It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel)

by Jennifer Bernard

  He nodded, spoke a few words into his handheld radio, then handed it to her. “Try the tactical channel first. If he’s been unconscious this whole time, he wouldn’t have been able to push the trigger for the emergency channel. If that doesn’t work, I’ll switch it to the Mayday.” Great. So she’d be baring her heart in front of the entire fire department. When she hesitated, Brody gave her a go-ahead thumbs-up.

  She cleared her throat and closed her eyes. Brought up an image of Mulligan’s face, the way he looked after sex, gazing down at her with sleepy, contented, sated eyes.

  “Mulligan, can you hear me? This is Lizzie. Lizzie Breen.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “I guess you know that part by now. Everyone is here trying to get you out. And I do mean everyone. Did you know that Thor is here, and Matt McBride and Psycho? I’m not sure you know half the guys who came to help. And it’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m sure they have lots of Christmas stuff to do, but they’re all here. They all want to lend a hand because they care about you.”

  She paused to listen for some kind of response, but heard nothing but dead air. And a faraway chatter of two firefighters discussing something fire-related.

  Put them out of your mind. And get more personal, silly. Share your heart with him.

  “So, apparently everyone in the firehouse knows we’ve been seeing each other. I should have known when I got to the fireground and everyone was so worried about me. But I was too frantic because of you. Mulligan, we don’t even know if you’re still alive.” Her voice caught. “They’re about to go into the building, but the IC isn’t sure it’s a good idea because it’s so risky. If he knew you were still alive . . . if you could just make one little sound . . . that would really help a lot.”

  Nothing but the same staticky crackling. At the back entrance, an authoritative-looking firefighter was gesturing toward the structure. Was he the IC? Was he the one who would decide whether Mulligan was worth rescuing?

  She lowered her voice, as if she could send her sound waves only to him, not to anyone else on this crowded channel. “Mulligan, there’s something I have to tell you, even though I’ve been avoiding it because I didn’t want to freak you out. I love you. At first I thought it was just a misguided crush. But it didn’t go away, and the more we saw each other, the deeper it got, and then we . . . well, you know . . . after Fred’s engagement party, we started . . . being together more, and my feelings for you wrapped around my heart like a million tentacles, and they’re never going to let go. So you might as well know that, because it’s not going anywhere. And I also wanted to tell you this. Remember at Rachel’s, in the guest room . . .”

  She broke off, suddenly remembering the firefighters possibly listening in. When Brody said, “I’m going to switch it to the emergency channel,” she could have kissed him.

  “We’re switching to channel six, Mulligan. Maybe you’re over there,” she said into the mic, then handed the radio to Captain Brody.

  He pushed a button and all the other voices disappeared. “It’s me again,” she continued. “I don’t know if you heard any of that. Okay, where was I? Remember Rachel’s guest room, when you gave me that book, Bang the Drum Slowly? We never talked about it afterward, because I don’t have a lot of time to read and I guess we were busy with other things. I mean, I know we were. But I did read it. I read it a couple of times, and I think I know why you like it so much. Mulligan, you’re just like the hero in that book. If someone in the firehouse called you from the Mayo Clinic and asked you to come pick them up, and you barely knew the guy, you’d do it. Just like Henry in the book. You would keep that guy’s illness a secret, just like in the book. You’d help him stay on the team even if it cost you money. You might be kind of rough and no-nonsense like Henry is, but you’re also loyal and upstanding the way he is.

  I know what you’re thinking right now. You want to argue with me, tell me you’re not a hero like Henry Wiggen. That you don’t deserve the kind of praise I’m giving you. Well, all I can say to that is . . . fine. Argue with me. Come on. I dare you. You know what happens when we argue. We always end up laughing, and then we end up doing things I can’t really repeat on the radio. Even though supposedly no one’s on this channel.”

  Was that a smothered laugh she heard? One of the firefighters must have switched over to six. Her face warmed.

