RUNNING ON EMPTY
by ardavenport
John Gage got into work after Roy DeSoto, his partner, but just ahead of Chet Kelly, who made it into the locker room just as he pinned on his name tag and badge.
"Better hustle, Chet."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," his fellow firefighter kept his head down and rapidly stripped his plaid shirt off. Still smiling, Gage strolled out into the equipment room. The engine was there, but not the squad. Roy was at the log book alcove and John joined him.
"Looks like it was a quiet shift until about 3 AM." Roy pointed. There was a vague 'Family in Distress', 'Smoke Inhalation' and 'Man Unconscious'. The last was a mysterious 'Sausage Burn'. Gage read that twice. Why wasn't it 'kitchen burn' or 'fire'? But Roy pointed at another column.
"Look at this."
The addresses first stood out in that John didn't recognize them at first. Then he did.
"What were they doing over there?"
"Filling in for One-Ten." Captain Stanley came up beside them. "There was a big fire last night and our squad was covering there's and Thirty-Nine. They were all over the map; no wonder they're late."
Nodding, John put his hands on his hips. "Yeah." Sometimes that happened. Covering for other stations meant a lot of extra driving. But that did not explain what 'Sausage Burn' was.
The squad didn't get back for another twenty minutes. When it finally returned, Greg Strasky jumped out of the passenger side and sprinted around the engine toward the locker room. Dwyer climbed out of the driver's seat to face them.
"Well, glad you brought the squad back in one piece."
Dwyer practically cringed back at Captain Stanley's friendly jab. He looked a bit like a dog that had been caught chewing a slipper.
"What's up?" Roy leaned an arm on the side of the squad.
"Now, first, it's not our fault." He raised his hands in appeasement. "We let it get low; I admit that. We were going to fill it up this morning, but we got all those runs covering for One-Ten and . . ."
"Oh, no." Roy went past Dwyer, opened the door of the squad and leaned in.
"Oh no." John guessed as well.
Roy's head popped out again. "It's almost on empty!"
John dove in for a look himself. His partner was being too charitable. "It IS on empty!"
Dwyer's attention stayed on Captain Stanley who pinned him with a strongly disapproving glare. "What happened?"
"We knew it was low and we thought we'd go to Station Eight early this morning, but then we got a run at three and they just kept coming. And they were far away because we were filling in for the other stations."
John was very unsatisfied by that excuse. "You could have filled it up on the way back in!"
"Yeah." His partner joined him. "We can't do anything with it now."
Dwyer waved helplessly toward the locker room. "Strasky's got to go pick up his wife and meet his mother-in-law at the airport. He's already late."
"Oh." Having his own family issues, Roy was automatically sympathetic to anyone with mother-in-law problems.
Captain Stanley was not. "That's not much of an excuse. There were six hours between your last run and that run at three AM. Plenty of time to get the squad gassed up." He glowered down at the repentant paramedic. The confrontation drew the attention of the other firefighters in the dayroom; Marco Lopez and Mike Stoker came out to see what was going on. "Can you believe this guy?" He waved an accusing hand toward Dwyer.
"What's up, Cap?" Stoker folded his arms across his chest.
"These lug-heads brought the squad in empty."
Chet Kelly, dressed in light blue uniform shirt, badge and nametag arrived as all the others caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure behind him.
"Hey! Good luck with your MOTHER-IN-LAW!" John's shouted sarcastic sentiment practically chased Strasky out of the building to the parking lot in back.
"So, uh, hey Johnny, you think you and Roy here are going to need a police escort to get the squad filled up?" Chet Kelly joined the group. John sneered back at him.
"They just might." Stanley's mutter was only half-joking; he pointed at the guilty party. "All right, you, out of here."
Dwyer held up a wad of crumpled pieces of notepaper from his uniform shirt pocket. "I have to fill out the log."
"Fine, get going. I'm talking to Captain Moore about this, later." Dwyer fled to the office and Stanley sighed. "You're going to have to take it down the street and get it gassed up."
"But, Cap - - "
"Cap - -"
Stanley cut off his paramedics' complaints. "I don't like it any more than you do. I'll write up the voucher myself for you; that's the best I can do."
"Well, why don't you make him pay for it? They're the ones who brought it back empty." Gage waved in the direction of the disappeared Dwyer.
"It's not his shift anymore; it's our problem now." He pointed at the seriously under-fueled vehicle. "And that squad's out of service until you guys fill the tank. I'm calling it in." He turned back to the record book alcove and the radio to do exactly that.
Gage and DeSoto looked at each other.
