by Dizzy Hooper
But wow, do I ever not have to think about the lifetime of ruined ones I got to go through.
We get a break around dinner time to hit a fast food place for something to eat. We've no sooner started in on our burgers and fries than Walker's radio goes off again.
His face flashes white. We all go rigid as the dispatcher rattles off the codes.
Then grim determination fills Walker's face. He stands. "Looks like we're taking these to go."
None of us hesitates.
Shoving the last bites in our mouths, we book from the table.
Corey salutes the kids working behind the counter with a quick, "Sorry about the mess," and my heart squeezes, because I didn't know I could adore him any more, but apparently I can. Six firefighters in full turnout gear, scarfing crappy value meals on Christmas Eve run out without even finishing their food, and he takes a second to think of the poor guys who are going to have to clean it up.
If I had a second to spare, I'd kiss him.
I don't, though. Not even close.
We speed down the road, sirens blaring, urgency pushing us, and we're exhausted in the extreme, but it doesn't matter. Duty calls.
And duty is a fucking bitch.
We arrive at the scene to find a house already engulfed in flames, a medic crew and one engine parked out front. We pull our two vehicles in alongside theirs and pile out.
I pause for a second, there at the back of our engine. My throat is raw, more smoke flooding my lungs than is possible from twenty feet away.
We've been fighting fires all goddam day, and I've been fine. Relieved, honestly, to be able to do good and help instead of stewing, lost in my own memories.
They've been tiny little flare-ups, though. This? This is a hell of a lot more. The flames leaping out through the windows are the colors of my nightmares. The acrid stench of furnishings and carpet burning assault my nose.
For a second, I'm that little girl from twenty years ago, terrified and uncertain of what to do.
I'm the woman from a year ago, fucked over and ready to die.
And I'm here. Now.
I have a job to do.
Walker barks my name, and I snap right out of my daze. "Chapman. You're with Corey and Street. First company's going in through the roof. You guys search the bottom floor."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Got it."
We get our tanks on and fit our masks and check our hoods. Additional briefings come in via our earpieces. It's not just a house on fire but one that's been chopped up into apartments, and no one can get their story straight about whether everybody's out or not. We're going to have to do a full sweep.
Undaunted, Street leads Corey and me to the back of the building. We get the signal that the roof's been vented and we're clear to go. Street shoves in the door and we charge inside.
And instantly the world devolves into chaos.
Shit. I haven't seen a fire this bad since that last one with my old company. The walls are melting, black smoke everywhere. We have to move fast.
We've trained for this, so we all keep our heads. We move through the building, checking room by room.
And thank fucking God we do.
The old lady gasping in a bath tub is a surprise and a half. Street leaps into action, throwing Corey at her. He gives her his secondary respirator, and she's babbling something, only no one can hear. There's nothing to do but scoop her up in a fireman's carry. Corey takes her and evacuates her, and then it's just me and Street and what's approaching blackout conditions as we hit the rear of the first apartment.
But we're good. We have this. We've already saved one life. We just have to hold on. We do our jobs and take precautions. I can't see shit, but we've got a line in place to lead us back out. We yell against the void of swirling flame and smoke, searching for anyone who needs our help.
Crashing sounds upstairs signal a ticking clock.
"Time's up, time's up," Walker barks over the comm. "The place is coming down. You gotta get out of there."
"One more apartment," Street grits out.
"No. That's an order. Get—"
And then I can't hear him anymore.
The ceiling gives out above us, and there's only rubble, only flame.
Only a wall separating me from my partners.
Only the screaming voice inside my head shouting, Not again, dear God, not again—
32
Calm. Fuck, shit, I have to stay calm. My labored breathing echoes in my ears, and it's too fast. I'm going to use up my entire fucking tank if I don't keep it together.
I jerk my head around, searching wildly.
The chunk of ceiling that collapsed cut me off from Street. I shout his name into the inferno, and I swear I hear shouting back, but it's too loud. Everything is black smoke and burning dust and heat that's licking at all the edges of my gear, searching for a way in.
Flames tickle the back of my neck, and the scars I got from the last time sing.
Flashbacks assault me. Falling into that fucking hole, screaming into a fully functioning comm. The red light on my suit flashing, the alarm screeching.
The lack of oxygen, the flares of heat.
And the knowledge. The absolute fucking certainty that nobody was coming for me.
It was a set-up, all right, and that's not what's happening here. I know it's not.
But I can't help the fear and the betrayal clawing at my ribs.
What if it is? What if Duke found out where I am, what if he got to the guys on my new squad. Images fill my head of Walker, Street, Corey, all of them, standing watch outside, letting me burn, letting me die. Jaquan and Sal—
No. Shit, no, they wouldn't do that.
Would they?
New panic squeezes my throat.
Do they have any choice?
This place is coming down. They don't have the manpower to send new units in if the structure isn't safe. They're trying, they have to be, but I can't depend on them.
