From the Ashes
Southern Heat Book 1
Jamie Garrett
Wild Owl Press
Contents
Copyright and Disclaimer
1. Mason
2. Sloane
3. Mason
4. Sloane
5. Mason
6. Sloane
7. Sloane
8. Mason
9. Mason
10. Sloane
11. Mason
12. Sloane
13. Mason
14. Mason
15. Sloane
16. Mason
17. Sloane
18. Sloane
19. Mason
20. Sloane
21. Mason
22. Sloane
23. Mason
24. Sloane
25. Mason
26. Sloane
Also by Jamie Garrett
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright and Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Jamie Garrett
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to [email protected].
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Cover design by The Final Wrap.
Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.
1
Mason
The explosion took him by surprise. He instinctively ducked and turned his head, but he was still caught in the blast of debris against his fire helmet. What glass that had remained in the building’s windows was now shattered into millions of tiny pieces, coated with grime, soot, and God only knew what else.
“What is this place?” he shouted through the speaker module integrated into his regulator. He wasn’t sure he would be heard over the cacophony. Barked instructions, wailing sirens as the second responding engine company arrived, tires squealing on wet asphalt. Shouts to hook up to the pumper. Over all, that unique and always heart-stopping rush of angry flames.
The building was old; a low-slung, two-story half brick, half wood shingle construction with busted out, grimy windows, through which dark gray smoke poured. Flames danced in the upstairs windows. They didn’t have much time before those flames broke through the flooring and the building would collapse.
He viewed the scene. The dirty brick walls on one side of the building were bathed in undulating blue-and-red splashes of color from the police car lights. Heavy shadows behind the burning building made it almost glow with eerie color as yellowish-green smoke oozed from the upper windows at the far right of the two-story brick structure. On the ground floor, the smoke was more typical of an oil fire: black and thick.
“Used to be a car repair shop,” Battalion Chief Alex Stone said, gesturing. “Security patrolman told us drug dealers have been using the place to manufacture meth.”
Shit. No telling what kind of chemicals were stored in there. It could be anything from a Mom and Pop outfit to something bigger with fifty-gallon drums of acetone, hydrochloric or sulphuric acid. Sodium hydroxide, ammonia, or even ether were also possible. He’d lost count of how many meth lab fires he’d helped put out over the past couple of years. If he didn’t have his face mask on, he was sure he would smell the potent chemical smell of eye-watering strong ammonia.
Over the past decade, his nose had become extremely sensitive and attuned to aromas and odors at fire sites. He could easily identify the smells associated with certain drugs, types of insulation, furniture padding, and of course, burned flesh. Meth was unique. You never knew what would happen when meth chemicals were involved. During the cooking stage, it was extremely volatile. Mild chemical reactions of the ingredients, or even someone stupid enough to light a cigarette, could easily cause an explosion.
That didn’t mean he could make any assumptions. Despite his experience, Mason never quite knew what to expect when they arrived at a fire scene. The scenarios were always different, the cause of the fire mostly undetermined before they went in. But drugs could be the worst. Needless to say, he hated chemical fires. He turned to the chief. “Hazmat been called?” He shifted the position of the harness on his back. Twenty-five pounds of oxygen cylinder that would give him a half hour of air.
“They’re on their way, but let’s do a quick sweep to make sure there’s nobody inside!”
“All right, let’s go!” Mason turned toward his crew, like him, in full turnout gear.
“Security reported the building empty, Captain.”
Mason recognized Jeremy’s voice and turned to the rookie firefighter. “I don’t care what security said,” he shouted over the cacophony. “We clear it anyway. You got a problem with it, take it up with the chief. Now let’s go!”
Mason’s adrenaline was pumping as he eyed the exterior of the old stucco and wood building in Monroe’s “historic” district. The historic designation was completely unnecessary as far as he was concerned. Monroe itself was an old-fashioned town, founded sometime in the early 1800s. While most of the buildings had been renovated, torn down, or retrofitted and rebuilt, the people pretty much stayed the same. If any town was a modern Mayberry, Monroe was it. The people were friendly, the events corny, and nothing much happened. A couple of hours’ drive northwest of Savannah, it was a good “old-fashioned” town.
He’d grown up here, so really had no way of comparing it to other small towns in the Southeast, nor did he wish to. Most of his friends from high school had long ago moved away, either to college or to better prospects, but Mason had stayed. Not because he didn’t have any greater aspirations, but because he liked it here. Besides, firefighters were needed everywhere. He’d joined Engine Company 81 after spending two years at community college—two, long, boring years where he tried, really he did, to follow his father’s footsteps into finance. Yet even then he yearned for something more exciting.
