DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 and Emergency! are the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. The picture used for the cover comes from the Adam-12 episode "S.W.A.T.". ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.*This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters.
This story is on hiatus until I can get back to it, so please note that I do not give anyone permission to finish writing this story for me. Also, please understand that even if I am not able to finish this story, I cannot remove it from the site for reasons I will not go into.
This is in response to Ginger's vignette challenge to write a short story around the quote below and it is a companion piece to a crossover fic I wrote and posted on the Adam-12 site entitled "The Ordinary Day". Any continuity goofs between the two stories are my fault, it's a bit hard at times to get the two pieces to sync up properly. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!
COURAGE UNDER FIRE
"Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, no second chances."—Unknown
MINUTES TO HOURS: ROY
TICK, TICK, TICK…
Five minutes.
It's only been five minutes.
Five.
Lousy.
Goddamned.
Minutes.
Seems like an eternity.
An eternity between the initial 'man down, possible heart attack' call we were dispatched on while at Rampart Hospital, to…to…
This.
This hell.
Dante's Inferno.
A battlefield, that's what it is. A hellish battlefield. Not in a foreign country. In Los Angeles. The city of angels. La-La Land. Whatever you want to call it, it's HERE, and not over THERE, across an ocean or a continent.
And there wasn't even any time to react, to comprehend what we were seeing in front of us as we rolled up at the scene in the Granite Park area, for one second we were squinting out of the windshield at what gruesome scene lay before us, with bodies lying bloody in the street and people screaming for help and the stench of cordite and blood and dust thick in the air, and then the windshield…
It was gone.
It exploded…imploded...in on us, raining shards of smoked safety glass all over us in diamond-glinting twinkles and one of us…don't remember who…at least grasped the basic concept of what was happening and yelled "SHOOTER!" and we bailed out the passenger side of the squad in a mad-dash scramble for our lives.
And we didn't even have time to stop and think, stop and catch our breaths, stop and take stock of the situation, for on the sidewalk about fifteen feet away from us, a wounded woman was crawling towards us, crying, begging us to help her, her face bloodied, and we crawled towards her on our hands and knees, trying to use the squad as a shield, but she never made it, we never made it, a silent bullet hit her, shaking her like a rag doll and she collapsed in a heap on the pavement, blood seeping, creeping across her floral print blouse, the pleading look still on her face but her eyes were chilly dead, so cold, so lifeless…
So accusing.
Johnny had leaped to his feet to try to grab her, but pop-pop-pop, the red light bar atop the rig shattered into a million little pieces, raining bits of plastic and metal and glass down on us as more bullets smashed the headlights, puncturing the two tires on the driver's side of the squad, taking the side view mirror off on that same side in a very clean shot, and with a yelp, Johnny dived back to the pavement as the bullets kissed puckers into the metal hood of the rig.
And around us, we could hear the panicky cries and wails of frightened people in the green-grass park behind the stone wall, the moans of the injured, sobbing, weeping, so much crying, so much pain, so much blood…
So much death.
And so we sit here, huddled up on the pavement at the relative safety of the rear dual wheels of the rig, the two of us the best damned paramedics on the Los Angeles County Fire Department, and we can't do a thing to save the people in Granite Park, in the street around here.
Not a goddamned fucking thing.
We're as trapped as they are, pinned down by a madman on the roof of the office building across the way, the madman who holds Death in his hands.
And we're supposed to fight Death.
Or at least give the victims a fighting chance.
And we can't even do that.
I cast a glance up the street where Big Red sits parked, staged at a safe distance from here, out of the line of fire, out of danger, out of sight of the panoramic Hell that is before us, and I…I…
Hate them.
My crewmates from Station 51, Captain Stanley, Mike Stoker, Marco Lopez, and Chet Kelly.
I hate them.
Just for this moment, anyway.
We arrived on scene first, they arrived last.
Lucky bastards.
At least where they're at, they're safe, they don't have to see what lies before us, they don't have to smell the stench of blood and death, they don't have to feel the same fear we do as we watch with horrified eyes, the silent bullets taking victims down like ducks in a shooting gallery, the scene made even more macabre and scarier by the fact that you can't hear Death as it's being fired, for he's using a silencer to mask his evil deeds. Never has there be a wider gulf that exists than the one that stretches a block-and-a-half away from where we sit, a veritable continent between safe haven and sheer horrific hell.
It's trite, it's redundant, it's stupid of me to keep using that word 'hell' to describe this, but…I'm at a loss for words otherwise. So 'hell' it is.
I look down at my watch, my eyes tracking the small gold second-hand as it sweeps past the minutes, ticking time off in oh so tiny increments, the sun beating down on the dead woman sprawled a few feet away from us, shining as if it's…it's…
Just another ordinary day.
Which it was.
Just about five…no, now seven minutes ago.