Tears fill my eyes.
And I'm that little girl in my parents' burning house, their fucking meth lab going up under my feet, my hands clenched around a teddy bear, because it's all I have, I can never depend on anyone, ever—
Not my parents. Not my old crew.
Not my new one, either.
And Jesus, that hurts. More than it has any right to, but it's always been the truth. I might have tried to deny it for a few weeks there. The guys were nice, and most of them were incredible in bed, but they're not superhuman. They don't owe me anything.
Blinking the tears away, I fight for calm, for focus. I can't see, but I can feel. I reach out, searching for my lead rope, for anything I can follow out of this fucking hell.
But it's no use. The walls are buckling. Every way I go leads to more blocked paths. My tank starts to beep, and the scent of smoke is creeping in around the edges of my mask. And I'm fine. I've got time. I have to keep my head, I have to figure this out, I can do this—I've always done it before.
And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, out of the absolute impenetrable darkness…
Light.
I sob, delirious. This can't be real, and yet it is.
A hole, to my left. A hatchet gleaming red, and I get the fuck out of its way before it cuts me in two.
The hole in the wall expands, and the entire world tilts on its axis.
Because I know this scene. I've lived this before. Duke Fucking Hopkins crashing into my childhood bedroom and pulling me and my goddam teddy bear out of the ruins of my burning home.
Isaac Fucking Street, emerging through an escape hole he hacked through scorched plaster and fire to find me.
To rescue me.
"You came," I shout, in utter disbelief.
My oxygen is getting low. The world swims around me, but I'm going to be fine.
Street surges through into the collapsing room I thought would be my tomb, and I stumble into his arms. He gathers me up, slinging his arm under mine, and just like that, my traini
ng kicks back in.
"Injuries?" he shouts.
I shake my head, and he pushes me toward our exit hatch.
Together we climb out, and God, the place is even worse than it was five minutes ago. Visibility is better, though, the smoke escaping upward, replaced by glowing orange flame.
We fight our way through the rubble, and not for one second does Street let go of me. We move and move, and it's all instinct. It's a training exercise come to life. We know what to do.
And then we're out.
We're through.
Black smoke is replaced by clear night air. We stumble forward, and rescue personnel are on us. Even still, Street refuses to let go, and I don't care that he's a loner and an asshole. I cling to him.
Eventually, someone seems to realize that it's easier to just let us stay together. We're shepherded toward the ambulances idling by the curb, and I tear at my mask.
Frigid night air hits my face, and it all smells like ash and flame, but I don't care. I drink it in, cool and sweet, and my lungs expand.
And then there's Street. Right in front of me, his mask and hood gone, his long hair falling into his face, and I lunge for him.
"You came for me," I sob again, throwing my arms around his neck.
He wraps me up in a crushing hug, lips near my ear. His voice is gruff, but it's the best fucking thing I've ever heard in my life. "Always."
And how does that one word tear at me? How does it hold so much that's gone unsaid between us?
How does it make my chest crack open and flood with light?
The medics tug us apart before long. As they shepherd us each to a separate ambulance, our gazes meet, and something passes between us, unnamed and unnamable, but strong enough it racks me to my bones.
EMTs surround us both, cutting us off from each other. I submit to a stethoscope and a spirometer, but then there's a rustling. Voices. The crowd parts.
And Walker marches right on through. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving.
I push the EMT away and lurch to my feet.
The medics are talking about me in disapproving tones but I don't care.
"Thank fucking God," Walker groans, pulling me in, and Jesus.
This is too much emotion to be showing on an active scene. There are people all around us, and I've now hugged not one but two of my co-workers.
The heat of Walker's embrace is too much to ignore, though. As much unspoken feeling seeps into me as I felt with Street.
And he told me. Over and over, Walker insisted that I was one of them, that I could trust them. They had my back, and they would prove it to me, and how could I have doubted them?
For one awful, terrible second, I allowed myself to believe that I was truly alone. That these men were as faithless as the ones who abandoned me in Chicago, that they were as useless and reckless as my parents cooking meth in the basement of our home.
But they're not. I've only known them for a month, and already they mean more to me than any of the other people in my life have ever meant. They're family.
They're more.
They're everything.
I sob into Walker's shoulder, and he crushes me to him. He buries his face against mine, and I shudder at the inescapable press of his lips to my temple. He kisses me innocently, but with a depth of intention that rocks me.
"We've got you," he promises. "You're okay. You're safe."
And I can't tell if he's reassuring himself or me, but it doesn't matter. The words are a brand on my broken heart, mending it in a way I didn't imagine was even possible.
A few feet away, Corey and Sal and Jaquan gather. They're in various states of dishevelment, helmets in hands, coats open. Concern fills their faces, but there's more there, too.
There's a softness to Corey's mouth, a curl to Jaquan's lips. Something knowing to the light in Sal's eyes.
