FIC: Run (Emergency, Gen, PG 6/10)
Aug. 29th, 2010 10:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mrwubblesTitle: Run
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10, 2/10, 3/10, 4/10, 5/10
A little old lady, hunched under the shade of her umbrella, pushed her shopping cart in front of his squad. She peered into his windshield and gave him an odd look but the heat deterred her curiosity. Her cart hopped as it went up the curb, scratching the squad's bumper as it rolled by. She shambled up the sidewalk, hip rubbing against the hood of his vehicle; cart clawing loudly enough bystanders grimaced, her umbrella waving above her. Roy ignored her. He sat in the squad, his jaw set as he studied the fenced gates and the rusty sign across from him. Watching. Waiting.
The place on Grove screamed violations. Its sign was three gusts of wind short of falling and the gate was discolored with enough rust to probably give someone distemper from just touching it alone. Carson Salvage was scrawled across in a sign that was badly soldered; streaked red and green from the rare rain the area ever endured and simple neglect. And there was no one walking in and out of it. No cars came up to the gates. This was it. It has to be.
Roy gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He glanced over to his partner's helmet, left on the passenger's side of the dashboard. It never occurred to him to put it elsewhere. It belonged there, right next to him, damn it.
"So what now?" Roy asked it.
The helmet didn't answer.
Roy flinched and forced his scrutiny back to the front once more.
Good boys, Mr. Dunning had told Roy when he held up an old, water-stained photo with gnarled hands. He didn't offer Roy anything to drink nor did he offer a seat. The wizened building manager went right on explaining why he agreed to call in the emergency. Jake Carson and Trip Dunning were childhood friends, Dunning had explained. The two knew each other since middle school; they played together, went with their dates to the prom together and then went off to Saigon together.
Only Jake came back.
Good boys, Mr. Dunning had insisted as he pawed the photos in a smelly and dented cigar box to pull out the black and white photograph of the three Carson brothers to show Roy. Douglas, Dunning relented later, was a two-bit hoodlum suddenly back home to take care of two kids when their parents died in a fire. Dunning had looked over at that piece of news to glower at Roy. The firemen couldn't reach them on the top floor of their house. The boys' father had dropped them out of a bedroom window into a waiting neighbors' makeshift net; just before the roof collapsed over the parents. All was left was Jake and Stevie. And Douglas: fresh out of Folsom and suddenly guardian to a teenager and a kid who wouldn't speak for three months.
Jake held them together, got Stevie talking again and cajoled Douglas to partner up with their dying uncle to run the salvage yard business while he finished high school. He was going to be a doctor. Trip was going to be an engineer.
Then President Johnson pulled out Jake and Trip's numbers and they boarded a plane to Asia.
Roy pinched a spot at the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was the only Carson Salvage Detective Crockett found based on what Dunning knew. Of course, Roy hung up on the detective as soon as he had written down the address, not giving him the chance to offer another address. Roy suspected Crockett wasn't going to be too happy to know he was here, Richards as well. Heck, Cap was probably right now devising ladder and hose exercises for him to run barefoot.
But his partner was there. Roy was sure of it.
The steering wheel squeaked as Roy's hands tightened around it.
The radio mouthpiece rattled when Roy grabbed it. He depressed the speaker, opened his mouth but nothing would come out. What could he say? What could he possibly say to convince LA to let him go in there and get Johnny back? He hung it back by the radio again and sighed.
"Just what do you think you're doing?"
Roy jumped in his seat. He twisted to his right and almost immediately sagged back into the bucket seat. Vince Howard glared at him through the open window, his helmet tilted back, his dark hands on the door.
"Hi," Roy managed to get out. At least it wasn't the captain.
Vince's eyes narrowed.
"Hi? Is that all you have to say for yourself? Crockett was right: you are foolish enough to come down here on your own."
Then again, Cap might have been a better alternative to the fuming face leaning closer. A few more inches and Vince was going to find himself inside the squad.