An entire lifetime between our former sweet innocence and ignorance, to the cold harsh reality of the here and now, the two of us silently wondering if we'll make it out of this ghastly arena alive, wondering what lies beyond it if we do, in the eternity of the forever-after.
"How long's it been?" he asks at my side, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face. His uniform is soaked dark blue with sweat, his face pale, eyes rimmed wide with fear.
"'Bout seven minutes," I reply, raising a gritty palm to swipe at the sweat slipping down my face, my own hand shaking as I do. My uniform is soaked dark blue, too, the white t-shirt I wear beneath it sticking uncomfortably to my skin. Even though we sit in the shade of the rig, the pavement beneath our butts is hot, baked by the sun that shines innocently overhead, totally unaware of the carnage going on beneath it.
That lucky ol' sun.
"Shit," he hisses out between clenched teeth, thunking his head back against the wheel-well of the squad in mute frustration. "Seems like longer." He fidgets restlessly next to me, fingers picking nervously at the leather strap of the HT that's looped around his wrist, our only lifeline to the world beyond the expanse of Granite Park, the fear and the shock and the horror of what's happening driving my normally loquacious partner silent for once.
I glance over at him, the first time I've really looked at him since we bailed out of the rig wearing the windshield on us. There's pinprick dots of drying blood spotting his face here and there, small cuts from the shards of glass, and I know I wear much the same on my own face, for not all the moisture I feel there is sweat. Then I look past him to my crewmates stationed up the street, Cap pacing, worrying his way back and forth at the side of the engine, the skunk stripe of his helmet glinting bright in the sun, as gathered in a clump around him, stand the other three men, our comrades in arms. I don't need to be close to them to see that they're wearing the same look of despairing hopelessness, for they don't like it any more than I do that they're trapped up there and we're trapped down here. This is as bad as a three-alarm fire in a fireworks factory…maybe even worse. Fire is dangerous, unpredictable, and you can never be sure which way the flames are going to eat and chew next, but right now, the man on the roof with a silenced rifle is infinitely more dangerous than any flames could be, for with fire, you at least stand a pretty good chance of making it out alive if you use your head, but here…that man holds the power between life or death in his hands and he's clearly not afraid to use it. Ain't no one that can outrun a bullet..one shot will kill you dead where you stand, and that's the fear that curdles cold in our guts.
I rub a hand across my nose, trying to rid it of the sharp peppery sting of cordite and the coppery-sweet stink of blood, the memories of another battlefield in another foreign country revisiting me, the horrors of war impressed upon a kid still learning about the vagaries of life, young and innocent when he was sent over there, old and bitter and cynical when he came back. The sight of so many young lives dying in a useless, futile war will do that to a man. And this brings it all back to me in a cold-crashing, blood-thumping, stomach-churning rememory of the marshy sour stink of rice paddies, the heavy thwupping of the Huey chopper blades as they evacced the moaning wounded out, the harsh metallic zip of a body bag being closed over yet another man we could not save. No, it's not something I wish to relive, yet here on an ordinary street on an ordinary day, I am, thanks to the madman on the roof with a gun in his hands.
The smells set my stomach to rolling, bile rising high in my throat, choking me, and I swallow hard, willing it to stay where it's at, taking shallow breaths through my mouth and nose as I lean my head back against the cool metal of the squad, closing my eyes, trying to think of anything but battlefields and bodies and blood. I haven't puked at a scene for a long time, and I ain't about to break my record now.
He casts me a knowing look, a concerned hand finding its way to my shoulder. "'Nam?" he asks quietly, for I've not talked much about my service as an Army medic on the front lines over there because I don't wish to visit my own horrors on a friend…after all, for there are some things a man should keep to himself, and Vietnam is one of them. But Johnny knows enough about me to know some of my secrets, or at least what little bit I've revealed to him here and there.
"Yeah," I grunt in a rasp, raising a shaking hand to swipe away the sweat once more, shifting on the pavement, trying to keep my ass from falling asleep.
"Hey, I know, let's play I Spy!" he chirps brightly with false gaiety, giving me a whitely lopsided grin that is utterly devoid of humor, for it will be a long time before humor returns to either one of us...a long, LONG time.
"What?" I say, flashing him a startled look. "Are you kidding me?"
"It might take your mind off of things," he shrugs. "I spy, with my little eye, something grey and lumpy," he intones sonorously. "And it's not brains, either," he adds with a tiny smirk, that gallows humor strong, for it's a necessary component those of us in emergency services employ in order to keep from going utterly and completely nuts by the tragedies and stupidities and downright cruelties we see on a daily basis. It's a vanguard, a shield, a saving grace that makes us laugh while we cry and rage inside at the frailties of human nature.
"It's the wall across from us," I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
"Aw man, you guessed it too fast," he complains. "Okay, lemme pick another one…"
"Johnny, please," I beg, holding a hand up to stop him. "Just…don't, okay? Don't."
