It was approaching midnight at L.A. County Fire Station 51.
The dayroom was deserted, except for a dozing dog.
The dim light that filtered through the windows of the dorm illuminated six perfectly still forms.
Had that light been just a tad bit brighter, it might have been possible to make out the peaceful looks on the faces of the half-dozen dozing firefighters.
Suddenly, the Station’s silence was shattered by a resounding alarm.
Six sets of eyes snapped wide-open, assisted by adrenaline. If they hadn’t already been invisible, those peaceful looks would have instantly vanished.
Captain Hank Stanley and his men snapped bolt upright in their beds and began tossing blankets aside.
“Station 51…Station 23…Battalion 14—”
Station 51’s A-Shift scrambled out of their bunks and into the bottom halves of their turnouts.
The firemen stomped their bare feet fully into their boots and began filing out of the dorm, fastening the snaps on their pant flaps and sliding suspenders up along the way.
The men reached their respective trucks and began scrambling aboard, donning their bulky coats and shiny black helmets before slipping easily into their assigned seats.
Their Captain crossed quickly over to the Call Station and snatched up a pen.
Their Engineer pressed the OPEN button on their Station’s garage door and the heavy steel portal began grinding its way up.
“—Structure fire…with explosions…1210 Mather Drive…Twelve-ten Mather Drive…Cross-streets Genevieve Avenue and Ames Boulevard…Time out: 23:07.”
Stanley jotted down the address and then thumbed the transmit button on the radio mic’ in his left hand. “Station 51. KMG—365,” he calmly acknowledged and passed his Rescue Squad team a copy of the call slip.
Paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto watched and waited while their Captain jogged across the garage and climbed up into Engine 51’s cab, with the rest of his crew.
Mike Stoker handed Hank his gear.
Station 51’s Captain tugged his coat and helmet on and then settled into the leather seat beside his Engineer. “Let’s go, Michael…” he lightly urged.
‘Michael’ flashed him back a bashful grin. He flicked the truck’s lights and siren on. The pressure gauge on his instrument panel registered 120psi, so he released Big Red’s air brakes and began easing the big rig forward.
A slight smile remained on the Engineer’s face as he followed Squad 51 out onto the dimly lit four-lane street that ran in front of the Fire Station. It was a smile of deep satisfaction—the smile of a man who loved his job.
Less than six minutes later, Station 51 reached the incident scene.
The structure on fire turned out to be an abandoned chemical refinery—with about a quarter involvement. The four-storied, wooden-framed, steel-sided building was basically just a big empty shell.
The firemen were feeling pretty confident going in. After all, they’d rehearsed several different fire scenarios for the place and had studied the building’s floor plans.
Now it was ‘show time’. The time had finally arrived for all their advanced training to pay off…hopefully, with dividends!
Battalion 14’s Chief motioned for Engine 51 to pull in behind 23’s ladder truck.
Squad 51 was waved over to the far end of a large paved parking lot, where a man in a uniform sat, clutching an oxygen mask tightly to his face.
Stanley pulled the HT from his coat pocket and informed L.A. of their arrival. Then he stepped down from their truck and approached Station 23’s Captain. “What do we got, Greg?”
Greg Mattson shouted a few final orders out to his men and then turned to face his friend and fellow Captain. “The watchman ‘claims’ that the ‘air’ just ‘started burning’. I don’t know how much of that is believable, though. You kin smell the booze on his breath from five feet away."
“We dealing with dust, or gas?” Hank further inquired. He was anxious to learn what had caused the explosions.
Mattson shrugged. “The watchman ‘claims’ the place wasn’t dusty and, if it is gas, he ‘claims’ that he has no idea where it could be coming from. According to him, the refinery has recently changed ownership. Apparently, the place is in the process of being cleaned down.”
“What are they cleaning it with?”
“He ‘claims’ they’re just using plain old water, but I told my guys to keep their masks in place—just in case.”
Hank gave his friend and informant a grateful nod and then went trotting over to where the Incident Commander stood, passing out assignments. “Where do you want us, Chief?”
Since there hadn’t been any further explosions, Battalion 14’s Chief chose to make a direct assault. “You’ll be going in,” he announced and aimed the powerful beam of his flashlight at one of the blueprints in his hands. “Station 23 will be going in on the ground floor. I want you and your crew to take up a position here…” he paused to point a finger, “…in this loft. Captain Jansen reports the fire is spreading rapidly—from rafter to rafter. I want your crew to hit the roof from the inside. If you can halt the fire extension up there, we should be able keep the blaze contained to this area of building…” he redirected his pointing digit.
Stanley acknowledged their Station’s assignment with a slight nod. “Any word on what caused the explosions earlier?”
“Not yet, but I’ve requested a HAZMAT team and notified the lab. Nobody is to enter that building without their SCBA on—and pressurized. Understood?”
Heck! With this building’s history, that went without saying! Hank managed another slight nod. Then he turned and went trotting back over to where his Engine crew stood—with hose in hands—patiently awaiting his orders.
The Captain didn’t keep them waiting any longer.
Less than five minutes later, Hank Stanley found himself perched midway up the fifty-foot ladder that led to the refinery’s storage loft. His legs were locked into the steel rungs, leaving his gloved hands free to grasp and support the enormous weight of the charged line of fire hose he was passing up the ladder.
Another twenty-five feet above him, Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez were advancing that charged line down the narrow catwalk that ran alongside of the loft.
Kelly was manning the nozzle, dousing every flame in sight and soaking every rafter.
Lopez was supporting their charged line’s weight with both of his arms. As they inched along, he kept his right shoulder shoved up against the nozzle man’s bunker-suited butt and helped Chet bear the tremendous backpressure from the spray.
The pair reached the end of the narrow walkway and immediately reversed roles.
A Mayfair ambulance pulled up and parked beside Squad 51. Its back doors popped open and an attendant hopped out. “Somebody request a ride to Rampart?”
John Gage glanced up from their smoke inhalation victim. “Yes they did, Denny. But it took you guys so long to get here, the patient changed his mind.”
Dennis Altmann studied the paramedic’s face carefully, but couldn’t tell if John was joking or not. So, he turned to Roy.
DeSoto nodded. “He refuses to let us treat him. Claims he’s okay now and doesn’t want to go in.”
John frowned down at their stubborn victim and hesitated to hand him the release form. “Look, Mr. Valdeen, you took in a lot of smoke. You may feel fine now, but there could be complications later on. You really should go to the hospital and let the doctors check you out…”
The night watchman shook his head.
Gage emitted a frustrated gasp and reluctantly gave their ex-patient the release form.
Valdeen signed the form and passed the paramedic back his clipboard.
“Gage! DeSoto!”
The paramedics heard Captain Mattson calling them and turned in his direction.
They watched as two members of 23’s crew came out of the refinery, carrying another victim.
Roy spread a fresh drop sheet onto the pavement.
The firemen laid their burden gently down upon it and then went right back inside.
The watchman’s face filled with recognition—and shock. “I thought he’d gone home hours ago!”
Gage glanced up from their Bio-phone. “You know this man?”
Valdeen nodded. “He’s one of the workmen who’ve been cleaning the refinery. The new owners wanna switch it from chemicals to oil, or something. They’ve been hosing the place down for a week. Today, they were flushing the floor vats out with water.”
Gage stiffened. “They?”
The watchman nodded. “Him and another gu—” he stopped speaking suddenly and stared off across the lot. “That’s their van. I—I didn’t notice it earlier.”
John exchanged a grim glance with his partner and then got quickly to his feet.
“Chief!”
Chief Knowles turned to acknowledge whomever it was that had hailed him. It was one of 51’s paramedics.
“From what the watchman just told us, we may have another victim. That guy’s buddy may still be inside somewhere,” the fireman finished and pointed a finger at a body lying on a blanket.
“All right. I’ll have 23’s men make another sweep,” Battalion 14’s Chief promised and raised his HT to his lips.
Lopez and Kelly gazed up at the thoroughly drenched and steadily dripping rafters over their heads, looking quite pleased with themselves. There wasn’t a flicker of a flame to be seen anywhere! The pair exchanged a couple of ‘mission accomplished’ thumbs up signs and started spraying their way back over to the storage loft.
