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FIC: Run (Emergency, Gen, PG 7/10)
Title: 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, 6/10
There was a moment Roy worried perhaps whoever was in Carson's Salvage had been watching them outside. When he jogged over with Vince with the gear to the rundown gates; one half of the lopsided iron wrought gate screeched open as soon as his boots had touched the curb.
A tall, broad shouldered man stood at the gap, his face shadowed, his mouth twisted in a way Roy could feel Vince tensing besides him when they simultaneously skidded to a halt. Roy caught a glimpse of what almost looked like lightning carved into the square jaw. This must be the older brother Doug, Roy thought. His gut knotted at the thought of Doug standing over his partner.
"Fast," was the only comment Doug offered, his blue eyes scanning both of them up and down. "You don't look like ambulance people."
"They're right behind us," Roy reassured him. "They're usually sent out with us after the 911 call is received. We're here to assess the condition and stabilize the situation before they arrive."
Doug's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Paramedics?" He grumbled darkly under his breath but stepped aside to let them through. "My brother's in that building there."
"What's wrong with your brother?" Vince asked and Roy winced.
"He's sick," Doug said curtly. He turned on his heels and led the way, offering nothing more.
Roy hurried his steps but Vince, perhaps forgetting he was supposed to be a fireman, wasn't deterred. Despite wearing the spare turnout gear over his uniform and lugging the IV box and defibrillator, Vince didn't sound out of breath in the afternoon heat. His long strides easily ate the distance between him and Doug.
"How long has he been sick? Did he see a doctor before? How long did you wait before calling 911?"
Roy grimaced when he sighted the building—if it could be called that—corrugated sheet metal gleaming under sunlight. Even a healthy person staying there would become sick.
"You ask a lot of questions for a fireman."
Roy froze at Doug’s growl. He shot Vince a look. Vince merely nodded and pretended to struggle with the gear, easing back a step.
"Have to know the medical history before we can treat your brother," Vince said, making a point not to meet the man’s eyes. Doug pursed his lips but said nothing more.
Roy pushed the door open. Doug didn't appear to be too convinced.
"Treat?" A pale-faced kid with stringy blonde hair twisted around from his position by the lone cot inside, his eyes hopeful. "So you can help him?"
Roy pasted a smile on his face with some effort. A part of him didn't think there was really a patient. He had hoped the moment he opened the door, Johnny would be there. "The sooner we could see your brother, the faster we can get him to help." He took a step towards the cot and the kid followed with scared eyes. "I'm Fireman Roy DeSoto and uh…this is Fireman Vince Howard. Were you the ones who called 911? What's your name, son?"
The boy's words tripped over each other as he wiggled away to let Roy crouch by the unconscious man. "Stephen C-carson. Doug thought we should wait, b-but the guy—"
"Stevie!" Doug snapped. Vince spun around and Roy was positive if the officer weren't holding onto his gear, he would have pulled out his gun.
"Stop jabbering. Don't distract the firemen from helping Jake," Doug grumbled. He yanked Stevie to his feet. Stevie stumbled before huddling next to the larger man.
"You can help him, right?" Doug asked reluctantly after a pleading look from Stevie.
Roy tapped the bell of his stethoscope and settled it over the thin chest he exposed with an efficient yank at the shirt. The wet rustling that echoed in his ears made the corners of his mouth tighten. He settled a hand over his patient's belly and checked his watch as he tallied the much too slow rise and falls. He glanced over at Vance, who stared back with a furrowed brow. The police officer was looking like the properly somber paramedic but his dark eyes lacked the comprehension of what was before him.
"Why don't you radio Rampart and see what that ETA is for that ambulance?" Roy murmured slowly.
"Ambulance?" Stevie stammered. He stepped away from his brother's shadow and hovered by the foot of the cot. His hands twisted around something he pressed to his chest. "Then…he really has to go to the hospital? Jake said he didn't wanna go to the hospital."
Roy pumped the pressure cuff ball and read the numbers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning. "I'm afraid this is not an option. Your brother here…he's very sick." Roy looked up at the pale face. Stevie's lower lip trembled.
"We should have listened. We shoulda called sooner…he said if his heartbeat got real slow then—"
"Who's he?" Vince asked, his eyes on Roy. He opened each box. Roy hoped the two men behind Vince couldn't see the hesitation as fingers fumbled over every compartment until Roy's tiny cough signaled him to stop at the right thing.
"Jake," Doug cut in smoothly. "Our brother told Stevie here to watch out for stuff. He was a medic in the Marines."
"That where you got that IV and stethoscope, son?" Vince nodded towards what Stevie clutched in his hands.
Stevie started. He looked down at what he held and gulped. "J-jake was a medic. This is his stuff. From when he was in Vietnam. Jake taught me to…" Stevie blinked rapidly. "He told me how to use it. Listen to his heart and stuff. Just in case."
