"LA, Station 51 returning to base."
"Station 51."
"I don't believe this."
John glowered at his bandaged finger, poking out of the rent of his right glove. He sat in his locker, newly showered, wearing his spare trousers and shirt. His boots lay on their sides, smelling faintly of polish.
"Roy, do you see this?" He wiggled his finger through the tear towards his partner.
Roy apparently ran out of sympathy. "I did see it. The whole time from Rampart and back. Dix saw it too. And Morton."
John scowled at the mention of Morton. He shook his covered finger again in the air.
"I think he did this on purpose. Why did it have to be Morton again? And did he have to wrap it up like this?"
"You tore off a nail right through the glove," Roy reminded him. The corner of his eye twitched. "Be glad he still let you stay on duty."
Like John has a choice. "I'm gonna need to pull overtime for three days before I can replace all this." John slapped the glove lightly on his knee.
"Don't you have spar—Let me guess..." Roy leaned on the wall by his locker. He folded his arms in front of him. "Those were your spares."
"My uniform allowance isn't big, Roy," John groused. "I can replace a helmet, maybe some gloves on it, but all this?" He poked at his trousers. At least he had spares back in his apart—He groaned.
"What?"
John wearily waved towards himself. "I had my spare shirts cleaned and left them in my apartment."
"Oh. Maybe the damage wasn't too bad." Roy was usually for the worst case scenario. Boy, John must really be in a bad way if Roy was trying to look at the brighter side.
"I guess I'll be eating peanut butter sandwiches for the next month." John made a face. It wasn't fun the last time he had to do that. Peanut butter used to be his favorite.
"You know, we could ask Cap to talk to headquarters. Maybe they'll let you hold out on the coat until next month. You could keep my coat and replace the cheaper stuff first."
John smiled wearily at Roy. He felt a warmth in his chest that quelled the restless turning in his stomach.
"No offense, Roy. But I would rather have my own stuff."
Roy shrugged, smirking.
"Aw, did you hear that, Marco? Junior wants his own gear." Chet emerged from the dorms with a smirk, his hands in his pockets.
Marco snickered. "They grow up so fast, don't they, Roy?"
Roy threw up his hands, not wanting any part of that conversation but John did catch the grin on his face before he suddenly became fascinated with washing his hands.
John growled, "Chet, knock—" He yelped when a pair of gloves dropped on his head then fell into his lap.
"I want those back, Gage," Chet said, head buried in his locker. "I got those specially made from that guy in Pomona."
John held them away from him. He made a face. "If you're that worried I'll break them, then why give them to me?"
Marco dropped a helmet on John's head. His spare. "Anything to stop your whining," he said but there was little heat in it. He crooked a grin at John.
Pushing the brim up with a thumb, John grinned back. He wiggled his fingers into the gloves. He frowned.
"They're too big," John complained. He tugged at the hems and felt the leather snap back loosely over his palms.
"Hey. Not my fault you got dainty hands, Gage. Remember, if you rip those, you're buying me two pairs." Chet swatted towards John. He missed but didn't bother trying again as he sauntered out, Marco following.
"Two?" John grumbled. He eyed Roy. "What's so funny?"
Roy shook his head, but his mouth was still curved up. "Nothing. Just thought it was nice of Chet, that's all."
John snorted but even the corners of his mouth wanted to twitch up. "I suppose. Although you hear him trying to get me to buy…Wait a minute." John bristled.
"Dainty?"
Before Roy could reply, before John could tear after that rotten Chet, the tones rang out for Station 51, Engine 8 and Ladder 18. John shoved his feet into his boots and hopped after Roy.
"Station 51, Engine 8, Ladder 18. Possible gas leak. Corner of Wilson and Orange. Time out 1531."
"Station 51."
"Engine 8."
"Ladder 18."
"LA, deputy responding on scene with Station 51."
Roy heard John groan next to him as he parked the squad across from the six story structure. When he stepped out of the cab to take a better look for himself, Roy bit back a groan of his own.
"I thought the address sounded familiar," Roy muttered.
"I'm guessing it's the furnace," griped John as he shrugged into his gear. "Wanna bet his construction permits are expired? Again?"
Roy shook his head. "Not if I want to lose money," he muttered. He considered the drab dirt brown structure, still covered with scaffolding in front (the owner had never taken it down after his last failed inspection).