Roy reached for his back pocket. "Well, I've just barely got enough for lunch."
John looked up from his own wallet. "What? You get paid just as much as I do."
"Yeah, well, Joanne got it all."
Sneering at his partner's married-man excuse, he looked back down at his twenty-two dollars and change. He had been feeling fairly flush when he got up that morning. "I wanted to see if I could get a date with that new nurse at Rampart." There were actually three new-nurse date-possibilities at Rampart at the moment, but John did not feel like going into the details.
"Oh, she's not going to go out with you, anyway." Chet patted a red panel on the side of the squad. "You might just as well bow to the inevitable and take the squad out for a drink instead. You two were meant for each other."
"Chet. . . "
The hissing threat in his voice sent Kelly into the dayroom with the others, but he was still grinning under his thick mustache.
"Well, might as well get it over with. We can't do anything here until we do." Roy opened the driver's side and, accepting their fate, John went around to the other side of the squad and got in His partner started the engine. Mike Stoker had already opened the garage door and Roy pulled out onto the street.
There wasn't much traffic. Until they got to the first gas station down the street.
"Oh, great." Roy slowed down.
"Oh, Man." John could not see the end of the line of cars at the gas station. "Do you think it will be better at another station?"
Roy gave him a fatalistic look. "I doubt it. And we'd never make it anyway." The gas gauge was still on Empty; they were lucky the engine still had just enough to get them there. He brought the squad around and pulled up to the side. The air smelled of oil, gasoline and car exhaust. The attendant, a gray haired older man in blue cap and beige shirt with company logo on the pocket met them.
"It's not a good day, fellas."
Sadly shaking his head, Roy pointed toward the gas gauge. "Sorry, we're running on fumes."
Shaking his head, he pushed his cap back and asked what they wanted. Leaded, unleaded, regular . . . Both paramedics pointed at the same time. The attendant, who looked like he was in charge called to a kid in the same company uniform for help. "Wait here until that lady there finishes and then back in."
"Man, they're going to hate us, Roy." John curled his lip up. He still could not see the end of the line of cars waiting. "Remember what Floyd told us." One of the ambulance attendants that they regularly saw on their shifts told them about an irate motorist in a Cadillac ramming the back end of their rig when they stopped for gas, using their 'emergency vehicle' status to cut in line. Their ambulance company was getting estimates on installing their own gas tank and pumps.
"Yeah, but it can't be helped." Roy looked back at him. "You want to go help them?"
John gaped back for a second. He would rather go charging into a three alarm fire. But his partner was right. It wasn't their fault that law said the gas station had to give them preference; the guy they met was just trying to run his business.
"No." He opened the door and got out anyway. On impulse, he grabbed his helmet and put it on, just in case he needed it. "I better give them a hand anyway. Just move the squad so we can get in and out quick." He went to the pumps. Looking at the prices he cringed - - it was over FIFTY CENTS a gallon! - - there wasn't going to be much left for dating and the Department would take forever to reimburse him. John took his position next to the kid, blocking the pale blue Dodge Charger that was next in line.
"I'm just going to give you a hand."
A lady in a flowered scarf over a head full of curlers hurried back from paying the cashier to the green Chevy station wagon by the pump they needed. She got in, fussed with something on the front seat before starting the engine. Roy had the squad in position while still leaving room for her to get out.
Hooooooonnnnkkkkk! Hoooooonnnnkkkkk! Hooooooonnnnkkkkk!
The Charger was not happy. The squad engine rumbled as Roy backed it up; the older attendant had the pump ready.
"Hey, emergency vehicle here, okay!" Behind him Roy opened the gas cap on the squad.
Hooooooonnnnkkkkk! Hooonkk! Hooonkk! Hooooooonnnnkkkkk!
"Hey, no cuts!" "What're you doing?" Further back in the line, angry drivers stuck their heads out.
"EMERGENCY VEHICLE!'"
Hands up, John was feeling like a matador without his red cape and facing a motorized bull. The nervous kid looked like he as barely out of high school, but stood his ground with him. The threatening car did not move, but the others behind it responded to its honking like a mating call.
Hooonkkk! Beep-bee-beeeep! Hooonk-hooonk! HOOONK! Arroooooo-gah!
"Great. Hurry it up, Roy!"
Hooonk-Honk-HONK! Beep-Beep! Beeeeeeep! HOOONK! Uga-uga-arroooo-gah"
"Hey, Johnny, go in and pay!"
The kid next to him seemed to have found some courage and the older man took his place as he dashed in to pay the lady at the counter. With a much diminished wallet and the precious receipt, he ran out again.