Roy bit his tongue as he concentrated on pressing down on the belly and its unnatural rigidness. He couldn't let him think about how new the stethoscope looked for one stuck in the jungle before.
Doug's shadow eclipsed his ailing brother's prone body when he stepped forward. "What are you doing?"
"Your brother was right," Roy told him quickly but it wasn't enough to tear the oldest brother away from staring at Vince as he grabbed the biophone. Luckily, no one saw Vince first reach into the turnout gear for his handie talkie. "It's a good thing you called 911."
"What is he doing?" Doug repeated.
"Doug," Stevie whimpered. "Jake said no hospitals, but—"
"I said what is he doing?"
Vince squared his jaw but took great care to hold up the red phone for show. Everyone visibly tensed when the biophone chirped, the connection made.
"Rampart Hospital, this is Squad 51," Vince said slowly, his eyes on Doug. "This is Fireman Vince Howard."
Doug eased back but Roy's throat caught at the pause before the biophone finally crackled back.
"We read you, 51. This is Doctor Brackett. What do you have, Vince?"
Roy was pretty sure if he checked himself right now, he was probably diaphoretic; he could feel the back of his shirt starting to cling to his back. Roy swallowed and rattled off the vitals. Vince proved to be a quick learner; he remembered exactly what Roy had instructed him by the squad. He repeated everything back to Rampart.
The IV lines were established, tiny old syringe marks on blue lined arms were ignored. Roy kept one ear out to hear; what, he wasn't sure. Doug and Stevie weren't talking. Jake was definitely in no condition to carry on a conversation and the one voice Roy needed to hear was painfully absent. Where was Johnny? Roy was pretty sure now why his partner was brought here. And judging by the shadow Doug made over him and his patient, Johnny couldn't have risked escape either. Even if there was a chance, John was a paramedic before he was anything else. Roy knew his partner would save his patient before he would save himself. John Gage would never walk away from someone who needed help: especially not in Jake's current condition.
"Ambulance will be here in eleven minutes," Vince reported and it wasn't an ideal ETA and Doug caught the frown before Roy could hide it.
"That bad?" Doug's shadow seemed to have deflated before them. Stevie's head whipped up at his older brother.
"D-doug?"
"Quiet." Eyes zeroed in on Roy's face in silent challenge, daring him to lie.
"If we get him to a hospital fast," Roy said carefully, "There's a chance." He readjusted the breathing mask over Jake. An esophageal would have been better, but a quick check had revealed to Roy a mouth far too raw from repeated vomiting to endure the life-saving intrusion.
"A drug overdose is very damaging," Roy said, unable to stop himself when he thought of the numerous old track marks. What a waste. "If you had waited to call 911—"
"Who said it was a drug overdose?" Doug darkened and he tugged Stevie closer to his side by the sleeve.
Vince wordlessly turned one thin arm towards the pair. "What was he into?" Vince asked, in a calm voice Roy envied. "Heroin?"
"We can't help him until we know what's killing him inside," Roy told the pair of closed faces. "Your brother could die."
Stevie's blotchy face blanched further and he opened his mouth but at Doug's tug on his arm, shut his mouth again with a snap.
"You called 911," Roy directed it to Stevie now. "You must have had some idea your brother was getting worse."
The young, scared face finally crumbled. Stevie jerked away from his older brother.
"Heroin! It was h-heroin! But he was trying to quit! Honest! Jake told us how to help him and we got the stuff he needed. I thought it was enough…but the guy said it would kill Jake but Jake said—"
"What stuff?" Vince asked before Roy could.
Stevie eyed Doug, who gaped at his little brother, maybe too shocked at the outburst. When Doug did nothing, Stevie wiped his dribbling nose with the back of his sleeve, and then nodded to something under the cot.
At Vince's nod, Roy peeled his eyes away from the two brothers and crouched lower to look under the cot. He vaguely made out small shapes, but it was too shadowed to identify anything. Roy hurriedly reached in and grabbed the shapes with one swoop, his other hand whipping out to catch something that tumbled out of his too full grip. He sat up and opened that hand to stare at the lone and empty bottle of morphine sulfate.
Oh God.
"When did you give him this?" Roy whispered. The vial felt cool in his palm. He could see the faint imprints of a hospital stamp on them. All he could make out was the 'R' and 'A' on the MS vial but it was enough. His mouth went dry. He could barely get the words out.
"When did you give him this? How much?" Roy's chest clenched. There was no way Johnny would have administered this. No. Not MS.
"Forty minutes ago," Stevie whispered.
"Shut up," Doug hissed, recovering from his initial shock.
"How much?" Roy asked sharply as he squeezed the lone bottle. His other hand twinged painfully around the items it still grasped tight against his hip.
"All of it." Stevie burst into tears. "It's true what he said then? Jake wanted to die?"