We fall silent once more, time ticking onward, minutes marching slowly past as the cavalry arrives in the form of the Los Angeles Police Department, but we must hurry up and wait for them to mobilize their SWAT team and bring in their armored rig, while from the rooftop, the gunman continues to rain silent terror, the only way we know he's shooting people is by the tormented screams carried from the park on the breeze that plays innocently among the trees.
"I feel so fucking helpless," Johnny mutters after a bit. "We're supposed to save lives, Roy, not sit here and let people die." He fiddles with the antenna of the HT, having used it just a bit ago to update our rescuers on our situation, as he's been doing all along.
"Yeah, I know," I say tiredly. "But at this point, we can't do much about it. We're just as trapped as the other folks are, and until the cops get in here with their rig, we can't do a goddamned thing."
"Yeah, but it doesn't make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow," he says acidly, gesturing to the cold harsh reality of the futility of our job that lies dead on the sidewalk just a few feet from us, bleeding out onto the sun-baked sidewalk. "How many you think is in the park alone?"
"Hard to say," I reply. "On a nice day like this, people will be out enjoying the weather."
Then he asks an innocent question, one that startles me, taking my breath from my lungs in a whispering gasp, turning my blood to ice water in my veins. "Would Jo bring Chris and Jenny to this park?" he inquires thoughtfully, thoughtlessly, the goddamned stupid jackass.
And…oh dear God…I hadn't thought of that, I hadn't WANTED to think of that, I'd instinctively kept the thoughts of my family pushed firmly from my mind since the start of this ordeal, for I didn't wish to taint them with the horror of this day, I didn't want to consider the what-ifs and the remote possibility that Jo might have brought Chris and Jenny to this park to enjoy the sunshine on this ordinary day, the three of them becoming my own loved ones trapped behind that grey stone wall, weeping and crying and fearful and maybe…maybe hurt, maybe…oh my god…dead (NO! Goddamnit, NO!), and the bile rises swiftly in my throat and I can't swallow it back, I only have time to lurch sideways, bracing my palms on the pavement before I puke, spewing the sour contents of my stomach onto the curb and the street beneath the squad, and behind me, over the sound of the blood roaring in my ears and my gagging, I hear Johnny making concerned noises, feeling his hand on my back in a comforting patting gesture, and I…I…
HATE him.
I hate him for bringing that idea up, for even thinking of the possibility that I could not, would not entertain, that my beloved wife and two innocent children were trapped in that park by a madman with a rifle on the roof across the way. Why, oh fucking God WHY did he bring that up?
When the spell subsides, I sag weakly back against the side of the rig, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, my breath panting hard in my chest, my stomach muscles aching from the wrenching force of throwing up.
"You okay?" Johnny asks, worry in his dark brown eyes.
"Goddamn you," I mutter angrily, hawking and spitting, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of vomit as I swipe at the hazy cataract of tears that bead my eyelashes.
"Whaddaya mad at me for?" he asks defensively.
"For bringing that idea up that Jo would be in the park with Chris and Jenny," I snap, spitting again.
"Yeah, but they're not, right?" he says, trying to sound reassuring. "I mean, this park is quite a-ways away from your house, so it's doubtful that Jo would bring the kids here, when there's closer parks than this one."
"Yeah, but I didn't want to think about that, damn it," I grumble. "Not even the remotest possibility that it could be true."
"I'm sorry, Roy," he says simply. "I wasn't thinking." And there is no note of false sincerity in his voice, for while apologies sometimes come hard to John Gage, who often hates to admit he's wrong at times, this time he means it, truly means it, from the heart. He knows how much my family means to me, therefore they mean that much to him.
And so I forgive him.
Because what else can I do?
He's my brother, the bonds of our brotherhood forged strong in our battles against flames, against death, against fear.
We sit in silence for a few moments once more, Johnny fidgeting restlessly next to me, for even in quiet moments he has that hyper current of electricity flowing through him, driving him to constant motion, for that's the normal state of his world…if you're always on the move, the shit can't hit you. He picks up his helmet laying on the ground next to him, shards of glass still twinkling on the brim as he turns it around in his hands. "Never thought I'd see the day when my city was turned into a war zone."
"Yeah," I nod. "But it's happened in other cities."
"But I never thought it would happen here," he repeats plaintively, trying to comprehend the horror of it all, for this is not like the other battlefields we wage war upon on a daily basis; this is not a medical call like a heart attack or an overdose or car wreck injuries that we must fight the good fight against with our own medicines and magic equipment and knowledge, nor is this is a fire that we must fight the good fight against with water and intimate memories of fires before that allows us to gauge and predict where the flames will eat at next…no, this is…is…
Something we could not know, something we could not prepare for, something we could not imagine even happening here.
