Fuel the Fire

by Jamie Garrett

“I thought I saw you coming in,” the Filipino nurse said, a look of relief prompting a brief smile.

  Rachel took one look at her friend and frowned. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, her long black hair long ago having worked itself from its braid, and her typically tanned features looking pale. “Have you had time to go home and relax, take a shower, get some sleep?” she asked, concerned.

  Dalisay nodded. “Yes, I did, thank you. I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

  Had gossip about her fluttered around the hospital so quickly? That she was being investigated for a med error? “What news?” she asked, pretending ignorance.

  “We had another death last night.”

  “What?” Rachel asked, stunned. “Who?”

  “The police officer that got burned. Bascom, I think his name was. He was going to be transported today to the burn unit down in Augusta.”

  Rachel sagged in her chair, shaking her head. “What happened?”

  Dalisay offered a small shrug. “They’re not quite sure, but he went into cardiac arrest. They almost brought him back, but . . .”

  That was it. She knew, even more surely than she did yesterday, that something was definitely going on. She said nothing to Dalisay of her suspicions. Not yet. Not until she got some proof. As a department head, she still had her keys, even the keys to the med room. Even if it risked further retribution, she would do her best to get a peek at the medical records again, make some comparisons. Find out which doctor was the primary for each of the first responders who had died. If it was Dr. Moeller, she would do as Jeremy requested and take her suspicions to the police.

  17

  Jeremy

  Jeremy reported to work, his shift as busy as it had been the day before. There wouldn’t be any rotating days off, not for a while. They were still looking for survivors, turning off gas lines, putting out fires as they cropped up. A new wave of storms was massing to the west, and he’d already heard warnings of the possibility of more tornadoes. At the moment, he was on his way to deal with reports of a gas leak and a possible fire at a rural farm on the outskirts of the county in his truck. It was the same as yesterday, all of them still spread thin. The gas company was doing their best to shut down lines, but unfortunately, the damage to some areas as well as to main lines had proved, and was continuing to prove, increasingly difficult to deal with.

  Because so many calls were coming in, people finding ways to contact friends and relatives who ended up calling for services, he, Shane, Mason, as well as some local volunteers, all drove their own vehicles, going where the engine went unless they were called to another location. It wasn’t procedure, but they did what they could to be available to help at a moment’s notice. No sense in them all riding in the engine and having to go together when so many people still needed help.

  Though he was focused on his work, what needed to be done at each scene at the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel and what she’d told him about her suspicions at the hospital. Was it possible she was right? He also worried that she’d do more poking around the hospital. She’d told him she wouldn’t, but he knew her well enough to tell she hadn’t meant it. He was worried, not just about her job, but her safety. If she was right, and the more he thought about it, the more he was becoming convinced she was, then someone unknown out there would be gunning for her. The same feeling as when he’d heard about the van accident washed over him, only ten times stronger. Someone already had.

  But how was it possible? He couldn’t wrap his head around the possibility that someone in Monroe would be killing those who put their lives on the line every day to help them. Of course, he’d heard of angels of death or, as they often called themselves, angels of mercy, working in hospitals. Nurses or even physicians who, believing they were doing it for the best, putting terminal patients out of their misery by giving them an injection of this, turning off their oxygen, or smothering them in their sleep. It wasn’t unheard of. It wasn’t a problem unique to the United States, either. In brief downtimes since Rachel had first put the idea in his head, he’d done a little searching online. Just a few years ago, an Italian nurse had been accused of murdering nearly one hundred of her patients in a single year of employment. Another nurse in Colombia was believed to have murdered nearly one hundred forty people in five years in the 1990s, most of them children. There was the famous American nurse, Charles Cullen, who was suspected of contributing to nearly four hundred suspicious deaths in a sixteen-year period. Thank God he was currently serving six life sentences.