Roy wasn't paying attention to the rest of what Stevie was blubbering about as he lunged across the cot for the biophone. He tossed everything from both his hands onto the cot, snatched the phone, barking for Rampart even as Vince questioned Stevie where the MS came from. Stevie was sobbing too hard to answer.
"We bought it," Doug answered, his words forced out between a snarl.
"Rampart, we have further information on the patient," Roy was speaking into the phone.
"From who?" Vince pressed.
"Go ahead, 51."
"I don't know who!" Doug snapped. "Some dude on the street!"
"Which street?"
"I don't know! Walker!"
"East or West?"
Roy was nodding at what Brackett was telling him. He adjusted the IV drip, his eyes darting to Jake's stricken face. He set his hand on Jake's belly again. Comparing it with what he got with the respiration number before, Roy's mouth pressed together.
"51. LA reports ambulance ETA is now six minutes," the biophone garbled out.
Roy set his jaw. He darted a glance over to Doug, glowering at Vince. The two men stood eye to eye. Stevie was sitting on the edge of the cot now, shoulders shaking, his head in his hands.
"The guy you got this from?" Roy asked tersely as he looked around the room again, his throat tight. "What does he look like?"
"Why are you asking all these questions?" Doug growled. "You should be saving our brother!"
"Look man, we need to know where these drugs came from—"
"I don't know!"
Roy swallowed. His eyes burned but he couldn't ignore Jake Carson's need either. Already, Jake's lower extremities were hardening into knotted spasms, legs twitching under the threadbare blanket. The bottles Roy grabbed with his other hand clinked under the tremors but they were also making another sound.
Something silver glinted dully among the empty vials Roy had blindly thrown down between the covered legs before. Roy reached for it, curled shaking fingers over the smooth, tiny piece of metal and drew it close enough to see the small caduceus.
"Vince," Roy choked out and he raised the pin up to Vince. "It's Joh—"
"Watch out!"
"Doug, no!"
There was no time to react or even see what was happening. Roy saw Vince leap over the cot, tackling him to the ground just as a sharp ping zipped over them and one of the metal walls shook from the impact. Roy felt Vince push his head down behind the cot and he found himself staring at Jake's IV line as Vince yanked out his revolver.
"You're a cop!" Doug roared.
Roy grimaced as he heard a hammer cocked back. No room, Roy thought. They were too close to miss…
"Doug, stop!"
"Get out of my way!"
"You can't do this! This has gone too—"
"Come on," Vince ordered, grabbing the back of Roy's turnout coat and heaved him to his feet. He jerked Roy towards the door when Roy turned towards Jake. He caught a glimpse of Stevie tugging Doug's arm, his gun wildly seesawing in the air. But Vince gave him another shove out the door and Roy found himself stumbling besides Vince.
There was another shot—Stevie probably couldn't hold his brother off—as soon as the door slammed shut. Roy felt it spit by his shoe, close enough to make him trip but Vince's meaty grip on the back of his turnout coat righted him.
Old drills from his service in the Army taught him to keep his head low, his path across the yard a zig zag. They twisted around one pile of smashed cars, ducked under another stack (Code 387 dictates they should be—oh shut up, Roy) and somewhere between going around the compactor and a pillar of crushed bikes, they discarded their turnout gear.
Vince, armed with his own training and his gun, was right behind him as they ran. The officer alternated from hissing to Roy to keep moving and returning fire. Doug stayed doggedly behind them until suddenly, he wasn't.
Roy skidded around a pile of smashed up cars and barrels of half emptied acetylates. He crouched, sheltered under its shadow. Vince nearly collided into him, sliding in the dust.
"Those should be upright," Roy mumbled as he noticed the barrels they were hiding behind. Vince only huffed in response. Roy raised his head cautiously. He could see the shed meters away.
A ping screeched past his ear and buried itself in the metal behind him.
Vince gave him a rough push until Roy was crouched down again, his chin nearly hitting his knees. "Stay down!" he ordered.
"But—"
"Damn it, Roy, will you just listen to me this time!"
Roy shot a scowl at him. "Jake Carson needs help." He opened the fist he had held close to his hip to reveal the pin he never let go of. "And Johnny's out there somewhere. They know where he is."
"Do you also need a hole in your head?" Vince countered. He checked his revolver with a flick of his wrist. Vince swore.
"What?" Roy watched Vince dig a reload out of his pockets, sliding a chamber of bullets into his gun with a somber click.
"No more bullets left," Vince reported shortly. He raised his head to look to his left. Another ping had him ducking fast.
"Maybe you should stay down," Roy suggested.
The glower Vince gave him told Roy what the officer thought of his advice.
Vince nodded towards their left.
"You see those barrels over there? The ones over—keep your head down!" Vince glared at Roy. "The gates are past that. Get to those barrels and then to the entrance and your squad."
Roy stared.
