...Get up.
Get up!
His chest felt tight, like a giant fist was curled around him, squeezing, crushing. With each pulsing throb, his mind screamed for him to get up.
John gagged, coughed, but he moved.
The tank dug into his aching back when he rolled feebly away from the wall. Or at least he hoped he was rolling away. His eyes streamed with tears and his hands were numb. He barely felt the floor. It was like he was floating. Each lungful of air hurt. If only he could rest for one—
No!
With a cry that incited more violent coughing, John moved his limbs. He used his knees like oars, rocking himself to the side, rolling himself away. Once more. Come on...
The foul stench of tainted air eased as he moved away, but John could smell it filling the room. Eyes closed—they were swelling shut—John got on his hands and knees. He crawled.
In training, they were once put in what firefighters jokingly called 'the oven', an enclosed bunker with no windows, slowly growing hotter and darker. Rookies learned to search with their hands, made their way through mazes with the map they drew in their heads, they were often guided by the count they were advised to make the moment they entered the inferno. Lifelines were too susceptible to fire to rely on.
There had been no chance to make a count.
John crawled, hands numb and heavy as lead, knees shaking. Blind, choking, John almost collapsed when his head struck the doorknob. He grabbed it with both hands, used it to haul himself up to his feet.
It wouldn't turn.
A shoulder against the door didn't move it. John threw all his weight into it, back, shoulders, hip, even the air tank. But the door wouldn't move.
"Hey!" John pounded at the door. "H—" He couldn't finish. He sagged against the door. Only his desperate hold on the doorknob kept him up.
John forced his eyes open. He squinted through tears and looked around the room he was trapped in.
The thin slits of light nearly blinded him.
John had to push away from the door to give himself enough power to lurch towards the boarded up window. Slivers of light, almost golden bright, cut through the black. John tripped over his own feet, got up again, then fell when his boot crunched over the mask that had been torn off him.
No. He needed to keep moving.
John couldn't get back on his feet again. So he belly crawled. The taste of smoke seemed to get thicker in his throat, closing his airway. His eyes burned. He could hear his tank, still strapped over his shoulders, hissing away precious air. John wheezed. He feebly caught the flailing cut end of the hose and pointed the thin geyser of air towards his face.
The air revived him briefly. John clamped his mouth shut, shakily knotted the cut hose closed and held his breath. He wanted to pull the tank off, breathe in the escaping oxygen but he knew he only had enough in him for one last shot. His only shot.
When John bumped into the wall, the boarded up window above him, he wanted to cry out in relief. Instead, he clawed the boards above him until he shakily got back to his feet. The planks rattled but they didn't move beyond that. They were nailed shut.
The room felt saturated with fumes now. John's lungs burned as he struggled to slip the tank off his shoulders. The tank dropped to the floor.
John couldn't pick it up.
Come on. Come on!
The air he held in exploded out in a whoosh when he lifted up the tank with rubbery arms. Gasping loudly in his own ears, John staggered under the weight of the tank, used its momentum to drop him forward.
The tank barreled through the planks, through the glass.
John held on tight as he could to the tank so it wouldn't hurtle down on to the guys below. Through the gaping hole he made, he could see the tan turnout coats amassed below. Were they looking up? They must be.
Please. Let someone see that.
"Hey!" John croaked through the hole. He weakly stuck an arm out. The air coming in reeked of smoke from the fire below. "H-hey! Up...up...h-here..."
The smoke seemed to gather around the edges of his vision, darkening what was already a small patch of light. John clung to the edge of the hole he had made. He tried to shout again but nothing would come out. His chest heaved as he pressed closer to the window. The board he clung to groaned under the strain.
The split board broke free from the wall and John dropped to the floor.
The first thing Cap did when Roy came out of the building was throw him against the engine.
Three victims were clustered around Roy by the time he made it downstairs. Their panic attached them to his arms despite his reassurances they were okay. Their relief, once they were outside, scattered them like his boy Chris' marbles in all directions.
Before Roy could warn them to go to the squads to be looked over, Cap's sharp "Watch out!" interrupted him.