But now it has, on this very ordinary day in this very ordinary park in this very ordinary city to very ordinary people.
And I know and he knows and we all know that the battle we will wage today will not be in black and white, but in hazy shades of grey and bright red blood, the lines blurred between right and wrong and what can and can't be done, none of us emerging from this the victors, not even the man on the roof, because it's a sure bet that when all is said and done, he won't be coming off of that roof alive.
"God, I hate that goddamned fucker on the roof," Johnny spits angrily, venom sharp in his voice, unusual for the generally gregarious Johnny, who doesn't even hate the dratted Chet, although no one would blame him if he truly did, for all the pranks Chet's pulled on him over the years. "If I had a gun, I'd try to pick the bastard off myself."
"You don't like guns, remember?" I point out.
"I sure as hell would like one now, Roy," he says acidly. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the office building. "I mean, look at the asshole..he's up there on the roof playing God, picking and choosing who gets to live and who dies down here, and it's just not fair…what gives him that right to do that?"
"The rifle in his hands, that's what," I tell him, matching him bitter for bitter, sour for sour, hatred for hatred, for what good is a battlefield if you cannot hate someone on it?
"I'd be judge, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one," Johnny continues, a grim smile lighting his face as he thinks what I wish myself. "Goddamned gas chamber is too good for the bastard if they take him alive."
"Amen to that," I say, giving him a grim smile of my own, for even though we're in the business of saving lives, ain't no God in no Heaven anywhere that'd fault us for thinking that. "I'd pull the trigger on the asshole myself if they'd let me."
Silence settles on us once more, tick tick tick, the minutes turning to hours, or so it seems, the silence only broken by the radio traffic on the HT, the call and response as our rescuers ask questions of us and Johnny answers them as best he can. Each of us are lost in our own thoughts...what his are, I cannot say, but mine are simple...I want to live see my family again. Finally Johnny speaks to me once more. "I've tried praying, Roy," he says softly, mournfully, a confession of the soul of the truly damned, which is what we are at this point. "And I can't. Nothing comes to me. I just keep thinking of those people trapped in the park and on the street, needing help but not getting it, and I can't think of anything to say to God, except 'Fuck you and the horse you rode in on'." He gives me a worried look. "Think I've jinxed us by thinking that? Think God will hate me?"
"No," I grunt. "I've been thinking that myself, Junior." I scrub a hand down my face, my palm sliding slick with sweat, gritty from pavement dust. "In fact, at this point, I am wondering if there even IS a God, ya know?"
"Yeah," he barks shortly, bitterly, then he leans his head back against the metal wheel-well, closing his eyes. "Roy?" he asks in a small voice so unlike his usually boisterous tone.
"Yeah?"
"Would you think less of me if I told you right now I was really afraid…I mean, really really afraid?" His tone holds that childlike fear of the monsters under the bed, of the dark, of giving a speech in class without any pants on, all twisted and gnarled and chewed into the manlike fear of what we're facing, the uncertainty, the waiting, the unknown…
Death.
"Only if you don't think less of me for the same thing, Junior," I tell him, for honesty is the best policy and hell, if we're gonna die out here, we might as well unburden our souls and confess the deepest fear we share.
"I mean, we've been in some tight situations before, but this is…" His voice trails off and he swallows hard, his brown eyes filled with fear as they meet mine. "I don't know if we're going to get out of this alive, Roy." Quiet desperation flickers in his voice as he clearly hopes for me to reassure him, give him something to cling to, some sort of faith, a sign, a word…anything, to tell him we're going to survive this and go on to live long and productive lives.
But I know…and he knows…that would render me a false prophet, for I cannot bolster him with a faith I don't feel myself. "Yeah," I say, and I hope he can forgive me for not giving him anything to go on.
He draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin atop them as he watches the activity up the street, the rescue mission that is FINALLY getting underway. "But, I guess I should be thankful for one thing," he sighs ruminatively, reflectively.
"What's that?" I ask, for I'm not sure in this urban war zone, there's too much to be thankful for, save for our lives.
He looks over at me, that lopsided grin flashing on his face. "Could be worse," he chuckles, the sound odd in this eerily spooky atmosphere. "I could be stuck sitting here with Chet."
I think on that for a moment, the incongruity of the Phantom and his Pigeon being stuck together in such a life-or-death situation as this, and I feel a small smile working its way across my face, a small bubble of laughter welling up inside of me, for I can well imagine that whatever hell this is right now for Johnny, it would be made a thousandfold worse if he were forced to endure it with his merry prankster, the two of them squabbling and bitching and griping about each other's idiosyncracies, driving one another nuts as they awaited rescue. "Yeah, you're right, Junior," I chuckle myself, and at that moment, I realize…I realize…
That Johnny and I, we're gonna be okay, no matter what.
As long as we stick together.
Yeah.
Together.
And that's at least one thing I can guarantee.