"…and with your fire truck, too! Don't you boys watch television? At least choose something less conspicuous than a shiny, red fire truck parked across the street! What were you going to do if the guy who took Gage was in there? What if he came after you? Shoot him down with your hose?"
"Actually," Roy stammered, "the squads don't carry water tanks to feed our…" He trailed off at the glare. Vince didn't seem to care.
"Roy," Vince said slowly, "What the heck are you doing here?"
"The voice in the 911 call," Roy plowed through because it looked like Vince was going to reach in and haul him out through the passenger window. "When I was in Rampart, it hit me that it sounded pretty close to the building manager of 316 so I went over and…" Roy hesitated.
Vince straightened away from the window and folded his arms across his chest. With the uniform, it made a formidable look.
"And what?" Vince asked archly, "You decided to head over there. Alone. And ask the guy where Gage was?"
Roy swallowed. "Uh…Yes?"
Vince rolled his eyes. He nudged back the brim of his helmet as he muttered. Roy gulped when he thought he heard Vince debating arresting him.
"DeSoto, I always thought you and your partner were crazy for all those risks you two take, but this…Of all the…unbelievable." Vince threw up his hands.
Roy leaned over John's side of the seat. "He told me it was never meant to be anything more than a robbery. The person who did this…Vince, he's just a kid. They never wanted to hurt anybody."
"They?"
Oops. Roy took a deep breath. "There's…there's three of them. Brothers. I—"
"Damn it, Roy!" Vince exploded. He gave the salvage yard a dark look before abruptly twisting around.
"What are you doing?" Roy exclaimed. He lunged forward and snagged the closest sleeve he could reach through the window.
"Calling for backup," Vince muttered. "Get Richards and Crockett here. They went to follow a lead in La Jolla."
"Vince, that's too far away. We can't wait for them to get here and if they start shooting…" Roy twisted the sleeve he held tighter.
"Vince, Johnny's in there."
The officer stilled. He looked at Roy then at the salvage yard. He sighed.
"We can't just barge in there demanding your partner back either," Vince pointed out. "Roy—"
There was a snap and sizzle of static from the radio.
"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame."
Roy jerked her gaze to across the street. He stared at the sign before lunging for his radio.
"LA," Roy said to the mouthpiece he clutched to him. "Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."
There was only a brief pause, but Roy had the cold fear in his gut that said maybe LA might disagree. He was far from where he should be, far from Rampart and Harbor as well.
"Squad 51," LA acknowledged.
Roy pressed the mouthpiece to his forehead and exhaled. He returned it to its cradle and slid over to get out of the squad.
"Roy," Vince couldn't keep quiet anymore as he tracked Roy trotting over to the side to get the newly replenished supplies. "What are you doing?"
Roy stiffened his spine and looked Vince squarely in the eye. He very deliberately put on his helmet and grabbed the drug box. "Getting my partner back."
The air tasted funny. John knew air could change from clean and crisp like water to thick and bitter with smoke. But right now, it tasted smokeless but just as airless.
Not good.
Get in. Get out. Shoot, why couldn't that Doug make up his mind?
John lost track of the count he started as soon as the trunk lid slammed down over him. Doug appeared unimpressed when John tried one last time to plea with him to call for an ambulance for Jake. John babbled the symptoms they needed to look out for even as Doug shoved him head first into the shadowy space. The trunk seemed to have shrunk since John was last in there. His shoulders rubbed against the clumpy carpet and the inside of the dented lid when he curled to his side to face the opening for fresh air.
Well, not really fresh air but the warm trickle of air, even though it felt moist and stale as an exhale, was the best John could get. He had also kicked out the taillight by his feet as soon as he thought he heard Doug leave, heard the lamp fall out on the other side but all it gave him was the occasional lukewarm breeze lapping sluggishly at his exposed ankles.
Slow breaths, John told himself. Nice and even, just until Roy gets here because of course Roy was gonna get here. Roy was going to pull him out of here, lecture John about trunks and heat (although, Roy, it wasn't his fault) and then hustle him into the squad. Man, he sure missed his squad. He sure wished he finished that glass of ice water left perspiring on the kitchen table when the tones rang. John bit his lower lip. He fought to keep his breathing steady but something was sitting on his chest, growing heavier and heavier.