Roy felt arms around his middle. His feet briefly left the ground and then Roy slammed into 8's engine. Air rushed out of him but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the clear, almost ear-piercing sound of glass raining down from above.
Glass and wood shattered on impact; tiny explosions splintering just a few feet away.
"You all right?" Cap demanded. Behind him, there were similar exclamations as firemen got back to their feet.
Roy nodded numbly. He stared at the glass then slowly tilted his head up.
"Fifth floor," Cap answered his unspoken question. He drew his HT to his mouth. "HT 51, Engine 51. We have a possible victim trapped on the fifth floor on the north side."
"Engine 51. This is Kelly and Lopez. We're on fourth, south side. We need another line here. Gage went up ahead to fifth."
Roy tensed. At Cap's nod, he adjusted his helmet, tugged his mask securely over his face and dove back into the building.
People were still evacuating the building, coughing, eyes shut, hands reaching out frantically in an effort to navigate through the smoke.
"Easy! Keep moving!" Roy called out when one man barreled into him as he tore down the stairs. The man almost pitched Roy over the railing in his haste. "Careful! Keep moving, sir!" Roy pushed him towards the stairs behind him, prodded another. He could hear firemen from 8 coaxing residents in their direction. He could hear distant sirens outside. More help was coming. Roy could keep going.
The fire on third had spread up to the fourth floor. By the time Roy reached the fourth floor, he could make out Chet and Marco's damp backs, their gear soaked as spray bounced off blackening walls. Steam from fast evaporating water filled the level, mixing with black smoke. Everything felt hot and muggy on what little skin was left exposed. Roy shrugged deeper into his turnout coat and looked up at the staircase that rose into the higher floors.
"I'm going up to find Johnny!" Roy hollered over the roar of the fire and hoses. "18 is right behind me with another line. You got this?"
Chet, two hands curled around the head of his hose, nodded jerkily. Marco, straddling the hose behind him, spared a hand to give Roy a thumbs up before he went back to wrestling the hose before that much PSI could cause the line to whip out like an angry snake.
Roy continued on up the steps just as 18's men thundered up to the fourth floor to join Chet and Marco's line in battle.
The fifth floor, while untouched by fire, bore the scars of the random explosions the building had experienced. Smoke from below streaked the walls and obscured flickering light from the random bulbs that somehow survived. Construction cones, most likely from the renovations the building seemed to be perpetually undergoing, lolled on their sides. One looked crushed by a stampede.
Parts of the ceiling had also caved in, blocking the center of the hallway with jagged torn wood braided together into a bramble of debris.
"Johnny!" Roy shouted to what doors he could reach unobstructed. He cocked his head. Nothing. He leaned into the staircase. He took a deep gulp of air from his mask, before yanking it down from his face.
"Johnny, you up there?" Roy hollered up as loud as he could. He had to quickly put the mask back on. The air on the floor was a sour mix of fumes, smoke and steam that made him gag.
No one called down from sixth.
Roy glared at his surroundings. He clambered over debris, one hand on the wall to keep track of where he was going; the hallway was rapidly losing its light. He silently calculated where the north side and that window would be. He wiggled under broken rafters, pulled down torn four-by-fours and found the room was blocked.
He also found, by the blocked door, Johnny's handie talkie.
"Johnny?" Roy pounded a fist on the wall. "Johnny, you in there?" He yanked off his helmet, pressed an ear to the wall. But he couldn't hear anything. The fire below bellowed furiously, firemen shouted in muffled yells behind their masks, he couldn—Wait!
There was someone coughing behind the wall.
"Johnny?" With two fists, Roy hit the wall again. "I'm going to get you out!"
There was a weak thump inside; something hollow dropping to the floor. Then after a beat, the thump was heard again.
Roy eyed the destruction piled up against the door. There was no way he could fit in there to get to the door. He fumbled out his handie talkie.
"Engine 51, HT 51. This is DeSoto on fifth. I need the K-12."
"10-4, 51. Stoker's on his way."