Then had come the night when his parents had gone to the cancer fundraiser at the local community center. His mother’s sister had succumbed to cancer just after his high school graduation. Since then, his parents had sponsored annual fundraising events every year. Unfortunately, that particular fundraising event turned out to be one of the town’s greatest tragedies. A grease fire in the kitchen had quickly ravaged through nearly fifty-year-old drywall and dry-rotted studs behind it, shorting out electrical wires. Not updated with breaker switches, the wiring system had failed, erupting into numerous small fires in a line of electrical outlets that in turn threw sparks that caught on tablecloths and drapes.
Flames and dense smoke had billowed into the crowded room. Although the sprinkler system eventually kicked on, it was too little, too late to stop the literal stampede that took place inside as guests rushed to escape. While most of the guests had gotten out, over a dozen had been left inside, either trampled in the panic or succumbing to smoke inhalation.
The next morning, reeling from grief after his parents had been confirmed as among those trapped inside, Mason quit college and applied to the local fi
re department, beating out nearly a dozen others who had the same idea. Two weeks later, he was attending the Georgia Fire Academy’s main campus in Forsyth. Firefighting was in his blood now and he wouldn’t have it any other way, despite the danger, the uncertainty, and yes, even the fear that sometimes gnawed at his gut. Like now.
Engine Company 81 and 46 had responded to the two-alarm fire, quickly joined by other engines. The structure was relatively rural, nestled along the eastern edge of Joeson Bluff overlooking the river. The engines had quickly made their way down Main, past the lush greenery of the local park, the popular hangout of the crab shack and then the smattering of old estates and mansions through which ghost tours were now offered, much to the delight of local teens and the gullible visiting ghost hunters hoping to document any sign of an afterlife in the old plantation houses.
By the time his engine company had arrived, smoke billowed from the structure while flames crept over the windowsills and reached for the stars. The empty parking lot and overflowing waste bins identified it as a one of the growing number of abandoned older business structures in the area.
By the time his crew disembarked, members of the other engine crew busily hooked up their lines to a tanker truck, as only one fire hydrant across the street was still operational. His gaze passed over the bustle of activity before he turned to make his way into the double metal doors on the left. As he entered the structure and carefully glanced around the interior, he looked for closed doors and the telltale sign of the smoky puffing or breathing effect that would be caused by a backdraft.
It was the same every time he walked into a burning building—that same thrill of excitement, mixing with a sensation of dread. A hyperalertness that accentuated every sight and sound, his muscles tensed and ready to spring into action. Every single time. No matter how many years he had been at this job, that fight-or-flight response kicked in every damn time, and that same instinct had saved his life on more than one occasion.
The inside of the building looked like it had been used as a makeshift shelter by transients. It was cluttered with trash and debris. The space they entered was the original auto shop bay, the workspaces in the floor covered by thick metal plates welded down into the surface of the cement floor, the hydraulic car lifts long since removed. Several dirty mattresses littered the edges of the room, along with a load of trash—which he was thankful he couldn’t smell around his mask—including discarded food containers. Something crunched beneath his boot and he looked down, swearing when he spotted a syringe.
“Watch your step,” he said into his speaker as he glanced behind him to Jeremy. Behind Jeremy came Matt, a ten-year veteran of the department, like Mason. Behind Matt came Shane, the seven-year veteran and paramedic. He quickly made his way out of the work bay and through a doorway and into a narrow hallway that branched to the right into a reception area. The same debris and trash peppered the hallways. Mason led the way through the main reception area and down another short hallway to a room that had likely been the office. The fire had already caused damage here, one charred wall leaning precariously to the right.
A loud, cracking noise from above and toward the far corner of that room caused him to stop in his tracks, heart pounding. An alligator-skinned and glowing rafter crashed down through the flimsy paneled ceiling, shooting sparks in every direction, glowing with red hot fury.
“Let’s make this quick! Jeremy, you take Matt. That hallway,” he pointed. “Shane, you take rooms on the side.” He jerked his thumb upward. “I’m going upstairs—”
“Not without backup, Mason.”
“No time for arguing! Let’s make sure this place is cleared. The upstairs isn’t going to last much longer. I’ll take a quick look, then we’re outta here!”
The others fanned out around him, each carefully checking the rooms on either side of the hallway. He headed for the stairs at the end of the reception area and glanced warily up at the tiled stairway that led to the second floor. Six steps, landing, then a right angle, probably the same amount of steps upward. Now or never. He quickly rushed upstairs and immediately tripped over something on the landing. He went down on one knee, barely catching his balance, swearing a blue streak.
Pushing himself onward, Mason made his way to the doorway at the top of the stairs. This section of the second floor of the building was relatively open, cluttered with a few rusting metal desks pushed up against the outer wall under the blown-out windows. Flames licked at the walls, leaving huge black tornado-like shapes on the walls. There had to be some type of accelerant. Gasoline? He wasn’t going to remove his mask to find out, but he’d bet this fire was a deliberate act. He’d be seeing the county’s chief investigator, Liam Cohen, soon.