Vince, not understanding, gripped his gun firmly. "Don't worry. I'll draw his fire. It should give you enough time to—"
"I'm not leaving you here!" Roy burst out. "Or my patient. Or my partner!"
"We don't know if John's even—"
Roy slapped the pin against Vince's chest. "That's an LA County paramedic pin. John's pin. He's here."
Vince pressed it back into Roy's hand. "Fine. You're still going back to the squad."
"Vince—"
"Unless you have another biophone or a radio with you 'cause last I checked, everything is back there, I need you to get to the squad. Get some patrol cars here."
Roy paused. He squeezed a fist around the pin.
Two pings punctured the headlights of a wreck in front of them.
"You want Jake's ambulance to come into this? We're going to find your partner with this heat? We need backup!"
Roy swallowed. He pocketed John's pin and eyed the distant barrels. They seemed to stretch further away.
"Count of three?" Roy asked evenly.
Vince clapped him on the shoulder. "One…"
Roy took a deep breath, his shoulders rounding into a hunch. He could feel his gut clench.
"Two…"
To the barrels, duck behind that jeep and to the gate…
"Three!"
Vince's first return fire was the starter's gun. Roy bolted, head low, his arms close to his sides to be as small as a target as possible. There was a shout, a line of heat that brushed by him but then Vince returned fire in a quick one-two succession that left him ignored. Roy stumbled into the barrels' shadow. He made a face at the smell (they weren't properly sealed) and he studied the space he just fled.
Why was it quiet now?
Roy panted quietly, his legs burned as if he had climbed ten stories in full turnout gear. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, his sleeves stuck into his armpits but all Roy could think was that it was probably twice as hot in the shed.
The stretch between the barrels and the jeep was as wide as the San Diego freeway. Nothing else stood between them. Roy bit his lower lip. He checked over his shoulder. The stacks and stacks of wreckage loomed, curtaining everything in shadow despite the afternoon sun creeping up to its zenith.
"Carson!" Vince abruptly hollered. "Give it up! You don't want to do this! Let us save your brother! The longer we're out here, the longer it will take before Jake will get help!"
"Shut up!" A couple of bullets barked back towards Vince.
Roy twitched. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. Roy just ran. He fixed on the crumpled jeep, poured on an extra burst of speed as he crossed the empty clearing. Get to the squad, get to the squad. Vince's words echoed in his head as his feet pounded across the distance.
Doug Carson stepped out from behind the jeep.
Roy's boots burned as he skidded to an abrupt halt, his body twisting vainly away as he saw Doug raise his gun arm. Roy threw himself to the ground just as he caught sight of Vince racing towards them, shouting but Roy couldn't hear past Joanne's crying out his name in his ears to hear what Vince was saying. The gun fired. Roy tensed.
Engine 51 roared as it shattered the gates, thundered in and stood between Roy and the gun.
"Geez!" Chet yelped as the bullet meant for Roy smashed into the side of Big Red. "He has a gun!"
"Hey!" Stoker bellowed in an outrage Roy hadn't heard from him before.
"Everybody out! Other side!" Cap could be heard shoving Mario and Chet out the doors. The two firemen tumbled out to land by Roy. "You too, Mike!"
"He shot her! Cap, he shot my—"
"Out, you twit!"
"Carson!" Vince veered sharply away from Roy and towards the older brother. Roy pushed himself up shakily on one elbow and squinted blearily at the dark uniform going farther and farther away.
Hands ran over his back, slipped under his arms to lift him off the dusty ground. Roy sat, cross-legged, his hands gripping his knees. He fought the urge not to hyperventilate. And to think Joanne was worried about him burning in a fire.
"Hey, you okay there, pal?"
"He all right, Cap?"
"I can't believe he shot my engine…"
"Aw, Mike. She'll live…"
Roy blinked and looked up at four grimy faces that filled his vision. The corner of his mouth tugged. Somehow, it was comforting to have the acrid odor of wet wood and smoke filling his nostrils.
"H-hi," Roy wheezed.
Cap scowled. He hauled Roy up to his feet. He whistled to something behind the engine and Squad 18 rolled into view.
Roy stared stupidly at the three paramedics climbing out of the squad. "How…?"
"Called Rampart and heard Sanchez was there twiddling his thumbs." Cap folded his arms across his chest. Roy gulped at the hard glare directed at him. "Apparently, his overtime left without him so he hitched a ride with Squad 18, seeing LA reassigned them to this call." Cap had the look of a summer storm on his face.
Oh. Roy offered Cap and the others a shaky smile.
"Roy, of all the crazy ideas you two get, this has to be—"
Roy pulled out the pin. Cap's tirade petered out.
"They have him." Roy dropped the pin into his captain's hand.
Cap looked down at the tiny metal in his hand. He sighed and wiped a palm down his face. His dark eyes lifted and met Roy's.