Marco reached the end of the catwalk and came to an abrupt halt. Something was blocking the way—er, somebody, judging by the boots he felt beneath his groping gloved hand.
Chet proceeded to bump into him.
Lopez knelt there, pinned between Kelly and the person wearing the work boots. He looked up just in time to see a raised booze bottle coming towards his head at a rather high rate of speed. Instinctively, he raised an arm to ward off the attack. “Ahhh!” he cried out in agony as he caught the blow full force on his raised wrist. The bottle didn’t break. Marco wasn’t so sure about his wrist bones. One thing he was pretty positive about, his assailant must’ve struck a nerve, because his entire arm had suddenly gone numb. His right arm would no longer move and his left hand could no longer control the hose. He felt the nozzle slip from his grip.
Kelly heard Lopez cry out in pain. The next thing he knew, the nozzle was whipping wildly about and he was left alone to combat the spray’s tremendous backpressure. He was so busy trying to handle the hose that he didn’t see the bottle coming at him. Chet felt something hard smack him on the side of his helmet and heard the sound of glass shattering. The blow jarred his brain and caused little white lights to momentarily dance before his dazed eyes. Then the ‘lights’ went out and he had the sudden sensation that he was…falling.
Lopez had tried to grab Kelly with the one appendage that was still functioning, but his gloved fingers couldn’t get a good enough grip. He watched in horror as his collapsing friend slipped beneath the catwalk’s protective side grate and then dropped out of sight. His already grimacing face filled with even greater anguish. “CA-AP!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, but his cry for help was muffled by his facemask. He whipped his helmet and mask off and turned toward the ladder. Marco managed to turn around just in time to watch their assailant get blasted off his booted feet by the wild spray of their dropped fire hose.
The guy sailed over the storage loft’s guard railing and then fell to the concrete floor, fifty feet below.
Marco grimaced for the third time in as many minutes. Surely, this had to be a nightmare! None of this could possibly be really happening! Lopez pushed past the pain and grief—and disbelief—and attempted, once again, to get his Captain’s attention. “CA-AP! CHET FELL!”
Midway up the ladder to the loft, Hank Stanley got smacked hard on his helmet, by a falling fire hose. “What the—?” He released his hold on the charged line and gazed up at the catwalk in confusion.
Somewhere to his left, he’d just heard the sound of wood splintering—closely followed by a muffled ‘splash!’. Somewhere to his right, something else must’ve fallen, for he had also heard a dull ‘splat!’—and now, the hose had come down! “What the heck is goin’ on up there?” he wondered aloud.
Then, as if in response to his inquiry, Hank heard Marco calling him—and heard him say that Chet…fell! The Captain experienced what his paramedics would undoubtedly have diagnosed as a cardiac arrhythmia. He whipped the radio from his coat pocket. “HT 51 to Engine 51…”
“SOMEONE ELSE FELL TOO, CA—”
“—Stoker here. Go ahead, Cap…” his Engineer suddenly cut in.
“Mike, shut down the pump! Then, I want you to don your gear and get in here! Bring some rope and some security belts—oh, and, if our guys are still around, bring one or both of them in with you!”
“Aye, aye, Cap!”
Hank lowered the radio and looked up. “Marco! You okay up there?”
“Yeah, Cap!” came back Marco’s muffled reply. He had wisely replaced his air mask. “But I can’t get my right arm to move! I don’t think I can climb down!”
“Sit tight, pal! Somebody’ll be up to get you in just a few minutes!” Hank lifted the radio to lips. “HT 51 to Battalion 14…”
“Battalion 14. Go ahead, Hank…”
“Chief, I’ve got three victims needing medical assistance. Two are Code I’s—one from a fall, the other has suffered an injury to his right arm. The condition of the third victim is…unknown.”
“10-4, Hank! Help is on the way!”
Stanley pocketed his hand-held and headed down the ladder. Along the way, he fervently prayed that Chester B. Kelly was the ‘splash!’ and NOT the ‘splat!’ that he had heard.
Gage had just seen his partner, and their patient, off in the ambulance, when his Captain’s call to Engine 51 came across the Squad's radio.
He’d removed a couple coils of rope, some safety belts, and a TRAUMA box from the Squad’s side compartments, and was pulling his own air-pack’s chest straps up snug, when his Captain’s call to Battalion 14 came through. The paramedic stiffened and his blood ran cold.
Mike Stoker came trotting up just then and the two of them exchanged looks of abject horror.
The pair picked the requested rescue gear up and started heading for the refinery at breakneck speed…well, as fast as their cumbersome boots and bulky bunkers would allow, anyway.
If ‘rapid ladder descent’ were an Olympic event, Captain Hank Stanley would have been standing on the medal podium! In just seconds, his boots hit the refinery’s concrete floor. An instant later, his flashlight was in his hand and its beam was searching the immediate area…to his right.
Speaking of hitting the refinery’s concrete floor…Hank had seen the…remains…of ‘jumpers’ before. Still, he was sickened by the sight his light’s probing beam revealed.
If he hadn’t been so relieved to find that the bleeding and broken—and lifeless—body was NOT that of his friend’s, the gruesome sight would have caused him to ‘toss his cookies’. He exhaled a silent sigh of relief and quickly turned his head, and his light’s beam, away.
There were five 50,000gallon steel-lined storage vats sunk into the refinery’s ground floor. Hank ran his flashlight over the first one to his left. There was a small hole in its wood-slatted cover—right near the very edge of the vat!
‘Talk about the ‘luck of the Irish’!’ Hank mused as he dropped to his knees and aimed his light into the hole’s jagged opening.
The vats were all fifty feet deep. Luckily, this one seemed to have some water in it. The surface of that water was barren of any floating bodies however, and seemed perfectly undisturbed.
“Damn it, Kelly! You can’t survive the fall…and then drown!”
Gage and Stoker literally stumbled upon the missing workman’s body.
It didn’t take a paramedic to see that the poor fellow was dead. The guy had, what was grimly referred to in the medical community as ‘injuries incompatible with life’.
The pair heard their Captain curse and swung the beams of their lights in his direction.
Their Commander’s next words: ‘Kelly’ ‘fall’ ‘drown’, were all it took for John to get the ‘gist’ of things.
Before his Captain could even say, “Hold on, pal! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”, Gage had stripped and slipped through the little jagged hole that had been busted in the vat cover’s wooden slats.
Not that Hank ever had any intention of saying those words.
John dangled from the vat cover just long enough to fill his lungs with air. Then he held on to his breath and let go of the wooden slats.
The paramedic plunged into the murky water thirty feet below. The frigid liquid filled his nostrils and the cold took his held breath away. Somehow, he managed to fight his way to the surface. John stayed there just long enough to snort the water from his nose. Then he sucked in another deep breath and dove.
The diver crisscrossed the vat a few times, blindly groping about, but could find nothing. He burst to the surface just as his lungs were about to. The rescuer sucked in some more air and dove again—this time, going much deeper.
In fact, John didn’t stop until he touched bottom. He swam along the floor of the vat, waving his rapidly numbing limbs through the icy blackness that surrounded him. Suddenly, his right hand struck something—something besides just the other side of the vat. He groped further and found an arm. He grabbed onto the motionless body it was attached to and tried towing it towards the surface.
No matter how hard he tried, John just couldn’t make any headway.
Kelly’s facemask and helmet were missing, but his heavy air tank bottle was still in place.
Gage unbuckled the air-pack’s waist belt and began fumbling for the clamps on its chest straps. His frozen fingers finally got them to release.
The SCBA fell from his friend’s shoulders and landed on the vat’s bottom with a dull, metalic ‘thunk’.
John latched onto the back of Chet’s bulky coat and started struggling towards the surface again.
Even without the heavy air bottle, the fireman still had an incredibly difficult time dragging his waterlogged buddy up from the bottom of the vat.
Just when John thought they would never reach the surface, two tiny beacons of light appeared—two small rays of hope.
Gage got a sudden surge of adrenaline and swam towards those lights with renewed vigor.
The first thing John heard, when his face finally broke the water’s surface, were the cheers of his shift-mates.
