found a piece of the HT near his foot.

"Not exactly. Keep banging. I'll find you."

Parker kept pounding, and Chet worked his way through the rubble. When he finally made his way to the three other men, he was momentarily stopped by the sight before him.

Parker Lai was sitting near the set of water pipes that he had been banging. Water was dripping from one of the pipes where it was cracked above his head. In a semi-seated position, Parker's legs were trapped under large amounts of debris. Seeing the size of the slab that lay across his legs, Chet felt a knot in his stomach as his chest tightened and his head spun. A sudden image of Parker in a wheelchair invaded his thoughts. But before Chet allowed himself to contemplate that further, he looked around for the other two men.

A few feet away from Parker, Chet saw Brian Jackson lying face down on the floor. He wasn't moving. Under the heavy turnouts, Chet couldn't be sure if he was really seeing the man breathe or if it was just wishful thinking.

He turned 180 degrees, and that's when he saw Marco. His friend was also unconscious, although he was clearly breathing. His mask and air tank were still affixed. Chet's own stomach turned when his eyes followed the perimeter of Marco's body and saw his left arm trapped under an overturned industrial double dryer unit. It must weigh 300 pounds if not more, Chet thought, as he fought off another wave of dizziness that threatened him. "Mother Mary, stay with him," Chet mumbled, knowing that the kind of help Marco needed was beyond his own ability to provide.

Chet closed his eyes, centered himself, and pushed aside all the doubts and fears that threatened to incapacitate him. He instead let his training take over. Moving to Brian Jackson's side, he removed his own turnout coat. Discarding the jacket on the floor, he felt for a pulse at Brian's neck. He was relieved to find a strong, steady beat. This close, he could also tell the man was still breathing. Given those two facts, he moved on to Marco while he spoke to Parker.

"Tell me where you're hurt, Parker," Chet demanded, as he checked Marco for a pulse. The beat that he found was nowhere near as strong as Brian's, but it was steady. He checked Marco's tank. He had 4 minutes of air. That, together with the air left in his tank, would buy his friend a little time. He looked at his watch. It was 10:22.

Realizing that Parker hadn't answered him, Chet turned and noted the grimace on the firefighter's face. Chet looked at Marco and Brian. The panic began to once again take hold as he came to fully comprehend that he could not possibly achieve what was needed. Each injured man needed attention. None could wait. But he was only one man. Okay, Kelly, get your act together, he told himself, triage! Making a quick decision, he crossed the room.

Grabbing Parker's hand, he felt for his pulse. The man looked up at him. "Help the others," he coughed.

"I am," Chet replied, not concerned about whether or not he was making the right decision. He was afraid to move Brian or Marco. He was even afraid to remove their turnouts to check more closely for bleeding. If he could free Parker, maybe the man would be able to help him in some way. He knew that right now the best he could do for Marco and Brian was to monitor them and try to help Parker. The two of them were still breathing strongly, but that was something that Parker seemed to be having trouble doing. Chet pulled off his uniform shirt, then his tee shirt. He saw the man look at him in surprise.

"Ah, Kelly," Parker said through his coughing, "I know that people have their own ideas about what they'd do if they only had an hour left to live, but, um, this wouldn't be one of my choices."

Chet felt a weight lift. Parker's still cracking jokes. That has to be a good sign. "Well, don't be insulted, man, but I plan for all of us to live for a lot more than an hour. And besides, my fantasy last hours may involve removing clothing, but I can assure you that none of the three of you are anywhere in that picture."

"Yeah, everyone always said you had a thing for Gage."

Chet laughed loudly, "Well let me tell you, if I swung that way, WHICH I DON'T, Gage would not be my type. Way too scrawny, man."

Parker also laughed, despite the pain it appeared to cause him. "Can I tell him you said that?"

"No way. Not unless you want me to get Marco's Tia Marita to put a curse on ya. You tell him that, and I'm gonna spend a month in the middle of inane questions about why I wouldn't be attracted to him if I was attracted to men, which I'm not and neither is he, but none of that would matter to his bizarre little brain."

While he had been talking, Chet had torn his tee shirt to make two strips that could be tied to form facemasks. He wrapped one around his own face to test it out. It worked okay. He then approached Parker with the other one. It was 10:24.

"Okay, seriously now. Wrap this around your mouth and nose. It may not be the sweetest thing you've ever had to breathe through, but it will keep some of this crap out of your lungs, and it sounds like that's important right now. I'll look around in a minute and see if I can find something a little bit less ripe to use."

Parker nodded, but cringed and instinctively pulled away as Chet brought the material toward his face. Nodding again, he let Chet proceed.

Kelly turned his attention to seeing if he could quickly free Parker from any of the debris. His optimism plummeted, as he tried to lift the first slab. It was simply not going to happen. If I can't lift it, the damage to circulation could be bad. Damn!! Bracing his face to not show his discouragement, he turned back to face Parker. But he didn't need to worry about his appearance. Parker's eyes were closed in pain.

Chet's plan was now shot. If he'd been able to free Parker, the man could maybe have stood watch over Brian as Chet tended to Marco. But now, Chet realized, he needed to worry about Parker as much as the others. He tried to keep his concern out of his voice.

"Parker, where do you hurt?" Chet asked as he looked at his watch. 10:25.

"Both my legs. They're killing me, even when I don't move them. When I move them, forget it. Hey, you don't have to look so happy about my pain, man. You've already added to my pain with this thing around my nose. Kelly, have you ever showered in your life?"

Still joking, and his legs hurt! Chet smiled so hard it must have been visible, despite the makeshift mask. "Did you hear what you just said? You legs hurt, especially when you move them. That's great, Parker! Somehow or other you still have circulation, and your back's okay. There must be something else keeping the full weight of this slab off your legs, or you wouldn't be feeling much of anything by now. And by the way, you've stopped coughing, so stop complaining about my aroma. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Shaking his head, Parker said, "No, I don't think so." Okay, he's stable. He can't help, but he's going to be okay.

10:26. The final alarm went off on Marco's air tank. "I'm going back to see what's up with the others. You keep banging on those pipes as often as you can. It's our best bet of someone finding us."

"Gee, Chet, what a great idea. I wish I'd thought of it. You must be a trained fireman or something."

Chet chuckled as he limped back to Marco. "Nah, just naturally brilliant is all. Holler if you need me."

Grabbing his own air tank, which he had left near Marco, he quickly attached it to his friend's mask. Marco now had 6 more minutes of clean air. He looked at his watch. It was 10:28. He rechecked Marco's pulse, this time counting it out. It was still not strong, but it was consistent and fast enough at 80. About right for a healthy man at rest, he thought ironically as he noted that Marco had not moved at all since he had found him, not a muscle. That was concerning, but there was nothing he could do for his friend without moving him. His gaze was drawn to the trapped arm. He instinctively tightened and relaxed his own fingers as a shiver ran down his spine. No, don't think about that now, he demanded of himself and looked away.

Continuing the cycle, Chet returned to Brian's side. He also appeared to have not moved at all since Chet last checked on him. His helmet was missing and his facemask was hanging. Chet used his pocketknife to cut the straps. The tank had long been empty. The man's pulse was still steady and strong at 80 and his breathing did not appear labored. Chet couldn't understand that. The air in here was fairly heavy. Leaning closer to check for wheezing, Chet realized that Brian's face was next to a large floor drain. The quality of the air was, in fact, better right above the grate. It wasn't ideal, but it was better. There was some smoke free and debris free air rising from the drainage system, and that was working to help Brian.

Okay. Everyone is breathing. No one seems to be bleeding; Parker can feel his legs. Maybe we're all going to survive this, he thought, allowing himself to relax a bit. But as he allowed himself to feel some momentary relief, Chet was literally knocked to his knees as he remembered. Mike!

Forcing himself back to his feet, he moved as quickly as he could toward the pile of rubble that he had crossed to get to these men only minutes ago. "MIKE!" He cried out, pulling his tee-shirt mask from his face. "Mike, can you hear me?"

How stupid am I?? How can I have forgotten Mike and the other guy. Who the hell was he with? I don't even remember. Damn!

"MIKE!"

Chet looked around and quickly noted that there was no way to go any farther. Everything was blocked with debris. He listened for any sound that might indicate that Mike and the other man were still alive. The only sound he heard brought him rushing back into the laundry room. The second air tank had run out.

Parker had stopped banging. Chet looked over in that direction as he approached Marco.

"Any sign of them?" Parker wanted to know.

"Nothing," Chet said as he cut the strap on the facemask and carefully removed it, making sure not to move Marco's head or neck in the process. Parker said nothing else, but the banging started again, this time perhaps with a little more fervor than before.

Allowing rational thought to again take control, Chet put his makeshift mask back on and quickly crafted another one for Marco. Marco still hadn't moved. Chet was sure that was not a good sign, but he mollified himself with the knowledge that his pulse remained steady. He was not losing any ground. Chet fastened the tee shirt mask to Marco's face and continued his rounds.

 

Chet looked at his watch. 11:35. The so called golden hour had passed. Brian had remained remarkably stable, though never moving once and showing no sign of consciousness. Marco had begun to groan and had tried to move about, so Chet now sat at his side and tried to keep his movements to a minimum.

Parker continued to bang, but had stopped talking about 20 minutes ago. He was still responsive if Chet asked him a question, but he no longer volunteered any conversation and any banter had ended.

About 10 minutes ago, they had started to hear digging. Parker intensified the banging and Chet joined in, hitting the dryers with a broken pipe. The digging now seemed to be getting close.

The air had cleared enough for the men to abandon their masks. Chet felt better not needing to have something over Marco's face. And although it made it more complicated, he also felt better that Marco was now moaning and moving some.

Sitting guard over his friend, Chet had time to think. It wasn't something he really wanted to do. He was more a man of action. Moments of thoughtful contemplation were not his favorite thing. But try as he might, he could no longer make the thoughts go away.

Marco's gonna lose that arm. There's just no way that's not gonna happen. But better that than being dead. He may not agree at first, but in the end he'll adapt. God, you have to give him the chance to adapt. Whatever he asks you, don't listen. Don't you let him die!

Chet suspected that no matter what happened, Marco's career was over. But it made no sense to consider what the station would be like without him. No matter what happened to Marco, nothing would be the same. He knew in his heart that the rest of the A shift was already dead.

He had watched Mike go deep into the building that had collapsed. Mike, who wasn't supposed to even be in a burning building, who should have been outside with the engine, was likely one of the many who died today.

