"Just A Coincidence"
By Ross
Chapter One
Both crews of LA County Fire Station 51's A-shift were being kept particularly busy. The six men had been experiencing back-to-back runs, ever since falling in for morning roll.
Gage and DeSoto were returning from their latest hospital follow up. The two men had missed out on lunch. But, with a little luck, they'd make it back to the Station in time for supper.
John's empty tummy rumbled in anticipation. Stoker was cooking that shift, and their engineer made the best fried chicken.
They made it to within a few blocks of their stationhouse, when the tones sounded—in stereo, coming from both the HT resting on the seat between them…and the truck's dash-mounted radio.
"Squad 51...Man down..." the dispatcher went on to announce, "1517 East Mullen...Fifteen-Seventeen East Mullen...Cross-streets Ada and Wilkens...Ambulance responding...Time Out: 17:17."
"10-4, LA," Gage acknowledged, jotting the address down on a call slip. "Squad 51 responding," he signed off and replaced the radio mic'. "Two blocks and hang a right," the Squad's navigator informed its driver. Then he clipped the call to their log and quickly donned his helmet. 'Oh, well,' he consoled himself, 'Mike's chicken is finger-lickin' good—hot or cold.'
That is, if Kelly would be so generous as to leave them any.
His silent partner switched their truck's lights and siren on, and then donned his helmet, as well.
Less than five minutes later, their radios squawked to life again.
"Squad 51...Cancel," the dispatcher advised.
The paramedics exchanged a pair of solemn glances.
DeSoto flicked the lights and siren off and eased up on the accelerator. Roy glanced back in his partner's direction and watched, as a strange look suddenly came over his friend's still-solemn face. "What's the mat—?"
"—Squad 51," LA interrupted. "Do you copy?"
Gage snatched up the mic' and thumbed its call button. "Roger, that, LA. Squad 51 available...Returning to quarters."
"10-4, 51..."
"What's the matter?" Roy repeated.
"Nothin'," John assured him. "It's just that…on top of such a…hectic day…we don't need an inspection!"
His partner looked completely lost. But then a light bulb went on in his boggled brain. "Oh-oh. I get it. The cancelled call. Right?"
Gage looked even glummer, and nodded.
It was just one of those inexplicable, quirky, fluky things. After every cancelled 'man down' call, Station 51 always received a visit from headquarters.
Roy rolled his eyes. "Johnny, we just got inspected last week. There's no way we're gonna get another inspection this soon!"
Johnny stared at his skeptical partner, looking astounded. "Ro-oy, don't you remember what happened last month?"
His partner looked pensive. "Yeah. Yeah. That was a bit beyond just pure co-incidence, all right. And I must admit—if it weren't for the fact that we just were inspected—I might be tempted to clean my locker when we get back."
Gage scribbled a big 'CANCELLED' across the call slip and clipped it back to their dash-mounted log. "I'd say the dorm and the showers are probably the worst spots," he determined, un-donning his helmet and clipping it back into place. "Although, I haven't seen the rec' room yet." He gave his watch a quick glance. "Man! I sure hope THEY hold off for a few hours..."
Roy gave his eyes another roll. "We just had an inspection."
"Yeah...I know," his partner conceded. "Odd, ain't it...that we'd be gettin' another one so soon!"
DeSoto's shoulders sagged in defeat. He exhaled a weary sigh and then drove on…in silence.
When the famished firemen finally reached their Station, about five minutes later, Engine 51 was not parked in the apparatus bay...and there was no tantalizing smell of fried chicken in the air.
The pair exchanged pained expressions.
However, before the garage's heavy door could even begin to grind to a close, their absent colleagues returned.
"These guys must be just as starved as we are," Roy reasoned, as Stoker maneuvered Big Red in beside their Squad.
But his dogged associate's brain train had already switched tracks. "The inspection!" Gage exclaimed and started racing toward the locker room.
"Hold it, pal!" his Captain called after him, and the fleeing fireman obediently skidded to a stop.
Stanley studied the statue's bloodstained uniform for a few moments. "Change your shirt and then see about getting some grub on."
"But—" the stalled paramedic began.
"—I know, I know," his Captain quickly informed him. "But I've decided to give that sore shoulder of yours a break." A remorseful 'jumper' had leapt from an eighth-story ledge, earlier in the day, and latched onto the paramedic's left arm. The guy, who outweighed Gage by a good fifty pounds, had nearly wrenched the paramedic's shoulder from its socket. The doctors had cleared John for duty. Hank, however, was only willing to clear him for light duty. "Which means, I want to see you cooking, instead of cleaning. So, as of right now, you and Roy are trading tasks."
"But," Gage began again, "Roy's not cookin', Cap."
Stanley aimed a stern gaze in DeSoto's direction.
"I'm expecting a phone call," Roy explained. "And I wanted to take it in the dorm. So Mike and I swapped duty assignments."
That seemed reasonable...enough. "Tough break," Hank told his now frowning—and stuck with latrine duty—engineer, and started strolling towards his office.
Mike's scowl deepened.
John gave his unhappy replacement a slight shrug, before obediently leaving for his locker.
Roy gave their engineer an apologetic glance, and then disappeared, himself—in the direction of the dormitory.
Chet and Marco exchanged highly amused looks, and then reluctantly headed over to the hose tower.
Mike just stood there for a few moments, moping. "No good deed goes unpunished," he grumbled beneath his breath, before finally leaving for…the latrine.