  Was that happening in Monroe? Was it possible? Each of the first responders who had entered the hospital had suffered moderate to severe, even life-threatening injuries, so it wasn’t as if they had been healthy when they’d gone in. Both he and Rachel knew that just because they’d been taken to a hospital and were provided with the best care possible, it didn’t mean bad things didn’t or couldn’t happen.

  But all at once? He understood her confusion. While he didn’t particularly believe in coincidences, and doctors were human, and things happened beyond their control, the chances that four first responders dying within such a short time span, several of them with injuries that were not deemed fatal was hard to ignore.

  His tire clipped the edge of a branch, and Jeremy forced himself to concentrate before he managed to put himself in the hospital. He raced to the scene, following the fire truck and Mason’s vehicle, Shane behind him. What would today bring? Ideally it would be calmer than yesterday, and they wouldn’t find bodies trapped under debris or lying in the field hundreds of yards from their demolished home.

  Thanks to the hard work of the Transportation Department, more roads had opened, enabling people to get into town to seek help, purchase water and groceries, and check on loved ones. The electric company trucks were out, cherry picker baskets up, repairmen working hard to restore electricity, as were the gas company employees.

  Even so, the continuing winds, though not as intense as had preceded and followed the tornado, continued to wreak havoc on already damaged properties and structures. Buildings weakened by the tornado were still buffeted by gusting winds and continued to crack, crumble, or collapse.

  The damage caused by the tornado was still awesomely prevalent. Jeremy kept looking up at the sky, frowning at the almost puckered surface of clouds that seemed to grow darker as the minutes passed. It looked like hundreds of dark purple cotton balls clumped together, building, growing, a living thing. He kept an eye on it, as he was sure the others did, many of them wary of the moment that growth of amassing clouds, angrier by the moment, would become the tornado. Mason poked his head from the driver’s side window in his truck doing the same more than once, gazing out and upward. Once, Mason glanced back at him in his truck and made a gesture with his finger, swirling, and Jeremy nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t be surprised if another tornado formed before long.

  The engine left town and took to an even more rural two-lane asphalt road that led to the outskirts of the county, where once again they would respond to a report of a gas leak that had prompted a small explosion. Jeremy hated these calls more than any other. Fighting an invisible enemy was a tenuous endeavor at best, deadly at the worst. The slightest spark, the slightest bit of heat could cause an explosion in a flash so instantaneous that they would never see it coming. The gas company had reported to Mason as they headed out that the main line had been shut off, but numerous tributaries that had been damaged could still be leaking gas, making rescue efforts difficult. Just yesterday, one such search had proved devastating, and he reminded himself when he saw Rachel again to ask about the little girl they pulled out of the damaged farmhouse the day before.

  The occasionally gusting winds that had been prevalent since dawn now became steadier, harder, sometimes pushing against his large truck, which was not an easy task. He reached for his mic and pressed the transmit button.

  “Engine eighty-one, this is Halstead. I’m not liking th
e look of those clouds to the west. Any updates?”

  Connor responded a moment later. “Transmitting to everyone. Respond.”

  In moments, every vehicle following or working with the engine responded, and then Connor made the announcement. “We’ve gone from tornado watch to a tornado warning. Mason wants everyone in the trucks to hunker down and find shelter. Tornado’s estimated touchdown in the county within the next thirty minutes—or sooner if it decides where it wants to put down.”

  “Roger that,” Jeremy thumbed his mic then shook his head, watching as Mason pulled off to the side of the road.

  “Ten-four,” came his response.

  “Okey-dokey,” Shane replied from his vehicle behind Jeremy’s.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Jeremy couldn’t help but smile. Maybe he wasn’t the only joker in the group.

  He pulled up alongside Mason’s truck, their windows rolled down.

  “I’m going to head west toward the Banisters’ farm,” Mason said. “Come with?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “No, I’ll head east toward the hospital, see if anybody needs help along the way.”

  Mason nodded. “You stay safe out there, Jeremy.”

  “You, too.”