John's fingers curled as the band around his chest tightened. He was startled to feel paper crinkling in his fists. What the—oh yeah. John drew up the citation sheets he had clawed out of the book he hid in the trunk. He needed to get them out. He saw the sheets with his smudged handwriting. Fuzzily, John thought it should bother him that he couldn't remember when he had written 'Frog 1G9' on them or what the heck that meant.
Didn't matter. A tiny voice inside him told him to get them through the tiny hole by his face and to keep breathing.
The paper was rolled up into a wrinkly twig. John kept missing the hole, like how he would constantly miss the thread through the needle's eyehole so he barely got any of his buttons patched so Roy used to take them and his wife Joanna sewed them back on. Roy always claimed he grabbed John's shirts by mistake but John knew enough to send Joanna a big box of her favorite chocolates every other month. Hopefully, Joanna could sew back on his paramedic pins he had torn off to slip under Jake's blankets. No, pins don't need sewing, they—
Wait.
John's legs kicked the back of the trunk in a twitch he couldn't control, but it at least jarred his memory. Oh. John squinted blearily at the paper in his hands. His hands shook as he tried to thread the paper twist through the hole. He panicked briefly when it stuck and there was a brief flash of fear that it was blocking out his air. Focus, Gage, focus.
It took a few tries but John was able to push the note out and his insides unclenched when the opening cleared and the odd tasting air sluggishly blew at his face again.
John rested against the sticky trunk wall and breathed out slowly. He could feel tremors going up and down his back and his leg twitched again. Spasm, John thought absently. Next would be cramps. Rigidity. Vomiting.
No, not good at all.
"LA, Engine 8 available."
"10-4, Engine 8."
"…notify Battalion 126…"
"126 on scene."
The sizzle of water instantly boiling the moment it touched the blaze was loud, but not loud enough that Hank didn't hear LA's requests rattling through on their radio in their engine parked reassuringly behind him like a retaining wall.
"LA, Ladder 45. Cancel requested engines. Fire contained."
"Ladder 45."
"…37. Squad 37. Unknown type rescue. 2255 Beaker Avenue. Two two five five Beaker. Cross streets Wilford and Main. Time out…"
"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame…"
Hank glanced up at the Wilshire hotel which just moments before was fully involved and easily went from two alarms to four in a matter of minutes. Ladder 24's cherry picker was finally descending, sluggishly as if it didn't believe the fire was truly contained. The structure still smoldered resentfully, plumes of white and charcoal black smoke puffed up against the horizon. The white smoke, at least, was reassuring. Black meant the fire was still hungry.
"Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."
Wait a minute…
"What the heck?" Hank muttered as he thumbed up the brim of his helmet to consider his radio with a mild frown.
No. Roy was back in Rampart, waiting for Sanchez of 37 to get off his shift and pull overtime as Roy's partner.
Temporary partner, Hank reminded himself as something flared up in his chest in response. He did not envy poor Sanchez. He was a good paramedic and what was happening with Gage was not his fault. No, DeSoto's a good fireman, by the book. Surely he wasn't impulsive enough to be out there without Sanchez because that would mean he was out there looking for Gage when HQ specifically told him not to. No, Roy would listen to orders. He was levelheaded, calm, collected—
And John's partner.
"Ah hell," Hank groaned before yanking up his HT, "22, take over the scene."
"10-4, 51. All units, be advised 22 is now handling the scene. South side, ventilate the…"
Muttering under his breath, Hank spun completely around to glower at the radio up in Big Red's cabin. Like it or not, it was DeSoto's voice when he answered the call to LA. Hank heaved himself up into the cabin, wiggling to reach past a surprised Stoker to grab the radio mouthpiece.
"Cap?"
"Did you catch the address?" Hank demanded as he activated the radio.