If his lungs didn’t hurt so much, if his brain wasn’t experiencing oxygen deprivation and if he wasn’t positively dreading what he might find when his numb fingers felt for Kelly’s corotid, the paramedic might have been tempted to join them. Instead, he gave his sopping wet head a quick shake, opened his mouth wide and began gulping in air.
The oxygen brought him back from the brink of unconsciousness, but he remained pretty light-headed. So he just kept right on gulping and gasping and coughing…and treading water, until he finally felt like he wasn’t going to pass out at any moment.
As soon as he had enough air in him to keep him going, he braced Kelly’s body against the curved outer wall of the vat, opened his airway, pinched his nostrils shut and then tried to get enough air into him to get him going—period!
Finally, the moment he’d been dreading arrived.
The paramedic halted his AR and forced himself to press two of his half-frozen fingers over the corotid artery in his friend’s extended neck. John’s vision blurred and he choked back of sob of relief. It wasn’t very strong and it wasn’t very steady, but damn, Chet had a pulse!
Before resuming his mouth-to-mouth, Gage glanced up into those two beams of light. His grin told the guys what he couldn’t spare the air, or the time, to say.
This time, his shift-mate’s cheers were drowned out by the sound of a K-12.
Sawdust continued to sift down and the paramedic continued to give his drowning victim AR.
“C’mon, Chet!” he encouraged, speaking between breaths. “Yah gotta breathe…for me, man!…Give me a break…will yah!…I’m hyperventilating…here!” The hyperventilating fireman heard a ‘clink’ and glanced up.
Reinforcements were arriving.
Stoker had stripped down to his skivvies and was rapidly descending upon their position with a Stokes. “How is he?” the Engineer anxiously inquired.
“His pulse is,” Gage began, again speaking between breaths, “a little stronger…but he still hasn’t…started breathin’…on his own.”
Mike’s dangling legs finally entered the frigid water. He gasped involuntarily, as the cold caught his breath away.
“Not exactly…bath-water…is it,” Gage commented, upon hearing him gasp.
The Engineer flashed the paramedic back a rare smile. “Not exactly.” The stretcher drew level with the water’s surface. He reached up and gave its rope a tug. He tugged twice on his own safety line and was rewarded with some more slack.
“Get his gear off…for me…will yah?” John requested, as Mike swam over, towing the Stokes.
The Engineer undid the clips on Kelly’s turnout coat and carefully slid it off. Then he unsnapped the flap on Chet’s bunker pants and slipped the suspenders from his shoulders.
The unconscious fireman’s water-filled boots immediately began to sink, taking the bottom half of his turnouts with them.
“That’s more like it!” Gage exclaimed, as his burden became a good fifty pounds lighter. “Now we’re gonna need…a C-collar…and the backboard.” The paramedic gave his patient another breath of air.
Suddenly, Kelly retched.
His rescuer was rewarded with a mouthful of vomitus. Gage grimaced as the nasty-tasting stuff filled his mouth. He immediately swung his head to the side and started spitting—and gagging.
The paramedic could watch people puke, he could pick up puke, he could even tolerate being puked on!
Hell, none a’ that bothered him a bit.
The one thing he couldn’t stomach was having his mouth used as an emesis basin.
John kept right on gagging until he finally tossed up the contents of his own tummy.
He then dipped his head down, scooped some water up, rinsed his mouth out—and went right back to work.
The paramedic cleared Kelly’s airway and then resumed AR.
Chester B.’s bruised brain gradually began registering information again. The first message it received was that his head hurt—something awful! His body was all wet—and extremely cold! His nose was being tweaked—very hard! Somebody kept kissing him—on the mouth! Oh yeah—and his lungs were feeling ‘gurgly’—really really ‘gurgly’! He really needed to cough! And so he did.
“Ahh-ahh!” he cried out in agony, as a sharp, searing pain suddenly tore through the right side of his chest. “Ohh-ohh!” he cried out a second time, as an even more excruciating pain shot down his right leg. The pain took what little breath he had away and somebody began kissing him again—on the mouth! He moaned and tried shoving whoever it was away. “Knock it off…will yah!” he gasped. “An’ let go a’ my nose!”
John obligingly released Chet’s nostrils. “I…uh…believe respirations are now spontaneous,” he declared and turned to swap grins with Mike.
“Sounds more like complaining is spontaneous,” Stoker came back and their grins broadened.
Mike slid a backboard under Chet’s bobbing body and began loosely securing the straps.
John got their drowning victim’s oxygen set up and flowing and then examined him for other possible injuries. A task not easily accomplished whilst treading water and suffering from hypothermia.
Kelly squelched back a cough and squinted up at all the bright lights overhead. He seemed to be either looking down a long tunnel…or up a deep well. “Where the heck am I?…What the heck am I doing here?…And why was somebody kissing me just now?” he demanded between gasped breaths.
Gage finished his initial assessment of Kelly’s physical condition and turned to Stoker. “Did you bring any traction splints down with you?”
The Engineer nodded. “You want a long or a short?”
“A short.”
Mike passed him a C-collar and then turned toward the Stokes.
The paramedic applied the cervical collar, along with some sage advice. “Lie still. The sooner we kin get you packaged, the sooner we kin all get the hell outta here. I’m tired a’ treading water. Now, are you hurting anywhere besides your head, your right ribcage and your right leg?”
Kelly was in a whole lot a’ hurt…waaaay too much hurt! His brain needed a distraction. He needed to give it something else to focus on—something besides pain.
Chet's favorite pastime, in the whole wide world, was dreaming and scheming up ways to drive John Gage bonkers. So he determined that he would use that as his distraction. “Gage…was that you…kissing me…on the mouth?”
Gage managed an amused gasp. “I wasn’t kissing you. I was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”
“Why?”
“Because you were drowning.”
Kelly vaguely remembered the fire. The last thing he recalled was crawling along a catwalk fifty feet off the ground. How does somebody drown…when they’re fifty feet in the air? “I don’t believe you.”
“Okay. Have it your way. You weren’t drowning,” Gage conceded. One should never argue with someone suffering from a head trauma.
A smug smile appeared on his patient’s pain-filled face. “I knew you were kissing me.”
Gage managed another amused gasp.
Mike handed John the traction splint.
The paramedic’s expression suddenly sobered. “Chet…I have to splint your leg…and it’s gonna hurt like hell.”
“Sometimes we hurt…the one’s we love,” Kelly quickly came back.
Gage managed his third amused gasp in as many minutes.
Chet’s pursed lips formed a wry grin—which vanished the moment the paramedic started pulling on his busted leg. “Uhh-humm!” he groaned, through teeth clenched tightly in pain.
John fastened the splint’s Velcro straps in place. He snugged the backboard’s straps up as well and then turned to Mike. “Okay, let’s get him outta here!”
Stoker tugged twice on the dangling Stokes. The stretcher was lowered into the water. They floated the backboard into it and then started strapping everything down.
Satisfied that the stretcher’s precious cargo was secure, John gave its line a final jerk.
They watched as it slowly began its ascent.
John exhaled an audible sigh of relief and began shivering uncontrollably.
Stoker removed his security belt and passed it to the shaking paramedic. “You first.”
Gage flashed him back a grateful grin. “Th-Thanks, M-M-ike.” He tried to attach the belt to his waist, but his frozen fingers were no longer responsive.
Mike reached out, buckled it for him and then gave the rope a tug.
The paramedic was pulled up out of the icy water and then hoisted up out of the vat.
Moments later, the line was re-lowered. Stoker secured himself to it and was hauled up out of the storage tank, as well.
Author’s note: AR stands for artificial respirations. In other words, mouth-to-mouth…or, as Kelly calls it, kissing…on the mouth! Remember: One should never argue with someone who has suffered a head trauma.
Four guys from 23’s carried Kelly’s Stokes over to a waiting ambulance.
Lopez stayed at his injured friend’s side the entire time and filled him in on what had transpired.
Chet’s backboard was transferred from the Stokes to a gurney and his Captain covered him with some nice, warm blankets.
The shivering man shot his considerate Commander a look of undying gratitude.