Chet closed his eyes, remembering Witherspoon's words, as he sent them all into the doomed structure. Roy, Cap, and Johnny had all been in the building above him when it came down. He wondered how the survivors would cope with the ones who had died. He wondered how they all would go on.

Chet could hear the digging getting closer by the minute. He could hear muffled voices but none that he could recognize. He kept banging as he held onto Marco, keeping him still. Brian was still breathing.

As he turned to look at Parker, he realized that the banging on the pipes had stopped. Parker's eyes were closed. He must have worn himself out. Thank God they're so close, Chet thought as he got up to go check on the man in the corner.

Reaching his side, he realized he was wrong. Parker was not resting, he wasn't breathing. Chet grabbed the man's wrist but couldn't find a pulse. Reaching for his throat, he was still unsuccessful. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!

Chet again had to push aside the cascade of emotions that threatened him. But this time it wasn't a sense of panic. This time is was an overwhelming sorrow at his failure to keep all the men alive.

Stop it! This is not the time to give up! Chet obeyed his own instructions and leapt into action. Although Parker was still sitting, Chet leaned over and made a seal over the man's mouth with his own. He forced two lungs full of air into his colleague, and was satisfied to see Parker's chest rise, despite the unorthodox technique. He tried to quickly move aside some of the debris behind the man that had served as a support, but was now a major hindrance. As he did, he started to holler with a newfound vengeance.

"Hurry up, damn it! We need help now! He isn't breathing. We've run out of time! Stop being cautious and just hurry!"

Chet doubted anyone had heard him, although he had yelled near the pipes hoping the sound would travel. He had managed to clear a small portion of floor, but he would have to twist Parker some to make it work. He had to make a decision. Moving him could damage his spine. Not moving him could kill him. Chet could maybe breathe for the man in a seated position. He couldn't do CPR.

Yelling out again, he grabbed Parker's shoulders, twisted him around, and lay him down so that he could start CPR. He forced air into the lungs, then began to push down on Parker's chest, calling out for help between each cycle of compressions.

On his fifth time through, he heard a voice on the other side of the rubble. It was the nicest sound he had ever heard. It was the voice of Roy DeSoto.

"Chet, we'll be through in a minute. Mike, I need help over here now. Cap, tell Johnny to bring the defibrillator."

Chet shook his head and blinked, trying to make sure he wasn't dreaming. He looked over at Marco. "Did you hear that, Marco? They're all alive!" Chet almost broke Parker's sternum with the force of his compression when he heard Marco answer, "Gracias, Padre. Gracias."

 

"Chet." Roy's voice was calling him again, but it wasn't coming from the other side of a wall. It was coming from directly in front of him. With a start, Chet realized they had reached the back of the church. The entrance procession was about to start.

 

Dr. Kelly Brackett had arrived at the church only minutes before the funeral procession pulled up out front. He looked at the crowded pews and wondered at the wisdom of his decision to attend the services this morning. His doubts were reinforced when the usher approached him and asked if he was with the family. He was about to say no when a woman behind him touched his arm and said, "He's with us." Turning around, he found himself looking into the eyes of Joanne DeSoto.

Joanne gave the usher her fire department pass, which had been provided earlier and allowed her access to the reserved section of the church. As the usher led them to a pew with some remaining room, Brackett followed and found himself sitting at the end of a crowded row on the center aisle.

"Mrs. DeSoto," the doctor addressed the woman standing next to him, "thank you. I guess I must have looked rather lost, but I don't need to take someone's seat. I'm not really an invited guest here."

Joanne's smile was sympathetic. "Please, call me Joanne. And you stay right where you are. Dr. Brackett, do you know Beth Stoker and Grace Stanley?"

Brackett exchanged handshakes and pleasantries with the women, all the while feeling like an interloper in their group. He took a moment to glance about, then sat down. As he hit the pew he realized that the three women were not sitting, but were rather on their knees on the kneeler in front of the seat. Brackett awkwardly followed suit, remembering to make the sign of the cross as he knelt, then patiently waited for the others to rise before returning to his seat.

The doctor leaned over to Joanne and whispered, "I'm afraid it's been more than a few years since I've been in a church. I'm not sure I'll remember when to kneel and stand."

Joanne smiled again, obviously trying to put him at ease. "I go to church all the time, and I don't have a clue about all the ups and downs. I think they should have big signs up front that tell you when to kneel, stand, sit, genuflect, all that stuff. But since they don't, I just follow the crowd. Or keep your eyes on Grace. She's the Catholic among us."

The organ music that had been playing in the background stopped. The whispered voices of the people who were gathered in the church gradually quieted, and heads turned toward the back, watching in silent anticipation. In the vestibule, Brackett could see a boy in white robes holding a cross that looked far too big for him. Behind him, another boy stood ready to lift a large, ornate candle into the air. The doctor couldn't see clearly beyond that, but he could tell the entranceway now held the caskets, priests, and many firemen in uniform.

Brackett remembered enough from his childhood Sundays to know that the congregation would be expected to stand for the procession to the front of the church, and that the beginning of that procession would likely be marked by music. So he turned back toward the front and waited to hear the solemn sounds of the pipe organ.

But before the procession began, there was one more rite that Brackett had forgotten. He didn't remember until he saw the usher accompany an older woman and man down the aisle and seat them in the front pew on the right. They were followed by a collection of people who sat in the rows beside and directly behind them. Joanne whispered in his ear, "That's the O'Learys, Walter's parents and family." Next to enter was Rita Martinez. She held on tightly to the man at her side. From their resemblance, Bracket guessed that he was her brother. Unlike Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary, who had smiled and nodded at people as they walked down the aisle, Rita looked only straight ahead, a look of poise forced upon her face.

Once the Martinez family was seated on the left, the crowd stood. But instead of the expected organ music, Brackett was surprised to hear the soulful tones of a lone violin. It was a tune he vaguely recognized. A woman's voice joined the violin. The words and the simple music brought the lump in his stomach up into his throat, and he blinked back unexpected tears.

"Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace." *

The pallbearers approached as the music continued. The men looked impressive in their navy blue dress uniforms with the white gloves, walking next to the flag draped caskets. No eye contact was made as the men dutifully kept their gaze forward. As each of the men of station 51 passed by, Brackett couldn't help but wonder what must be going through the minds of the women sitting at his side. If it was me, I'd be thinking, "There but for the grace of God…"

 

Dr. Kelly Brackett paced the base station and watched the door, waiting to hear anything about the critical patient on his way in. The room was set up, including an EEG machine and the med techs to run it. It would likely be the only test they ran.

He knew that Gage was bringing in Jesse. He also knew that something had changed with Gage's last transmission, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was. The information had stayed the same, just as grim. But something in the paramedic's delivery had changed, and he thought he heard hope in his voice. The facts certainly didn't support any hope, so either he had read it wrong or Johnny had entered some type of denial.

Whatever it had been, it was gone when the men entered the ER. Johnny walked quickly, guiding the gurney into treatment room 7 at the end of the hall. Brackett grabbed Dixie and entered the room.

John Gage began his report, his normally expressive face and eyes, now absent of all emotion.

"His BP is up to 170/150, pulse is erratic. Respirations are depressed. He's breathing on his own, but there are definite lapses, and the breaths are shallow. Both pupils are now blown."

Johnny hesitated. He looked Brackett and Dixie in the eyes before continuing. "Jesse's wife, Rita … turned up at the scene. I told her she couldn't ride in the ambulance. I didn't know if he was going to make it here or not. But Vince is bringing her in right behind me. She'll be here any second."

That explains the change in his voice, Brackett thought. It was for the wife's benefit.

Dixie was already setting up for the EEG. Bloods were drawn. The cardiac monitor was in place, and Brackett made note of the frequent variances in Jesse's heartbeat. Using his penlight, Kel confirmed what Johnny had told him. The pupils were blown. There was fluid in both ears. The depressed skull fracture was severe and brain tissue was visible. There was no response to any type of stimuli.

Brackett was about to listen to the man's lungs when Johnny returned to his side. Placing one hand on Jesse's shoulder and one on his head, he leaned over close to the man's ear. Brackett barely heard as Johnny spoke quietly, but the doctor was fairly certain that the word spoken was, "Godspeed."

As Johnny straightened up, he again made eye contact with Brackett and Dixie. This time his eyes were moist and threatening to betray the stoic façade. "The ambulance guys are waiting to bring me back to the scene." Looking again at Jesse he said, "I'm sorry. I can't wait."

Before he turned to leave, Dixie asked the unspoken question. "Johnny, who else?"

Agony flashed in his eyes before all emotion abandoned his face. Johnny answered, his voice once again completely flat. "Walter O'Leary from 16 was killed. Parker Lai and Brian Jackson from 16 are missing along with Chet and Marco. They were in the basement when it came down. When I left it looked pretty grim. No radio contact, no sound. I'm sure you'll hear once we know something more."

Johnny paused, apparently deciding whether or not he should speak what else was on his mind. He looked at Jesse, then at Brackett. Brackett could feel John's eyes as they bore into his, seeking to read something beyond the words that would be spoken.

"Don't leave him alone, okay? He shouldn't die alone."

"He won't John. You have my promise." With that, the paramedic nodded once, turned, and left the treatment room. Kelly Brackett looked briefly at his nurse, who was blinking back tears. He offered a tight smile of comfort, then turned his attention back to the man before him.

 

"My brothers and sisters in Christ, we gather here today to pray for Jesse and Walter, as they join their Father in heaven. And we call upon Jesus Christ to be with us, as we seek His peace, a peace that is all encompassing, a peace which surpasses our ability to understand, a peace that can bring comfort even in our times of greatest sorrow."

Brackett had not noticed that the music had ended. The man now speaking was Cardinal Manning. From his vantage point, the doctor could make out little beyond the fact that the man was dressed in elaborate robes. The large staff that he had carried had been put aside, but the ornate hat remained upon his head.

As more prayers were spoken, Brackett looked at the women beside him, all of whom now had tears in their eyes.

 

Kel Brackett decided to have Rita Martinez brought into his office, rather than approach her in the waiting room. That way he wouldn't have to put her off if she started asking questions right away. As promised, Dixie had stayed with Jesse. This was the worst part of this job, worse even than telling someone their loved one had not survived. This was asking someone to make a decision they should never have to make.

Rita entered the office but remained standing. Brackett had not gone behind his desk, but rather stood next to one of the two chairs in front. He reached out and offered her his hand.

"Mrs. Martinez, I'm Doctor Brackett. I've worked with your husband ever since he joined the paramedic program, and I've been taking care of him here today. Please, won't you sit down?"