Bee-bee-bee-beeep! HONK-HONK! Beep-Beep! Beee-Beeeep! Honk-honk Honk! Ar-ROOO-Gah!
Roy had moved out from the pumps, letting the thirsty Charger have its turn. John hopped in and Roy headed for the driveway. Looking right then left, Roy put his foot on the gas.
"Oh-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa! Roy, stop!" John pointed to their right. Running toward them on the sidewalk, a woman in heels and a blue and white mini-skirt dress waved her hands up in the air. John got out and met her.
"Oh, I'm so you're here, it's my aunt!" she started back the way she came.
"Whoa-whoa wait, just wait! What's the problem?"
"My aunt; she can't breathe. You have to help!" She started to turn around again and the stopped her again.
"Wait, is she sick?"
"She has emphysema. And-and she says she has a cold. Oh, please come and help her!"
He left her fretting in place while he grabbed the O2 from the squad and paused at the window.
"A woman can't breathe. I'm going to go check it out. See if you can follow me with the squad." He heard Roy calling it in as he ran after to young woman in the mini-skirt dress. Twenty cars down the long line from the gas station John heard the squad siren right behind him and realized what an impossible task he had given his partner. With one lane of traffic on the four lane street taken up by the line of waiting cars, Roy had to go to the center lane on the other side of the street to follow or risk traveling slow motion going against oncoming traffic. There was no good place for him to stop. Siren and flashing reds were no guarantee that people would make way for a fire department vehicle. John mentally kicked himself for not grabbing the drug box and biophone as well. But that was a lot to carry (especially the biophone) when he did not know how far away the victim was.
The woman reached the end of the block and turned a corner, following the line onto a thankfully less busy side street. Still following, Roy honked on the horn as he made the turn. She finally stopped at a big beige four-door Lincoln and opened the front passenger door. The squad siren stopped.
"Aunt Ann, I brought someone!" She practically bounced up and down.
"Ma'am, Ma'am." John knelt next to the woman. Eyes closed, she breathed in slowly, noisily. She had gray hair and a moderate tan for southern California; she wore glasses and a bright pink and purple muumuu and white slip on shoes. Her arms and legs were thin and flabby, her chest and bosom very large. "My name's John Gage, I'm a paramedic with the Los Angeles Fire Department. Your niece here says you're having trouble breathing?"
The squad stopped and Roy's car door slammed as he ran around it to get the rest of their equipment. John took out the oxygen mask, uncoiling the tubing away from the tank. Behind the woman in the muumuu, the big ashtray under the dashboard was full.
"It's just a - - - " she coughed, deep and phlegmy " - - - a cold."
"She uses oxygen at home." The niece stepped back, letting Roy in. "But she said we didn't need it just to go out. But we've been sitting here for so long. And I'm sure all that car exhaust is making her worse."
"Well, now I've got some oxygen here - - -"
Aunt Ann's eyes flew open and she grabbed the mask away from him with nicotine-stained fingers, snapping the strap on over the back of her head without even snagging her hair and letting out a long sigh that broke up into a short coughing fit.
Honk-honk! "Hey! Hey! We're in line here!" The car behind them revved its engine.
Hand on the older woman's wrist and feeling for her pulse, John squinted behind him. "What?" He could not see the end of the line of cars for the gas station on this street either. Roy hurriedly wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm.
A man wearing black-framed glasses and a suit and tie came up the street. "Hey, you're blocking the street! We're in line here." He pointed accusingly at the squad, parked at an angle, the red lights on top still flashing.
"My aunt is sick! She can't breathe!" The niece confronted him. Ahead of them, the cars inched forward away from the Lincoln. John set up the biophone and called Rampart. "We have a woman approximately sixty years of age . . . " He went on with the vital signs while more irate drivers from the back of the line gathered in the street.
"We've been waiting a long time here." Another man in a dark green polyester suit and yellow tie pointed to where a whole car length had opened up between the beige Lincoln and the big white Pontiac ahead of it.
"My aunt is SICK!"
John finished giving Brackett the situation. "We're giving her oxygen now and she's looking a lot better."
"I'll call an ambulance." Roy started to get up, but Aunt Ann suddenly revived enough to grab his arm.
"No!" Cough-COUGH-OUGH! "I'm not going to the hospital!" Cough-cough-COUGH. "We'll lose our place in LINE." Cough-ough-ough-ough-ough. She patted the mask back down in place. That got her niece's attention.
"Aunt Ann," she came back to them, the others following, "we can wait for that. We have HALF A TANK!"