Hank flashed him back a smile that was even warmer than the blankets. Then he rested his right hand on his friend’s shaking wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I thought for sure that it was gonna take an entire case of Super Glue to put you back together, pal!” he confessed, his voice shaking a bit itself, with emotion. “How do you feel?”
“I feel like I just got my head bashed in with a booze bottle…then fell fifty feet from a catwalk…busted my ribs and broke my leg on a wooden grate…and nearly drowned in twenty feet of water,” Chet told him truthfully. He’d intended for his comment to be taken lightly, but it backfired.
Instead of smiling, his fellow firefighters were now exchanging grim glances.
Stanley took a stab at lightening the mood. “Yeah. Well…” he gave Kelly’s wrist a couple of sympathetic pats. “Fortunately for us, you don’t look as shitty as you feel,” he teased, and succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his obviously hurting young friend—and the rest of the guys as well.
Kelly’s amused look quickly turned to one of confusion. “I don’t get it, Marco. Why did that guy wanna kill us? I mean, we’re the good guys.”
Lopez stooped beside the gurney and placed his one good hand back down on his shift-mate’s. “I don’t get it, either, Chet. I’m just glad you landed on that grate, and that the water broke your fall.”
“Too bad that wasn’t all that broke,” Kelly glumly grumbled as his gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Gage and Stoker came sloshing, swishing and shuffling up. They’d redonned their turnout gear. They sloshed because their boots were collecting the water that was draining from their super-saturated shorts and t-shirts. They swished because the bulky legs of their bunker pants were strafing each other. They shuffled because their limbs were still so incredibly stiff from being so unbelievably cold.
“Nice work, gentlemen!” their Captain commended, and gave each gentleman’s ice-cold hand a warm shaking.
“Th-Thanks, C-Cap!” the shivering pair simultaneously replied.
Hank’s face filled with concern. “You two okay?”
“J-Just C-Cold,” the two men assured him, once again speaking in perfect unison.
The three of them exchanged grins.
Gage’s gaze shifted to the back of the ambulance and his grin vanished. “C-Cap, if it’s ok-kay with y-you, I’d l-like to r-ride i-in w-with him…”
“That’s fine with me,” Stanley assured him. “Just, eh, promise you won’t try to start any IVs or anything,” he added conditionally, and motioned to the paramedic’s appendages, which were shaking uncontrollably.
The fireman flashed his understanding boss a grateful grin. “Aye-aye, C-Cap!” John promised and climbed up into the back of the ambulance.
Gage glanced down at the gurney. Squad 16’s paramedics already had Chet’s IV established and, judging by the open drug box and all the debris, they even had his meds onboard.
Mark Griesen passed his shivering colleague his paramedic’s assessment kit and a stethoscope. “He’s all yours,” he announced and waved an arm in their patient’s direction.
Gage’s mouth fell open.
“We’ve already worked our ‘magic’ here,” Griesen continued before John could speak. “All you gotta do is sit back…relax…and,” he exchanged a ‘look’ with Kelly, “enjoy the ride. Besides, THEY say, two’s company…three’s a crowd.” He saw Gage’s jaw dropping open again. “Don’t worry, Big John! If you need us for anything, just give us a call. We’ll be right behind you.” Mark slapped his still-stunned associate’s right front shoulder twice. Then he jumped down, spun around and slammed the ambulance’s back doors shut.
Griesen released the grin he’d been suppressing and gave the doors a couple a’ slaps as well, before climbing up into Squad 16’s cab with his equally amused looking partner.
“Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that ambulance…” Dave Duran stated rather wistfully, and their grins broadened.
When he’d heard that—on account of his head trauma—he would have to endure the broken-bone-jarring ride in to Rampart without any morphine, Kelly had managed to convince Squad 16’s paramedics to allow him to ‘self-medicate’.
The pair hadn’t needed much convincing. Once their patient explained how thinking up ways to torment his favorite pigeon kept his mind from concentrating on how much his bashed in head, busted leg and caved in ribcage were killing him, the two had eagerly signed on.
Gage closed his gaping jaws and slowly turned around.
Chet saw the ‘dear caught in a car’s headlights’ look on John’s face and smiled. Even through the agony of the now in motion ambulance’s first lurch, he had somehow managed to smile. His pain med’ was onboard.
The paramedic braced himself against one of the now moving vehicle’s side walls. He may have looked like a ‘deer caught in a car’s headlights’, but he felt more like a ‘fly trapped in a spider’s web’. “T-Two’s c-company? Th-Three’s a c-crowd?” he nervously repeated, as he crouched beside the spider’s gurney to gather a fresh set of vitals. “P-Please t-tell m-me that y-you d-didn’t bring th-those g-guys in on it?”
If not for the IV that was inserted in his wrist, Chet would have placed his left hand on the paramedic’s bent knee. As it was, he had to settle for just gazing up at him with big doe eyes. “Sorry, babe. I didn’t know you wanted to keep our relationship a secret.”
The vertical firefighter’s face filled with an expression that was equal parts grimace and grin and the sound that emitted from his throat was a cross between a sob and a chuckle.
Chet noticed one of the attendants staring at Gage’s shaking hands. “Bad case a’ the jitters.”
The paramedic’s appendages were trembling so violently he could barely place the tips of the stethoscope in his ears.
“I’m the first real victim he’s ever worked on,” Kelly explained further.
The attendant’s already elevated eyebrows arched even higher.
“Y-You’re UNreal, Ch-Chet,” John quickly corrected. “UNr-real.”
The ambulance attendants glanced at each other and grinned. Nightshifts were generally long and boring, so they were always appreciative of any entertainment.
“How’s the arm?” Captain Stanley inquired, as he came stepping up to the other injured member of his Engine crew.
“Took a dandy crack on the wrist,” Lopez replied, “but I don’t think anything’s broken. The guys from 16’s wanted to take me in and have it x-rayed. I told them I’d have the doctor take a look at it…when I bring the Squad over to Rampart to pick up Roy and John...” he tacked on rather tentatively.
'...and check up on Chet,' Hank silently added. The Captain couldn't help but smile. “You sure you feel up to driving?”
Marco returned the smile and nodded. “I think I just got what we used to refer to, back in my high school football days, as a ‘stinger’. It’s already starting to wear off. See?” He raised his previously paralyzed right arm and wriggled the fingers on his previously immobile right appendage—as proof.
Stanley’s smile broadened. “Okay. But, be careful!”
“Aye-aye, Cap!” Lopez promised and turned to leave.
“Hold it!” His Captain ordered.
Marco halted and turned back to face his boss.
“What the heck happened up there?”
“We had the fire out and were just about to start down, when that guy,” Lopez pointed to a Stokes bearing a blanket-covered body, “tried to part our hair with an empty booze bottle! He cracked me on the wrist and got Chet up alongside a’ the head—knocked him cold! That’s why he fell. I couldn’t get a grip on his coat with my glove on. The spray from the loose hose knocked him off his feet,” he aimed his index finger at the cadaver again, “and that’s why he fell.” He stared sadly off across the lot. “What was that guy doing up there? And, why did he wanna kill us?”
“M-Maybe he was d-drunk?” Mike Stoker offered.
“Yeah,” Marco agreed. “At least, I hope he was drunk.” He gave the refinery a ‘good riddance’ parting glance and then climbed in behind the wheel of the Squad. “A booze bottle!” he grumbled beneath his breath. “¡Madre de Dios! ¡Qué noche!”
Stanley and Stoker watched their grumbling amigo drive off.
Hank turned back to the refinery in time to see a HAZMAT team and some LACFD lab technicians enter the building. “Yeah,” he solemnly agreed. “And it ain’t over yet…”
“You must a’ hit your head pretty hard,” John determined upon completing a neurological exam of his patient. He flicked his penlight off and frowned. “Your pupils are slightly unequal.”
“I didn’t hit my head,” Kelly quickly clarified. “It was some fireman-hating guy with a booze bottle. As for my eyes…they always get that way…when you’re around.”
Gage’s frown turned upside-down. “Unreal…” he muttered to himself. “Unreal…” He checked the flow rate on his friend’s IV. “I’m just about defrosted. How ‘bout you? Are you warm enough?”