"Let's go find our boy."
Part 8-->
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, 6/10
There was a moment Roy worried perhaps whoever was in Carson's Salvage had been watching them outside. When he jogged over with Vince with the gear to the rundown gates; one half of the lopsided iron wrought gate screeched open as soon as his boots had touched the curb.
A tall, broad shouldered man stood at the gap, his face shadowed, his mouth twisted in a way Roy could feel Vince tensing besides him when they simultaneously skidded to a halt. Roy caught a glimpse of what almost looked like lightning carved into the square jaw. This must be the older brother Doug, Roy thought. His gut knotted at the thought of Doug standing over his partner.
"Fast," was the only comment Doug offered, his blue eyes scanning both of them up and down. "You don't look like ambulance people."
"They're right behind us," Roy reassured him. "They're usually sent out with us after the 911 call is received. We're here to assess the condition and stabilize the situation before they arrive."
Doug's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Paramedics?" He grumbled darkly under his breath but stepped aside to let them through. "My brother's in that building there."
"What's wrong with your brother?" Vince asked and Roy winced.
"He's sick," Doug said curtly. He turned on his heels and led the way, offering nothing more.
Roy hurried his steps but Vince, perhaps forgetting he was supposed to be a fireman, wasn't deterred. Despite wearing the spare turnout gear over his uniform and lugging the IV box and defibrillator, Vince didn't sound out of breath in the afternoon heat. His long strides easily ate the distance between him and Doug.
"How long has he been sick? Did he see a doctor before? How long did you wait before calling 911?"
Roy grimaced when he sighted the building—if it could be called that—corrugated sheet metal gleaming under sunlight. Even a healthy person staying there would become sick.
"You ask a lot of questions for a fireman."
Roy froze at Doug’s growl. He shot Vince a look. Vince merely nodded and pretended to struggle with the gear, easing back a step.
"Have to know the medical history before we can treat your brother," Vince said, making a point not to meet the man’s eyes. Doug pursed his lips but said nothing more.
Roy pushed the door open. Doug didn't appear to be too convinced.
"Treat?" A pale-faced kid with stringy blonde hair twisted around from his position by the lone cot inside, his eyes hopeful. "So you can help him?"
Roy pasted a smile on his face with some effort. A part of him didn't think there was really a patient. He had hoped the moment he opened the door, Johnny would be there. "The sooner we could see your brother, the faster we can get him to help." He took a step towards the cot and the kid followed with scared eyes. "I'm Fireman Roy DeSoto and uh…this is Fireman Vince Howard. Were you the ones who called 911? What's your name, son?"
The boy's words tripped over each other as he wiggled away to let Roy crouch by the unconscious man. "Stephen C-carson. Doug thought we should wait, b-but the guy—"
"Stevie!" Doug snapped. Vince spun around and Roy was positive if the officer weren't holding onto his gear, he would have pulled out his gun.
"Stop jabbering. Don't distract the firemen from helping Jake," Doug grumbled. He yanked Stevie to his feet. Stevie stumbled before huddling next to the larger man.
"You can help him, right?" Doug asked reluctantly after a pleading look from Stevie.
Roy tapped the bell of his stethoscope and settled it over the thin chest he exposed with an efficient yank at the shirt. The wet rustling that echoed in his ears made the corners of his mouth tighten. He settled a hand over his patient's belly and checked his watch as he tallied the much too slow rise and falls. He glanced over at Vance, who stared back with a furrowed brow. The police officer was looking like the properly somber paramedic but his dark eyes lacked the comprehension of what was before him.
"Why don't you radio Rampart and see what that ETA is for that ambulance?" Roy murmured slowly.
"Ambulance?" Stevie stammered. He stepped away from his brother's shadow and hovered by the foot of the cot. His hands twisted around something he pressed to his chest. "Then…he really has to go to the hospital? Jake said he didn't wanna go to the hospital."
Roy pumped the pressure cuff ball and read the numbers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning. "I'm afraid this is not an option. Your brother here…he's very sick." Roy looked up at the pale face. Stevie's lower lip trembled.
"We should have listened. We shoulda called sooner…he said if his heartbeat got real slow then—"
"Who's he?" Vince asked, his eyes on Roy. He opened each box. Roy hoped the two men behind Vince couldn't see the hesitation as fingers fumbled over every compartment until Roy's tiny cough signaled him to stop at the right thing.
"Jake," Doug cut in smoothly. "Our brother told Stevie here to watch out for stuff. He was a medic in the Marines."
"That where you got that IV and stethoscope, son?" Vince nodded towards what Stevie clutched in his hands.
Stevie started. He looked down at what he held and gulped. "J-jake was a medic. This is his stuff. From when he was in Vietnam. Jake taught me to…" Stevie blinked rapidly. "He told me how to use it. Listen to his heart and stuff. Just in case."