"Address? What address?" Lopez asked outside, puzzled to find their captain in the engine instead of tracking the extinguished building smoking feet away.
"Squad 51."
Too late, LA approved the change in assignments before Hank could radio that fool DeSoto.
"Damn!" Hank thundered, inches from Stoker and loud enough that the engineer stumbled out of the cab with a yelp.
"Cap?" Kelly's eyes looked wider than usual on his soot-smudged face when he poked his head into the cab. "Everything okay?"
"It will be," Hank growled as he gripped the radio mouthpiece close to his mouth, "when I lock that twit in his locker for the rest of his career!"
"Uh, okay, Cap," Kelly said hastily. He climbed back down with a quick jump.
"Chet, what did you do?"
"It wasn't me!"
Hank could hear his men gathering by the door, the smoky wet stench of their turnout gear making his nostrils flare. He only gave them a long enough look to silence them. He counted three sweat plastered heads (good) before he barked into the radio.
"LA, connect me to Rampart Hospital."
Hyperthermia.
Increased body temperature due to thermo…thermo…thermo what?
He knew what was happening to him.
He knew what this was.
He also knew he just needed to hold on. Just a bit longer. The guys would be here. Roy would be here. He knew it. He just needed to…needed to what?
John forced himself to breathe slowly; wouldn't do to drive himself into tachypnea although deep down, he knew that wasn't really in his control.
John swallowed.
Doug wasn't coming back.
Think, John, think.
The taillight by his head was at an angle above his head; John didn't have enough room to pull back a fist to punch it out. At least he was able to kick the other one out.
Loosen clothing: checked. Well…sort of. John managed to pull out the ends of his shirt, but in the cramped, suffocating quarters, he couldn't wiggle out of his trousers. Then again, the thought of the guys finding him in his shorts wasn't appealing. Chet would never let him hear the end of it.
Breathe slowly. Loosen clothing. Find ventilation.
All John needed now was D5W and some Lactated ringers.
John wanted to laugh but it got stuck in his gummy mouth.
John smacked his lips.
Boy, he was thirsty.
Part 7-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!
Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10, 2/10, 3/10, 4/10, 5/10
A little old lady, hunched under the shade of her umbrella, pushed her shopping cart in front of his squad. She peered into his windshield and gave him an odd look but the heat deterred her curiosity. Her cart hopped as it went up the curb, scratching the squad's bumper as it rolled by. She shambled up the sidewalk, hip rubbing against the hood of his vehicle; cart clawing loudly enough bystanders grimaced, her umbrella waving above her. Roy ignored her. He sat in the squad, his jaw set as he studied the fenced gates and the rusty sign across from him. Watching. Waiting.
The place on Grove screamed violations. Its sign was three gusts of wind short of falling and the gate was discolored with enough rust to probably give someone distemper from just touching it alone. Carson Salvage was scrawled across in a sign that was badly soldered; streaked red and green from the rare rain the area ever endured and simple neglect. And there was no one walking in and out of it. No cars came up to the gates. This was it. It has to be.
Roy gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He glanced over to his partner's helmet, left on the passenger's side of the dashboard. It never occurred to him to put it elsewhere. It belonged there, right next to him, damn it.
"So what now?" Roy asked it.
The helmet didn't answer.
Roy flinched and forced his scrutiny back to the front once more.
Good boys, Mr. Dunning had told Roy when he held up an old, water-stained photo with gnarled hands. He didn't offer Roy anything to drink nor did he offer a seat. The wizened building manager went right on explaining why he agreed to call in the emergency. Jake Carson and Trip Dunning were childhood friends, Dunning had explained. The two knew each other since middle school; they played together, went with their dates to the prom together and then went off to Saigon together.
Only Jake came back.