That last question was just begging for a comeback, but Chet saw the look of deep concern on his caretaker’s face and decided to play this one straight. “Yeah.”
The paramedic covered his pained patient’s left hand with his and patted it reassuringly. “It won’t be long now…”
Kelly couldn’t think of anything to say. So he closed his eyes and started to drift off.
“Sorry,” John gave Chet’s shoulder a gentle shake, “but I can’t let you do that.”
His patient’s eyes slowly fluttered open. “Love means…never having to say…you’re sorry…” he and his words began drifting off again.
The paramedic gave his patient’s shoulder another shake. “Chet?…Che-et?”
“Not now, Gage,” Kelly grumbled sleepily. “I have a headache…”
John gasped in both exasperation and amusement and ran a hand back through his still sopping wet hair. “It can’t be anything compared to the one I’m gonna have, if anyone ever takes any of these off-color remarks of yours seriously.”
Chet’s eyes snapped open. “Off-color? What d’yah mean ‘off-color’? Doesn’t what happened back there mean anything to you?”
Gage could see the attendants swapping ‘looks’ in the rear-view mirror. “He’s just joking,” he assured them. Then he turned back to Kelly and glared menacingly down at him. “Are-ent you…”
Chet feigned shock and disbelief. “That’s all our relationship is to you? A joke?” He paused, pretending to be deeply hurt. “Oh, Johnny…you cruel cruel boy. I fear you have been toying with my affections…” his eyes drooped shut and he began to doze off again.
John reluctantly reached out and gave him a not so gentle nudge. “Keep your eyes OPEN!” he sternly ordered, “and your mouth SHUT!”
Kelly’s eyes obediently fluttered open and he batted them up at Johnny-boy a few times. “I just love the way your eyes flash…when you’re angry.”
Gage gasped in complete and utter exasperation. He buried his face in both hands and then stared out at his patient through the slats in his splayed fingers.
Chet’s lips formed a wry smile. His unequal pupils sparkled with mischief.
The paramedic flashed his infuriating friend a wry smile of his own and began taking a fresh set of vitals. “Unreal…”
The ambulance bearing the injured firefighter backed up to the entrance to Rampart’s Emergency Receiving.
Squad 16 backed in beside it.
Both vehicles’ front seats were quickly vacated.
The attendants swung the ambulance’s back doors open, released the lock on its occupant’s stretcher, slid it out and extended its wheels.
John jumped down with an IV bag clutched in his raised right hand, and accompanied the gurney as it was guided inside.
Mark Griesen and his partner tagged along. “How was the ride in?”
“There are entirely too many potholes between here and that refinery,” Gage glumly replied. “But he handled the trip pretty well. His vitals remain sta—.”
“—He wasn’t inquiring about the patient’s ride in,” Dave Duran interrupted. “He was asking about yours.”
“Yeah…about that,” John paused, “I don’t know how to thank you guys…but don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
The three paramedics swapped slight smiles.
Roy DeSoto met his shift-mates just inside the ER’s entrance. “They’re waiting for him in One!” he informed the entire group. Then, in a voice that was meant for his partner’s ears only, he proceeded to inquire, “How is he?”
“He’s in a lot of pain,” John informed him, speaking in an equally low voice. “His right leg and ribcage are a mess. He’s got a hematoma behind his left ear and his pupils are slightly unequal, but he’s remained conscious and coherent since he came to, his lungs are relatively clear and his pressure’s been holding steady.”
Roy looked more than a little relieved to hear that.
Their little procession reached the designated treatment room.
DeSoto watched, as both his injured friend and his partner disappeared behind its door.
Mark Griesen stopped Dr. Benjamin Tyler just as he was about to enter the room. “Doc, we’ve got another injured firefighter driving 51’s Squad in. He should be here shortly.”
“What’s his problem?”
“His right wrist received a blow severe enough to cause temporary paralysis of his right hand and arm.”
“All right. Stick him in 3. Dr. Herron’ll have a look at him…when he finishes up in 4.”
Following a lot of ‘poking and prodding’ and ‘x-raying and examining’, Chester B. Kelly was finally wheeled over to the cast room.
His paramedic friend accompanied him.
John watched and waited while the cast was painstakingly applied. He then borrowed a writing utensil from one of the orderlies and began carving a brief message into the cast’s fresh, and so still unhardened, plaster. He added a little something along with his signature, and then took a step back to admire his handiwork.
The cast’s owner had watched the ‘artist at work’ through drooping eyes. “You about finished…turnin’ my leg…into a piece of…modern sculpture?”
The paramedic wiped the plaster from the tip of his borrowed pen and passed it back to its owner. “Yup!”
“I suppose…it would have been too…normal…for you to just…‘sign’ it.”
“I was going to just ‘sign’ it, but I can’t wait for it to dry. Dr. Herron must be finished with Marco by now. I gotta go back to work.”
Apparently, Kelly didn’t care much for the idea of being left behind, ‘cuz that ‘deer caught in a car’s headlights’ look suddenly filled his own mustached face.
Gage saw the look and gripped the panicking patient’s right wrist reassuringly. “Every hospital follow up we get, either me or Roy’ll be up to check on you,” he promised. “In the meantime…I know this place doesn’t provide a very ‘restful’ atmosphere, but try to get some anyway. Who knows? You keep passing your neuros, THEY might even start letting you sleep longer than a whole whopping fifteen minutes at a time.”
Kelly flashed his friend a smile that told him he appreciated both the promise and the sarcasm. “Thanks, man…for everything.”
Gage flashed him back a grin that said he appreciated the gratitude, and then passed along a little reminder. “Hey, I didn't do anything for you…that you wouldn’t a’ done for me. Remember, try to get some rest…and I’ll be back before you know it.” With that repeated promise, and a wave, John was gone.
Kelly suddenly noticed that the orderlies were grinning down at his right leg. “What’d he write?”
“It sa-ays:” one of them obligingly replied, “Chet, your mustache tickles.”
The patient was both appalled and amused by the paramedic’s little note.
“There’s more,” the other orderly continued. “Just below that, he carved a big heart…and then he signed it: ‘Johnny’.”
The Master Prankster couldn’t help but grin. ‘Good one, Gage…’ he silently conceded. The fireman with the tickly mustache then immediately made the two still-grinning guys scrape off everything but the prank perpetrator’s name.
RN Cheryl Norquist was standing behind the ER’s Nurses’ Station sipping coffee and chatting with one of Squad 51’s paramedics. The nurse, who had just recently started working at Rampart, took advantage of every opportunity to get to know the people she was going to be working so closely with.
Cheryl heard some ‘swishing’ and ‘sloshing’. Her head turned in the sounds’ direction. The woman watched the paramedic’s partner come limping down the hall and up to the desk.
“How’s Chet?” Roy wondered.
“He’s got his cast on…finally. They should be transferring him up to his room pretty soon. How’s Marco?” John wondered right back.
“No broken bones. The bottle hit the radial nerve. That’s why he couldn’t get his right hand and arm to mo—” DeSoto suddenly stopped speaking. His partner was squinting so hard, one of his eyes was actually shut. “What’s wrong?”
“Ahhh, I got some water up my nose and now I’m starting to get a dandy sinus head—” Gage suddenly stopped speaking. “Marco got hit by a bottle, too?”
Nurse Norquist passed the squinting paramedic a cup of steaming black coffee. “Did you hurt your leg?”
The fireman gave the nurse a grateful smile, which was closely followed by a look of complete confusion.
“You were limping just now,” the woman went on to explain.
“I was?”
The nurse nodded. Then she stepped around the counter, took the limping paramedic by his left elbow and began escorting him off down the hall toward a treatment room. “Why don’t we just have a loo—”
“—Uh-uh,” Gage slammed on the breaks. “I have a better idea. I’ll take a look…and let you know if I find anything,” he promised and immediately pulled his arm free.
Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “Why, John…I do believe you’re blushing.”
“I couldn’t possibly be blushing, Miss Norquist. My head hurts too much to blush.”
“I am a nurse,” the woman reminded him, “and, please, call me Cheryl.”
“And I am a paramedic,” Gage reminded the girl right back, “Miss Norquist,” he cooly concluded. He set his coffee mug down on the counter and began limping off in the direction of the little boys’ room.