  “Mulligan, I need you. I need you to answer me. I’m all alone out here, spilling my guts with the San Gabriel Fire Department listening. I’m begging you, help me out. Just make a sound. I love you, Mulligan. I don’t care about any of the so-called reasons why you think you don’t deserve love. They’re complete bullshit. You deserve love more than anyone I know, because you haven’t gotten enough of it. But I have enough, I have an endless mountain of love for you, and all you have to do is make one little sound in exchange. That’s all.”

  Silence.

  “Otherwise, I’m going to keep talking and I might end up saying something really embarrassing. I mean, more embarrassing than what I’ve already said. Like that I think I loved you from the first time you tagged me out in that softball game. And that I ran for home because I wanted you to tag me out, because you would have to touch me, and I wanted to see what that would be like. And it was like an electric shock. Oh, Mulligan, you have to be alive. You have to be. I’d know it if you weren’t. Please, please, just make one little—”

  She broke off, because a new tapping sound had caught her attention. “What’s that?” she asked, then realized no one else heard. “Emergency channel, guys! I hear something!” The sound came again. “Did you all hear that?”

  “Don’t know,” someone answered in a gruff voice.

  “Shhh.” When someone tried to say something, she shushed them again, oblivious to the fact that she’d just told the fire department to pipe down. “Everyone quiet, please.”

  Perhaps out of shock, they all obeyed. And the tapping came again, a rhythmic sound, like someone beating out a pattern with drumsticks. “Does anyone know Morse code?”

  “Griffin was in the navy. Griffin, you there?”

  “Here,” came the voice of an older man. The tapping began again. “Yep, it’s definitely Morse code. Short, long, and two shorts. That’s an L. Then an I. Two longs, two shorts. That’s a Z. Then another Z. I think he’s saying ‘Lizzie.’ ”

  “He’s saying Lizzie!” She practically screamed the news into the radio. “He’s alive. He’s saying Lizzie. Mulligan, we can hear you. Hang on, they’re coming. Mr. Incident Commander, you have to go in! He’s alive, he’s saying Lizzie. Did you all hear that?” She waved at the firefighters by the back entrance, then launched herself in that direction, only to feel someone snagging her arm.

  “You can’t go there,” said Captain Brody. “Vader, Fred, and the rest of the RIC team are going in. You need to keep your distance.”

  Right. Right, of course. They were professionals. She’d just get in the way.

  She nodded, aiming an apologetic smile at him. “Listen, Mulligan, Vader and Fred are coming for you. I’ll be waiting right out here. I love you. Just hang on a few more minutes and they’ll be there. I love you so much, and I don’t care if that scares you. You’re just going to have to deal with it. Okay?”

  More tapping.

  “That’s an O and a K,” said Griffin drily. “Never thought I’d use Morse code to play matchmaker.”

  But Lizzie wasn’t paying attention anymore, because two firefighters—her brother and someone who might as well be her brother—were stepping inside the ravaged building. Please, please, let everyone come out alive.

  Chapter Eight

  LIZZIE’S REAL-LIFE VOICE on his radio had pulled Mulligan from his weird delusions. The words she poured into the smoky space, in that bright voice that felt like sunshine, made his heart swell with painful joy. She loved him, that beautiful, brave, laughing, compassionate girl. Loved him. Scarred, wounded, tough-as-nails Dean Mulligan.

  Then she switched to channel six, and he could
n’t hear her anymore, and that was unacceptable. With every last speck of his energy, he lunged for the radio, ignoring the agonizing shaft of pain, and finally managed to grab hold of it. But in the process, he knocked against something and now a heavy object lay across his throat, pressing against his windpipe. He had to take quick, shallow breaths to fend off panic. He tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze. Looking downward as much as he could manage, he saw a galvanized pipe, like something from an old plumbing system. Fortunately, it wasn’t burning hot, as it must have been during the fire, but it still held some warmth in its metal curves.

  He tried to move it off him, but he couldn’t get enough leverage to budge it. Man, if he couldn’t move a piece of galvanized pipe, he must have really lost some strength.

  But he still had the radio in his hand. And that was huge. He held it close to the pipe and tapped it on the metal.

