Raven's Peak: Cold Hard Bitch

by Cole Savage

  “Thank you, May, but I haven’t given up hope that a miracle is going to happen, that the pain will disappear, that Angels will protect my kids from the pain of watching their mother take her last breath.” Tears welled in her eyes, but her kindly, pained smile, never faltered. “I don’t think they can carry that much weight and they shouldn’t have to.” Nicki looked at her watch and said, “May, you know how much I love you, but I gotta go. I can’t say much for your tact and motivational skills, but I get it. Thanks. I gotta go, Momma is waiting for me.

  Nicki stood, Maylene followed, and they exchanged hugs. “Thank you, May. If I don’t get home before dark, Momma’s gonna call the dogs out.”

  “Let me know how it goes. Better yet. I’m dying to know what that son-of-a-bitch is doing these days.”

  “I’ll call you if I find him. The only place I know to even start looking is at his mother’s in Bowden, if the battle-axe is still breathing.

  “Good luck, sugar. I’m praying for you constantly.” Nicki kissed her on the cheek and stepped out onto a front porch that was supported by white colonnades made of cedar, where a white swing dominated the space. She stepped from the porch of the white clapboard house, probably built in the twenties, surrounded by long dead flower beds, and a flagpole in the center of the small yard. She crossed the gravel drive and left in Momma’s van, driving across a wood bridge that spanned a creek running high with cool mountain water, surrounded by wildflowers and Oaks rooted in the banks.

  CHAPTER 2

  3:17 A.M. Morgantown, West Virginia. Spring, 2011

  FRIDAY Breathing, wheezing, snoring, dominated the dark silence of the windowless dormitory at Fire Station 17, where eight firefighters slept, weary from eight previous calls during their twenty-four-hour shift.

  Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, drowned the silence in the dormitory and over the speakers a woman’s canned voice echoed off the walls, “Engine 17, Truck 6, Aerial 6, Rescue 17, Hose 1, Battalion 3— Structure fire. 444 Chestnut Street. All units be advised, we’ve received multiple calls on this alarm.”

  The wrestling of men slipping into bunker boots replaced the previous sullenness of the spacious room. The doors to the poles swung open, and a teeming parade of men slid down poles to awaiting fire apparatus beneath them. Lights flickered on automatically in the apparatus floor, while firefighters jumped onto their respective trucks. Lieutenant Kyle Tillman took the passenger side seat on Engine 17, while two firefighters took positions in the jump seats; the engineer took command of the driver’s seat.

  The four overhead doors opened in concert, and red and white lights blinked and reflected, dancing on the walls of the apparatus floor. Engine 17 rolled out first, followed by Battalion Chief 3 and Truck 6. Other units responded in tandem, from other stations. Sirens from multiple trucks sounded an ear-piercing roar, blasting their bevy of warnings into the air of a ghostly, sleeping town; driving down streets in defiance of yellow and red lights, and one-way streets, with air horns blasting. The obscure moon watched the light rain fall, as the trucks headed to 444 Chestnut Street.

  “Dispatch to Engine 17. Be advised, MPD is on the scene— advising visible flames from windows.”

  “Qsl, Dispatch. Engine 17 is on the scene”, said Kyle. “Heavy fire and smoke showing from the first floor. Dispatch, this will be a Code 1. Recommending second alarm,” said Kyle, talking into his truck mounted radio, assessing the fire.

  “Qsl, Engine 17. Will advise Battalion 3.”

  Engine 17 positioned their apparatus on the corner of Chestnut and Kirk Street, and Lt. Tillman stepped down donning his breathing apparatus and helmet while looking for an entry point into the building.

  “Toby, take the boot with you. Grab the inch and a half line and flake it out. Get your tanks secured and get ready to move in… Mike call the hose truck. Have them lay two lines to the hydrant two blocks up— NE corner of Chestnut and Bank…Engine 17 to Truck 6— I need the K-12 to breach a steel door on the corner of Kirk and Chestnut.”