It should have made him feel better. Cap's words, while distorted on the radio, were still calm and even and reassuring. The wall could easily be cut down with the saw. The smoke around him seemed thinner; the fire was being handled. Help was coming.
But Johnny stopped coughing on the other side.
Roy flattened himself against the wall.
"Johnny?" His fist ached as he hammered the wall. "Johnny, you okay?"
Nothing. Not even that strange thump like before.
Chest pounding, Roy eyed the mess blocking the door. He ducked under one rafter that shot out of the middle of the pile like a lever. He tucked his right shoulder under it like a fulcrum. Hunched, knees bent, Roy could feel the hard edges digging into his deltoids. He gritted his teeth, braced his hands on the wood and straightened up his knees.
The debris, like a great beast, groaned. But that was all.
Roy, his breathing ragged, heaved. His knees trembled as they tried to push up, lock, gain some elevation. Anything.
A burst of heat cracked deep in his shoulder and raced down his back. Roy grunted, ignored the sudden urge to vomit and tried again.
Above him, on top of the pile, something shifted and fell off on the other side.
Encouraged, Roy spread his feet apart, braced his hands a shoulder width apart and heaved.
His right shoulder spasmed and his arm jerked. The rafter on his shoulder stirred, slipped off, disturbing the top layer of jagged wood.
A hand grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back just before a cascade of wood and metal tumbled down to where he'd been standing.
"What the hell are you doing?" Mike was practically shouting to be heard through both masks.
Roy gripped his right shoulder; it felt like it was three times its normal size now. Shakily—his knees wouldn't stop trembling—he nodded towards the handie talkie barely visible now by the still-blocked door.
Even through the haze, through the masks, Roy saw Mike's eyes widen in comprehension.
"Stand back," he told Roy curtly. He jerked the chain back and the circular saw roared to life. It screeched as its teeth dug into the wall in front of them, a rough dark line splitting the surface.
Hang in there, Johnny, Roy thought as he stared at the line, willing it to lengthen faster.
We're coming.
Roy's coming.
Fuzzily, John heard it in his head. First it was low and quiet, like how Roy gets when he tries to reassure the patient that he was here to help. Then it got loud and almost kind of bossy, drowning out the coughing tearing out of his throat.
John vaguely remembered clutching his air tank, grateful he hadn't let go of it. It would have killed someone below otherwise. No way.
The hissing started up as soon as John unraveled the knot. The trickle of air leaking out of the cut hose reminded him of the other reason why he was grateful he held onto the tank. The sensation of the thread of air blowing against his flushed face was a relief. It wasn't enough air, but it was something. John clutched the tank as he stayed low to the ground, below the window.
It was going to be enough, just enough for Roy to get here. Because he would.
"...in there?"
John blinked blearily towards where he thought the door was. He coughed as he tried to call out. He gagged. His chest was growing tighter. He could feel the drag of sleep pulling him closer to the edge of a hole he would never be able to climb out of if he succumbed. He hugged the tank tighter, head low as a coughing jag seized his entire body.
"...going...you out..."
The knocking on the wall sounded like death calling. John shuddered. He could hear Roy now, shouting even though John knew he must have his mask on. Pounding and pounding as if Roy could break down the wall between them with his bare hands.
John raised the tank with both hands. He could only lift it a few inches before letting it drop to the floor. Tears leaked out of his shut eyes as he tried again. It sounded hollow as the canister landed on the floor with a jarring thump. It always sounded like that, John told himself even as he feebly pressed the torn hose closer to his face. Of course it sounded empty. Oxygen was nothing more than air, gas and practically weighed—
The hose in his grasp twitched, sputtered then fell limp in his fingers.
Then again, maybe the tank sounded hollow for a reason.
John pressed his mouth shut, trying to trap good air in his lungs and wishing he had the foresight to take one last gulp of his tank's air before its supply bled dry. He sagged against the wall, let the tank roll away from him as he fought to keep his eyes open.
He's outside. Roy's just outside. John only needed to wait a bit more. Just a little bit more.
Beyond the room, John could hear what sounded like the roar of the K-12. He smiled wanly, his eyes drooping as he listened to the whine of the saw ripping through the wall.