  The IC was ordering a Rapid Intervention Company into the building. “Use extreme caution,” he was saying. “Any sign of instability, you pull out. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” came Vader’s voice. Mulligan’s heart filled with hope. Vader was a badass, and strong as a bull. He could probably hold up the roof with one hand, if the rest of it threatened to come down.

  “Looks good so far,” said Fred. “We got lots of debris, but everything looks stable.”

  So Lizzie’s brother was coming after him. It was only fair, since he’d pulled Fred out of a collapsed building after the Los Feliz earthquake in May. Fred had actually chosen him to be a groomsman at his wedding in January, which meant he’d be standing in the front of a church alongside Lizzie’s three soldier brothers.

  Or he would be, if he got out of here.

  Not if.

  When.

  He tapped out more words. “Under tree. Careful.” Then, in case Lizzie was still on the comm, “Love.”

  But no one seemed to notice his tapping. He switched back to the tactical channel. All the chatter involved the rescue effort, which he couldn’t really complain about. Lizzie wasn’t speaking anymore. He missed her fresh voice. It gave him hope. Lizzie was everything fun and wonderful and hopeful, and without her voice to cling to, darkness crowded the edges of his vision.

  He tried to shift the pipe again, but succeeded only in making it roll farther onto his windpipe. Gasping, he dragged in air, terrified that it would crush his trachea completely.

  Keep cool, keep it together. Small breaths, little bits of air, like sipping through a straw. Lizzie. Lizzie, just think about Lizzie.

  But it was no use. In a swift, merciless rush, darkness engulfed him.

  He was gliding down a long, dark tunnel. He felt nothing as he cruised toward the winking light at the tunnel’s distant end. No fear, no regret, nothing. Something was moving him along at a steady pace, like a river current. The light grew bigger, more all-encompassing, about to swallow the world. Death. Death had finally reached him. Then a dark figure stepped in front of the light, blocking it with a familiar silhouette.

  His relentless journey toward the light stopped. Puzzled, he squinted at the figure. “Mom? What are you doing here? I suppose you want to be the one to push me over the edge.”

  “Always with the jokes, Dean-baby. Didn’t I always say you’d be laughin’ in the Grim Reaper’s face?”

  She chuckled, shifting so that he could see her face. He hadn’t seen her in real life for three years, even though he called her regularly on the phone. She’d told him not to visit until she felt more solid in her soberness. His quickie assessment, in this unreal environment, told him her eyes were clear and her face lined with exhaustion. Still battling, but perhaps winning, for now.

  “Sometimes making a joke is the only way to survive,” he told her.

  “Survive. That’s your thing, ain’t it? I was a hell-on-wheels kinda mother, but I trained you up well when it came to surviving, didn’t I?”

  “Can’t argue with that. But what are you doing here right now? I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t think you should be here.”

  “You got it all wrong, Dean-baby. This is exactly where I need to be. You’re about to make a big mistake. This here’s my big chance to do something for you.”

  He frowned at her and she moved farther into the light. She wore shiny gold leggings and an oversize T-shirt with the words Kiss My White Trash Ass in sparkly letters. Her bottlebrush hair, which she dyed with orange Kool-Aid, was held back by a pair of oversized sunglasses with ruby red frames. “Nice outfit. I guess there’s no dress code at death’s door.”

  “I ain’t going through that door yet. I came close, and I’d probably be on the other side by now if it wasn’t for you.”

  “You think?”

  “I know it. It’s like Clarence’s been trying to tell you. I mean, Lizzie.”

  He squinted at the bony figure of his mother. “What do you know about Clarence? We never watched that movie.”

  “Sure we did. I wasn’t always a fuck-up. Up until you were about five, I did pretty good. We watched Christmas movies just like everyone else. We even strung popcorn once. ’Course, the Jiffy Pop caught on fire and we had to call the fire department.”

  “Must have blocked that out,” he muttered.

  “Well, I’m here to unblock you, because I owe you. If you weren’t such a stubborn, pigheaded pain in my neck, checking in on me, sending me money, bugging me about rehab, I’d be right over there.” She waved her thin arm at the glowing light behind her. “And I’d never get a chance to turn things around.”