  The scene was chaotic. Flames shooting out of the four windows that faced Kirk Street, and thick black smoke billowed from the windows into a dark sky. A volley of people came out of flats and houses wearing robes and slippers. The few cars on the road pulled over, curious drivers getting front row seats to witness the spectacle, while Morgan Police Officers, out in force, secured the perimeter with yellow tape, as the multitudes approached the scene, awakened by sirens and the searing heat conflagrating to the surrounding buildings. The morbidly curious emerged from local bars and watched the blaze consume the dry cleaners shop. Battalion Chief 3 pulled up and began coordinating units. Truck 6 spotted their truck on High Street and extended the bucket to spray water from water cannons, on neighboring buildings to protect exposures from the spreading fire.

  Over the radio dispatch was calling the second alarm. The same woman’s mechanical voice came over the radio. “Engine 23, Rescue 2, Ladder 23, Hose 2, Air truck 1…Respond to building fire: Code 1. Units already on the scene. Be advised, this incident is on channel 3. Repeat, channel 3.”

  Truck 6 started to cut the steel door with a gas-powered saw on steroids that sent sparks flying, flooding the darkness with embers of light. Engine 17 crew, led by Lt. Tillman, ready to make entry, squatted, one knee on the ground, wearing full firefighting regalia, breathing apparatus, axes and Halligan tools on their hip belts. Kyle looked over Matts gear to make sure it was clasped and secure, waiting for Truck 6 to breach the door, when Matt said, “Lieutenant, don’t you think we should wait till it breaks out and hit it from the outside.”

  “That’s not how we do it at 17, Matt…It’s about time we weaned you off your mom’s tits.”

  The first six feet of the uncharged, two-hundred-foot line was in their hands, the remainder was corkscrewed on the sidewalk. Bruce was in front, hesitating. Matt, a few feet away; Kyle on the second position. “Get on the line, Matt, or get the hell out of the way. We got shit to do.”

  Half-heartedly, Matt took the third position on the line.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, what if we open the door and Scarlett Johansen is standing behind it wearing a leopard suit and holding a whip?” said Bruce, holding the line in the first position.

  “If that happens, I’ll take the door, scratch ‘have sex with Scarlett Johansen’ off my bucket list, and you and the greenhorn can breach the back door and make battle with the armies of darkness, led by the king of Mayhem himself. Old Man Fire—AKA, Satan.”

  “Hey, Boot,” said Bruce looking at Matt, who looked like he was about to shit his pants.

  “If you gotta piss, do it now, in your bunker gear, before we charge the line inside.”

  “I got bad feeling about this, Lieutenant,” said Matt, looking at the crew from Truck 6 trying to breach the door.

  “Lieutenant, what if Brad Pitt is behind door number one, wearing a loincloth?” said Bruce laughing.

  Lieutenant Tillman turned his head away, toward the door and yelled, “Hey, Truck, anytime now. Two more minutes and we won’t have to go in. Old Man Fire we’ll meet us at the door-Fuck.” Kyle shifted his gaze to Bruce and said, “If Brad Pitt is behind that door, I’ll still take the door and cross ‘blowjob from Brad Pitt’ off my bucket list.”

  Truck 6 successfully cut the steel door and breached the second door with a Kelly tool. The second door, a solid wood door, the only thing separating the fire from the cool night air. Truck 6 crew leaned against the wall, ready to open the second door, crouched in a defensive position fearing a potential backdraft when the door finally opens— an explosive condition caused by allowing oxygen to rush in and fuel a smoldering fire. They watched a ropey cloud of blue-black smoke funneling from the top of the door frame, as Randy gave the door a final kick and pulled back and to the side. The door sprung open and everything in Satan’s arsenal came out of that opening; a thick rush of heavy smoke rolled out, covering Chestnut Street in a blanket of toxic smoke and death. The intensity of the heat retreating out that door
felt like a wave from a blast furnace. Matt stepped away from the line, closer to the street, and when the initial cloud cleared, Kyle said, “get on the line, Matt, or give me your fucking badge.”

