Through the Fire

by Shawn Grady

  Engine One drove off. In its empty bay, the Nederman exhaust tube swung like a giant dark elephant trunk. My eyes trailed to the buildings along the horizon and the dark column of smoke rising beyond.

  My pulse sprinted.

  Sower climbed into the captain’s seat of the ladder truck and threw his helmet on the dash.

  I swung on my coat and climbed the ladder to the tiller cab.

  Throwing on the headset, I wrapped my hands around the steering wheel.

  “All set back there?” Donovan’s voice met my ears.

  “Yeah.” I stepped on the floor ignition button to allow him to start the truck. Through the channel of the ladder bed I watched the tractor cab shudder.

  “All right. Pulling out.” Donovan accelerated onto the apron.

  “Whoa. We do got us a fire.”

  Sower said, “You didn’t see that before?”

  “No. The Cairo, right?”

  “Yep, I’m pulling the preplan right now.”

  The rig bounced into the street. Donovan cranked the cab right just as the tiller box cleared the app-bay door. I clung to the open cab door with one hand, and with the other I spun the tiller wheel left and then back to center, bringing the trailer in line with the tractor. A visceral blast of brisk air rushed past. The sound of tires on the dirt-littered road, the roaring transmission, and the wailing siren all tore through the air.

  As a kid I’d always wanted to be an astronaut or a tillerman.

  “Sixth floor, south side,” Sower said.

  Donovan replied, “Copy that.”

  We turned west and screamed down Fourth Street, air horn blasting across intersections. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Christine’s car going north down a side street, a dark haired man sitting in the passenger seat.

  Blake?

  The radio clicked. I blinked and looked forward, turning the wheel just in time to follow the tractor into the hotel parking lot.

  Butcher transmitted, “Battalion One, Engine One on scene, multistory high-rise, heavy smoke showing from the C and D sides of the building at the sixth floor. We do have occupants visible in the windows. Engine One will be heading to the fire floor.”

  “Battalion One copy. Break. Truck One, Battalion One.”

  Sower responded. “Battalion One, Truck One on scene at the C-D corner of the building. We have a visual of the occupants on the fire floor.”

  “Copy that, Ben. You think you can get the stick up from where you’re at?”

  “That’s affirmative, Chief. We’ll be in aerial rescue operations.”

  “Battalion One copy, break. All units, Battalion One on scene. This’ll be Cairo Command, Chief Mauvain IC. Command post will be by the fire control panel.”

  Donovan set the air brake. I put on my helmet and climbed down from the tiller cab. Sirens echoed through the streets. Gray smoke weaved wraithlike overhead.

  Six floors above, a window shattered. A chair toppled to the parking lot below.

  I cinched my helmet strap tight.

  The rig’s high idle kicked on. I moved to the front of the captain’s side and assisted with extending the outriggers. Four horizontal legs stretched from the sides of the truck and dropped at an angle to plant on the pavement.

  I grabbed two ladder belts from a cabinet. Sortish climbed out of the cab with his glowing turnouts.

  Great. Another new kid not to kill. I tossed him a ladder belt.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I strapped mine on, looking at the fire floor. Several windows were broken. Thick smoke poured out, rolling upward along the building side. People were hanging over the edges to suck clean air.

  “I count three so far,” I said. Behind one of the leaners, a bobbing orb swam in the smoke. “Make that four.”

  Sortish squinted. “I see ’em.”

  The truck whirred with hydraulic effort. Donovan stood atop the turntable, elevating the ladder from its bed with a steady hand on the lever. I climbed the tiller cab and spotted him. “You’re clear.”

  He worked two levers at once, elevating and spinning the ladder toward the building. I descended and met up with Sower.

  He held a radio by his ear and looked at me. “Go on air, and climb the stick with our mudflap as soon as Donovan’s ready.”

  No comments about trusting me with the new kid. What other choice did he have? I reached my right arm around and twisted the valve on the bottom of the air bottle. High-pressure air swished through the lines. The motion sensor chirped to life with the regulator vibralert purring acceptance.