I shiver even more deeply, falling into Walker. I look past him to Street, who's watching even as EMTs check his vitals.
And there's a darkness to his gaze. A loss.
He always looks so lost—even when he's screaming.
Especially when he's hurting.
And I need to go to him. I need to get my hands on Sal and Jaquan and my lips on Corey's mouth. I need to keep the steady solid beat of Walker's heart pressed against my chest.
I need to get them all back to the firehouse that we call home now.
I look past all of them to the burnt-out wreckage of the house I thought I was going to die in. Water pours onto it, the flames receding, leaving only blackened brokenness behind.
That same brokenness echoes inside me.
But these men pulled me out of the literal disaster that threatened to claim me.
All at once, I dare to entertain the possibility that they can pull out of a hole much deeper. A darker one. One that's been consuming me for my entire life.
I dare to imagine I might let them.
33
Of course there are other, more practical concerns to be dealt with in the aftermath of a fire of that scale, and sadly, they trump my sudden revelation that I'm an emotional human being capable of exhibiting vulnerability around a bunch of guys who literally saved my life.
The EMT who's been trying to examine me this whole time finally shoos the guys away. Walker releases me with unspoken depths floating in his gaze. He and the others return to the scene to finish with clean-up and containment. Street keeps an eye on me from the other ambulance, but he gets cleared before too long and sent back out into the fray.
I scowl at my EMT, who just rolls her eyes at me. "If you'd let me get started earlier, I would have finished earlier."
Well, she's not wrong.
I feel fine, if a little raw, but the department seems intent on covering their asses. With my history, I guess I can't blame them. Even though Street and I had the same level of exposure in there, they insist on carting me back to County Hospital for bloodwork and a chest X-ray. I try to talk my way out of it, but no one's having any of it.
I text Corey as I'm being carted off.
Feeling fine. Need a few tests.
He doesn't reply right away, which is fine, if aggravating. He's still working—the way I should be.
Not much I can do about it, though.
All told, they keep me for about four hours. I pass their first tests with minimal smoke inhalation damage. Corey finally replies to my text, admonishing me to take my time and let them take care of me, which only makes me more eager to bust out of this joint. They want a second set of scans to rule out late-onset lung damage, though, and fine, sure. I pass those, too.
As soon as I see the clear image on the film, I'm tearing off my hospital bracelet and looking for my coat. I fire off a text to the guys, then make for the door.
The same EMT I rode in with offers me a ride back to the station, smiling smugly from behind the wheel.
I climb into the back of her rig. "Was all of that really necessary?"
"Can't be too careful."
Right. Sure.
She doesn't exactly push the speed limit as she drives toward the firehouse. I lean forward in my perch, gazing through the windshield at the streets going by. I jerk my knee up and down repeatedly.
I want to get back to that house, to my job, to the work.
But there's a whole lot more than that awaiting me, and I know it.
A bubble forms inside my lungs, and it has absolutely nothing to do with my exposure to the burning air inside that fire.
I faced a whole host of demons tonight. I faced my abandonment by my old crew, my betrayal by the man I once saw as a mentor. I faced the flames my good-for-nothing parents left me to after they'd blown up their own damn selves.
I faced four strong, caring men who looked to me as if I were their entire world. As if my safety was the most important thing they could conceive of.
And a moment passed between us. I'm still light-headed from the power of that connection.
These men have my back. They
care about me.
And goddam it all, but I care about them in return—so much.
Me, who came to this stupid town intent on doing a job and not getting attached.
Well, fuck that. The ship has sailed.
I can pretend I'm eager to get back to work, but what I'm really itching to get back to is them.
And yet, when the ambulance pulls up in front of the station, I hesitate. With my hand on the door, I suck in a deep breath. I acknowledge the enormity of the moment.
I step out of this ambulance and into that firehouse, and things are never, ever going to be the same again.
The EMT driving turns around in her seat and frowns at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah." My head spins. "Yeah."
And suddenly, I am. I'm more okay than maybe I've ever been.
With a surge of energy, I push open the back doors and hop down onto the pavement. The night is frigid, the sky clear. The Christmas lights strung up around the station reflect off the tinsel and garland, and the entire scene is right out of some kind of storybook. And somehow, some way, I feel like I'm a part of it.
Choking on emotion I can't seem to hold back, I walk inside. The place smells like industrial cleaner and leftover fast food, and every bit of it winds my chest up tighter.
I stagger forward, into the common area.
Five men stand up at once. Like they were waiting for me.
Because they were.
The tightness in my throat only grows as I take them in. Walker is closest to me, naked relief written on his brow. Corey and Sal and Jaquan aren't far away, while Street is clear across the room, of course, his dark gaze inscrutable.
They're clean and dressed in casual, comfortable clothes. The difference makes me even more aware of the fact that I'm a mess, my hair still reeking of smoke, my heavy call-out gear weighing me down.