Rita Martinez was visibly shaking, though was clearly trying to maintain her poise. Brackett had a pitcher of water on his desk with two glasses already poured. It was there if she wanted it or if he thought she needed it.

As Rita sat down, so did the doctor. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, trying to make himself a less imposing figure and more available to this woman.

Rita spoke. "Jesse talks about you a lot. I'm glad you're taking care of him…. How bad is it? Can I see him?"

Brackett chose his words carefully. "I'll take you to him in just a minute. There are a few things we need to discuss first." He didn't pause long enough for her to say anything more at this point. It would be easier if he could say it all first, then let her absorb it. "Mrs. Martinez, Jesse's injuries are severe. He has a serious head injury. There's nothing we can do to reverse that damage. I'm afraid he's not going to recover."

Rita was now breathing heavy and had paled. "You mean, he's in a coma, right? But people sometimes come out of comas, don't they? He could get better."

"I'm sorry. It's more than a coma. The EEG shows no brain waves except for some minimal activity that's maintaining his autonomic responses. But even that's growing weaker."

"I don't understand that. What does that mean?"

"It means that the part of his brain that tells his heart to beat and his lungs to breathe is still functioning on some minimal level. But that's all. The parts that allow him to think, to hear, to feel, all those things… those parts have shut down. They've died."

Rita was clearly struggling to grasp this. She picked up a glass of water, but immediately put it back down, unable to hold it steady. "Okay, tell me about his other injuries. I heard Johnny say his leg was broken. You can fix that, right? Will you need to do surgery? He was on a backboard. Does he have a broken back?"

Brackett reached out and took her hands in his. He used her first name. "Rita, yes, he has other injuries. But you need to make some decisions. Most of Jesse's brain has died. Soon the part of his brain that tells his heart to beat and his lungs to breathe is also going to die, and then we'll have to make a very quick choice about whether or not to put him on machines that will do those things for him.

"Rita, I can't make this choice for you. But I can tell you that if it was me, I wouldn't do it. All those things that make Jesse who he is, are already gone. We could maybe keep his body alive for a few more hours, or even a few more days. But he will never regain any level of consciousness."

Rita's eyes were now full of tears, but showed some understanding. "But," she pushed, "he could still hear us, right? He can hear what we say. I've heard people say that."

Brackett knew that medically this was wrong. The man could no longer hear anything. But he also knew that Rita may have an easier time with this if she thought she still had time to say goodbye. He made a quick decision. He hoped it was the right one.

"I don't know, Rita. Some people say that as long as a person is breathing and their heart is beating, their soul is still present. His ears and his brain won't hear you, but maybe his soul will. Let's go see him now."

At Dixie's insistence, Jesse's head had been bandaged and his face and hands cleaned of blood and soot. As they entered the treatment room, Brackett saw Rita look at her husband. He grabbed her as she began to fall, but she steadied herself and pushed him away. Dixie took up guard at her side and wrapped her arm around Rita's shoulder. Kel wanted nothing more than to leave this to Dixie and move on to the next patient. But his job here was not yet done. He took a deep breath, gathering his own strength in hope that he could provide some strength to the woman in front of him.

Rita stood looking at her husband. She reached out and hesitantly touched his face. Taking his hand in hers, she held it to her own face. Tears were now running down her cheeks. She looked at the erratic heartbeat on the monitor and held her own breath as there was a lapse between the breaths her husband took. She closed her eyes, never letting go of his hand. She then turned to face Dr. Brackett. Brackett couldn't stop the nervous twitch of his mouth as he looked back. He hoped Rita wouldn't read anything into it.

"He'll never look at me again? There's no hope at all?"

The doctor wished he could say something different, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry. No."

"And one of these times when he stops breathing, he isn't going to start again unless you put him on a machine?"

"That's right."

"And that machine will breathe for him, but it won't bring him back to me? Not ever?"

"That's right."

"And he's not in any pain?"

"No. I promise. He's not feeling any pain."

Rita squeezed her husband's hand tightly, then looked Brackett square in the eye. "That's it then, no machines. But I want to stay with him. I want to be with him."

"Of course," he answered, marveling at her strength and composure, wondering if he, himself, could do as well in this situation.

"Doctor Brackett?" Rita asked, "how long?"

He looked at the heart monitor and considered Jesse's breathing pattern. "Not long, I don't think. I wish I could be more specific."

Dixie spoke for the first time, though she had never left Rita's side. "Do you want me to stay? Do you want to be alone? Is there someone else who we can get for you?"

Brackett watched Rita look at Dixie, seemingly noting her presence for the first time. She smiled and the tears began to flow more freely.

"Do you think maybe you could give us a few minutes alone, then come back? I'm a little bit afraid to be alone, I think. Is that silly?"

"Not silly at all." Dixie answered.

Brackett told the women he was just a holler away if he was wanted and slowly left the room. As he left, he heard Rita ask Dixie if she could find them a priest.

 

"The word of the Lord."

"Amen," Brackett responded with the congregation, wondering when he had stood up, but glad that he had done so with everyone else. The women beside him had all regained their composure.

Kelly Brackett, who had not offered a sincere prayer since before the age of ten, now closed his eyes and prayed silently to a God he was not sure existed.

"If you are out there somewhere, please, don't ever make one of these women go through what Rita Martinez went through. Not ever."

 

"I am told," Father McDevitt began, "that this cathedral holds 1200 people, yet today there are no seats empty, no standing room, inside or out. And all of you have come to pray for the passing of Walter and Jesse. I look out in front of me, and I see the families of these men, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, wives, extended family, and friends. And I know that for them, today is not about the death of a hero. Today's loss is deeply personal, and we owe them a debt of thanks in letting us share in this time…."

Roy DeSoto sat in the fourth row on the left. He was not disappointed to find that Jesse's partner, David James, was sitting directly in front of him. James was tall, and he effectively blocked Roy's view of Rita, and the view of Jesse's mother. He did have a full view of the O'Leary family. Roy silently berated himself for continuing to think of this as Jesse's funeral, almost forgetting that another brother was being buried here today as well. But Roy hadn't known Walter more than in passing. Jesse had spent part of his training with 51. Roy and Joanne had been to his house for dinner. Walter was a fallen fireman, and that was tragic. Jesse was a fallen colleague and friend, and that was heartbreaking.

Roy looked over at Johnny, who hadn't taken his eyes off of Rita Martinez since the service began. There was nothing Roy could do about that except worry about what was going through his partner's head, and that would not get him anywhere. So instead he tried to refocus on what was being said from the altar.

"I know that many of you are sitting here today asking yourself the question why," Father McDevitt was now saying. "Maybe you're asking why the fire started in the first place, or why it spread in such an unexpected way. Maybe you're asking why Walter and Jesse were working that day, why Sarah and Wilfred had been assigned to those two rooms. Some of you are asking why you lost someone you love. Some of you are asking why Walter and Jesse died instead of you. Maybe you're asking why God took some lives while he spared others. And maybe you're asking why God would let something like this happen to good men who were risking so much to give others a chance to live.

"I know I'm asking all those things. And I know I don't have any answers. But there is one thing that I do know for sure. God does have those answers, and while it's of little comfort to us left behind, I also know that Jesse and Walter now understand."

 

Roy tried to resist the urge to look at his watch for the umpteenth time since the building had collapsed. After all, he knew without looking. It had been forty minutes since the building had come down. Station 38 had been released to respond to another call. The fate of the first four victims was already known. The fate of the other four men seemed grim. They had a good idea of where they were, and the men of Station 51 and Station 27 worked furiously to reach that spot, but given what they had found so far, none were holding high expectations. So optimism was held in check when the banging was first heard emanating from inside the rubble. It was likely nothing more than a hanging pipe moving from the vibrations of the excavation.

It was Mike who first heard the sure indications of life. "Wait for it!" he demanded of the others, holding up his hand to call for silence. All activity stopped. All talking stopped. And they waited. Then Roy heard it, three quick bangs followed by three longer bangs, then three quick raps again. There was no mistaking it. It was an SOS signal. It wasn't random. Someone was alive!

The cheer that rose was so exuberant that Roy was sure that the men working on the perimeter knew what had happened before Mike had the chance to confirm it on his radio.

With new hope, the pace became a mixture of fervor and caution. Following the banging, they were able to narrow their search. The workspace quickly became so small as to only allow for three men at a time. So while Mike and two men from 27 worked their way through the debris, Roy reluctantly went topside.

A crew was still in the east wing of the building, making sure that no traces of the fire remained burning in the only part of the structure still standing. Here in the west wing, the collapse that had been so devastating had also effectively extinguished the fire. At least it was no longer burning in any part of the wing that they could see. They could only pray that it was no longer burning anywhere below.

Roy had moved the medical equipment close to the make shift entrance. He had made sure there were 4 backboards and stokes ready to go. They only had two pressure suits, but hopefully that would be enough. The ambulances were lined up and waiting. Rampart had been alerted that there was at least one man still alive. Oxygen was ready to be brought in with the backboards. There was nothing more he could do but wait.

So Roy did just that. With nothing to do but nervously recheck equipment, he had plenty of time to watch the scene play out, as Squad 16's second paramedic, David James, returned from his run to St. Joseph's Hospital. Roy watched as Captain Witherspoon approached the man. He watched as Dave's expression turned from one of anxious inquiry to one of devastation. He couldn't hear the conversation, but knew that Dave was questioning his Captain's assessment, looking for some indication that the man was being overly pessimistic. When Witherspoon shook his head, Dave pulled away from the hand on his arm and walked quickly and purposefully toward Roy. Roy knew what Dave would be seeking. Hope.

But this time there was simply no hope to be given, and Roy could only confirm the worst. Dave disappeared for a few minutes, ignoring the words of compassion that were offered. When he returned, he was all business. He rechecked the equipment that Roy had already checked and double-checked. Then, he joined Roy in the game of waiting.

 

"We believe in one God, the Father, the almighty, maker of heaven and earth."

Roy's attention was drawn back to the altar as he felt Chet nudge him in the side. Realizing he was now the only one not standing, he quickly corrected that situation, but trying to join the prayer, he stumbled over the words. I say these words every Sunday. Why can't I say them now? Okay, so not every Sunday, but most Sundays. Well, some Sundays. But I've said this prayer enough times in my life. I should be able to recite it now.

But the words, once so familiar, now seemed somehow off, and Roy wondered if it was because he could not bring himself to publicly profess his faith. That thought, itself, was surprisingly upsetting, and Roy was relieved to see in the missilette that there was more than one version of the creed. The one they were reading was not the one he knew. Okay, maybe I'm not sure what I believe, but at least I can still say the words.