Roy bit his tongue as he concentrated on pressing down on the belly and its unnatural rigidness. He couldn't let him think about how new the stethoscope looked for one stuck in the jungle before.
Doug's shadow eclipsed his ailing brother's prone body when he stepped forward. "What are you doing?"
"Your brother was right," Roy told him quickly but it wasn't enough to tear the oldest brother away from staring at Vince as he grabbed the biophone. Luckily, no one saw Vince first reach into the turnout gear for his handie talkie. "It's a good thing you called 911."
"What is he doing?" Doug repeated.
"Doug," Stevie whimpered. "Jake said no hospitals, but—"
"I said what is he doing?"
Vince squared his jaw but took great care to hold up the red phone for show. Everyone visibly tensed when the biophone chirped, the connection made.
"Rampart Hospital, this is Squad 51," Vince said slowly, his eyes on Doug. "This is Fireman Vince Howard."
Doug eased back but Roy's throat caught at the pause before the biophone finally crackled back.
"We read you, 51. This is Doctor Brackett. What do you have, Vince?"
Roy was pretty sure if he checked himself right now, he was probably diaphoretic; he could feel the back of his shirt starting to cling to his back. Roy swallowed and rattled off the vitals. Vince proved to be a quick learner; he remembered exactly what Roy had instructed him by the squad. He repeated everything back to Rampart.
The IV lines were established, tiny old syringe marks on blue lined arms were ignored. Roy kept one ear out to hear; what, he wasn't sure. Doug and Stevie weren't talking. Jake was definitely in no condition to carry on a conversation and the one voice Roy needed to hear was painfully absent. Where was Johnny? Roy was pretty sure now why his partner was brought here. And judging by the shadow Doug made over him and his patient, Johnny couldn't have risked escape either. Even if there was a chance, John was a paramedic before he was anything else. Roy knew his partner would save his patient before he would save himself. John Gage would never walk away from someone who needed help: especially not in Jake's current condition.
"Ambulance will be here in eleven minutes," Vince reported and it wasn't an ideal ETA and Doug caught the frown before Roy could hide it.
"That bad?" Doug's shadow seemed to have deflated before them. Stevie's head whipped up at his older brother.
"D-doug?"
"Quiet." Eyes zeroed in on Roy's face in silent challenge, daring him to lie.
"If we get him to a hospital fast," Roy said carefully, "There's a chance." He readjusted the breathing mask over Jake. An esophageal would have been better, but a quick check had revealed to Roy a mouth far too raw from repeated vomiting to endure the life-saving intrusion.
"A drug overdose is very damaging," Roy said, unable to stop himself when he thought of the numerous old track marks. What a waste. "If you had waited to call 911—"
"Who said it was a drug overdose?" Doug darkened and he tugged Stevie closer to his side by the sleeve.
Vince wordlessly turned one thin arm towards the pair. "What was he into?" Vince asked, in a calm voice Roy envied. "Heroin?"
"We can't help him until we know what's killing him inside," Roy told the pair of closed faces. "Your brother could die."
Stevie's blotchy face blanched further and he opened his mouth but at Doug's tug on his arm, shut his mouth again with a snap.
"You called 911," Roy directed it to Stevie now. "You must have had some idea your brother was getting worse."
The young, scared face finally crumbled. Stevie jerked away from his older brother.
"Heroin! It was h-heroin! But he was trying to quit! Honest! Jake told us how to help him and we got the stuff he needed. I thought it was enough…but the guy said it would kill Jake but Jake said—"
"What stuff?" Vince asked before Roy could.
Stevie eyed Doug, who gaped at his little brother, maybe too shocked at the outburst. When Doug did nothing, Stevie wiped his dribbling nose with the back of his sleeve, and then nodded to something under the cot.
At Vince's nod, Roy peeled his eyes away from the two brothers and crouched lower to look under the cot. He vaguely made out small shapes, but it was too shadowed to identify anything. Roy hurriedly reached in and grabbed the shapes with one swoop, his other hand whipping out to catch something that tumbled out of his too full grip. He sat up and opened that hand to stare at the lone and empty bottle of morphine sulfate.
Oh God.
"When did you give him this?" Roy whispered. The vial felt cool in his palm. He could see the faint imprints of a hospital stamp on them. All he could make out was the 'R' and 'A' on the MS vial but it was enough. His mouth went dry. He could barely get the words out.
"When did you give him this? How much?" Roy's chest clenched. There was no way Johnny would have administered this. No. Not MS.
"Forty minutes ago," Stevie whispered.
"Shut up," Doug hissed, recovering from his initial shock.
"How much?" Roy asked sharply as he squeezed the lone bottle. His other hand twinged painfully around the items it still grasped tight against his hip.
"All of it." Stevie burst into tears. "It's true what he said then? Jake wanted to die?"