The engine rolled up behind the squad. Marco hopped out of it. Chet was already climbing up to the hose beds as soon as Cap told him to get the inch-and-a-halves.
"Hey, isn't that—"
"Yeah, Marco. We know," John said wearily. "Three violations." He shrugged into his breathing gear as he scowled at the building. "I bet the owner didn't fix any of them either."
Roy grimaced. "There was a full house in that hotel the last time we were there." He flicked a look to Cap.
Cap stood there, fists on his hips, darkly looking at the height of the hotel. Roy could see their captain remembered the reports he and John had submitted from their last round of inspections. He'd forwarded their recommendations about evacuating the residents to headquarters. That was last week.
"We're going to have to check each floor," Cap muttered. Louder, "Shut down the elevators. We'll check the upper floors. Chet, run a line—"
On the third floor, at the south face, a window blew out with a bellow of smoke. Glass sparkled briefly in the afternoon sun before dropping down on the arriving Engine 8 and Ladder 18. Roy saw the arriving firemen hunched down in their seats. Thankfully, they appeared to be okay as one by one, they emptied their engines to grab the hoses.
John exchanged a look with Roy. The explosion had very little fire with it. That was actually bad.
"Damn," Cap swore. He seemed to agree with John's silent assessment. "Marco, get on the horn with LA. We're going to need the gas and power turned off in case they never fixed the wiring—"
A window on the fifth floor shattered. Someone screamed. Others stuck their heads out of windows, hollering, panicked.
Again, there was little fire but a lot of smoke, thick and white, filled the sky. Briefly, the sun was shrouded, sending the street into shadows.
"They didn't fix the wiring," Roy sighed. They all exchanged a look, pulled their masks over their faces. Without prodding, they jogged towards the hotel, shouldering past the masses running away from it.
"LA, Station 51. Respond an additional ladder and a squad for a second alarm. Possible trapped victims."
"Station 51."
The woman, coughing and screaming, almost knocked John off the stairs.
Roy's hand planted on John's lower back, steadying him when John stumbled back down a step after the woman in a sky blue bathrobe and white slippers crashed into John.
"Easy! Easy!" John yelped as he fought the instinct to wheelbarrow his arms and used them to right the fleeing woman instead. "Stay calm! Fire department's here. Just two more flights to go, ma'am."
"...Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry! Sorry! T-there's all this smoke! We thought they were just fixing the furn—"
A small explosion above them sent the woman practically climbing John like a tree.
"We have to go! We have to leave! Help me! The building is going to—"
"I got her."
Roy's hand disappeared from John's back as he went up to drop a reassuring arm over her shaking shoulders.
"Ma'am, here, let me help you."
"Roy..." Chet began. Even behind the breathing mask, it was audible how bad of an idea he thought it was for Roy to go anywhere alone.
"It's fine. Cap and Vince are right outside."
John flicked a look towards the staircase rising higher into the ever increasing thick smoke. There were sounds of panic above: the clamor of footsteps, screaming, doors slamming.
"I'll be checking upstairs," John said. He caught the blink Roy gave him, the expression of relief which he waved off before he grabbed the inch-and-a-half behind Marco.
"See you up there! Watch yourself!" Roy supported the woman in the bathrobe and somehow, another woman, older, shorter but just as scared, latched onto his other arm.
John glanced back over his shoulder, watched Roy take the stairs with his two victims. He squared his shoulders and gently went against the flow of evacuees as he followed Marco and Chet up to where the smoke smelled the strongest.
A burst of flame broke out of a fourth floor door so John left Chet and Marco to fight that demon while he ventured higher.
The fifth floor was empty. All the doors were flung open, some taped off with clear signs of construction.
Regardless, John poked his head into every door. "Fire Department! Anyone in here?"
The fires on the third and fourth floor sent thick black smoke rising to the fifth and sixth floors. Even with the mask on, John thought he could taste it: a gritty, charcoal tang in the back of his throat. He swallowed repeatedly, gulping tanked air to soothe a dry throat he was pretty sure was only imagined. It still took some getting used to: breathing normally despite everything around him telling him he probably shouldn't.
John didn't hear anyone above him. He hoped that meant everyone was evacuated. He tugged his mask lower to cover his chin. He sucked in another breath of air from the tank.
"Fire department! Anyone in here?"
