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"Over here!" Reynolds calls out through the roar of the flames. His voice is strained but clear over the crackle and pop of burning wood and melting plastic. We pivot and hustle toward the sound. An old man sits huddled in a corner of his apartment, coughing violently, his dog — a small rat terrier — barking frantically at his feet.
I lunge forward with two other members of the crew, Lisa Alder and Danny McGraw, at my side. The old man's eyes are wide with terror and gratitude as we reach him. The ceiling above us blisters and embers spit down upon like a hellish rain.
“Lisa, get him out of here,” Reynolds barks. “That clears this floor. Green, McGraw, we’re going up. The caller said there were two families upstairs.”
Lisa nods sharply, and with the man’s arm over her shoulder, guides him through the thick smoke towards the stairwell. We follow Reynolds up the crumbling staircase, each step groaning under our weight.
The heat intensifies as we climb, and my breaths grow shallow within the confines of my respirator. Beads of sweat roll down my temples, but I push forward.
As we reach the next floor, a sudden explosion of heat and noise erupts from an apartment ahead. I duck instinctively, the radiating heat blasts my back. My ears ring, but Reynolds’ hand on my shoulder steadies me.
"Stay sharp, Dixon!" he yells, pulling me up. “I can hear them up ahead. There’s a child up there. We have to get to them.”
There’s a dark voice in my head that tells me this could be the moment I’ve always sought after — the chance to go out doing something right, to die with a measure of respect after all the evil shit I’ve done. I see Lucas’s face once more, skull split open, blood oozing, and I feel the irresistible urge.
Then Alexandra pulls me back again.
We split up to cover more ground. Reynolds heads left towards a woman’s wailing cry while I move right with McGraw, kicking down doors and scanning rooms rapidly, hunting for any sign of life.
In the third apartment we enter, we find them — a young couple clutching their infant tightly, surrounded by a fortress of damp towels they've used in a desperate attempt to keep the smoke at bay.
"Hang on. We're getting you out," I shout over the din. McGraw wraps the baby in his jacket while I usher the parents to their feet. As we guide them out of their makeshift sanctuary, part of the ceiling collapses behind us, turning the room behind us into a death trap. On the way down, I spy Reynolds carrying an old woman with a cane.
“It’s all clear,” he shouts. “That’s the last of them.”
The flames and groaning building provide a chorus as we fight down to the exit, bodies in tow, the weight of their lives heavy on our shoulders. Through the haze ahead, the glow of blooming daylight outlines the exit. My muscles ache, my lungs scream within the confines of the mask, but I push on as I see Lisa in the entryway, watching for us.
"We've got more coming," she yells to the EMS team stationed outside.
I can almost taste the fresh air when a thunderous crash echoes behind us — the building gives way to the inferno’s might.
"Move, move, move!" Reynolds shouts.
We burst into daylight like shipwreck survivors reaching shore. Emergency lights flash through the smoke; paramedics rush to meet us. The families we’ve rescued collapse into arms that pull them gently away from danger’s reach.
McGraw places the swaddled infant into a waiting ambulance as medical personnel swarm around to provide oxygen and first aid. I stand there a moment longer, watching the building crumble before an arm wraps around me.
“You did better this time, Green,” Reynolds says. “A few dozen more times like this one and maybe I won’t feel like I have to always be watching your ass.”
“We all know you’ll still be watching that ass of his, Captain. How many times have you wondered out loud about how much he can squat?” McGraw adds, chuckling.
“It’s a legitimate fucking question. And it’s workout related, not anything sick like that.”
“I swear, your mouth was hanging open, panting, when you asked me.”
I keep my mouth shut. Not that I want to let McGraw or Captain Reynolds get away with being fucking assholes, except they’re not — they’re right; I take care of myself and I’ve got a decent squat game. It pays off in having an ass that Alexandra appreciates. And, besides my glutes, I’ve put this crew through a fair amount of shit, and it will be a long fucking time before things are right between us. I’m silent on the ride back to the firehouse, not only lost in my thoughts, but doing my damnedest to keep from opening my mouth and starting a fight every time McGraw or Reynolds even look at me sideways.
“What in the hell is this?” Reynolds says as the fire truck pulls into the lot.
The parking lot around the firehouse is packed, full to the brim with folding tables, chairs, coolers, my brothers from the Steel Reapers, and, at the center of it all and looking fine as hell in her bartending outfit, is Alexandra.
Lisa nudges me. “Green, do you know what the hell is going on here?”
“They’re blocking the fucking garage,” Reynolds says. “Dixon, get your fucking block party bikers out of the damn way. We’ve got another firetruck behind us and an ambulance, too. They can’t be blocking the damn thing.”
“I’ll find out,” I say, sliding out of my seat and crossing the lot toward Alexandra, who has her arms spread wide and a big grin on her face that I can’t help but echo at the unexpected sight of her. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
Before she answers, she shoves a red solo cup into my hands.