Roy wasn't paying attention to the rest of what Stevie was blubbering about as he lunged across the cot for the biophone. He tossed everything from both his hands onto the cot, snatched the phone, barking for Rampart even as Vince questioned Stevie where the MS came from. Stevie was sobbing too hard to answer.
"We bought it," Doug answered, his words forced out between a snarl.
"Rampart, we have further information on the patient," Roy was speaking into the phone.
"From who?" Vince pressed.
"Go ahead, 51."
"I don't know who!" Doug snapped. "Some dude on the street!"
"Which street?"
"I don't know! Walker!"
"East or West?"
Roy was nodding at what Brackett was telling him. He adjusted the IV drip, his eyes darting to Jake's stricken face. He set his hand on Jake's belly again. Comparing it with what he got with the respiration number before, Roy's mouth pressed together.
"51. LA reports ambulance ETA is now six minutes," the biophone garbled out.
Roy set his jaw. He darted a glance over to Doug, glowering at Vince. The two men stood eye to eye. Stevie was sitting on the edge of the cot now, shoulders shaking, his head in his hands.
"The guy you got this from?" Roy asked tersely as he looked around the room again, his throat tight. "What does he look like?"
"Why are you asking all these questions?" Doug growled. "You should be saving our brother!"
"Look man, we need to know where these drugs came from—"
"I don't know!"
Roy swallowed. His eyes burned but he couldn't ignore Jake Carson's need either. Already, Jake's lower extremities were hardening into knotted spasms, legs twitching under the threadbare blanket. The bottles Roy grabbed with his other hand clinked under the tremors but they were also making another sound.
Something silver glinted dully among the empty vials Roy had blindly thrown down between the covered legs before. Roy reached for it, curled shaking fingers over the smooth, tiny piece of metal and drew it close enough to see the small caduceus.
"Vince," Roy choked out and he raised the pin up to Vince. "It's Joh—"
"Watch out!"
"Doug, no!"
There was no time to react or even see what was happening. Roy saw Vince leap over the cot, tackling him to the ground just as a sharp ping zipped over them and one of the metal walls shook from the impact. Roy felt Vince push his head down behind the cot and he found himself staring at Jake's IV line as Vince yanked out his revolver.
"You're a cop!" Doug roared.
Roy grimaced as he heard a hammer cocked back. No room, Roy thought. They were too close to miss…
"Doug, stop!"
"Get out of my way!"
"You can't do this! This has gone too—"
"Come on," Vince ordered, grabbing the back of Roy's turnout coat and heaved him to his feet. He jerked Roy towards the door when Roy turned towards Jake. He caught a glimpse of Stevie tugging Doug's arm, his gun wildly seesawing in the air. But Vince gave him another shove out the door and Roy found himself stumbling besides Vince.
There was another shot—Stevie probably couldn't hold his brother off—as soon as the door slammed shut. Roy felt it spit by his shoe, close enough to make him trip but Vince's meaty grip on the back of his turnout coat righted him.
Old drills from his service in the Army taught him to keep his head low, his path across the yard a zig zag. They twisted around one pile of smashed cars, ducked under another stack (Code 387 dictates they should be—oh shut up, Roy) and somewhere between going around the compactor and a pillar of crushed bikes, they discarded their turnout gear.
Vince, armed with his own training and his gun, was right behind him as they ran. The officer alternated from hissing to Roy to keep moving and returning fire. Doug stayed doggedly behind them until suddenly, he wasn't.
Roy skidded around a pile of smashed up cars and barrels of half emptied acetylates. He crouched, sheltered under its shadow. Vince nearly collided into him, sliding in the dust.
"Those should be upright," Roy mumbled as he noticed the barrels they were hiding behind. Vince only huffed in response. Roy raised his head cautiously. He could see the shed meters away.
A ping screeched past his ear and buried itself in the metal behind him.
Vince gave him a rough push until Roy was crouched down again, his chin nearly hitting his knees. "Stay down!" he ordered.
"But—"
"Damn it, Roy, will you just listen to me this time!"
Roy shot a scowl at him. "Jake Carson needs help." He opened the fist he had held close to his hip to reveal the pin he never let go of. "And Johnny's out there somewhere. They know where he is."
"Do you also need a hole in your head?" Vince countered. He checked his revolver with a flick of his wrist. Vince swore.
"What?" Roy watched Vince dig a reload out of his pockets, sliding a chamber of bullets into his gun with a somber click.
"No more bullets left," Vince reported shortly. He raised his head to look to his left. Another ping had him ducking fast.
"Maybe you should stay down," Roy suggested.
The glower Vince gave him told Roy what the officer thought of his advice.
Vince nodded towards their left.
"You see those barrels over there? The ones over—keep your head down!" Vince glared at Roy. "The gates are past that. Get to those barrels and then to the entrance and your squad."
Roy stared.