  Donovan sighted the sixth floor as if he were aiming a gun barrel. Leaving his eyes on the building, he extended the fly sections, coaxing them forward like a skilled conductor wooing a sustained note from the string section.

  All seemed silent save for cables and pulleys stretching for life.

  An ethereal haze waved in the air. Red lights spun in alternating time. A flurry of activity swamped the street as a blazing crop of heat broke forth.

  And then the first body fell.

  CHAPTER

  28

  H e hit the pavement like a pumpkin.

  I turned away, as though I could shield my mind.

  Sower motioned. “Go, go, go.”

  I strapped on my mask. Donovan feathered the stick under the first window. Orange illumination flickered in the dense smoke rolling from the unit. A woman lay on the sill. The ladder tip positioned directly beneath her—so close she could have climbed onto it on her own.

  “She’s hypoxic,” Donovan said.

  I left my facepiece regulator dangling and climbed the first of the four fly sections. My father’s axe dangled from my waist strap, clanking with each step. My leather gloves moved over the grip tape–covered steel rungs.

  Looking back from the second section, I saw Sower starting in on the first, Sortish still on the turntable. I guessed he didn’t want to chance another probie with me after all.

  My chest burned. Condensation filled my mask. I clicked my regulator in place and defogged the lens.

  I couldn’t climb fast enough.

  By the third fly section, spectators below looked like larva, and the ladder truck like a monster film–sized insect angled for attack.

  Above, two bodies straddled the next window over, sitting upright, waving, vanishing and reappearing with the erratic tide of smoke.

  The first room flashed.

  Glass shattered in an explosion of flame. A cloud of heat disseminated overhead.

  The woman fell from the edge and landed on the rails of the ladder.

  Her clothes were on fire.

  My quads burned. My calves swelled with blood. I pulled with my arms.

  No water. No one on the ground had a hose line ready. My axe was useless.

  The ladder section narrowed as I worked up the fourth fly.

  She began to slide.

  My legs and arms felt like lead.

  Just let me get there.

  I had to. For her. For me. For Hartman. For Julianne. For my father. For every reason and none at all, my sole desire was to reach her in time.

  But the angels let go.

  No.

  My voice never left my facepiece.

  She cascaded like a meteor down to the ground, slamming into a car roof.

  I squeezed my eyes and gritted my teeth.

  Keep moving, Aidan.

  I pushed upward. Charred and flaming debris littered the ladder tip.

  The radio in my jacket clicked. “Hang on, men.”

  I leaned into the rungs and carabinered on. Donovan worked the controls. Sower clung to the second fly section. The ladder jerked and swung toward the next window. The two occupants straddled the sill, doubled over, gasping for air. The tip halted between them and swayed from side to side. I unhooked before it steadied and climbed ahead.

  Ten feet away. Let’s do this, A-O.

  I craned my neck to keep them in view. The back of my helmet knocked on the top o
f my air bottle. Both still conscious, they reached for the ladder, grasping at the air as if they could reel it in with invisible cords.

  Five feet.

  “Hang on! Hang on!” I said.

  Two feet.

  Dusky arms outstretched.

  An explosion erupted from the room. A pumping tide of smoke engulfed us.

  Come on.

  One foot.

  I stretched out my hand to the man on the right.

  “Take my hand! Take it!”

  His form disappeared, his body swallowed by the fog. Five digits extended.

  Like finding a light switch in the dark, his fingertips met mine.

  I lurched, seized his wrist and pulled back. His body tumbled toward me. He twisted and caught his legs on my knee, grasping for the rungs.

  I squeezed him tight to the ladder and looked up for the other.

  Starved for oxygen, he could fall any moment. Pumping smoke obscured my vision.

  Sower appeared in the smoke behind me.

  “Pass him down. I’ve got him.” He positioned himself behind the man, arms under his, knee between his legs, and started a careful descent.

  The heat bore down. I locked my leg into the rungs near the ladder tip and swam through the darkness, reaching with both hands.