  Walking mechanically, Matt came over, took the two position behind Bruce and donned his air-mask. Bruce was a six-foot seasoned firefighter with an iconic mustache— a ten-year veteran of the Morgantown Fire Department. Matt was only twenty-three, a six-foot two, straw of a man, with a clean shaved head. With Matt back on the line, Kyle stood and said, “Bruce this one’s gonna be nasty, it’s gonna taste like your old lady’s ass, so hold your breath and let’s kick this pig, boys.”

  Lieutenant Tillman looked back at Matt to make sure he was still on the line, tapped Bruce on the shoulder, and Engine 17 advanced the dry line through the cloud of noxious smoke and gas, and into the building. Truck 6 wedged the front door open with wood door stop they carried on their helmets, in case someone accidently closed the door on the uncharged line, eliminating the risk of a blocked line when the Engineer was called to charge the line.

  “Battalion 3 to engine 17. What’s your QTH?” (location) No answer from Lt Tillman.

  “Captain Strober, have you seen 17?”

  “Yeah, Chief. Lt. Tillman had us breach the door on Chestnut and Kirk. They advanced a quick-attack line to keep the fire from breaking out… I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Inside the burning dry cleaner shop, the boot, Matt said, “Dammit, Lieutenant — I can’t see a fucking thing,” followed by wheezing—the sound of breathing through their Scott air-masks reminiscent of Darth Vader’s respiratory sounds. Kyle gestured to his ear with his hand, expressing his inability to hear Matt— more wheezing. “I can’t see a fucking thing, Lieutenant.” Followed by wheezing. Looking at Matt, Kyle pointed ahead, at the black smoke enveloping them. The greenhorn’s complaints fell on deaf ears. Between the noise of their breathing, the mask covering their mouths, and the caustic surroundings, words became enigmatic. Kyle cracked the seal on his mask for a moment and yelled at the boot.

  “Look for the fucking glow.”

  Kyle resealed his mask and resumed his search for the heart of the fire. Lt. Tillman slung racks of clothing and items he couldn’t identify, out of his way, still unable to see more than two feet in front of his face; tripping over things they couldn’t see; advancing the hand line slowly, searching for the seat of the fire.

  Matt looked back at Kyle with surging fear in his eyes. Kyle gave him a wink and gestured with his fingers to look forward. Matt had yet to be battle tested in a working fire, and as such, today would determine if he would pass the test, a parlance firefighters call ‘The Twilight of courage’— a term the fire service uses to describe a period of time when rookies post-up at their first fire— defined as the few seconds between the time attack lines are pulled off the truck, and the door is breeched, leaving rookies scant seconds to decide if they have the courage to advance the line through the portal that separates the street from the most hostile environment known to man, then run the gauntlet of everything that wants to separate you from your life that waits inside that room. The three men continued forward, moving slowly, over and around obstacles, then finally, Kyle tapped Bruce on the shoulder and pointed to an orange glow through the blanket of thick smoke in the next room. Bruce acknowledged the glow with a shake of his head, turned to the left, to the orange light as black tar and pieces of charred wood fell on their shoulders and helmet. The bubbling hot tar was deflected by the duck bill on the back of their composite helmets, then dripped in long tendrils, harmlessly to the fire ravaged ground. A piece of burning lumber fell on Matts' shoulder, and with quick reflexes, Matt brushed it off.

  “This is bullshit.” No one heard his pleas.

  Kyle looked back and pointed to his ear, lip-syncing “I can’t hear you.” Matt pulled his face piece away for a second and yelled, “This is bullshit, Lieutenant— we shouldn’t be here.” He coughed from the gout of toxic smoke and gas that filled his lungs. He put his face piece back on, hunched over and hacked.

  Kyle pulled his face piece away and yelled back at Matt.

  “The door is back there somewhere. Don’t let it kick you in the ass.” Wheezing was heard as Kyle put the hand-held radio to his mouth, allowing the uncharged line to rest on his knee. “Mike, charge the line,” talking to the engineer at the pumper. Kyle shifted his gaze, tapped Matt on the shoulder. “Everybody get low… charging the line,” followed by wheezing.