 

"Hurry it up, damn it! He's crashed!"

Able to clearly make out both the voice and the words for the first time since they had begun hearing someone yell a few minutes before, Roy looked at the men next to him and noted that the overwhelming dread he was all at once feeling, was not his alone.

That sense of dread was instantly joined by an adrenaline driven surge of physical and psychological energy. Taking charge of the situation before him, Roy yelled out, "Chet, we'll be through in a minute. Mike, I need help over here now. Cap, tell Johnny to bring the defibrillator."

Johnny had returned to the scene only minutes before. Roy and Dave had had just enough time to hear an update on Jesse before the rescue team had called that they were almost through. The paramedics had joined the men below, allowing them immediate access once a path was cleared. It now looked like that had been the right decision.

 

As Roy entered the chamber created by the collapse, he was followed immediately by Mike and Ben Witherspoon. Captain Stanley was on their heels. Mike and Ben dropped down next to Parker and took over the CPR, as Roy gently guided Chet away from the man's side. He could feel his friend shaking beneath his hands. Before he had to ask, Cap was at Chet's side, guiding him to an area where he could sit.

Roy quickly took in the scene around him. Trying to factor in the events of the day so far, and the likely emotional reserves of his fellow paramedics, Roy turned to Johnny and Dave who were now entering the area with the needed supplies. Before decisions were made by default, Roy took control.

"Johnny, you take Brian. Dave, check on Marco. I've got Parker." Johnny nodded and moved to Brian's side. Dave, however, turned to Roy.

"I'll take Parker."

"Dave…"

"No. I wasn't here for Jesse. Let me be here for Parker." Dave looked Roy directly in the eyes, pleading his case without any further words.

There were so many things that Roy might have said about protocol, about emotional ties, about professional boundaries. But instead he just nodded and said, "Go."

I shouldn't let him do this. If he loses Parker, can he cope with it? Maybe not, but then again, if Parker doesn't make it, and Dave isn't the one to try… Well, that may be even worse.

Roy took a deep breath and shook off his doubts. Now was not a time for second-guessing. Now was a time for action. He turned his attentions to Marco.

"Hey, pal. What ya been doin'?" Roy smiled at Marco, keeping his tone light as he deftly took his wrist to check the pulse rate while he visually assessed the rest of the situation.

"Nada … mucho, ... amigo. Y… tú?" Marco replied.

"Me? Oh, you know, I've just been hanging around, letting everyone else do all the work. Let's get this O₂ on you. It should help you feel a little better, okay?"

Marco tried to lift his head as Roy put the nasal cannula in place. The paramedic gently put his hand on Marco's forehead to restrain any further movement.

"Hey, remember what I said? I've just been hanging around. Now it's my turn to do the work. You just lie there still and do nothing. Got it?"

"Roy," Marco whispered so quietly that Roy almost didn't hear him.

"Yeah, Marco?" Roy began cutting the turnout jacket to allow him better access to his patient.

"Roy," Marco began again, "my arm…"

Leave it to Marco to cut right to the chase. "Yeah, I know. We're gonna get it free just as soon as we can. But you know the drill. First I have to get all those vital statistics that Rampart's gonna ask for. Otherwise they'll think I'm not doing my job."

"Gonna … lose it?"

"There's no reason to believe that yet, Marco. Let's get you checked out and get this machine off of you, so we can see what it looks like. Then we can start worrying if need be. But my guess is that it's going to be fine." At least that's what I need you to believe for the moment.

"Can't … feel … it."

"Okay, but let's wait until I can at least see it before we reach any conclusions, okay?"

Captain Stanley placed himself in Marco's line of vision. "We're bringing in the porta-power now. We'll be set up and ready to go by the time the hospital gives Roy here the okay. You've got nothing to worry about. Okay, pal?"

"Sure, Cap… you … say so." Marco struggled to get out the words.

"No more talking now. Save your energy."

"Yeah, Marco," Chet teased lightly. "Let the paramedics do some actual work for a change."

Roy looked up, unhappy to see Chet standing at his side. The man looked very unsure on his feet, and his face was pale.

"Chet, sit down, will you please? Here, sit over here near me so you can fill me in." And besides, that way I can keep an eye on you.

Chet didn't argue, but lowered himself to the floor. The difficulty he had doing so did not escape the paramedic's notice.

"Chet, tell me where you hurt," Roy instructed as he checked Marco's pupils then carefully looked and felt for indications of a head injury.

"I'm fine, Roy. Just take care of Marco."

"Sure you are. And I am taking care of Marco. I can take care of you too. Tell me where you hurt."

"I don't hurt anywhere. So you don't need to worry about two things at once here. Okay?"

Roy reached for the BP cuff, but his hand froze in midair when he heard Dave's voice call out.

"Clear!"

Damn! Parker jerked off the floor as electricity coursed through his body. What I wouldn't give to have only two things to worry about. Roy turned quickly back to Marco, maneuvering his own body to block the scene playing out only five feet away. He shook his head when he heard Dave call out again. Dear God, let today end.

Captain Witherspoon now knelt near Brian, who had been freed from his turnouts. Johnny joined Dave, at Parker's side. Dave wore a look of total concentration. Johnny's expression had gone completely blank.

Checking Marco's BP, Roy kept one ear on his partner as Johnny contacted Rampart. 'Four new victims.' Johnny's been watching Chet, too. Checking Marco for broken bones, Roy listened as Rampart received the information on Parker and fed back instructions. Johnny confirmed and handed the bio-phone and a sheet of paper to one of the men from 27.

"Give this to Roy."

Taking the bio-phone, Roy quickly scanned the piece of paper. Turning to Chet he asked, "Was Brian conscious at all?"

"No. He hasn't moved a muscle. Marco was unconscious most of the time, too. He just came around a few minutes ago."

"What about you?"

"Huh?"

"You, Chet. Did you lose consciousness?"

"Hey, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"It's my job to worry about you, and I didn't ask you if you were fine. I asked you if you ever lost consciousness."

"Yeah, at first I was out for a minute or so. But my helmet was still on and my mask still in place, so I don't think I got hit on the head. I don't know what happened. Now stop worrying about me. I told you I'm fine."

If Roy was going to push that point, the sound of the defibrillator firing again redirected his attentions. That's three! This is not looking good. "How about Parker? How long was he down before we got to him?"

This time Chet's voice trembled as he responded. "I don't really know for sure. I worked on him for ten minutes, but he might have been down for a few minutes before that. I'm sorry, Dave. I'm sorry I didn't get to him sooner. I checked everyone every ten minutes. But Parker seemed okay. His legs were hurting, and he could move them, and he was joking and insulting me. I really thought he was okay. I'm sorry, Dave. I am so sorry."

If Dave was listening, he showed no signs of it, so Roy was the one to respond. "Don't do that, Chet. None of this is your fault. You did the best you could in an impossible situation, and you did a damn fine job. You kept everyone alive, including Parker. Now stop beating yourself up, and tell me how you hurt your leg."

"Roy…"

"I know," Roy interrupted, "you're fine. Well at least stop moving around until I can do something to confirm that for myself."

As Roy had been collecting information from Chet, he had also been preparing the IV's that he knew the doctor would order for Marco. Johnny and Dave continued working on Parker. Roy reestablished communication with the hospital.

"Rampart, on victim number 2. He's a 36-year-old fireman. He is unconscious and has been unconscious since the time of the collapse about 90 minutes ago. His vitals are," Roy looked again at the piece of paper he had been handed, "BP 110 over 80, pulse 100, respirations 16. There are rales audible in both lungs. Pupils are equal and reactive. He has a golf ball size bump at the left temple, just above the eye line. He has not moved since the collapse, but he is responsive to a sternal rub and has a negative Babinski."

"Okay, 51, on victim number 2, take full spinal precautions, start an IV with D5W, and monitor the airway." The voice belonged to Joe Early.

"Spinal precautions and D5W for victim number 2, Rampart."

Roy continued. "Victim number 3 is a 30 year old fireman. His BP is 96 over 72, pulse is 84, respirations are 20 with slight wheezing. Pupils are equal and reactive. He is conscious now, but was unconscious for more than an hour. Rampart, his right arm is trapped under a machine estimated to weigh about 300 pounds. We're unable to assess that arm at all at the moment. We are preparing be able to lift the machine, but we aren't set up for that yet."

"Okay, 51. Start 2 IV's, one with Ringers, one with normal saline. Be prepared to treat symptoms of crush syndrome immediately upon freeing the arm. Monitor his cardiac status and his respirations. Contact us again when you're ready to move the machine."

"Two IV's, one Ringers, one normal. Rampart, victim 4 is a 31-year-old fireman who was also trapped. He is conscious and mobile although he apparently lost consciousness for a few minutes at the time of the collapse. He has not yet been assessed, but is in apparent physical pain, which he is denying. Our man power is limited, and I'd like to get the treatment started on victims 2 and 3, then I'll get you more info on 4."

"Agreed, 51."

Handing the bio-phone back to the man from 27, Roy looked over at Parker. CPR had stopped. Mike continued to bag him, but his heart was now beating on it's own. Somewhere along the way his legs had been freed.

"You okay for a minute?" Roy heard Johnny ask Dave. Dave nodded and Johnny returned to Brian.

"D5W?" Johnny asked, turning toward Roy as he pulled out the equipment to start Brian's IV.

"Yeah, full spinal, monitor airway and transport."

"How's Marco?"

Roy looked at Johnny. His eyes communicated the true gravity of the situation before he spoke the words meant for Marco's ears. Taping down the second of the IV's, he asked, "Hey Marco, Johnny wants to know how you are. What should I tell him?"

Marco responded only with a groan.

Chet was immediately on his feet again but this time his leg wouldn't support him, and he would have fallen if Cap hadn't been right there to grab him.

"Damn it, Chet, sit down! Marco, come on pal, talk to me."

"Roy?"

"Yup, it's still me. Stay with me, Marco." Roy attached the cardiac leads to Marco's chest. "Talk to me. Tell me where you hurt."

Getting no answer, Roy tried again as he looked at the cardiac monitor and pumped up the cuff to get a new BP reading.

"Marco, try again. What hurts?"

"Yo ….no se…. mi….cabeza…. no…mi brazo,…. Roy….creo que….morir…"

Spanish. He's reverting to his first language. Shock? Head injury? Either way, it's not good.

"English, Marco. Use English."

But Marco didn't answer in English or in Spanish. He was once again unconscious. Roy searched his brain, hoping to find the knowledge to understand what Marco had just told him. But the answer came from without rather than from within.