Hank Stanley placed his freshly brewed cup of steaming black coffee down on their empty dinner table and collapsed exhaustedly onto a chair. 'We prob'ly should a' picked up some pizza…' he glumly mused and then glanced up, as his newly designated cook finally came scurrying into the kitchen. "How can it possibly take you fifteen minutes…just to change your uniform shirt?"
"Sorry, Cap," Gage apologized. "I sort a' straightened my locker up a little. Then I had to rinse my uniform in cold water, so the stain wouldn't set—" he stopped, right in mid-explanation, and stared around the Station's messy rec' room in shock and disbelief. "Quick! Somebody, give me a hand!" the panicked paramedic pleaded.
Hank and his men watched—in complete bewilderment—as their cook suddenly went dashing around the day room, snatching up all the newspapers and magazines that had been scattered about.
The engine crew exchanged odd glances and then turned to their Captain, to witness his reaction to the paramedic's bizarre behavior.
"C'mon!" the periodical collector continued. "THEY could be here any minute!"
Stanley saw the strange looks on the faces of his men. He was wearing one to match. "Ga-age?"
John stopped and stood there, with his armload of reading material. "Yeah, Cap?"
"I'm all for policing the area. In fact, we'll get right on it...right after we eat."
John looked shattered. "But, Cap—"
"—Ga-age," Stanley sternly repeated, "you don't want to bring the beast out in your Captain, do you? When I'm hungry, I'm like a lion...with an empty stomach...I start roaring!" Hank added, his already raised voice rising even further in volume. "Chet, Marco, why don't you two speed things along," he ordered more than asked. "You can start by setting the table."
The smirks vanished from the two men's faces. Reluctantly, they peeled themselves up out of their comfortable chairs and began shuffling towards the cabinets and cupboards.
The distracted chef quickly set his bundle aside and obediently crossed back into the kitchen. John jerked the door to the fridge open and then stood there, studying its paltry contents...waiting for some inspiration. 'Food for thought,' the fireman figured silently, latching onto an apple and taking a big, juicy bite out of it.
"We gonna need plates?...Or bowls?" Kelly queried.
Gage stuck the apple in his teeth and began pulling the refrigerator's contents out onto the counter. "I-on't-ow-et," he answered, through a mouthful of fruit.
Chet's focus shifted from china to Chinese? "Huh?"
The paramedic placed some produce on the counter and then pulled the apple from between his teeth. "I sai-aid, I don't know yet. I'm still thinkin'..." He stashed the apple back in his mouth and stared pensively down at the countertop full of food.
"Well, think faster," Lopez urged, as he began setting out the silverware. "My stomach knows it's already 45 minutes past suppertime."
"Have you decided yet?" Kelly re-inquired, his voice filled with growing annoyance.
"Huh?" the cook, who'd been only half-listening, came back.
Chet sighed and pointed up into the open cupboard.
John popped the apple out again. "Oh." He stared down at the crowded countertop, looking thoughtful. "Bowls...I guess."
Chet began reaching for the bowls.
"No," the cook corrected, "No-o, better make that plates."
The Irishman rolled his eyes and reached for the plates—but didn't touch them.
"Wait..." John urged. "Bowls."
Kelly exhaled an exasperated gasp.
Gage shot his helper an apologetic glance. "Definitely bowls."
Kelly remained skeptical, but obligingly reached up and removed six bowls from the cupboard.
Lopez set another spoon down and then paused, looking somewhat confused. "Are we having company for dinner?"
The rest of the guys glanced at one another, looking more than a bit puzzled, themselves.
"We-ell," Marco continued, upon catching their questioning stares, "John said THEY were gonna be here. I was just wondering if THEY are gonna eat here?"
The men gazed at one another again, and then turned to Gage.
The paramedic was so preoccupied with planning his meal, that he hadn't been paying any attention to the conversation.
The Captain cleared his throat—repeatedly—and the still seemingly lost in thought fireman finally turned to him. "Are they?"
"Are they what?" Gage wondered.
"Going to eat here?"
"Oh. Gee...I don't know. I doubt it, though. I mean, THEY don't usually do that sort a' thing."
Stanley and his men exchanged mystified glances.
"Who?" all four firemen asked—in unison.
John opened his mouth and was just about to reply—when the Station's tones sounded.
"Squad 51..."
The paramedic tossed his half-eaten apple onto the counter and began exiting the kitchen.
Hank rose stiffly to his feet and headed for the call station.
"Ah, ma-an!" Kelly griped, sounding tremendously disappointed. "And it was just getting interesting, too! THEY were on their way here. And whoever—or whatever—THEY are, THEY don't usually eat..." He paused, looking shrewd. "THEY must be vampires."
Stoker and Lopez grinned, broadly.
Stanley returned, stepped up to the counter, and then stood there, staring down at Gage's attempt at fixing dinner. "I don't get it…"
The men gave their leader sympathetic glances.
"Trust us, Cap. You're not alone!" Kelly assured him. "But we're guessin' vampires."
"No," Hank continued. "I meant this!" He made a face and motioned to the odd assortment of food Gage had managed to accumulate on the counter. "What was he going to do to it...so that we'd need bowls?"
Mike Stoker stepped up behind his Captain and peered over his shoulder. "Luckily for us…we'll never have to find out."
His fellow firefighters grinned and snickered.
Hank's grin gradually faded and he began issuing—er, roaring orders. "Stoker, stick this stuff back in the fridge. Lopez, clear the table. Kelly, call for pizza." The Captain—er, hungry lion then took his coffee from the table and his leave from the kitchen.
TBC