Almost there...
John sucked in a breath before he realized he shouldn't have. It burned all the way down his throat, his nose. He doubled over, sliding off the wall and onto the floor. He lay there, curled up, his cheek on the scratchy floor, wheezing around the fire that seemed to have erupted inside him.
Was this what it's like to burn alive, John thought distantly. He'd wondered but never dwelled on it; no firefighter ever would. No one wanted to think too long about the possible one time the beast they fought against finally winning. But John had wondered, out loud even. Roy once told him that when John ate enough smoke, he would stop wondering like the rest of them. John had shot back he wasn't that much younger than them. Roy would get some weird sappy smile, cuff him on the head and say John was young enough.
That darn Roy...
A cough punched up his throat, lodged a lump of pain under his Adam's apple. John groaned. Tried. Couldn't. The second his throat worked to make a sound, another tearing cough took over. John's fingers curled against the floorboards. Roy hurry, he can't...he can't...
Hands curled around his neck, to push him towards the broken furnace pipe again. John jolted.
"Johnny! Johnny! It's okay!"
John heard Roy's voice but he felt a stranger's hand. He struggled as he was pulled upright). He kicked out a boot. He was rewarded with a grunt.
"Take it easy! You're all right!"
His head spun in the new position and there was a pounding behind his eyes as arms slipped around his middle. A hand grabbed the back of his pants. He felt himself being dragged back.
John whipped his head back. Maybe if he hit hard enough, he would knock that mask off, break free.
"Calm down! Calm—Roy, you okay?"
"...Yeah..."
Something was pressed over his face. John reared back. He could feel his heart slamming hard against his ribs, beating frantically, shouting to him to break free. His eyes widened but he couldn't see because everything burst into a screen of blinding white...
A hand tightened on his neck, the thing was pressed harder over his face and something cool and dry washed over his mouth and nose. Air! John gasped and felt it rushing in. The fire in his chest and gut quelled. The haze over his eyes cleared a bit.
Roy's green eyes were bright and glued to him. His face, empty of his mask, stared at him silently but John heard him all the same. He nodded. He felt his limbs relaxing and finally Mike's arm around his middle registered.
"Roy?" Mike sounded terse.
Roy nodded. He straightened to his feet and for some reason seemed content to let Mike do the heavy lifting. Mike hefted John up to his feet with another grunt. Roy followed closely, taking back the mask to take a turn at the air before insistently putting it back over John's face.
Things blurred when they started to move.
John was aware of moments when the air felt good on his face then muggy and hot. He was aware of Mike's solid presence, shoring him up, keeping him upright (sort of) as they took the stairs.
Behind them, John thought he heard an explosion but his ears were doing a buzzing noise he vaguely knew was bad. He felt Roy's hand on his right shoulder, to remind John he was there and maybe to remind Roy John was, too.
They got to—John wasn't sure what floor and he couldn't remember what floor he was on before—where the heat was suffocating again. So much so, John's knees folded and suddenly he was blurrily making out Chet and Marco clustering close and now he was floating, not walking, as he was carried down the rest of the way. The mask was pressed back to his face and never left.
When sunlight hit his face, John flinched, his eyes screwing shut as his eyes burned after being in the dark for what felt like forever. Air, still muggy and hot but fresh, fresh air, flowed around him, against his skin, sinking deep into his bones.
His stomach lurched. His chest seemed to swell. Bile burned in the back of his mouth.
John gagged.
"Put him down. Get that off!" Roy was shouting. Why was he shouting?
The mask was ripped off. John automatically sucked in a breath and his body remembered the black gunk collected in his lungs.
Hands rolled him onto his side as John retched. His body spasmed as he vomited, limbs twitching with the violence of his body trying to exorcise the toxic fumes.
It felt like it went on forever. Tears and sweat ran down his face. His throat felt scoured and boiling with agony. John retched over and over, his stomach cramping each time.
Through it all, he heard Roy's raspy voice close to his ear, coaxing him to relax, calm down partner, you're okay, slow breaths, easy now.