“Is it just me he hates?” Cheryl wondered as the paramedic disappeared behind the washroom door. “Or is it women in general?”
DeSoto knew the answer to that question all too well.
Back in June, his partner had met the woman of his dreams—again, and he had fallen head over heels—again.
When Johnny got hurt on the job, in mid July, Miss Catherine Lyn Saunders had remained faithfully by his side.
But then his partner had another close call, toward the end of August, and ‘Cathy’ suddenly realized that she wasn’t ‘cut out’ to be a fireman’s girl.
It wasn’t the first time that his partner had been ‘dumped’, but Johnny must have invested a whole lot more in this particular relationship, because, this time, he seemed to be a whole lot more devastated by the break-up.
Though Roy knew the answer, he didn’t feel that it was his place to say anything.
As it was, Marco came strolling up just then, with his right arm still cradled in a sling, and saved him from having to comment. “How’s Chet?”
Roy knew the answer to that question, too. “Barring complications, the docs figure he should be back to work in four to six weeks,” he readily, and rather relievedly, replied.
Lopez looked extremely pleased to hear that. “Man! That was a close one! Way, wa-ay too close!”
DeSoto nodded solemnly in agreement. “How’s the wrist?”
Marco slid his arm out of the sling. “Sore. But Dr. Herron says I can go back to work. Where’s John?”
The missing fireman came limping up just then, and saved Roy from having to answer—again.
Gage gave Lopez’s left shoulder a careful squeeze. “How yah doin’?”
Marco flexed his right wrist and flashed him back a smile. “The doc says I can go back to work,” he reported, but then his smile vanished and he stood there, squinting.
John’s own smile turned upside-down. “Your head hurting, too?”
Marco winced and nodded.
“C’mon,” Gage draped an arm over Lopez’s shoulders and began ushering him off down the hospital corridor. “I’ve got this little bottle in the glove compartment of the Squad that’ll fix us right u—”
“—John, wait!” Cheryl called after him.
John halted and turned back toward the Nurses’ Station.
“How bad is it?”
“Huh? Oh…yeah. I, uh, must’ve caught my leg on that wooden grating. It’s just a scratch.”
“Just the same, if it broke the skin, we should probably put something on it.”
“I’ll take care of it—back at the Station. Thanks for the coffee,” Gage added and began heading off down the hall again. “Speaking of bottles…Roy tells me a bottle hit you?”
Marco managed a glum nod.
“You sure it wasn’t the other way around?” John teased.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Roy told their extremely unhappy looking hostess. He picked up a box of medical supplies and then hurried off down the corridor to catch up with his colleagues.
DeSoto backed Squad 51 into the parking bay at the Station.
Their Captain and their Engineer were waiting there in the garage, to greet them.
“Three cracked ribs, a broken leg and a mild concussion,” Roy informed the pair, as he and his passengers climbed wearily out.
His partner limped off in the direction of the showers.
“But he’s gonna be all right…” Stanley stated, sounding hopeful.
The informant nodded. “The docs say he should be back to work in four to six weeks.”
Hank and Mike glanced at each other, looking tremendously relieved. The Captain turned to Lopez. “What about you, pal?” he cautiously inquired.
Marco stood there for a few moments, massaging his temples and squinting down at the floor beneath his Captain’s feet. “I’m cleared for duty,” he finally replied.
Stanley saw him squinting down at the floor. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing, Cap. I just have a headache and the lights are making it worse.”
Stoker, who was also rubbing his forehead and squinting, turned to his crewmate. “Did you take anything for yours?”
“John gave me some aspirin before we left the hospital, but they don’t seem to be working.”
“Aspirin didn’t work for me, either,” Mike glumly confessed.
The paramedic pulled his Captain aside. “Cap, could they have been exposed to something back at that refinery?”
“I had the same thought myself, Roy…when I first realized that Mike had a headache. So, I called headquarters. The lab boys didn’t detect any toxic fumes and the vat checked out—just plain H2O.”
DeSoto exhaled an audible sigh of relief.
Suddenly, someone began banging on their garage’s back door.
Hank crossed over and opened it.
It was J.T., Don Lory’s paramedic partner from B-Shift. “Thanks, Captain Stanley. I forgot my key.”
Stanley stared at the half-asleep fireman in amazement. “You’re Kelly’s replacement?”
J.T. nodded. “I get to be a plain old fireman until 08:00. Then I go back to being a plain old paramedic. This is gonna be a lo-ong weekend. How is he, anyways?”
“A mild concussion and some broken bones, but he’s gonna be okay.”
J.T. breathed a sigh of relief. Then he stifled a yawn and looked thoughtful. “If I’m gonna be replacing Chet Kelly, I’m gonna have to be more than just a plain old fireman!”
The corners of the Captain’s mouth turned up slightly. He stifled a yawn himself and then glanced at his watch. “Lights out in ten minutes!” he warned.
Nine minutes later, in the dorm…
Stanley, who was now stripped down to his tighty-whiteys, stood staring—with displeasure—at John’s empty bunk. “Where’s Gage?”
The missing person stepped into the room, wearing nothing but a towel and toting an armful of clothing.
J.T. sat up in Chester B.’s bunk. “And,” he dramatically declared, doing a passable imitation of both Chet Kelly and Ed McMahon, “heeeeeeeeres Johnny!”
Hank smiled and began heading for his own empty bunk.
‘Johnny’ dropped the bundle in his arms down onto his bed and started pulling on a clean, fresh uniform.
DeSoto’s drooping eyes suddenly widened as they spotted the red slit on the back of his partner’s left leg. “Johnny, I thought you told Cheryl it was just a scratch.” He snapped bolt upright in his bunk. “That’s not ‘just a scratch’! It runs from your butt cheek clear down to your ankle!”
“So,” Johnny quickly came back, “it’s a long scratch.”
“You should’ve let her put something on it!”
J.T.’s jaws dropped open and his brows shot up. “You wouldn’t let Cheryl Norquist examine you? THE Cheryl Norquist?”
Gage completely ignored him and kept right on dressing.
J.T. rephrased his question. “You had the chance to be alone with Cheryl Norquist…and you didn’t take advantage of it?”
John exhaled an exasperated gasp and turned to his tormentor. “Look, Terzikgarskanovich,” he stopped for air, “I have a sinus headache. So give me a break, will yah.”
J.T. gradually overcame his initial shock at Gage’s ability to correctly pronounce his surname. “You got more than a sinus headache. You got serious brain damage. I take that back. In order to have brain damage, first, you gotta have a brai—”
“—Goodnight, gentlemen!” their Captain ordered and flicked off the lights.
The dorm was plunged into darkness. Several seconds passed and then the lights came back on.
Hank propped himself up on his elbows. “Gage?” he calmly called out.
“Yeah, Cap?”
“Why did you just get dressed…to go to bed?”
“Because my boots are wet, and because my bunkers were rubbing on my leg and because I’m co-old!”
“Oh.” Stanley flicked the light switch off and fell back onto his bunk.
“I’m cold, too,” Marco suddenly realized. He slipped out of bed and pulled the blanket off of one of the empty bunks.
Stoker propped himself up on his elbows. “Can you grab one for me? It’s damp in here tonight.”
Marco obligingly yanked another spare blanket off and dropped it on his friend.
“Thanks.”
“Your welcome.”
John fastened his belt buckle and pinned on his badge. Then he threw back his covers and climbed quickly into bed.
DeSoto studied his blanket-bundled buddy’s silhouette for a few moments. “Johnny?”
“Hmmm?”
“You really should put something on it.”
“On what?”
“Your leg.”
“Huh?…Oh…yeah.”
“If you don’t want to do it, I will.”
There was a long silence.
“Johnny!”
Gage groaned and rolled over to face his friend. “Wha-at?”
“Do you want me to put something on it?”
“On what?”
“YOUR LEG!” their Captain shouted and the dorm lights came back on. “Ga-age, what did you do to your leg?”
Ga-age squinted up at the ceiling. “I just scratched it a little, Cap. It’s okay. Look, I promise I won’t talk anymore. Can you shut the lights off? They’re making my head hurt.”