  Mulligan raised his eyebrows at her. “Turn things around? I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Yeah, you have. About a thousand times. But one of these times it’s going to stick. I been sober three years now. You should come see me.”

  “You told me not to. And I just talked to you on the phone today. Or yesterday. Or whenever the hell that was. You sounded like you were using again.”

  “Maybe I sounded that way. But I ain’t.” She ruffled her hair, adjusting the sunglasses on her head. “Maybe you just always think the worst. Like you think the worst of yourself.”

  “No, I don’t. I think I’m badass.”

  “You think you don’t deserve to be loved.”

  He groaned, feeling his head pound. “You’re going to harp on that too? Did Lizzie put you up to this?”

  “Dean, don’t be stupid. This is all you, baby boy. I’m in your head. You’re working some heavy shit out, and I guess I’m a big part of that. So let me just say this right now. I fucked up. Not just once, but over and over again. I picked the wrong boyfriends, I did the wrong drugs, I did everything wrong that I could think of, and then some. But you better not let my mistakes take you down, Dean-baby. If you do, I’ll follow you to the other side and whack you upside the head.”

  “Nice, Mom. You have a real classy way of putting things.” Being trapped in a death tunnel with his mother made Under the Mistletoe look good.

  “I know what I am, Dean. And I know what you are. You’re a fighter. You’d better not stop fightin’ now, not when you have something as beautiful as Lizzie Breen waitin’ on you.”

  “You don’t know anything about Lizzie.”

  “When will you get this through your thick skull? I’m in your head. I know everything you know. And Lizzie’s the real thing. The best thing. She’s what you need and what you deserve. You need to get back to Under the Mistletoe and fucking breathe like you’re supposed to. You hear me?”

  “Mom! For Chrissake, get a hold of yourself.” But now his mother was receding, getting smaller and smaller . . . or was it him who was receding, zooming at lightning speed back down the dark tunnel? A buzz of distant voices echoed in his ears, growing louder by the moment. “I’ll come see you soon,” he called to his mother just before he slammed back into his body.

  The crushing weight of the galvanized pipe still compressed his windpipe, but he managed to suck in air anyway, enough to clear his vision. The buzz of voices coale
sced into Vader and Fred warning each other about the debris they were encountering.

  “Here,” he tried to croak, then gave up the effort and lay still. He could help them, he remembered suddenly. He felt for his PASS device, lifted it, and shook it to reset it. Then he lay perfectly still. Twenty-five seconds later, it beeped. Still, he didn’t move until it began to sound again. There. Between that god-awful drone and the flashing strobe, there was no need for him to do anything but lie there. They’d have thermal imaging cameras, sledgehammers, rescue sleds, spare face masks, a special connector to give air to a down firefighter.

  That was him. A down firefighter. Down, but not out. Conserve energy, conserve breath. So close. He heard footfalls, saw a spear of light from someone’s helmet lamp play across the interior of Under the Mistletoe.

  He tapped on the metal pipe with as much force as he could summon, and saw the searching light veer his direction.

  “There’s the tree,” Vader said. “Griffin said something about a tree.”

  “Mulligan, are you under there?” Fred asked. “Tap if you hear me.”

  Mulligan tapped on the pipe for all he was worth. He heard heavy footsteps come closer, following the beam of the flashlight, and then felt a hand on his shoulder. He managed to turn his head enough to see the silhouette of Vader looming over him. Fred must have knelt at his side, because in the next instant, the pipe was lifted off his throat. He coughed hard, his throat clenching, the sudden release sending a rush of oxygen to his brain.

  “Thanks,” he managed when he stopped hacking. He took in Fred, Vader, and two other firefighters, who were examining the tree across his body. They looked like angels to him, their helmet lights glowing in the smoky air.

  “When you get trapped, you really go all out, don’t you?” said Fred. “Firefighter Mulligan is alive, breathing, and conscious,” he informed the rest of the crew over the radio.

  “Good job,” came the IC’s voice. “Now get him out. His condition?”

  “Bruised windpipe for sure. Until we get this Christmas tree off him we can’t do much of an assessment.”