His body slowly unclenched and the relief from it all made a tiny whimper escape before John could stop himself.
"I could do it..." Roy was arguing with someone. His hand was on the back of John's neck which made John realize that somewhere from the building to here, someone had helped John take off his turnout coat and laid him on the tarp. When did that happen?
"I know you can." It sounded like Squad 42's Pratt. Funny, John didn't remember LA calling them to this run.
"Roy, let us handle it, okay?"
The hand over John's neck tightened. John wordlessly agreed and rolled on his side towards Roy. To his dismay, someone rolled him back, wiped his mouth clean then promptly fitted a mask over his mouth. John screwed up his face.
"We'll take good care of your partner." Pratt usually sounded like he was shouting through a mouthful of marbles. Right now though, he was quiet, like he was talking down a cornered animal. "He's going to be all right. Let Tom take a look at your shoulder, okay?"
What about Roy's shoulder? John tilted his head up but the sun overhead blinded him. He couldn't help it, he flinched.
"It's fine." Roy's voice was fading though.
"You and I both know it's not," Pratt said firmly. John could imagine that fuzzy blonde caterpillar of a mustache of his wiggling into a frown.
John feebly swatted a hand in Roy's direction. He ended up knocking the mask off his face instead. Roy bowed over him.
"Keep this on," Roy chided as he slid the mask over his face with his left hand. Ah ha. There was something wrong with Roy's shoulder.
John weakly poked Roy in the chest. Roy captured the hand to take his pulse. Cheater.
"All right." Luckily, they've been partners long enough that Roy could figure out what was bugging him. "I'll get checked out."
"Rampart, this is Squad 42, how do you read?"
Apparently Pratt and his partner were waiting for that.
Roy smiled ruefully down at John. He patted John on the shoulder, murmured he'd be right back. His fingers slipped off John's wrist...
And John started as memory slammed into him so hard, he couldn't breathe.
"...other fireman has a dislocat—Rampart, hold! What happened?"
Hands were on John, trying to get him to lie back, trying to drag him to the pipe and to his death. John arched his back, wheezing, gasping. He ripped the mask off. Roy, where was Roy?
"Easy, Gage! Slow your breathing down!"
"Rampart, patient is experiencing difficulty breathing. Pulse is..."
"What's going on? Johnny, what's wrong?"
John grabbed Roy's voice like a lifeline and let it lead him to his partner. He found Roy's turnout coat, his belt and he grabbed on, knuckles white tight.
"Johnny, shhh, calm down. Let them put the mask back on. You need the O2. Calm down. Easy..."
No. John shook off the mask he could feel hovering close. No. He needed to tell Roy. He opened his mouth but only a rasp came out. His eyes burned. Damn it. John coughed, tried again.
Roy settled a warm hand over his throat, massaging, pressing carefully, fingers circling and soothing the painful cords. John's voice couldn't form anything but a whine. He hissed as he inhaled, tried again, failed.
"Shhh...let them give you the O2. Whatever it is, you can tell me lat—Alright, alright! Calm down!"
"Roy."
"Johnny wants to tell me something. I think we better let him or he'll fight us all the way to Rampart."
There was a sigh before hands slipped behind his back, eased him up until he sat sagging against what turned out to be Chet. Huh?
"Geez, Gage," Chet groused. His words rumbled under John. "You really can't stop yapping, can ya?"
John could feel the buckles on Roy's coat. He curled his fingers until the metal latches dug painfully into his palm.
"Roy," he croaked. Thank God, his voice was back.
Roy leaned close, his hand still smoothing circles on Johnny's throat. He canted his head and offered an ear.
"Roy..." John wheezed. He tugged the coat. "I think someone..." He swallowed. Ouch. That hurt.
"Someone tried to...tried to kill you."
John caught Roy's profile paling under the smudges of soot, eyes wide. But John couldn't care anymore even if he wanted to. Relief unwound the tension all along his spine, his gut and his bones seemed to have vanished. He told Roy. The guys would watch out for Roy now.
Head dropping, John folded forward into the darkness.