  Engine 81, with four guys on board, continued toward the original destination while those following in their vehicles peeled off the asphalt road, each seeking shelter, reporting their ultimate destinations.

  Just as Jeremy turned down a narrow road that meandered southeast toward the direction of the hospital, the wind began to whine. He glanced through his rear window, heart thudding with dread when he saw the telltale signs of a developing tornado. The color of the clouds had transitioned from a bruised-like purple to a greenish brown. A wall cloud had formed, dropping ever lower and larger. He muttered a low curse just as a dust devil churned along the side of the road before disappearing into the trees, the tops of which now blew erratically, then stopped. He yelped as the clouds let loose with a deluge of hail, dime and nickel-sized, bouncing off the hood and roof of his truck, their pinging sounds loud as they smacked into his truck bed, some of them landing so hard they bounced high and out of the truck. He turned his windshield wiper blades on fast and pressed the accelerator, hoping he could make it to the hospital before things got worse. If not, he’d pull off at the first structure he saw and try to tuck himself into some low ground, keeping his truck profile as low as possible. If necessary, he’d abandon the truck and lie in a ditch.

  Up ahead, he saw a sedan half pulled off the road, lights flashing. He pulled up to it, glanced through his passenger side window and into the window of the driver. Inside the car was a young woman with long dark hair crying, hands gripping the wheel. He honked his horn but she didn’t respond. He glanced out his side mirror behind him, watching the intense wind shifts, and cursed again. He couldn’t just leave her here on the side of the road. He’d just reached for his door handle when the size of the hail grew, came harder, faster, and bigger, nearly the size of golf balls. They landed hard, bouncing off his truck, leaving dents behind, pounding so loudly on his roof and pelting the bed of his truck like constant machine-gun fire. He wore his turnout pants and boots, his suspenders, and a T-shirt, but he quickly grabbed his coat, slid into it, and reached for his helmet. Jamming his helmet on his head, he rushed from his cab, ducking instinctively as the balls of hail pelted his helmet, ignoring the sudden painful strikes when they met his body. In seconds, he stood at the driver’s side door of the crying woman and rapped sharply on the glass. She startled, looked at her window, eyes wide, tears staining her cheeks, hands gripping her steering wheel so hard he saw white knuckles.

  “Are you all right?” he shouted over the noise.

  She stared at him, eyes wide as she hunched her shoulders, squeezed her eyes shut, and lowered her head.

  “Open your door!” he shouted over the cacophony of the wind, now close to shrieking again, the pelting of the hail, dent after dent appearing on the woman’s car. He rattled the door handle and knocked on her window again. “Open your door!” He could put her in his truck as she didn’t seem able to drive, although he didn’t know why. Had her car broken down? Was she just scared?

  Off in the distance, ground flashes of lightning lit up the horizon, the sky growing ever darker. He clamped a hand down on his helmet, almost losing it in a gust of wind.

  “Open the door!” he shouted again, this time banging his fist on her window. Her mouth open, her features frightened, she finally obeyed. He pushed it all the way open, preparing to unfasten her seatbelt, sweep her into his arms, and quickly transfer her into his truck, until he saw the reason why she pulled over. Her bulging belly, her pale skin, the pain etched into her features . . .

  Shit! She was in labor.

  “As soon as that contraction stops, I’m going to get you into my truck. I’m on my way to the hospital already. How far apart are they?” She stared dumbly up at him and he repeated himself. “How far apart? Your contractions?”

  “A couple of minutes . . .” she cried, then winced again.

  “This is your first?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she wailed. “I was on my way to the hospital . . . I’m supposed to meet my husband there, but the contractions—” She stopped talking abruptly, hunched her shoulders again, squeezed the steering wheel tightly, and endured another thirty-second-long contraction.

  “Come on, we have to get out of here!” he urged, reaching to unfasten her seatbelt and gently placing his hand on one of her wrists. “Come on, lady, we have to get out of here. There’s another tornado—”

  “I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t!”