"He said, 'I don't know, my head, not my arm.' He was starting to say something else, but I didn't catch it." Johnny positioned himself at Brian's head. "Hey, guys, I'm gonna need some help here getting Brian on this backboard."

As the two captains prepared to help with Brian, Dave finished the interpretation, filling in what Johnny had missed.

"He thinks he's going to die."

Roy closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. When he looked up again, his expression was set with determination.

"No one else is dying here today. Do you hear me, Marco? No one else is dying! You are going to be fine. So are Parker and Brian." Roy's voice increased a decibel. "Absolutely NO ONE ELSE is dying here today! Understand?"

It was a ridiculous statement, but it was likely responsible for the subtle but palpable shift in the mood of the room.

"Okay, Caps, let's get him topside," Johnny directed.

"Let's get a backboard under Marco, here, then get this machine off of him." Two men from 27 were immediately at Roy's side.

"I'm ready to go with Parker," Dave announced. "Mike, can you help me get him out of here?"

Suddenly the chamber was a flurry of movement as both Parker and Brian were moved up and out. Roy forced himself to ignore all that was happening around him and focus solely on the man in front of him.

"Okay, guys. We're gonna roll him, just enough to get this backboard under him. Let's keep him straight. I don't think there are any back or neck injuries, but we're not taking any chances. Ready, on the count of three. One, two, three…"

The men smoothly and gently shifted Marco and pushed the backboard into position. As they secured him to the board Roy rechecked his vitals.

"You ready for us to lift this thing, Roy?"

He looked up into the faces of Captain Stanley and Mike. Taking a deep breath to focus himself he answered, "Let me contact Rampart one more time and make sure they're standing by, then let's do it."

"I'll get them. Do you have new vitals? Chet, sit down!"

Roy turned, surprised to see his partner kneeling next to the bio-phone. "Um, yeah, BP is up to 110 over 90. Pulse is also up to 100. Why aren't you with Brian?"

"Three paramedics, four victims, two bio-phones, two defibrillators. You do the math. No way to use three separate ambulances. Brian's stable, and all that jostling getting him out of here brought him around. He's coherent and his vitals are still strong. We doubled him up with Dave and a nurse from the nursing home. Rampart agreed. They thought I might be needed here. And besides, we do still have TWO victims here, isn't that right, Chet?"

"In your dreams, Gage. I'm as healthy as you are. And don't you think for a minute that I'm letting you anywhere near me with anything sharp. You can just put away that little fantasy right now."

"Hey, don't you worry about a thing, Chet. When I stick you, you'll barely feel it."

"Yeah, we heard that about you, Johnny…. from Sharon."

"Mike! Pal! Good one! How long you been saving that one? Did ya hear that, Gage? 'Sharon'… "

"Yeah, Chet. Now I know you must be hurting. I feed you a perfectly good set up, and it takes Mike here to bring it home. Cap, call Rampart. Tell them victim number four has a seriously incapacitated wit."

Roy smiled and silently thanked God for his crewmates. The men from 27 were looking at them rather strangely, but Roy knew that in less than 30 seconds the guys had just succeeded in lowering the level of tension back to a tolerable level.

"Um, guys, can we save the analysis of Johnny's sexual prowess for another time? Marco wouldn't want to miss this conversation."

Roy hadn't needed to redirect the men. Johnny was already back on the phone with Rampart.

"Tell us when, Roy." Cap moved to Mike's side as they prepared to move the machine.

"Johnny?"

"Rampart says go. Let's make this happen."

 

"For our brothers, Walter and Jesse, that they may join Christ in everlasting life. We pray to the Lord."

Cardinal Manning began the intercessions. As one, the congregation answered.

"Lord, hear our prayer."

"For all those injured in the fire; that God may stay at their side, speed their recovery, and ease their pain. We pray to the Lord."

"Lord, hear our prayer."

Roy looked over at Chet, who was standing but leaning heavily to one side, keeping his weight off of his injured leg and back. Sure, Chet, you were fine. The paramedic's thoughts drifted to the men still in the hospital. Marco's arm had been saved. Brian was doing well. Parker was still fighting for his life, and the doctors were being frustratingly silent on the question of the quality of that life, should he survive.

You answered me once when I was being less than humble. You didn't let anyone else die that day and for that, I thank you. I was making demands that day, but today I'm begging. If you have a miracle to spare, well, Parker could really use one.

"For those family and friends left behind, that God will watch over them and help them to be there for each other, as they struggle to understand and continue on. We pray to the Lord."

Roy looked at the O'Learys who were now hanging onto each other. He looked at Dave, who stood stiffly, unmoving. He looked around him to see Rita Martinez. She was sitting, her brother's arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. And he looked at Johnny, who stared straight ahead, his lips drawn tight as his chin quivered almost imperceptibly, his eyes moist with unspilled tears.

"Lord, hear our prayer."

"And for all those wives and mothers and children who will, for a while, have a little harder time saying goodbye to their firemen husbands, sons, and fathers in the morning, that God will ease their fears and shower them with His peace. We pray to the Lord."

Although she was sitting at least ten rows behind him, Roy was sure he heard Joanne say, "Lord, hear our prayer!"

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Grace Stanley caught the movement of the television camera set up at the side of the church. Without looking, she knew it had moved to focus on her and the many other wives sitting in the pews around her. She refused to look in the direction of the camera. She refused to allow her face to show any of the inner turmoil that was boiling just beneath the surface. Hank's mother was likely watching from the recreation room at the nursing home. While others in the room would be nudging Martha, making sure that she knew that her daughter-in-law was on TV, Martha would still be thinking about the Cardinal's last prayer and wishing that Hank had strayed from family tradition and become a teacher instead of a fireman. Grace could not allow her to see that, for once, she agreed.

 

Grace looked at the scanner that sat on the counter in the corner of the kitchen. Hank had been so angry when it had appeared for the first time, that she had quickly lied and told him that it had been a gift from her brother. She had assured him that she would never even turn it on, but that for the sake of family unity she couldn't put it away. She had to let her brother think she used it. Her husband had reluctantly agreed. Four years later, Grace was fairly certain that Hank knew that she had bought it herself, and that she kept it on when he was at work. But she was careful never to mention things she had heard on the scanner, and he seemed willing to pretend that it sat in the corner, untouched.

This morning she hadn't needed the scanner to tell her that something big was happening. She had been coming back from the store, when she had to pull to the side of the road in order to allow Engine 51 and the squad to pass. Five minutes later, she had pulled over again, as Station 27 raced by from another part of town. That was when she had turned on a local radio station and heard that the Lakeview Nursing Home was on fire.

Standing now in her kitchen, Grace looked through the brochures they had collected when it became obvious that Hank's mother would need nursing home care. She found the one she was looking for. The Lakeview Nursing Home was a huge, level one facility with over 100 beds. There could be 100 bedridden people to evacuate from a building staffed with a handful of nurses and a bunch of nurses' aides.

Grace thought about the teenagers, college students, and middle aged women who staffed Martha's nursing home. She pictured the Lakeview Nursing Home, the two story, wooden structure that she had driven past so many times.

The bile rose in her throat, burned her chest. Her eyes were drawn to the scanner then quickly darted away. She imagined the staff struggling to get bedridden, wheelchair bound, confused, and frightened seniors out of that building.

Her heart bounded and echoed in her ears. One hundred people, all needing help. And Hank --- he would see his own mother in every one of those faces. He and his men would go back into that burning building until each and every one of those mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers were out.

Grace grabbed the counter for balance as it became difficult to breathe. She reached for the scanner and hit the power button. Sinking to the floor, she pulled the scanner down with her. Her back buried in the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees, she brought her hand to her mouth and gnawed on her thumbnail, staring at the machine, waiting for it to provide some answers. She tuned out all sounds but those coming from in front of her, and listened intently for anything that would tell her what was happening.

"LA, this is Engine 16." Grace recognized Ben Witherspoon's voice. "What's the status on our additional companies at this scene? We need ambulances to transport as many as 75 bedridden patients to hospitals and other locations. We need additional paramedic units, and we need them soon."

"Engine 16, this is LA. We have two additional engines on their way from neighboring counties. ETA is 40 minutes. Be advised we have four more fires burning in the county, including a three-alarm fire in a chemical plant. We also have a fifteen vehicle MVA on the 405. We have rerouted all available ambulances and EMT's to your location. We're also sending busses and chair cars for those who aren't injured. The Red Cross is setting up emergency shelter. We're on disaster status and are calling in off duty personnel now. We do not currently have any additional paramedic units available. All area hospitals are on disaster standby."

Grace's face flushed and her ears buzzed as she realized the implications of what she had just heard. Ben's running the fire. Where's Hank? Disaster status. All units engaged. That hasn't happened since the Earthquake of 71.

"Engine 16, this is Engine 51."

Oh my God, it's Hank! Thank God, it's Hank!

"Go ahead, 51."

"Ben, the fire in the furnace room is out, but the kitchen is now involved. So are parts of the first floor. The police are helping us with evacuation over here, but it's taking far too long for comfort. How are we doing in the west wing?"

He's not inside.

"It's not involved yet. We're proceeding with the evacuation. Any estimate on how many residents you have left inside over there?"

"Just ten to go, if our count is right. I'm going back in now."

NO! Please stay outside!

"Mike's manning the engine and the radio. I'll let you know when we have them all out."

"10-4, 51. Good luck, Hank."

Grace grabbed the waste barrel under the sink just in time, as her stomach rejected what she had just heard. This is why he doesn't want me to listen to a scanner. Grace was now slowly rocking, trying to find some level of comfort. Maybe I should turn it off. She knew she wouldn't be able to make herself do that. Maybe I should go down there. No, she had never done that, and she wasn't going to start, not even now.

The phone rang. Her heart skipped.

It's not THAT call. I just heard him. He's still okay.

Grabbing the long spiral cord, she pulled the receiver off the hook on the wall. It bounced off the floor as she pulled it toward her, a distant voice yelling, "Grace? Are you there? Are you okay?"

The phone shook. Her voice trembled.

"Joanne?"

"Yeah. Grace, what happened? Did you fall? Are you okay?"

No, I'm not okay.

"I dropped the phone. Sorry."

"Are you listening?" Joanne asked.

"It's bad."

"Hank?"

"I heard him, but he's gone inside now."

"Roy?"

"Nothing yet. Just Hank and Ben. They mentioned Mike."

"Has Beth called?"

"No. It doesn't sound like anyone is down. At least not yet."

"You sound like hell. Why? What aren't you telling me?"