Stanley propped himself back up on his elbows. “What is it with the headaches around here? They’re reaching epidemic proportions!”
No one replied.
Hank sighed. “Roy, take a look at his leg. If you think you should put something on it, put something on it—QUIETLY! And then, shut the lights off.” The Captain closed his eyes and dropped back down on his bed.
DeSoto climbed stiffly out of his bunk and pulled the covers off of his cold friend. “Drop your pants.”
Gage reluctantly unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his waistband, unzipped his fly, and tugged his trousers down around his ankles. Then, even more reluctantly, he rolled onto his tummy.
Roy examined the long scratch and frowned. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“I am freezing here!” his partner pouted.
DeSoto pulled the big baby’s ‘blankie’ back over him and then headed for the garage.
John snuggled back up in his blanket and fell asleep to the loud, painful throbbing in his forehead.
Roy returned, armed with an aerosol can. He lifted the blanket off and began spraying the can’s contents on the scratch.
Gage jerked awake. “Ah-ahhh!”
Everybody jerked awake.
“I believe I said QUIETLY,” their Captain reminded them.
John eventually got his breath back.
DeSoto went to spray some more of the powerful—stinging—antiseptic on the scratch.
Gage gave the first-aid administrator an annoyed glare. Then he gritted his teeth and buried his face in his pillow.
“Okay. You can pull your pants back up,” Roy announced, following several more muffled “Ah-ahhh!”s.
John flipped over onto his back, tugged his trousers up around his waist, zipped his fly back up, snapped his waistband shut and re-buckled his belt. He got resituated under his covers and then turned to give his partner one last irritated, squinting glare. “Are you happy now?”
“Yeah!” DeSoto declared, sounding equally sarcastic and looking every bit as irritated.
Gage suddenly realized what an ingrate he was being. He didn’t mean to be. It’s just that his head was hurting so ba-ad. He flashed his friend a warm, grateful smile. “Thanks.”
Roy saw that his partner was—finally—appreciative of his first-aid efforts. His hurt look vanished and he smiled back. “Your welcome.”
John’s squinting eyes closed and he drew an arm up to cover his grimacing face.
DeSoto took the hint and quickly doused the dorm’s lights. He stumbled over to his own bunk and climbed back under his own covers. He was just about settled in…when the claxons sounded.
All six firemen sat stiffly up.
The paramedics threw their blankets aside and hauled themselves up out of their cozy beds.
The Engine crew exhaled quiet sighs of relief and collapsed back onto their comfy bunks.
“We got it, Cap!” Roy called out as the pair trotted past their upright Captain.
“Thanks,” Hank mumbled sleepily. Then he dropped back down and drifted instantly off to sleep.
1127 East Cadman Drive turned out to be a rather lavish looking home in a rather well-to-do neighborhood.
DeSoto pulled up and parked on the street in front of the call site.
Much to his partner’s relief, he finally cut the Squad’s blaring siren.
Man! John had thought that bright lights hurt his head! Bright lights were nothing compared to loud sounds! He opened his squinting eyes a bit and stared up at the familiar mansion. “We’ve been here before. Remember? The ‘cat in the face’ place?”
“Yeah,” his partner replied. “I recognized the address. We must get called out here at least once a month.”
The pair exited their rescue vehicle and began pulling open its side compartments.
One of the child’s anxious parents suddenly appeared on the home’s well-lit porch. “Please? Hurry!” the woman pleaded.
Roy removed the Bio-phone and the DRUG box.
“Why do they always have to say that?” Gage grumbled beneath his breath. “Can’t they see we’re already hurrying?” He grabbed the respirator, and a couple more cases containing equipment that might be needed, and followed his somewhat amused associate up the paved drive and onto the porch.
The woman ushered them through the front rooms, up a winding staircase and into a bedroom, where a wheezing little girl was buried beneath a pretty pink comforter.
Curled up on the pillow right beside her blonde head—and practically sleeping in the child’s cherubic face—was a large white longhaired cat.
John flashed his partner an ‘I rest my case’ frown and shoved the cat onto the floor. He opened the case containing their Bio-phone and inserted the call stick.
Roy smiled down at their pint-sized patient. “Hi, Debbie. Remember us?”
Debbie smiled tentatively and nodded even more uncertainly.
“Uhhh…We’re gonna need a list of all her current medications,” Gage told Debbie’s parents. Then he picked the phone up and thumbed its call button. “Rampart Base, this is Squad 51. How do you read?”
“Let’s see if we can’t get you breathin’ a little easier. Okay?” Roy continued. “We’re just gonna check you out, same as last time, and it’s not gonna hurt one itty-bitty bit,” he promised. The paramedic flashed the terrified little girl another warm smile and then Velcro’ed a ped’s cuff on to her scrawny little arm.
“Unit calling in, please repeat…” Nurse Norquist finally responded.
John squeezed the bridge of his nose and forced his tightly shut eyes to open into slits. “Uhhh, Rampart, this is County 51. We have a five-year-old female victim…apparently suffering from an acute bronchial spasm. Victim has a history of asthmatic attacks and is currently taking—“
The child’s mother handed him a slip of paper.
Gage squinted down at the note until the woman’s blurred handwriting finally came into focus. He passed the little list’s contents on to Rampart. “Standby for vitals, Rampart…” he advised and turned to accept yet another slip of paper from his partner. He had an easier time reading that list off. Roy wrote a lot bigger.
“51,” Dr. Tyler came back. “Have you administered oxygen?”
“Affirmative, Rampart,” John relayed. “We’ve got her on 4 liters.”
“Can the cause of the attack be determined, 51?”
Gage grimaced and lowered the phone. “What brought this on?”
Both parents shrugged.
“We don’t know what Debbie is allergic to,” the girl’s father glumly confessed.
John grimaced again and began massaging his left temple. The painful throbbing in his head was making it increasingly difficult for him to concentrate. He squinted down at the blurry, furry creature that was now curled up on the rug beside his right knee and frowned. “Probably, cats…” he muttered to himself. Then, in a voice that wasn’t quite as hushed he annoyedly added, “The cat sleeps right in her face.”
DeSoto heard the comment and turned to his partner, looking stunned.
The girl’s parents appeared to be equally shocked—not to mention highly insulted.
“Don’t you think we’ve had her tested?” the girl’s mommy asked, her words filled with anger. “We’ve taken her to see dozens of doctors! Debbie’s had thousands of dollars worth of tests! I can assure you, our daughter is NOT allergic to cats!”
“Our daughter has been examined by the best allergy specialists in the state!” Debbie’s daddy cooly concurred. “I’m sure THEY would have told us if she was allergic to cats. I’m sure THEY know a great deal more about allergies than you do!”
“51, did you copy that last?”
John either didn’t see, or chose to totally ignore, his partner’s warning glare. He also either didn’t hear, or chose to completely disregard, Dr. Tyler’s question. “Well, I don’t think the cat helps her any…sleeping right in her face like that.”
Roy’s jaw dropped.
The girl’s father’s eyes narrowed. “And we don’t think that’s any of your business!”
“Squad 51…Are you there?”
DeSoto sighed and snatched the phone from his partner. He gave the girl’s parents an apologetic look. “He’s not usually like this…really. He’s got a sinus headache,” he explained and then pressed the call button. “Rampart Base, this is Squad 51. Sorry for the delay…”
Their patient’s impatient mommy gave the apologizing paramedic a grateful smile and his pushy partner an aloof sneer. “I assure you, there is no harm in letting Fritz sleep with Debbie. He’s had all his shots and we make sure he’s free from fleas and other parasites.”
Gage watched the cat go into and out of focus, to the painful throbbing in his head. “I see Fritz doesn’t have a flea collar. Do you dust him?”
The man glanced at his wife, who nodded.
“How often?” John went on.
Debbie’s parents turned to stare at each other again, looking confused by the paramedic’s current line of questioning.
Roy repeated Dr. Tyler’s instructions, but his partner failed to record them. He set the phone down and began copying them onto a small notepad, himself. “Johnny! Look, will you just forget about the cat and hand me the DRUG box!”
Johnny squinted and frowned and forced himself to look around. Finally, he found the case in question and passed it to his partner. “Once a month?” he suddenly inquired.