  Come on. Where are you?

  A dull thud sounded.

  Little eruptions let loose from the smoke, flashing and fading with the locomotive chug.

  I found the window sill and felt for his body.

  Nothing.

  I bent under the smoke line. Sower stood with the first victim at the top of the third fly.

  “Ben!”

  He looked up.

  I motioned. “I’m going inside.”

  I am?

  Sower shook his head and undid his ladder belt, strapping it around the man and clicking him to a rung. He waved at me, but I wasn’t about to argue. I turned and climbed back up to the tip.

  My hands found the sill and I brought my leg up.

  Here we go.

  I pushed off the ladder and flailed into the room. I fell with my bottle toward the floor, something cushioning my landing. An arm protruded beneath me.

  The smoke belched so thick I could barely see the window I had just come through. I struggled to my feet and pulled on the arm. It felt like lifting an anchor with a bungee cord.

  His torso lifted and slumped. My hands slipped. I careened backward, knocking over a lamp and crashing to the floor.

  The heat pressed in through my turnouts. Fire rolled above me, spattering like cloud-to-cloud lightning.

  I made my hands and knees and crawled forward until I hit a wall. I felt upward for the sill but found only more wall. No window. No exit.

  Swiveling my head I searched in vain. Where was he? Where was I? I moved to stand but was forced to the floor by the temperature. I crouched and gritted my teeth.

  Then from the cloud, the fire seemed to form faces. Razor teeth like a blacksmith’s irons, a wall of glowering eyes encircling me.

  It’s not real.

  My earlobes burned through my hood. I squeezed my eyes open and shut. The Mexican reaper again waved before me. The dark expanse of the ocean enveloped me.

  I shook my head and exhaled forcefully.

  A circle of flame tightened around, an insurmountable wall of fire.

  I closed my eyes.

  Help me, God.

  I took a long, deep breath.

  Think, Aidan. Think. You’re just in a room.

  The window should have been at my side, behind me. I swam in reverse, feeling with my limbs the objects around me. It was taking too long. I had to get out.

  My leg hit the bed. I kept moving and felt something soft with my foot. I pivoted and felt the shape of a torso, neck, and face.

  Behind him was the wall. I felt the sill above that, and as thick-stranded smoke streamed out the window, I glimpsed the faint veiled sunlight.

  I slid my hands under his arms and sat his slumping frame against the wall.

  The low-air-pressure bell clanged on my pack. The facepiece regulator vibrated.

  Almost out of air . . . again.

  I squatted low and lifted with my glutes. I lost my balance forward, pinning him up against the sill. His head flopped back through the open window.

  His arms bowed and he sank.

  No, no, no.

  He slipped to the floor, his body listing to the side. I caught him with my knee.

  I grabbed his shoulders and then the smoke stopped pumping. Like a visceral coda, or the sudden cessation of a gusting wind followed by a poignant silence.

  Air sucked into the room with one sudden motion, racing past my head like a quick deep breath through narrowed lips. The wool cloud separated. Alpine mountaintops came into view. An amber haze ensconced the sun. The steel ladder lay beneath the sill, Sower leaning from the tip waving his arms.

  “Aidan! Aidan—”

  A blood-orange burst swathed my sight. A pressurized heat wave pounded past. Piercing stinging encircled my wrists and a searing iron pressed upon my neck.

  I dove headfirst for the ladder, grasping for metal. Sower bear-hugged my body as I slid against him. The ladder jerked away, and he pinned me to it. I grabbed a rung while we swiveled from the window. A raging blowtorch shot from the opening.

  I brought my legs in and found solid footing. We swung out from the smoky curtain, Sower slapping flames from my turnouts.

  “Get water on ’em!” Someone shouted from the street.

  Three firefighters, like yellow ants, scrambled with a hose line, arcing water up to us. Cool liquid pellets bounced off the building, showering down, hissing and steaming. Sower kept his arm around my back, pinning me to the ladder.

  He spoke in low tones, barely discernable over the tumult. “I’ve got him, James. I’ve got him.”