John checked his boots uneasily when he heard the floor groan. He hoped it was due to age and not fire that made the floor feel like it was a slab of mud. Falling through the floor had little appeal; like a ceiling falling on him.
At the reminder, John spared the ceiling above him a glance. The ceiling was unblemished save the patches of peeling painting. He tore his gaze away and moved on to the next door.
"Fire dep—"
There was a creak.
Not under him. Not over him.
Behind him.
"Don't worry. I'm from the fir—"
John felt a large hand clamp over the back of his neck. Before John could finish, before he could register the glint of silver that reflected off his mask, John was shoved forward through the very door he was going to check.
"Hey! Take it easy! Calm down! I'm with—"
The hand tightened. His mask jerked.
John realized whoever it was, he wasn't going to let John finish.
The edge of his mask dug into his face as it was tugged again, the hose it was connected to was caught on something. John twisted away. Tried. The hand gripped his neck, forcing him to hunch forward. John stumbled as he was hauled deeper into the room.
The construction warnings were kicked aside, planks of unfinished wood scattering when John was shoved down to his knees. A boot dug into his lower back when he tried to get up.
A flash of light.
John flinched, but couldn't go far. All he could do was raise his arms up when he saw the steel edge glint above him as it swung down in a striking arc.
Hiss.
With a violent yank, dragging the air mask halfway down his face, his hose was cut. He could feel air sputtering from the slashed hose and the dying remains of air in his mask.
John lurched back. He tried to get the boot tip he could feel digging into his back to get off. The exertion drew tainted air into his lungs. The last of his air mixed with a noxious soup of smoke and gas. His coughing shook his entire body. He was unable to break free of the iron hold around his neck.
Eyes watering, chest heaving, John tried to regain his footing as he was dragged to a hole in the wall.
Blinded by the burning tears in his eyes, his feet dangling because they couldn't touch the ground, John fought. His elbows felt like they struck a solid wall behind him. The arm around his throat squeezed. John clawed what felt like a two-by-four digging into his Adam's apple.
Abruptly, the arm vanished from under his chin. Before John could twist free, the hand was back on the back of his neck. A hard push and John crashed into the wall. The mask was torn from his face so quickly his skin burned.
Hands splayed on the wall he was pressed against. John pushed off. A knee dug into his lower back, hard enough he could feel it through his gear.
Another push and his cheek scraped against the wall, to a gaping hole raw with splinters. John could see billows of smoke, thick and black. John could see a wide black pillar, still gleaming with tar, a jagged mouth vomiting smoke.
The furnace pipe.
It was like being pinned behind the engine. John tried to push off with his feet, his aching hands, but no sooner did he gain an inch, when his face was forced down towards the hole again.
John could hear the furnace pipe groaning, straining as it belched more black poison into the room, into his face. Behind him, the attacker didn't make a sound. He didn't seem bothered by the smoke, while John coughed and gagged. He didn't even grunt when John jabbed an elbow back. John knew he hit him. He did! But he wasn't making a sound.
Wood creaked under them. John could hear his attacker's boots, heavy heeled and scraping along the floor. The guy stayed where he was, unbothered by the fumes, unmoved at the elbows and kicks John tried to rain on him. He stood there, large hands forcing John's face over the hole.
John could feel himself fading.
No! A jolt went up his spine, one last desperate surge that got him to lock his elbows, flexed his shoulder blades and pushed. Pushed!
The back of John's head struck something hard and round. He heard a crack. A breathing mask. The man gave a startled grunt. He staggered back, giving John a few precious inches away from the hole in the wall.
But John's lungs burned.
John's knees buckled.
There was a hard knock across his lower back. Or a kick. John wasn't sure. He garbled out a cry, maybe a "No" before he crashed into the wall again. Boneless, he slid to the floor.
As the fumes swirled around him, darkening his vision, John heard his attacker stumble out of the room. The door slammed shut. He heard something outside grind and scrape across the floor before stopping at the door. A thud indicated the door was now blocked.
Chest heaving, John tried to push up on his elbows. Coughing, coughing, coughing so hard, his elbows folded and he dropped to the floor. He reached up, clawed the edge of the hole above him to give him leverage. He pulled, hauled himself up. John got his chest off the floor but his knees wouldn't move, wouldn't lock and he fell back down again.
He didn't try again.