Debbie’s mommy seemed surprised. “Why, yes. I believe so. Our housekeeper takes care of it. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But we get called out here once a month. If you check with your housekeeper, I’m pretty sure you’ll find she dusted the cat toda—“ Gage grimaced and gritted his teeth, as the pain in his head became unbearable.
“Ask her!” the woman’s husband ordered.
His wife protested. “Richard, it’s three o’clock in the mor—”
“—I don’t care what time it is! Ask her! Don’t you see? If he’s right, we’ve got the solution to Debbie’s problem!”
His wife sighed in resignation and left the room.
“Rampart, Squad 51. The bronchial spasm appears to be easing,” Roy reported upon administering the prescribed drugs and other definitive therapy. "The victim’s respirations are returning to normal. Standby for an update on vitals, Rampart…” he lowered the phone and passed his partner a stethoscope. “Get her BP.”
John stuck the stethoscope in his ears, and carefully inflated the BP cuff. He released the air and then listened for the steady pounding of their victim’s pulse, but all he could hear was the loud throbbing in his own head. Even if he could have heard a pressure, his eyes wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the numbers on the BP gauge. Everything was just a big blurred mess. He exhaled an exasperated gasp and pulled the tips of the stethoscope from his ears. “It’s no use. I can’t get a reading.”
DeSoto had been studying his pained associate carefully. “Talk to me, partner!” he ordered, suddenly feeling even more worried than he’d already been for the past five minutes.
“Ahhh…Sorry, Roy. I can’t read the gauge.”
“That does it! We’re going in and Dr. Tyler is going to check you out,” DeSoto determined, as he set about gathering the fresh set of vitals.
“No way! You don’t go to the hospital for a headache—” Gage grimaced again and even emitted an involuntary groan, which certainly didn’t help him plead his ‘no go’ case.
“If it’s affecting your vision,” Roy reminded his squinting partner, “it might not be ‘just’ a headache.”
“Yeah…well…” John managed a bitter smile, “maybe I’ve got what THEY call a ‘blinding’ headache?”
DeSoto was not amused. “You should have stayed in bed and let J.T. come.”
“I know,” Gage glumly agreed. “I was hoping the aspirin would work.”
Just then, Debbie’s mommy returned, carrying a small round cardboard canister. She handed the container to her husband. “She dusted the cat this evening.”
Her husband looked ecstatically happy to hear that. He beamed a broad grin at Gage. “Mister, you can butt into our business anytime!”
“The flea powder was just a guess,” John reminded the man. “To be certain, she should still be tested to find out if it’s the perfume…the poison…or the inert—“ he stopped speaking and cradled his hurting head in his hands.
DeSoto finished relaying the vitals update and crossed quickly over to his partner. “Johnny, you okay?”
Johnny felt his tummy starting to turn. “I think I’m gonna be sick. I’ll wait for you out by the Squad.” With that little announcement, the headache sufferer got shakily to his feet and then dashed from the room.
“All right, 51,” Tyler responded. “She’s stabilized.” The physician then proceeded to pass some further medical advice along to the little girl’s parents.
“Squad 51. 10-4, Rampart,” DeSoto signed off and flashed the child a final smile. “The doctor says you’re doing just fine now, Debbie. But he wants you to see your doctor tomorrow—er, later today. Okay?”
Debbie nodded. “Thank you. I hope your friend feels better, too.”
“Thanks. So do I,” Roy assured her. ‘Believe me, so do I!’
The girl looked around the room. “Where’s Fritz?”
Her father picked the cat up off the rug. “You can’t have Fritz back until Martha gives him a bath.”
The child’s eyes lit up. “Can I watch?”
Her mommy suppressed a smile, but then sternly ordered, ”You just lie still, young lady! You’re not getting out of that bed!”
DeSoto finished gathering up all their equipment. “She shouldn’t have anymore trouble tonight—er, this morning. But, if she does, please…don’t hesitate to call.”
The pair nodded and smiled appreciatively.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that.” The man passed the cat to his wife so that he could take the respirator and some of the equipment cases from the struggling paramedic.
Roy exhaled an audible sigh of relief. “Thanks!”
DeSoto and Debbie’s dad lugged the equipment down the driveway and up to the Squad.
Roy’s stomach knotted. His partner was nowhere to be seen. He set the heavy cases down and began scanning the immediate area for a…body. His tummy untied one knot only to tie another, as his searching eyes failed again to find his friend. “Johnny?” he shouted out anxiously.
“Right here, Roy!” Johnny called back.
DeSoto exhaled another audible sigh of relief and watched as Gage came jogging down the sidewalk and up to the Squad. “You okay?”
John nodded and kept right on jogging—in place. “I feel a whole lot better with an empty stomach—an emptier stomach. Chet upchucked while I was giving him AR…”
Roy’s face suddenly scrunched up some. He was aware of what happened when ‘that’ occurred.
Their victim’s father set his burdens down beside the Squad and then extended his hand. “Thank you for your…concern. I sure hope you get over your headache.”
Gage shook the guys proffered palm. The corners of his mouth turned up somewhat. ‘Concern, huh…how polite.’ “You’re welcome, and thanks. It’s already much better.”
The girl’s father seemed genuinely pleased to hear that. The man shook DeSoto’s hand as well. Then he smiled and waved and was gone.
Speaking of being gone…
Roy turned to face his friend, but Johnny was no longer there.
Gage had gone jogging off down the sidewalk—again.
“Johnny, what are you doing?”
“I read somewhere that, when you have a really bad headache, it helps to run!”
DeSoto tossed their equipment back into the side compartments and then scrambled up into the Squad. He got their vehicle moving and headed off down the street to rendezvous with the runner.
“Johnny, will you knock it off and get in here!” Roy exclaimed as he finally caught up with his friend.
“Just let me jog a few more blocks,” Gage gasped breathlessly. “I really feel like running!”
“It’s after three o’clock in the morning,” DeSoto reminded him. “And I really feel like sleeping!” He slammed on the Squad’s brakes.
John reluctantly hit his brakes, too and begrudgingly climbed aboard. “Party pooper…” he grumbled beneath his breath and began reaching for their radio.
Roy shot his partner a quick worried glance. “Show us Code 7 at Rampart.”
Gage lowered the radio mic’. “I thought you were in such an all fired hurry to get back to the Station and go to bed?”
“I just said that so you’d get in. I wanna check up on Chet.”
“We can call the hospital from the Station.”
“Yeah…well…I wanna get some supplies, too.”
“You just got supplies.”
“So we’ll get some more. Now, show us Code 7 at Rampart.”
“You’re still worried about my headache, aren’t you…”
“I’m not at all sure what you had was ‘just’ a headache.”
“What difference does it make? It’s gone, now. I’m fine! I feel great!”
“Good. Then you shouldn’t mind letting Dr. Tyler examine you.”
“I’m tellin’ yah, I’m okay now. I don’t need to go to no hospital—or see no doctor.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not a doctor! And I won’t believe that until I hear it from someone who is!”
John reluctantly pressed the call button on their radio’s mic’. “LA, this is just an average, lowly, run-of-the-mill paramedic speaking. I’d like to report that Squad 51 is available. Show us Code 7 at Rampart General.”
“10-4, 51…” the dispatcher acknowledged, sounding more than a bit amused.
DeSoto shot his friend an ‘oh brother’ look. “You definitely need your head examined!”
“That’s just a paramedic’s opinion,” Gage quickly came back. “I won’t believe that until I hear it from a ‘doctor’.”
The two friends glanced at each other and swapped grins.
TBC
Author's note: The LA County Fire Department uses 24-hour military time. There is no a.m. or p.m.. The 24-hour clock day begins with 00:01, or one minute after midnight. To figure out what the normal time is, simply subtract 12 from any times greater than 13:00. For instance, the time given in this story is 23:07. When you subtract 12 from that, you get 11:07 p.m..
Author’s note: “¡Madre de Dios! ¡Qué noche!” translated means: “Mother of God! What a night!” in Spanish.
Author’s note: ‘neuros’ stands for: neurological exams.
Author’s note: A ped’s cuff is a pediatric cuff.