  I leaned my facepiece against the rung, my mouth too dry to swallow. Water fell like rain in the desert. We were overtaken and drenched.

  And as broad daylight passes, acquiescing to a storm, there was nothing left to do but hold on.

  CHAPTER

  29

  C hief Mauvain’s voice boomed behind the closed door to the captain’s office. “It was your job to stay on him!”

  The second voice was faint, a barely audible rise and wane of tones.

  Mauvain retorted, “I don’t want excuses.”

  This time the other voice rose before dissipating. “I didn’t agree to be your . . .”

  I looked both ways down the dorm hallway. Everyone else was in the kitchen, eating a late lunch. I stepped closer to the door and leaned my ear toward it.

  “If you’re looking to . . . I suggest you reevaluate that position.”

  “That’s not what we agreed to.” Recognition of the second voice flashed. Lowell.

  “You will agree to what I tell you to. Is that understood?”

  A long pause told me it was time to get moving. I turned the corner at the end of the hall just as the office door opened.

  I slid the pole with a slow twirl, stopping midway to take in the view. The light of the setting sun poured in through the appbay windows. The ladder truck sat next to Engine One, the light rescue truck next to that, all facing forward in quiet anticipation. I relieved my boot tension on the cylinder, finishing with a slow, straight descent to the floor.

  I hopped up on the engine’s diamond-plate bumper and watched a flock of starlings launch from rooftop to rooftop, swirling and swaying in the air currents above.

  The ring of my shirt collar chafed my burnt neck. I ran my fingertips lightly over the blistered red rings encircling my wrists. Second-degree handcuffs. Having no desire to fill out a volume of paperwork, I’d hid them from the safety officer in the morning.

  Those rooms should have been sprinklered. There’s no way the fire should have spread that fast and that violent. Three citizens were dead, and I’d nearly joined them.

  The sun slipped behind the hi
gh-rises, silhouetting their forms and turning linear edges radiant. I thought of how the workday was ending for most. How folks would make their way through traffic back to their homes and their couches and TVs. They’d see their dog, or their kids, or whatever they had waiting for them. They would draw the curtain on their day and prepare for bed and fall into the twilight existence of sleep, waking to a new day, a new world, with new air and challenges and blessings and all the things that make up a life.

  Somehow, I’d awakened in Mexico with a different life, a different set of rules. No longer buoyed by air-bottle bravery or side-slung angels heaving couplings over curbsides. Now I struggled and clawed with fear and trembling through the task I’d once conquered with ease and indifference.

  I’d been assigned back to the engine, sure that any confidence Butcher had in me, any respect he’d allowed himself in his toleration of me, had all but faded. I felt the uncertain stares of others, the twisted freak-show curiosity of the half-horrified, half-pity-filled onlooker.

  I couldn’t hear the fire anymore.

  I was being hunted by it.

  Ben worked a hoe with soil-stained hands. His one-hundred-fifty-square-foot garden patch looked out of place behind the station—cornstalks and pumpkin vines beside fuel pumps and chain-link fencing. He straightened when he saw me, sweat glistening across his brow. He wiped his forehead with his arm. A trace pattern of dirt clung in its wake.

  I put my hands in my pockets. “Beautiful time of night to garden.”

  He sniffled. “Isn’t it?”

  “You need a hand?” I said.

  He picked up a bag of seed. “I’ll make a shallow trench and you drop one of these in where I show you.”

  I poured tan pellets into my palm. “What are we planting?”

  “Stuff for next season. This is green cabbage.”

  The color drained from the city with the waning light, artificial blinking bulbs and neon tubes becoming the disparate alternative.

  “Something’s wrong, Ben.”

  “No, you’re doing it fine.”

  “No, I mean something’s been wrong. With me. I’m sure it’s obvious.”

  He stopped working the dirt.

  “I can’t . . .” I looked away. “I don’t know what’s happening.

  Everything is chaos. It’s crazy. I feel like the fire . . . is out to get me.”