"You can't be - - " Cough-cough-cough! Roy helped her put the mask back on
The man in the suit and glasses put his hands on his hips in outrage. "You have half a tank?! I'm right on 'E' - - " The honking from the back of the line increased.
"Wait a minute!" John stood, hands up. The gathering mob backed up a bit in surprise. "Now this woman is sick! She needs to go to the hospital!"
"I'm not going - - - " COUGH-cough-ough-ough-ough.
"Aunt Ann, if you don't let these me take you, I'm going to drive you there myself!"
Kneeling back down, John picked up the biophone receiver again. "Fifty-One." Doctor Brackett's voice was low with concern.
Roy leaned closer to him. "How about it?"
The mob edged a little closer again. "They've got half a tank? I've just barely got . . ."
"Uh, Rampart. We've got a relative here who will transport the victim to you. We've kind of got an ugly crowd here, so we're going to sign off."
Brackett did not waste any time. "Ten-four, Fifty-One."
They quickly packed up their equipment, leaving the O2 next to the woman on the front bench seat of the Lincoln; she obviously knew how to use it. The niece agreed to follow them. The two paramedics fled to the squad. Enough space had opened up in the gas line so that the Lincoln easily pulled out right behind them. The opening in the line closed up right away. Roy turned off the flashing lights; he had told the niece to honk if her aunt got distressed and they would stop and call an ambulance if they needed to. The cross look that Aunt Ann gave them told them that this was very unlikely to happen.
John sat back in relief and realized that he still had his helmet on. He hung it up behind him. "That was crazy. Roy, those people were crazy. Those people were hassling us just because they wanted to get their cars gassed up?" His tone rose with outraged incredulity.
Roy shrugged. "Well, it's the gas rationing and the oil embargo. People never thought about going without and they just panic, I guess." He glanced at his rear side view mirror and John looked at the one on his side.
"Better not make any suddenly stops, Roy. She's right on your bumper."
"Well, as long as she gets there." He carefully slowed down for a stop and turn. "We probably need supplies anyway."
"Hunh?"
"Well, with all those runs that Dwyer and Strasky had at the end of their shift, we're bound to be out of something."
"Oh, yeah, we didn't even check." Gassing up the squad had overridden their usual morning routine. John mentally went through the usual things that they ran out of, bandages, syringes, Kerlix. . . . The rest of the trip was uneventful, though they did pass another gas station with its own long line of cars and drivers unaccustomed to scarcity.
They pulled up to Rampart's emergency entrance, John getting out first to go inside for a wheelchair. Roy helped Aunt Ann from the car into the chair and John carried the O2 in with them back inside. Doctor Brackett met them. A nurse appeared (Mary Fremont, short brown hair, brown eyes, mid-thirties, married). They got her into Room 2 and switched to Rampart's oxygen.
"Uh, you'll need to wait outside." Roy caught the niece coming in on their way out. She backed up into the hallway.
"I'm sorry."
"You can wait over there." John pointed to the mostly empty chairs by the admission desk. There were only two people sitting there; it wasn't a busy morning at all.
"Oh, thank-you." She hesitated. "I'm so grateful that you were there to help. Thank-you for helping us. Um, I'm Cathy."
"Well, glad we could help; we're just doing our job." She was young, maybe mid-twenties, blond hair with dark brown roots showing at her part. Still pretty. Her legs under her blue and white mini-skirt dress were long and tan. "Oh, I'm John Gage," he waved toward his partner, "and this is my partner, Roy DeSoto."
"Thank-you." She nervously clutched a big blue cloth purse. Her hand slipped in and brought out a pack of cigarettes.
"Uh, I don't think you can smoke in here." Roy gestured toward the nearest 'NO SMOKING' sign.
"Oh!" She whirled around. "Oh, hospital. I'm sorry, I forgot." She whipped the cigarette away from her mouth and stuffed it in her bag. "Uh, where should I wait, again?" She paused again, looking up at John. She had brown eyes.
He pointed. "Just over there." She looked and then back at him, extending her hand. "Thanks again." Her hands were warm. John watched her walk down the hall. Her white high heeled sandals matched her dress.
Something hit him in the arm. "Hunh?"
"Supplies?" Roy grinned, his eyes wide.
"Hunh? Oh, supplies." They went back to the squad to stow the O2 and get the drug box, Roy with that annoying grin his face the whole time.
Opening the drug box at the base station, they found it somewhat depleted, but nowhere near as bad at the squad had been. While John pawed through the box, calling out what was low, Roy grabbed packets from the drawers, passed them on and marked them down on a list. Dixie McCall listened while they told her about their adventure at the gas station.