Good boys, Mr. Dunning had insisted as he pawed the photos in a smelly and dented cigar box to pull out the black and white photograph of the three Carson brothers to show Roy. Douglas, Dunning relented later, was a two-bit hoodlum suddenly back home to take care of two kids when their parents died in a fire. Dunning had looked over at that piece of news to glower at Roy. The firemen couldn't reach them on the top floor of their house. The boys' father had dropped them out of a bedroom window into a waiting neighbors' makeshift net; just before the roof collapsed over the parents. All was left was Jake and Stevie. And Douglas: fresh out of Folsom and suddenly guardian to a teenager and a kid who wouldn't speak for three months.
Jake held them together, got Stevie talking again and cajoled Douglas to partner up with their dying uncle to run the salvage yard business while he finished high school. He was going to be a doctor. Trip was going to be an engineer.
Then President Johnson pulled out Jake and Trip's numbers and they boarded a plane to Asia.
Roy pinched a spot at the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was the only Carson Salvage Detective Crockett found based on what Dunning knew. Of course, Roy hung up on the detective as soon as he had written down the address, not giving him the chance to offer another address. Roy suspected Crockett wasn't going to be too happy to know he was here, Richards as well. Heck, Cap was probably right now devising ladder and hose exercises for him to run barefoot.
But his partner was there. Roy was sure of it.
The steering wheel squeaked as Roy's hands tightened around it.
The radio mouthpiece rattled when Roy grabbed it. He depressed the speaker, opened his mouth but nothing would come out. What could he say? What could he possibly say to convince LA to let him go in there and get Johnny back? He hung it back by the radio again and sighed.
"Just what do you think you're doing?"
Roy jumped in his seat. He twisted to his right and almost immediately sagged back into the bucket seat. Vince Howard glared at him through the open window, his helmet tilted back, his dark hands on the door.
"Hi," Roy managed to get out. At least it wasn't the captain.
Vince's eyes narrowed.
"Hi? Is that all you have to say for yourself? Crockett was right: you are foolish enough to come down here on your own."
Then again, Cap might have been a better alternative to the fuming face leaning closer. A few more inches and Vince was going to find himself inside the squad.
"…and with your fire truck, too! Don't you boys watch television? At least choose something less conspicuous than a shiny, red fire truck parked across the street! What were you going to do if the guy who took Gage was in there? What if he came after you? Shoot him down with your hose?"
"Actually," Roy stammered, "the squads don't carry water tanks to feed our…" He trailed off at the glare. Vince didn't seem to care.
"Roy," Vince said slowly, "What the heck are you doing here?"
"The voice in the 911 call," Roy plowed through because it looked like Vince was going to reach in and haul him out through the passenger window. "When I was in Rampart, it hit me that it sounded pretty close to the building manager of 316 so I went over and…" Roy hesitated.
Vince straightened away from the window and folded his arms across his chest. With the uniform, it made a formidable look.
"And what?" Vince asked archly, "You decided to head over there. Alone. And ask the guy where Gage was?"
Roy swallowed. "Uh…Yes?"
Vince rolled his eyes. He nudged back the brim of his helmet as he muttered. Roy gulped when he thought he heard Vince debating arresting him.
"DeSoto, I always thought you and your partner were crazy for all those risks you two take, but this…Of all the…unbelievable." Vince threw up his hands.
Roy leaned over John's side of the seat. "He told me it was never meant to be anything more than a robbery. The person who did this…Vince, he's just a kid. They never wanted to hurt anybody."
"They?"
Oops. Roy took a deep breath. "There's…there's three of them. Brothers. I—"
"Damn it, Roy!" Vince exploded. He gave the salvage yard a dark look before abruptly twisting around.
"What are you doing?" Roy exclaimed. He lunged forward and snagged the closest sleeve he could reach through the window.
"Calling for backup," Vince muttered. "Get Richards and Crockett here. They went to follow a lead in La Jolla."
"Vince, that's too far away. We can't wait for them to get here and if they start shooting…" Roy twisted the sleeve he held tighter.
"Vince, Johnny's in there."
The officer stilled. He looked at Roy then at the salvage yard. He sighed.
"We can't just barge in there demanding your partner back either," Vince pointed out. "Roy—"
There was a snap and sizzle of static from the radio.
"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame."