  They Kneeled, heads down, in the space where old man fire danced around them, making grizzly sounds— rumbling undertones that shook the building. The blackening walls that weren’t burning already started to buckle. The blood pounded in Kyle’s head, his eyes reflecting the glowing orange flames with the thought of what came next. The flames rolled on the ceiling, like a tidal wave of orange and red destruction; the noise deafening. The Steel I-beams screamed, twisting and contracting from the intense heat, accompanied by the cracking and popping of burning lumber. Visibility was better in the low spaces where old man fire bunny-hopped around them; preparing his baleful, contentious assault.

  “Where’s the fucking water? shouted Matt. Kyle tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the hose line coming to life with the 150 pounds per square inch of pressure, that pushed the water through at a high rate of speed, that looked like a serpentine slithering back and forth violently. The line stiffened, and Bruce opened the nozzle. Hot air screamed out, followed by a rush of water that hit the flames threatening to overtake their crew. The water came out of the nozzle in a tight pattern and turned to steam as soon as it hit the ambient boiling air in the confines of the burning room. The hot steam rained down in a thick blanket, singing all exposed flesh.

  “My Fucking ears are burning.” yelled Matt, dropping the line to cover his ears with his gloved hands. “Fuck, Fuck!”

  Kyle looked back at him, took Matt’s hands off his ear and placed them back on the line one at a time, followed by a scowl, barely visible from the fog that covered his face piece. They got low to the ground, avoiding the searing heat from the blanket of steam dropping rapidly, when a piece of burning matter dropped on Kyle’s helmet, causing his head to boomerang; sending the unknown material onto Matt’s lap. Matt released the hose, he dropped and rolled on the debris covered floor, his jacket covered in flames, yelling, “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck”.

  Kyle turned and jumped on him to smother the flames, while Bruce turned and doused Matt in a windfall of cool water that extinguished the flames on his parched coat. Kyle stood and helped Matt up, and 17 resumed their attack.

  Bruce cooled the area around them, adjusting the nozzle to a full fog pattern to separate the heat from them, moving forward methodically. Kyle jumped ahead of Bruce, moving burning wheeled baskets filled with clothes out of the path, kicking burning debris to the side, clearing the path of potential fuel, pushing the fire back on itself. Burning garments fell on top of them from overhead conveyor belts, so Bruce moved the nozzle left to right, then up, as the living blaze attemped to outflank them. The water coming ashore, on the spires of the flames, was no match for the scope and size of Satan’s assault on 17, and the dance with the devil began to reach its climax.

  Matt, his head on a swivel, panic-stricken, looked back at the conflagration, slowly closing in on the door they had come through, while Bruce moved forward with the nozzle, spraying a tight stream of water— a fruitless endeavor that failed to penetrate the fierce heart of the inferno. The water turned to steam instantly, with no chance of reaching the seat of the fire. 17 stood their ground, refusing to flinch, but you can’t cheat the devil every time. Kyle looked back at Matt and gestured for slack on the line. To distressed to go back, Matt put his hand to his ear and shammed the command. Kyle left Bruce on the line, stepped back fifteen feet and kicked falling debris out of the way, loosening the cornered line from equipment used for steam-ironing articles of clothing, allowing him to pull slack and further the advance. “Lieutenant, we’re getting boxe
d in,” yelled Matt, tapping Kyle on the shoulder. Kyle ignored him.

  “We’re gonna fucking die— get me out of this fucking oven.” His breathing was labored—each breath more painful than the last. Kyle ignored his cries and gestured to Bruce with his hand, pointing to a ceiling that started to buckle under the intense heat and flames. Kyle looked back, sweat throttling through the pores on his face, making sure their means of egress hadn’t closed. He saw the window closing rapidly, and a shrill sensation ran down his spine. The flames were all around them, tightening the chokehold on 17’s lifeline that sounded like a thundering freight train. In a three-pronged assault, the flames rolled on the ceiling like a breaking wave of fire. The flames licked and danced; growled and devoured everything, sucking the air out of the space, Kyle’s blurred face, features like an affronted mime, tapped Bruce on the shoulder and used the universal kill signal with his right hand across his throat. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”