Vince, not understanding, gripped his gun firmly. "Don't worry. I'll draw his fire. It should give you enough time to—"
"I'm not leaving you here!" Roy burst out. "Or my patient. Or my partner!"
"We don't know if John's even—"
Roy slapped the pin against Vince's chest. "That's an LA County paramedic pin. John's pin. He's here."
Vince pressed it back into Roy's hand. "Fine. You're still going back to the squad."
"Vince—"
"Unless you have another biophone or a radio with you 'cause last I checked, everything is back there, I need you to get to the squad. Get some patrol cars here."
Roy paused. He squeezed a fist around the pin.
Two pings punctured the headlights of a wreck in front of them.
"You want Jake's ambulance to come into this? We're going to find your partner with this heat? We need backup!"
Roy swallowed. He pocketed John's pin and eyed the distant barrels. They seemed to stretch further away.
"Count of three?" Roy asked evenly.
Vince clapped him on the shoulder. "One…"
Roy took a deep breath, his shoulders rounding into a hunch. He could feel his gut clench.
"Two…"
To the barrels, duck behind that jeep and to the gate…
"Three!"
Vince's first return fire was the starter's gun. Roy bolted, head low, his arms close to his sides to be as small as a target as possible. There was a shout, a line of heat that brushed by him but then Vince returned fire in a quick one-two succession that left him ignored. Roy stumbled into the barrels' shadow. He made a face at the smell (they weren't properly sealed) and he studied the space he just fled.
Why was it quiet now?
Roy panted quietly, his legs burned as if he had climbed ten stories in full turnout gear. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, his sleeves stuck into his armpits but all Roy could think was that it was probably twice as hot in the shed.
The stretch between the barrels and the jeep was as wide as the San Diego freeway. Nothing else stood between them. Roy bit his lower lip. He checked over his shoulder. The stacks and stacks of wreckage loomed, curtaining everything in shadow despite the afternoon sun creeping up to its zenith.
"Carson!" Vince abruptly hollered. "Give it up! You don't want to do this! Let us save your brother! The longer we're out here, the longer it will take before Jake will get help!"
"Shut up!" A couple of bullets barked back towards Vince.
Roy twitched. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. Roy just ran. He fixed on the crumpled jeep, poured on an extra burst of speed as he crossed the empty clearing. Get to the squad, get to the squad. Vince's words echoed in his head as his feet pounded across the distance.
Doug Carson stepped out from behind the jeep.
Roy's boots burned as he skidded to an abrupt halt, his body twisting vainly away as he saw Doug raise his gun arm. Roy threw himself to the ground just as he caught sight of Vince racing towards them, shouting but Roy couldn't hear past Joanne's crying out his name in his ears to hear what Vince was saying. The gun fired. Roy tensed.
Engine 51 roared as it shattered the gates, thundered in and stood between Roy and the gun.
"Geez!" Chet yelped as the bullet meant for Roy smashed into the side of Big Red. "He has a gun!"
"Hey!" Stoker bellowed in an outrage Roy hadn't heard from him before.
"Everybody out! Other side!" Cap could be heard shoving Mario and Chet out the doors. The two firemen tumbled out to land by Roy. "You too, Mike!"
"He shot her! Cap, he shot my—"
"Out, you twit!"
"Carson!" Vince veered sharply away from Roy and towards the older brother. Roy pushed himself up shakily on one elbow and squinted blearily at the dark uniform going farther and farther away.
Hands ran over his back, slipped under his arms to lift him off the dusty ground. Roy sat, cross-legged, his hands gripping his knees. He fought the urge not to hyperventilate. And to think Joanne was worried about him burning in a fire.
"Hey, you okay there, pal?"
"He all right, Cap?"
"I can't believe he shot my engine…"
"Aw, Mike. She'll live…"
Roy blinked and looked up at four grimy faces that filled his vision. The corner of his mouth tugged. Somehow, it was comforting to have the acrid odor of wet wood and smoke filling his nostrils.
"H-hi," Roy wheezed.
Cap scowled. He hauled Roy up to his feet. He whistled to something behind the engine and Squad 18 rolled into view.
Roy stared stupidly at the three paramedics climbing out of the squad. "How…?"
"Called Rampart and heard Sanchez was there twiddling his thumbs." Cap folded his arms across his chest. Roy gulped at the hard glare directed at him. "Apparently, his overtime left without him so he hitched a ride with Squad 18, seeing LA reassigned them to this call." Cap had the look of a summer storm on his face.
Oh. Roy offered Cap and the others a shaky smile.
"Roy, of all the crazy ideas you two get, this has to be—"
Roy pulled out the pin. Cap's tirade petered out.
"They have him." Roy dropped the pin into his captain's hand.
Cap looked down at the tiny metal in his hand. He sighed and wiped a palm down his face. His dark eyes lifted and met Roy's.
"Let's go find our boy."
Part 8-->
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-