Roy jerked her gaze to across the street. He stared at the sign before lunging for his radio.
"LA," Roy said to the mouthpiece he clutched to him. "Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."
There was only a brief pause, but Roy had the cold fear in his gut that said maybe LA might disagree. He was far from where he should be, far from Rampart and Harbor as well.
"Squad 51," LA acknowledged.
Roy pressed the mouthpiece to his forehead and exhaled. He returned it to its cradle and slid over to get out of the squad.
"Roy," Vince couldn't keep quiet anymore as he tracked Roy trotting over to the side to get the newly replenished supplies. "What are you doing?"
Roy stiffened his spine and looked Vince squarely in the eye. He very deliberately put on his helmet and grabbed the drug box. "Getting my partner back."
The air tasted funny. John knew air could change from clean and crisp like water to thick and bitter with smoke. But right now, it tasted smokeless but just as airless.
Not good.
Get in. Get out. Shoot, why couldn't that Doug make up his mind?
John lost track of the count he started as soon as the trunk lid slammed down over him. Doug appeared unimpressed when John tried one last time to plea with him to call for an ambulance for Jake. John babbled the symptoms they needed to look out for even as Doug shoved him head first into the shadowy space. The trunk seemed to have shrunk since John was last in there. His shoulders rubbed against the clumpy carpet and the inside of the dented lid when he curled to his side to face the opening for fresh air.
Well, not really fresh air but the warm trickle of air, even though it felt moist and stale as an exhale, was the best John could get. He had also kicked out the taillight by his feet as soon as he thought he heard Doug leave, heard the lamp fall out on the other side but all it gave him was the occasional lukewarm breeze lapping sluggishly at his exposed ankles.
Slow breaths, John told himself. Nice and even, just until Roy gets here because of course Roy was gonna get here. Roy was going to pull him out of here, lecture John about trunks and heat (although, Roy, it wasn't his fault) and then hustle him into the squad. Man, he sure missed his squad. He sure wished he finished that glass of ice water left perspiring on the kitchen table when the tones rang. John bit his lower lip. He fought to keep his breathing steady but something was sitting on his chest, growing heavier and heavier.
John's fingers curled as the band around his chest tightened. He was startled to feel paper crinkling in his fists. What the—oh yeah. John drew up the citation sheets he had clawed out of the book he hid in the trunk. He needed to get them out. He saw the sheets with his smudged handwriting. Fuzzily, John thought it should bother him that he couldn't remember when he had written 'Frog 1G9' on them or what the heck that meant.
Didn't matter. A tiny voice inside him told him to get them through the tiny hole by his face and to keep breathing.
The paper was rolled up into a wrinkly twig. John kept missing the hole, like how he would constantly miss the thread through the needle's eyehole so he barely got any of his buttons patched so Roy used to take them and his wife Joanna sewed them back on. Roy always claimed he grabbed John's shirts by mistake but John knew enough to send Joanna a big box of her favorite chocolates every other month. Hopefully, Joanna could sew back on his paramedic pins he had torn off to slip under Jake's blankets. No, pins don't need sewing, they—
Wait.
John's legs kicked the back of the trunk in a twitch he couldn't control, but it at least jarred his memory. Oh. John squinted blearily at the paper in his hands. His hands shook as he tried to thread the paper twist through the hole. He panicked briefly when it stuck and there was a brief flash of fear that it was blocking out his air. Focus, Gage, focus.
It took a few tries but John was able to push the note out and his insides unclenched when the opening cleared and the odd tasting air sluggishly blew at his face again.
John rested against the sticky trunk wall and breathed out slowly. He could feel tremors going up and down his back and his leg twitched again. Spasm, John thought absently. Next would be cramps. Rigidity. Vomiting.
No, not good at all.
"LA, Engine 8 available."
"10-4, Engine 8."
"…notify Battalion 126…"
"126 on scene."
The sizzle of water instantly boiling the moment it touched the blaze was loud, but not loud enough that Hank didn't hear LA's requests rattling through on their radio in their engine parked reassuringly behind him like a retaining wall.