  “You can come and you will,” he said firmly. He waited as she endured another contraction, then, ignoring her protests, he reached for her, pried her hands off the steering wheel, then urged her out of the car, trying to protect her bare head from the hail as much as he could by lifting the bottom of his turnout coat over her . . . in a matter of steps, they were at his truck door, and he quickly opened the passenger side. He lifted her into his seat and slammed the door shut, then quickly ran around the front of his vehicle, reached for his door, and climbed in, slamming it shut behind him. Hail and rain pelted down, so loud he barely heard the revving of his engine as he put it into gear and proceeded along the highway. The close-growing trees on each side of the highway tilted precariously with the driving wind. He constantly swiveled his gaze from his windshield to his rearview and side mirrors, watching the angry clouds hovering so low to the ground. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the telltale signs of the twister. Unlike the tornado he experienced with Rachel, this one wasn’t a wedge. It was a full-blown funnel, forming quickly, the clouds turning in a counterclockwise direction, the tail growing, tilting this way and that as if deciding where it wanted to strike first. Almost teasing. He swore again.

  The woman beside him clutched the dashboard with one hand, the armrest beside her with the other, a low grunting sound escaping her throat as she endured another contraction. Damn it, he had to keep her calm. “We’re only a couple miles from the hospital now. We’ll get you there in time!” He wasn’t sure if she believed him.

  He quit looking in the mirrors, quit focusing on anything except the road in front of them. He hoped he was only a couple of miles away, and that nothing happened to—

  “Watch out!”

  The woman screamed, her hand pointing toward a tree on the left side of the road as they fast approached. A pine tree tilted precariously, hovering over the highway maybe twenty yards ahead. Slam on the brakes? Slam on the accelerator? He decided on the latter. “Hold on!” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, the truck jolting forward, rumbling deeply, belching black exhaust behind. They barely passed under the falling tree before it crashed down onto the asphalt highway behind them. His heart pounding, he glanced at the woman, staring at him with a horrified . . . if not odd expression on her face. Admiration? Fear? He expected her to star
t cursing at him any moment.

  “The contractions . . . shorter!” she gasped, again trying to breathe through them, one hand now grasping at her belly.

  The wind howled, buffeting the truck, blowing dirt and small pieces of debris across the road. Finally, he saw the clearing in the near distance, the outline of the buildings of the hospital as the woods gave way to the valley. “Almost there! Ninety seconds, lady, can you make it ninety seconds?”

  “Promise?” she asked, her grip on her belly and the door even tighter, her jaw clenched, eyes squeezed in pain.

  Luckily, there was no traffic heading into the west side parking lot. Jeremy took the staff parking lot driveway entrance at about thirty miles an hour, narrowly missing several staff members’ parked cars. He pulled up to the curb just past the Emergency Room doors and braked as fast as he could without sending them both through the windshield. He put the truck in the park, turned the key, and was out the door within ten seconds, hurrying around the front of his truck, irreparably damaged by hail, grabbed the passenger door open, and lowered the woman down. Three steps later, he was under the overhang that led into the Emergency Room.

  “Need some help over here! She’s about ready to give birth!” he shouted as he rushed inside, a cluster of people in the Emergency Room bays waiting room gaping as he strode inside carrying the woman in his arms.

  In seconds, two tired-looking nurses appeared, took one look at the woman, and moved into action. One of the nurses grabbed a wheelchair while the other helped Jeremy lower her into the chair. In a matter of seconds, she disappeared down a hallway, the woman quickly glancing back over her shoulder and offering a weakly smiled thank you.

  Jeremy stood dismayed for several seconds, took one glance out the Emergency Room doors, and shouted to those gathered in the space. “Take cover! Another tornado is touching down!”

  As bystanders and visitors took cover behind chairs or darted further down hallways, Jeremy approached a nurse standing at the end of the hallway, apparently not sure where she was supposed to be, eyes wide as she stared outside. “Have you seen Rachel Sorenson?”