"They don't have enough man power. Ben was practically begging for more men and more ambulances. But there are other fires burning. Joanne, this is going to be bad. I don't know how I know that for sure, but I do. It's going to be really bad."

"I'm coming over. I'll call Beth. We might as well not sit through this alone."

"Okay. Just come in. The door is open."

"I will. Oh, and Grace?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop biting your nails!"

 

"Father, You are holy indeed, and all creation rightly gives You thanks and praise."

Grace supposed she should be listening to the words being spoken from the altar, but they were the same as they had been last Sunday and every Sunday before that. They would be the same next Sunday as well. She would listen again then. Now she allowed herself to think about her friends and her family.

The women sitting beside her had become her friends by circumstance rather than choice. They were both younger. Their children were younger. Their day-to-day struggles were different. But every third day, when their husbands left for work, they became her sisters, and no one understood her thoughts and fears and even her pride, better than the two of them. She thanked God that they had had each other to help make it through that day.

Toward the front of the church, Grace could see just the back of Hank's head as he knelt in the pew. But she had seen him face on as he walked in with the others, escorting a casket to the front of the church. His uniform was precisely fit and was perfectly pressed, a task he had insisted on completing himself. His white cap and silver pins announced his rank to those who understood. How different he looked from a few days ago, when Grace had seen his rank, not in his attire, but etched upon his face, as he sat at the kitchen table at Station 51.

 

Grace sat in her car, a half block away from the station. She had already driven by once. The engine was there, the squad was not. It had been Roy who had called the house to let them all know what was happening. Able to place a call from the hospital long before Hank or Mike would have been released from the scene, Roy had called Grace's house when he hadn't found Joanne at home. He clearly was not surprised to find the three wives together.

Fifteen minutes and one pot of tea later, Joanne and Beth had left for home, relieved that they would be able to honestly reassure their little ones that all was still okay in their world. Grace thought about the number of times that she had met her own girls at the bus, thankful to make such promises. The note she had left on the table today had read, "Dad's fine. Back soon." She hoped it had been honest.

Grace decided to leave her car parked where it was and walk to the station. On the way, she wondered how Hank would react when he saw her. She wondered how she would explain her presence.

Beth had waited fifteen minutes after she had gotten a call from Mike before she called Grace. She assumed that Hank would have called his wife as soon as Mike hung up the phone. Not an unreasonable assumption, Grace thought. But he hadn't called, and she had waited by the phone for another half-hour before deciding that something was definitely wrong. Once that conclusion was reached, there had been no doubt as to her course of action.

The station was quiet as she entered through the unlocked door. Looking into the kitchen, she paused. Hank sat at the table, staring down into his hands. Grace was startled by his appearance. He was still in the clothes he had worn at the fire. He was covered in dirt and soot and maybe dried blood. If others had seen him from a distance, they may not have recognized him. But even without seeing his face, Grace would have known him from the way he held his hands with his fingers tightly intertwined, the way his shoulders barely drooped, revealing his exhaustion. There was no doubt that this was the man who had been at her side for twenty-one years.

And yet, for all the times she had seen him on the news, or in a photo in the paper, still wearing the telltale evidence of a fire, never once in all of their years together had he come home not freshly showered and dressed. She knew that this side of him existed, but it still shook her to see it up close. She had to force herself not to rush to his side and throw her arms around him.

"Hank?" She almost whispered the word, fearful of intruding, yet needing to reach out.

Her husband looked up, his expression momentarily confused, before an apologetic smile made its way to his mouth and eyes. "I should have called. I just…well…I should have called."

Grace shook her head. "I knew you were okay. I just needed to see for myself. I won't stay. I just needed to … say hi."

"I know. It's okay. The engine's down till replacements arrive. They should be here soon."

Grace watched as Hank shook off whatever emotions threatened him as he spoke. Someday he may talk to her about all of this, but it wouldn't be today.

"What about the squad?" She hoped that was a safe question. She knew that Roy and John were uninjured.

Hank shook his head and sighed. "They're on another run. No rest for the weary today. I sure hope it's an easy one. They've had a tough day of it so far."

They aren't the only ones.

"Any word from the hospital?" Grace had to ask.

"Chet will be okay. Marco's in surgery. No word yet on Lai or Jackson." Hank hesitated. "You heard … we lost two today… Martinez and O'Leary from 16."

"I know," was all Grace could say.

Hank rubbed his hand over his face, seemingly oblivious to the grime he was embedding in his skin. When he looked up, his eyes locked with Grace's, communicating the affection he was not going to give voice to in this time and place. He said nothing, leaving the next move to his wife.

Grace smiled, silently acknowledging his unspoken words.

"You need a shower."

"You think?"

"Most definitely."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"You do that. I'm going to head home. I'll see you in the morning. I'll stay in touch with Joanne about Marco and the others."

"I'll call you when we know more."

"If you can. But don't fret it. I'll hear from Joanne or Beth."

"Grace, I'll call. Unless I'm on a run, I'll call. I promise."

"You don't have to."

"I'll want to."

"Okay."

As much as she wanted to, Grace made no move to embrace her husband before she left. It was not what he needed right now. Instead she just turned and exited the kitchen.

As she left the station, Grace ran into Mike Stoker, who was now watering the new shrubs planted out front. In contrast to her husband, Mike was freshly showered and in a clean, crisp uniform.

"Grace," the engineer acknowledged her, turning off the garden hose.

"I would have thought you'd have gotten enough of hoses for one day, Mike."

He chuckled. "You know me. No such thing as too much water, too many hoses. You okay?"

"Sure." Grace hesitated only a moment before adding, "Is he?"

"Yeah, he is."

"How long have you guys been back?"

"About an hour, I guess."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why hasn't he showered yet?"

"He hasn't finished with it yet."

"Huh?"

Mike looked like he wasn't sure he should continue, but he did. "He's still working it over in his mind, processing it all. He isn't ready to let it go yet."

"I don't understand."

"The soot, the dirt, even the blood, it's all part of it. It keeps it immediate, close at hand. To Hank, removing it is putting it away, moving on to the next task. He's just not quite ready to move on yet."

"I…I never knew that. Does he always do that?"

"Well, he doesn't usually have the luxury of waiting this long, but yeah, … he's usually the last one in the shower, especially if things don't go well."

"Mike, can I ask you something else?"

"You can ask."

"When he calls me, does he always wait until after he's taken a shower?"

Mike nodded. "Always."

 

"Through Him, with Him, and in Him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God forever and ever. Amen."

As the congregation rose to their feet, Grace looked again at her husband, and prayed that they would have many more years to learn many more new things about each other.

 

"Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…"

The prayer continued, but John Gage stopped, stuck on the four words just spoken. "Thy will be done." They were words that he had uttered countless times over the last four days, both silently and aloud, as he tried desperately to understand the words and make himself embrace them.

Johnny had long ago concluded that he would never be precise enough in his convictions to be defined by one name, one religion, one doctrine. But as he was exposed to new sets of beliefs, he was struck more by their similarities than their differences. And one theme was the same throughout most, the need to be able to say, and mean, those four profound and difficult words. "Thy will be done."

 

John Gage was still, and likely always would be, the "baby" on the A shift at Station 51. Yet he was rapidly approaching his tenth anniversary with the department, and he had seen more than most in those ten years. But he had never seen anything like this. Instant decisions were being made every minute, possibly life and death decisions. There was no choice. It was grab and run, hand off, and repeat. As he handed the frail woman in his arms over to the police officer, his instructions were the same as they had been for the last 5 victims he had carried out.

"Keep her comfortable and warm, and get her on some O_2. I'll be back as soon as I can."

As he ran back toward the building, the paramedic prayed that he wasn't sacrificing the victim he'd brought out in order to save the next one still inside.

Before Johnny could re-enter the building, David James came running out, carrying a man who he almost threw into Johnny's arms. "He's in respiratory arrest! Get him to the ambulance. I'm right behind you."

Calling out to Vince for help, Johnny ran for the nearest ambulance. Dave quickly freed himself from his gear, grabbed a drug box and bio-phone, and was at Johnny's side in moments.

"Okay, Gage, I've got it. Thanks for the help."

As Johnny turned back toward the building, he heard Dave shouting to the police officers, "Get me two more victims, one urgent, one ambulatory. This guy can't wait. We're going to St. Joe's right now, and we might as well have a full load. Let's step on it, people!"

Reentering the corridor, Johnny was aware that things had changed in just the last few minutes. The air was beginning to cloud with smoke, and the heat was building.

As Captain Stanley rushed past him, a victim in his arms, he paused long enough to shout at Johnny through his mask, "Only 4 rooms left! Make it fast! We're out of time!"

Gage nodded and headed further down the hall, slowing down only to step out of the way of his partner, who struggled past with a large man over his shoulder. Looking for the next room with no X on the door, he found a woman lying on the floor, not moving. He removed his glove and checked for a pulse. If there's no pulse, I'll move on and come back for her if there's time. But the pulse was there. He quickly drew her up into his arms, marked the door with an X, and ran back toward the fire exit.

The smoke was getting thicker and the heat more intense. There was no doubt that the walls of the building were burning. It would be only seconds before the flames broke through and the wing was fully involved. Two men from 16's approached him as he reached the doorway. "Two to go!" he shouted. "Both single rooms at the end of the hall!" The men signaled a thumbs up and moved in.

Johnny ran the 200 feet from the building to the treatment area that had been set up. He placed his victim on a blanket on the ground and stripped off his turnout gear, feeling safe in assuming that he could now turn his attention to the medical needs of those who had been extricated. Quickly surveying the area, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the twenty or so victims were all covered and being watched over by police officers and nursing home staff. Four off duty nurses had arrived while the evacuation of the west wing was taking place. Each victim now had a note attached to their blanket listing their name, age, and vital signs. Nurses' aides were looking through a retrieved log and were adding a list of current medications to each note. For the first time since they had gotten the call, Johnny began to relax. Things had gotten much better.

In the next instant, things got much worse.

The rumble wasn't loud, but it shook the ground. He turned and watched as several thousand square feet of the nursing home collapsed in on itself. On instinct he spun around, needing to assure himself that his partner was, in fact, standing only ten feet away. His eyes met Roy's, their gazes locking together for a brief moment, acknowledging the horror of what had just occurred. Turning away, he dropped to his knees and tried to focus on the people around him. They were his immediate concern.

"Hey, Johnny," Roy called out.

Johnny looked back again at his partner. "Yeah?"

"Just got word from LA. All non-criticals are going to Mercy. St. Joe's and Rampart are maxed."