"Tell me about it." She got out a clipboard and a supply form for them. "I had to wait forty-five minutes on my day off myself. I think half of them were just topping off their tanks because they were terrified of running out."
They were nearly done by the time Doctor Brackett joined them.
"How's Aunt Ann doing?" Roy leaned on the counter.
"I'm admitting her. Along with the emphysema she's got pneumonia. It might help a little if she'd stop smoking." He looked at a clipboard that Dixie handed him.
"Oh, sorry to hear that. Do you think it'll help?"
Brackett's blue eyes turned a little less critical as he answered Roy. "It certainly won't hurt. But she's already done the damage. It won't get any better. Is there a niece here waiting for her?" Roy pointed. The doctor looked and headed toward the chairs at the end of the hall.
"It's a tough habit to break." Dixie's lips turned up in a sad smile.
"Yeah, but while we were running out of gas, she was running out of air." Roy did not smile back, but his blue eyes were sympathetic.
"Well, I'm just glad we're not running out of gas." John snapped the drug box closed, the top trays folding in under the black top. "Sign us out?" Dixie gave them the essential signature for the supplies and they left. On their way out, they saw Cathy and the back of Doctor Brackett's white lab coat. Her hands fidgeted with an unlit cigarette as she looked up at the physician.
**C**C**C** **C**C**C**
When Roy got into work, Johnny was already in the locker room getting dressed, uncharacteristically early. He'd had a good day off. He taught his son how to catch and throw. Being very young, he was not very good, but he applied a lot of energy and laughter doing it.
"Well, how was your date?" Cathy (her last name was Rossi) had still been in the Rampart waiting area later when they brought another victim. Her presence was suspicious since she had no reason to linger; her Aunt had already been admitted and she had her own car there. Her motives were explained when phone numbers were exchanged.
Johnny gave him a look.
"Oh." Roy's smile slipped. "Not so good then."
"Well, it was okay." He sat perched on the edge of his open locker, foot up on the bench, tying his shoe. "At least as far as funerals go, I guess it wasn't too back."
"Funeral?" Roy opened his own locker. "What happened?"
"Her aunt died."
"What? She didn't look that bad."
Johnny shrugged, switching feet. "She had a stroke, died that night. We were supposed to meet for lunch, but she called me at home. She was all panicky. Rampart called her earlier and she was crying."
Roy stripped his shirt off and took out a fresh, sky-blue uniform shirt. "So, you offered to help."
He held his hands up in surrender. "Well, I couldn't not help! She didn't know what to do. She had to go over to Rampart and sign the forms and call her mother." He put his foot down, shoe laces tied and sighed. "That's when things really got weird." He turned around and closed the locker door.
"Weird?"
"Yeah, really weird." He put one foot up on the bench, leaning on his knee. "Cathy's mother looked exactly like her aunt."
"They were sisters?"
"Identical twins."
Roy paused, holding his badge. "You're kidding?"
Johnny shook his head. "Nope. They looked exactly alike. And they had a photo up by the casket during the service yesterday. Her whole family came over from Riverside; she was staying with her aunt so she could be closer to Hollywood."
"She wants to be an actress."
Johnny nodded. "Anyway, there's this picture looking exactly like Cathy's mother in the front row and they're all crying and . . . and . . . . and smoking."
"Really?" Roy stood, pulling his pants up.
"Yeah! It was like a first alarm fire. With ash trays." He stood. "I was feeling like I needed oxygen after that."
"Oh, well, sorry to hear that." Roy finished dressing. "You going to go out with her again?"
Johnny gave him a look as Marco and Chet came in.
"Go out with someone?" Chet's eyes lit up.
"None of your business, Chet. Hey!" He pointed at Dwyer, coming in after them. "You better not have left the squad empty again."
He held his hands up in surrender. "We learned our lesson, guys, I promise. Our Captain's going to be checking, we don't let the squad get lower than half a tank."
Johnny put his hands on his hips. "Really?"
"Really." Dwyer sounded sincere. "We had a run at a gas station this morning, just before you came in."
"Yeah." Roy stood next to his partner, shoulder to shoulder. "What was it?"
"Fist fight. Somebody got his nose broken. Cops called us." He nodded. "Man, that crowd was ugly, like they wanted to kill someone. We're just glad it wasn't us. Lucky nobody died."
Roy's eyes went to Johnny who sighed and agreed. "Yeah. You're lucky nobody died."
**C**C**C** END **C**C**C**
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Mark VII Productions, Inc., Universal Studios and whoever else owns the 1970's TV show Emergency!; I am just playing in their sandbox.