"LA, Ladder 45. Cancel requested engines. Fire contained."
"Ladder 45."
"…37. Squad 37. Unknown type rescue. 2255 Beaker Avenue. Two two five five Beaker. Cross streets Wilford and Main. Time out…"
"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame…"
Hank glanced up at the Wilshire hotel which just moments before was fully involved and easily went from two alarms to four in a matter of minutes. Ladder 24's cherry picker was finally descending, sluggishly as if it didn't believe the fire was truly contained. The structure still smoldered resentfully, plumes of white and charcoal black smoke puffed up against the horizon. The white smoke, at least, was reassuring. Black meant the fire was still hungry.
"Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."
Wait a minute…
"What the heck?" Hank muttered as he thumbed up the brim of his helmet to consider his radio with a mild frown.
No. Roy was back in Rampart, waiting for Sanchez of 37 to get off his shift and pull overtime as Roy's partner.
Temporary partner, Hank reminded himself as something flared up in his chest in response. He did not envy poor Sanchez. He was a good paramedic and what was happening with Gage was not his fault. No, DeSoto's a good fireman, by the book. Surely he wasn't impulsive enough to be out there without Sanchez because that would mean he was out there looking for Gage when HQ specifically told him not to. No, Roy would listen to orders. He was levelheaded, calm, collected—
And John's partner.
"Ah hell," Hank groaned before yanking up his HT, "22, take over the scene."
"10-4, 51. All units, be advised 22 is now handling the scene. South side, ventilate the…"
Muttering under his breath, Hank spun completely around to glower at the radio up in Big Red's cabin. Like it or not, it was DeSoto's voice when he answered the call to LA. Hank heaved himself up into the cabin, wiggling to reach past a surprised Stoker to grab the radio mouthpiece.
"Cap?"
"Did you catch the address?" Hank demanded as he activated the radio.
"Address? What address?" Lopez asked outside, puzzled to find their captain in the engine instead of tracking the extinguished building smoking feet away.
"Squad 51."
Too late, LA approved the change in assignments before Hank could radio that fool DeSoto.
"Damn!" Hank thundered, inches from Stoker and loud enough that the engineer stumbled out of the cab with a yelp.
"Cap?" Kelly's eyes looked wider than usual on his soot-smudged face when he poked his head into the cab. "Everything okay?"
"It will be," Hank growled as he gripped the radio mouthpiece close to his mouth, "when I lock that twit in his locker for the rest of his career!"
"Uh, okay, Cap," Kelly said hastily. He climbed back down with a quick jump.
"Chet, what did you do?"
"It wasn't me!"
Hank could hear his men gathering by the door, the smoky wet stench of their turnout gear making his nostrils flare. He only gave them a long enough look to silence them. He counted three sweat plastered heads (good) before he barked into the radio.
"LA, connect me to Rampart Hospital."
Hyperthermia.
Increased body temperature due to thermo…thermo…thermo what?
He knew what was happening to him.
He knew what this was.
He also knew he just needed to hold on. Just a bit longer. The guys would be here. Roy would be here. He knew it. He just needed to…needed to what?
John forced himself to breathe slowly; wouldn't do to drive himself into tachypnea although deep down, he knew that wasn't really in his control.
John swallowed.
Doug wasn't coming back.
Think, John, think.
The taillight by his head was at an angle above his head; John didn't have enough room to pull back a fist to punch it out. At least he was able to kick the other one out.
Loosen clothing: checked. Well…sort of. John managed to pull out the ends of his shirt, but in the cramped, suffocating quarters, he couldn't wiggle out of his trousers. Then again, the thought of the guys finding him in his shorts wasn't appealing. Chet would never let him hear the end of it.
Breathe slowly. Loosen clothing. Find ventilation.
All John needed now was D5W and some Lactated ringers.
John wanted to laugh but it got stuck in his gummy mouth.
John smacked his lips.
Boy, he was thirsty.
Part 7-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