Johnny nodded and opened a line to Mercy Hospital. Establishing communication with the hospital, Johnny read off vitals and wrote down instructions, all the while keeping one ear trained on the activity a few feet away.

"Hank, I need a head count!" Witherspoon shouted over the roar around him. "How many residents? Which firemen are still inside?"

Chet, Marco, Mike… at least three others… and the two I saw go in. Who were they? I didn't see the faces. Burning bile rose in his throat. A shiver washed over him. Forcing himself to ignore the growing fear, Johnny swallowed hard and turned to the worried eyes looking up at him.

"Hi there. It's okay… um, Bridgett is it? Now that's a lovely Irish name. I'm a fireman and a medic and you're going to be just fine. Quite a bit of excitement today, huh? How do you feel?"

 

Johnny found his hands shaking as he shut the door to the ambulance and gave it two quick raps, letting the driver know he was clear to go. Thank God for those nurses, he thought, as he gathered up his equipment and readied himself for the next task. Since the arrival of the first off duty nurses, more RN's and LPN's had arrived, some from the nursing home, some just friends of employees. Their presence meant that Johnny and Roy could stay on the scene, treating the last of the victims and hoping that there were more victims inside, waiting to be rescued.

They now knew for sure who was missing. Two residents of the nursing home were unaccounted for. The administration had confirmed that they occupied the two rooms that had not yet been evacuated. Jesse Martinez and Walter O'Leary were the two men Johnny had seen entering the building as he was leaving for the last time. And then there were the men in the basement. Mike had made it out, but Chet and Marco… well, last time Mike had seen them they were with Parker and Brian from 16's and they were right in the middle of the area that had collapsed.

Grabbing a cup of water, Johnny took a deep gulp, then splashed the rest into his face, hoping to relieve some of the weariness that was settling in. Looking down at his now wet shirt, the voices were suddenly in his head.

Hey, Gage, the phantom strikes even when he's not around!

Leave him alone, Chet. He's had a tough day. Yo lo siento, amigo.

Johnny shook his head, trying to rid himself of the invasive thoughts, hoping that's all they were, praying they were a manifestation of his fears rather than the words of spirits preparing to move on.

Get out of my head, Chet! I'm not ready to start a eulogy yet!

As the paramedic walked back toward his partner and the few remaining victims, his stride was broken by a voice that was definitely not inside his head. It was Witherspoon.

"We need paramedics over here now! We've found somebody!"

Grabbing the HT from his belt, he answered, "This is Gage. On my way, Cap!"

Johnny threw the HT to Roy. Again their eyes locked, this time helping each other brace for whatever they were about to find.

"I'll be there in a minute," Roy said, looking at the two women still waiting for transport. "One of the Red Cross nurses is going to take them to Mercy by van. They'll be fine. I'll bring over the rest of the equipment." Johnny nodded, grabbed an oxygen tank, splint box, and the trauma box and set off at a run.

He didn't slow down until he reached the remains of what had been the back corner of the west wing. The smoke and dust hanging in the air gave the scene the appearance of something from a black and white photo. Everything was shades of gray.

"Gage, over here!" Witherspoon directed.

As Johnny made his way through the debris, Mike's movements caught the corner of his eye. He turned toward the activity and Mike's voice.

"Phil, can you grab her legs? I've got her shoulders."

"Wait!" Johnny shouted at the engineer. "Don't move her without precautions!"

If Johnny had been less tired, Mike's response would not have come as a surprise.

"It's not necessary, John."

"Are you sure?" As he heard the words leaving his mouth, he knew they weren't justified. It was just that he had begun to allow himself to think that maybe no one would die here today.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Johnny nodded and headed back toward Witherspoon. He reached the men as they were removing the last of the debris from the next victim. He forced himself not to look away.

Five minutes ago, there were no deaths, now there are two. Johnny reached down to check the man's throat for a pulse, knowing it was a useless gesture. There would be no attempt to revive this victim.

Johnny wondered briefly about the man's family. If they had been at the scene waiting, he hadn't been aware of it. Of course, that didn't mean he didn't have family who cared. Maybe he had someone who visited with him every night. Maybe he had someone who would mourn the fact that the casket for this particular wake would not be open.

The paramedic looked around and made note of the fact that the press had not been allowed into this area. Just the same, he carefully covered the body with a yellow blanket before he moved on.

It was Captain Stanley who found the next man.

"Gage, over here!"

When Johnny reached Stanley's side, he saw what had prompted his captain's call. There, sticking out from under two feet of rubble, was a gloved hand. The fireman's turnout coat was just barely visible above the hand. Johnny made sure to avoid stepping on anything that could be hiding more of the man's body, as he moved himself into position. Removing the man's glove, he braced himself before he took his wrist, reminding himself that no radial pulse did not necessarily mean that the man was dead. The tips of his fingers quickly found the place they sought. Taking a deep breath, Johnny closed his eyes and applied a gentle pressure.

"I've got a pulse! He's alive! We need more help over here. Careful where you step. Watch out, now. Let's not make matters any worse. I've got a pulse."

Before Johnny could even contemplate his next step, Captain Witherspoon was at his side.

"Gage, how strong is it?"

Johnny looked up into the Captain's face and for a moment saw Hank Stanley standing there, asking the same question about Chet or Marco. He shook off what he hoped was not a premonition and tried to offer some reassurance to the man.

"It's not strong, Cap, but it's a pulse. Now we just have to get the rest of this stuff off him so I can help him. I can't do much for him with just his wrist. Um, Cap, there's no ring," Johnny added. "Can you tell who it is?"

"Walt's not married. Jesse doesn't wear his ring. Can we wash off any of that soot?"

Johnny grabbed some saline and a gauze pad from the trauma box as the men around him discussed how to remove the rubble without causing further injury. Washing off the man's hand, he realized what Witherspoon was looking for. This man's skin was dark.

"Jesse?" he asked.

"Has to be. Walt's as white as a ghost."

Johnny heard activity to his left and saw Roy fully engaged around another pile of rubble. They had found the other man.

"Roy, I've got Jesse. Did you find Walt?"

Roy didn't answer as he bent down over the figure they had just uncovered. Johnny saw Roy's shoulders slump. Hearing the moan from Captain Witherspoon, he knew that he also saw and understood. The man looked down at him.

"Gage?"

"You go. I'll take care of Jesse."

"Gage…John… about what I just said… a ghost…"

"It's an expression, Cap. That's all. It means nothing."

"….Yeah."

Johnny looked on as Witherspoon approached his fallen charge. He watched Roy stand up and shake his head. Roy stuck close as Witherspoon knelt down to the body and hollered for a blanket before closing his eyes and making the sign of the cross.

"John…"

The paramedic looked into his own Captain's face and followed his gaze back down to the fallen man before him. The crew had removed the rubble. Jesse lay still, but for the slight rise and fall of his chest. His helmet sat a few feet away, crushed by a beam. His mask and tank were still in place, the mask covered by a layer of dust.

"I'm gonna need a backboard, O₂ … and Roy," Johnny said.

Cap nodded and left to get a backboard as Mike moved in with the oxygen. Johnny carefully cut the strap from the facemask. He threw the mask aside, noting that it was cracked down the middle.

Jesse's eyes were closed, his face ashen, crusted with blood, soot, and debris. His leg was bent at an impossible angle. His breathing was shallow and labored, his pulse weak. A sternal rub elicited no response.

As Johnny pulled a penlight from his pocket, Roy cut off Jesse's turnout pants. No words were spoken. Checking Jesse's pupils, Johnny was acutely aware of the growing group of firemen now surrounding them. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the ongoing search for the trapped men, but here, there was only silence as those around him waited.

Jesse's pupil was blown. There was cerebral fluid in his ear canal. Johnny's hands gently probed through Jesse's thick hair, searching for the cause. His ears began to buzz as his fingers pressed further than they should be able to, feeling bone move where it should be unyielding, feeling soft tissue where bone should be. Damn! Johnny shifted position to get a better line of vision and to shield others from the sight.

Moments later, he leaned back on his heels and ran his blood-coated hand through his own hair, not caring that he left a streak of Jesse's blood across his forehead.

"I need a couple of four-by-fours and some gauze," he said to anyone who was listening. He shook his head in an unsuccessful effort to get his ears to stop humming. He could feel multiple sets of eyes, staring at him, willing him to give them some small piece of good news. But Johnny refused to look up, refused to look into their eyes or let them look into his.

As he wrapped the gauze around the bandages, Johnny looked again at Jesse's face. The soot and dust had collected on his upper lip like a graying mustache. Johnny blinked and saw his two still missing friends, laying before him.

Don't leave me to die, Gage.

No quiero morir, amigo.

The voices joined the buzzing and echoed in his head.

"Johnny?"

Roy was checking Jesse's blood pressure. The concern on his face was for Jesse. The question in his voice was clearly for Johnny.

"It's okay. We should get him on a board and get him out of here before all this rubble shifts. The guys will help me. Can you contact Rampart?"

As Roy moved off, another voice spoke his name.

"John?"

It was Witherspoon. Johnny ignored the implied question and enlisted the Captain's help.

"Can you give me a hand here, Cap? We're gonna have to lift him to get him on this board. We need to keep him as straight as possible."

"John?"

Witherspoon was not going to be put off. But Johnny was not going to respond.

"You guys ready? On my count…"

As Johnny carefully manipulated Jesse's limbs and fastened him to the backboard, images kept popping into his head… Jesse stumbling over words, his face several shades of red as he treated a beautiful young woman. … Jesse chasing him with an IV set up, saying he needed to practice. … Jesse bouncing around the bay station at Rampart, showing pictures of his new son to everyone who was willing to stop and look. … Jesse in his dress uniform, laying in a casket…

"John?"

This time Johnny looked up and peered directly into Witherspoon's face. He understood that the captain couldn't bring himself to put the question into words any more than he, himself, could speak the answer. Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head.

Five minutes later, the IV flowing, Johnny checked Jesse's vitals once more before transport. He studiously avoided looking at anyone but Jesse. Roy knew. He could explain it to them after he left.

"Johnny?"

Oh God, no. Don't make her watch this. Don't let her be here.

But she was. Rita Martinez was standing next to Ben Witherspoon, who held her arm, keeping her from moving forward.

"It's okay," Johnny said to Witherspoon. The young woman rushed to her husband's side.

"I heard it on the news," Rita sobbed. "They said there were men trapped. I thought, 'it can't be him,' but I knew it was. I just knew it. He looks so still. Where's Dave?" Rita's voice grew louder as her panic rose. "Roy, Johnny, where's Dave? Why isn't he here? Is he still trapped? Is he dead? I heard someone died. Thank God it wasn't Jesse. Is Jesse going to be okay? Where's Dave? Someone tell me, please."