The place was devoid of the drug equipment he’d been expecting, but someone had obviously wanted to burn the place down. While smoke continued to build, most of it escaped through the windows. A small office space sat at the far side of the room, the lower half of the walls made of wood and the upper half windows. Mini blinds dangled crookedly over the windows, blocking his view. Shit. He couldn’t leave without checking inside.
Almost half the upper floor was already engulfed in flames, the hiss and crackle louder now. Another small explosion from downstairs nearly knocked him to his knees. This was the first chemical fire call out since the flashover at an industrial site that had felled his partner Michael and seriously injured another just four months ago. Mason forced the memory from his mind. He had to focus on the here and now or he wouldn’t make it out of there alive. Until that day, he’d felt invincible, fearless. He wasn’t an idiot, but he was confident of his abilities, of his instincts. Now, he took nothing for granted. He peered through the darkness. While the yellowish smoke billowing out of the long-ago broken windows of the auto shop didn’t look like a flashover or backdraft was forming, it did appear to be breathing. He didn’t have much longer left to check the room and then get the hell out.
He pushed thoughts of Michael from his mind. Time to focus, not to reminisce or reflect on his grief over the loss, nor the injuries that O’Brien had sustained that would keep him out of work for six months—maybe longer, maybe even permanently.
“Get out of the building!” he ordered. “Get out now!”
“Mason! Where are you?”
“Sweeping upstairs rooms, be down in just a sec!”
“Mason, I’m coming—”
“Get the hell out of the building, Shane, and I fuckin’ mean it!”
No one else was going to die on his watch, not anymore—his men or a victim trapped in that damn back room. He scrambled back onto his feet, hollering. “Is anyone in here? Anybody here? Call out!”
Flames licked up the sides of the walls, traveling in billowing waves across the drop ceiling tiles. One by one they clattered to the floor. Above, the framework of the building was visible, as were mental ventilation ducts and old copper piping. For only a second he was transfixed by the sight of the flames curling along the ceiling, like the clouds of vaporous dry ice that bubbled out of the faux cauldrons that his parents used to set outside their front door on Halloween.
The orange flames devoured everything in their path. Along the floor near the inside wall, puddles of flames with blue-tinged tips crawled toward him. The combination of black, gray, and yellow smoke mushroomed in the room. He couldn’t see more than a foot or two in any direction. Fuck. He had to get out. The blue light on his UAC lit up, only thirty-five percent air left in his tank. Had he been inside that long?
“Anybody in here?”
There! A quiet rattle sounded across the room. Mason froze and then shouted out again, straining his hearing across the roar of the flames. There it was again! Barely discernible, but it was fucking there. Had it come from the office space? He was roughly twelve feet away, but the fire was extremely hot. Whoever was in there wouldn’t have a chance in hell if he didn’t get in there within the next few seconds. He stepped quickly toward the closed office door. The glass partiti
oning remaining hadn’t shattered with the heat. Rather, it looked like it was melting. Plexiglass. Damn, it was already too hot for anyone to be in there without protective gear. He shouldered the door and it burst open. Taking a step inside, he nearly tripped over something on the floor.
“Where are you?”
A response came from nearby; a weak and scratchy voice. The room quickly filled with black smoke that gushed in from the open doorway, making it nearly impossible to see. He knelt down and felt around with his hands until he touched something. Firm. The object he had nearly tripped over was a body. A meth dealer trapped in a conflagration of his own making or a squatter who had sought shelter in the abandoned building? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his job to judge, just to get them the hell out of there.
He wasn’t sure how badly the person was injured, or even if they were male or female, but he didn’t have any time to waste worrying about it. He crouched down, found the person’s shoulders, and pulled the limp body into a sitting position. Repositioning his feet, he clasped the figure around the torso and heaved upward in one smooth motion. Momentum slung the person over his shoulder. He might be risking further injury to them, but the smoke billowing around him and down the stairwell prevented any fancier or gentler method of extrication. Better than burning alive. He had to get downstairs before the entire upper floor collapsed.
“Coming down with a victim,” he grunted into his speaker. He quickly made his way out of the office as bits and pieces of ceiling tiles dropped to the floor around him. One of the overhead framing rafters dropped to the far corner of the room, charred black and smoking. Mason took a deep breath and forgot about anything else. Instinct was going to get him and the victim out of there—nothing else.
Dante’s Inferno. Every time he found himself inside a burning structure, the book that had been one of his favorites in high school came to mind. His own personal journey through hell. His destiny following the fiery death of his parents. Survivor’s guilt. Fury. Helplessness. Would his self-punishment, his need to confront fire on a nearly everyday basis, cleanse him of his own demons? Perhaps they were just yet another hell that he would live with for the rest of his life.
From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 1