Johnny placed his hands on Rita's shoulders and drew her to him. As much as he wanted to look away, he couldn't do that to her. Turning her to face him, he spoke in a gentle but firm tone.

"Dave's okay. He'd already left with a patient when the building collapsed. He's at St. Joe's. Rita, we have to bring Jesse to Rampart now. He's hurt really bad, Rita. You need to know that. So you stay with him for one more minute while I update Rampart, then someone will bring you over there. Okay?"

Johnny knew Rita heard him, but he wasn't sure she understood what he was saying.

"I'll go with you in the ambulance. I'll ride in front," the woman said.

"No. Someone else will bring you right behind us. Now go be with him. Tell him that you love him. Then I'll see you again at the hospital."

Johnny turned back to the bio-phone as Witherspoon again took her arm and knelt with her next to the stretcher. As he updated Brackett he heard the two of them pray.

"… Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…"

 

"Peace be with you."

Johnny startled at the hand on his shoulder.

"Huh? Chet? You okay?" he whispered to the man standing next to him.

Chet spoke in hushed tones. "I'm fine. It's the sign of peace, man. You're suppose to shake my hand and wish me peace."

"Oh, yeah, uh, peace be with you."

This is a stupid ritual for a funeral, Johnny thought, forced to set aside the barriers he had built around himself during the Mass and make contact with others. Dave said nothing, but reached out his gloved hand. Witherspoon just turned and nodded in his direction. Roy reached behind Chet and placed his hand on Johnny's shoulder. Johnny reached up and covered the hand with his own, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his partner.

 

Thy will be done. Johnny couldn't get the words out of his head as he rode in the ambulance and kept guard over Jesse. "Thy will be done." He spoke the words aloud. "One hell of a thing, huh, Jess? You think this is His will? Did He somehow plan this? If He did, well all I can say is, 'What the hell was He thinking?'"

Johnny stopped. Jesse couldn't hear him, at least not the way scientists understood hearing. But his spirit was somewhere. Maybe he was still here in the ambulance, maybe he was with Rita and Vince somewhere behind them, maybe both. Johnny spoke again.

"You did good today, pal. Only two residents died. How many did you bring out, ten, fifteen? They're alive because of you. You did good. …. Petey will be proud. His dad's a real hero, you know? A genuine, to the core, hero. You don't need to worry about a thing. I'll make sure he knows."

Johnny eyed the monitor as Jesse's heart skipped beats. He listened to his breaths become shallower and less frequent. Please don't arrest. You don't want me to have to revive you. But the paramedic knew that was exactly what he would have to do if Jesse arrested. He knew Jesse's life was over. He had known it the minute he found the skull fracture with brain tissue protruding. He also knew that despite that, he didn't have the authority to decide not to resuscitate. Brackett couldn't give him permission to do nothing, even if he wanted to.

"You do understand that, right?" he silently prayed. "God, Jesus, Tunkashila, Allah, Buddha, Creator, Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit, Mother Earth, whatever You call yourself, do You understand that if You want him to die in peace, You have to keep him alive until we reach the hospital? You owe him that, don't You think? This is Your will, not his, not mine, not Rita's, not Petey's. Don't You let him arrest."

The monitor squealed as too many seconds passed without a heartbeat. "God, damn You!" Johnny swore out loud as he reached for the paddles. But before he could use them, the squealing stopped, replaced by a steady pattern of blips. They weren't strong, they weren't frequent, but they were steady.

Johnny looked up toward the heavens. "Uh, can I take that back?" He stumbled over his words. "Sorry… oh, and, uh, … thanks."

Johnny looked at his watch. Five more minutes to Rampart. He put his hand on Jesse's shoulder.

"Hang in there, Pally."

Why did I call him that? Johnny wondered, but deep down he knew. It had been on his mind since he saw Rita, perhaps even before that. How little would have had to be different for it to be Roy laying here in front of him, Joanne riding in with Vince. Could he have sat here with Roy, accepting that he would die, or would he have been on the radio demanding the hospital try something more? Could he have faced Joanne so calmly? Would he have ever been able to make Joanne understand? Would she have been able to go on?

"You don't need to worry about a thing, Jess," Johnny said. "We're gonna take care of everything, I promise. Rita and Petey will be okay. We'll be with them every step of the way."

 

"Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand.
I am tired. I am weak. I am worn.
Thru the storm, thru the night,
Lead me on to the light.
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.**

Johnny listened to the choir and watched as Rita's brother helped her stand for communion. She hugged him tightly, then pushed him away, straightening her dress, hair, and shoulders. Johnny couldn't see her face, but he knew that her tears had been joined by a look of resolve, the look he had seen on her face at Rampart.

 

Johnny stood at the bay station, staring at the cup of coffee he had poured. He hadn't had time for coffee earlier when he had brought Jesse in. Now he had the time, but not the desire.

Roy and Brackett were with Marco. Chet was with Morton. Johnny had joined them briefly, but had been quickly sent away. Early was still with Parker, and Brian had been sent off somewhere for tests. The ER was still diverting non-critical cases, so things were strangely quiet.

Johnny watched room seven at the end of the hall. No one had gone in or out since he had been there. He knew what he should do, but somehow now, he couldn't make himself move in that direction. He looked at the HT, wondering if it might call him away and rescue him from this, but he knew it wouldn't. They hadn't called in available yet. The HT would not be the bell that saved him.

Putting the coffee down, he looked at his reflection in the glass of the drug cabinet, making sure the blood from earlier was gone. He set his jaw and forced himself to walk down the hall.

At the door to seven he hesitated, then knocked. It was Dixie's voice that invited him to enter. Opening the door he found Dixie and Rita sitting at Jesse's side. All the monitors were gone. There were no IV lines. The gurney had been replaced with a hospital bed. Under the covers, Jesse lay still. So still that Johnny thought maybe the time had already passed, but then he saw the covers rise, ever so slightly.

"Can I come in?" he whispered.

Rita nodded, never taking her eyes off Jesse.

Dixie gave up her seat to Johnny. "I'll be back."

Johnny wanted to tell her not to leave, but he kept his wish to himself. Instead he sat down across from Rita and put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. The buzzing from earlier returned to his ears, but this time he was able to shake it off.

Johnny didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. It was Rita who spoke first. Her voice was tired, but stronger than he expected.

"Dave's here somewhere. He came in. He just went to call Jesse's parents. I should do it myself, but I just can't."

"You need to be with Jesse. It's okay. His parents will understand."

Johnny reached out and put his hand over Rita's. She smiled at him briefly before turning her eyes back to Jesse.

"It's not fair, you know." Rita said the words so quietly Johnny almost didn't hear her.

"No, it's not," he agreed.

"I always knew this could happen, but I never really thought it would."

"I know."

"I'm glad you found the others. I've been praying for them."

"Thank you. Can I tell you a secret?"

Rita looked up and nodded.

"I've been saying a few prayers of my own… for the guys, for Jesse, for you and Petey. I'm not exactly sure who's listening, but I've been trying to cover all possible bases."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Johnny paused. " …. to anyone."

That brought a momentary smile to Rita's face. "Your secret's safe with me."

Rita turned back to Jesse. "I suppose people will say he's a hero."

"He is," Johnny assured her.

"I suppose."

Johnny wasn't sure he understood why that thought would be upsetting.

"You don't want him remembered as a hero?"

"I'd rather he be remembered as someone who understood love."

He still wasn't sure what she meant, but he nodded just the same.

Johnny and Rita sat with Jesse in silence, holding his hands and watching as he drew a shallow breath … and then didn't.

 

"My brothers and sisters," Father McDevitt said, "as we move forward in the days and weeks to come, we should remember that Walter and Jesse are with us, watching over us at the hand of Jesus…"

Johnny watched Rita as she sat looking at the casket. He wondered who was watching Petey. He wondered who would be back at the house for her when she finally returned home, who would be there for her a week from now, a month from now. He would make sure somebody was there. He would fulfill his promise to Jesse.

Johnny had stopped listening. He wasn't interested in hearing anymore thoughts on everlasting life or any platitudes about heroes. But a phrase caught his attention, and he focused once again on the words being spoken.

" … Jesse and Walter understood that the love of Christ isn't an emotion. Jesus told us to 'love one another' and the love of Christ is an action, not a feeling. To love someone is to put their needs ahead of your own. Just as Jesus lay down his life that we may live, so too did Jesse and Walter lay down their lives so that others may live. They understood about love, and they lived that love every day. They lived their faith and placed their trust in God. So when you honor their memories, and talk about heroes and sacrifice, don't forget to also talk about love."

The music began, the caskets were blessed, and Johnny rose with the other pallbearers. The choir voices echoed softly as they mixed with the tones from the pipe organ and gently rained down from the loft above.
        
"How beautiful, the hands that served
The wine and the bread and the sons of the earth" ***

Johnny looked at Roy. Instead of darting away, this time Roy's eyes locked with his. They had survived what Jesse and Walt had not. The difference? A few minutes.

"How beautiful, the feet that walked
The long dusty road and the hill to the cross
How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful is the body of Christ"
        
Johnny looked at Chet, catching his gaze. Chet, Marco, and Brian had survived. Parker might not. The difference? A few feet.

        "How beautiful, the tender eyes
        That choose to forgive, and never despise"
        
Johnny couldn't turn, but he heard the families rise and prepare to follow the honor guard out of the church.

        "And as He lay down His life
        We offer this sacrifice
        That we will live, just as He died
        Willing to pay the price"

Words ran through Johnny's mind as he lifted the casket with the others and walked slowly toward the back of the church. Faith… Trust… Sacrifice… "I'd rather have him remembered as someone who understood love."

        "How beautiful, when humble hearts give
        The fruit of pure love, so that other's may live…"

Willing to pay the price. The risks were what they were. Could they choose to do less? Yes.

        "How beautiful…"

But he knew they wouldn't.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks to Caressa, Jane L., Jill, Kenda, and of course, Jane Woods, for their ongoing help and encouragement.

And thanks the writers of three beautiful songs…

* "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus"
Words and Music by Helen H. Lemmuel
Copyright 1922

** "Precious Lord, Take My Hand"
Thomas A Dorsey, George N Allen
Copyright 1937

*** "How Beautiful"
Words and Music by Twila Paris
Copyright 1992

 

*Click above to send Whisper feedback

Guest Dispatchers                Stories by Whisper