Carry the Blessed Home
Chapter One
The pressure on his chest is getting unbearable and he knows that if he doesn't get a clean breath soon, he's probably not going to make it. Splinters tear at his gloves as he shoves at the thick wooden beam pinning him down, doing his level best to ignore the shards of ice cold pain that are hitting his nerves.
Hip. Left forearm. Shoulder. Ribs. Back.
It's bad this time, and he knows it. His PASS device is screaming and the shrill noise makes the pounding in his head worse. Blood trickles down his face and he can't get an arm free to swipe it away, which seems massively unfair. If he has to suffocate under a beam, he should be able to do it without blood sticking his eyes closed.
The thought makes him laugh which brings him up short, reminding him that there's currently half a house resting on his body and he needs to focus. It would be easier if he wasn't so damn tired, but that's par for the course. Exhaustion is just a state of mind and he's overridden his body's demands for rest before.
He braces himself and shoves against the beam. Agony plays a symphony on his battered body but he shunts it aside and shoves again. Luck is on his side. It creaks and shifts half an inch, just enough so that he can suck in a full breath, but the effort has cost him.
I must be burning, he thinks, and looks down, trying to see the flames. There's none, just endless darkness and choking dust. His hip feels like someone is holding a blowtorch to his skin and the pain makes his stomach roll.
Vomiting is the last thing he wants to do but he can't stop it. It leaves his mouth foul and his energy reserves dangerously depleted. He sags back against the debris, shaking, and tries to catch his breath. He's too hot and too cold all at once, a clashing mix that leaves him shaking inside his turnout gear. Shock, he thinks distantly, I'm going into shock. He knows what to do but he's pinned and can't move so the knowledge is useless to him.
He's a victim right now, not a firefighter and his only job is to stay alive long enough for his people to find him. They're coming, he thinks and the thought steadies him enough to slow his breathing and take stock of his situation. By some miracle, the torch on his coat is within his reach and he flicks it on, using the scant light to see what's trapping him.
There's a paler patch in the air above him and he blinks at it, remembering falling but nothing before that. Wooden debris have him pinned against the basement wall. The beam across his chest has probably saved his life, falling at just enough of an angle to hold the rest of the floor off his body. The torch flickers and goes out, throwing him back into darkness.
Terror rolls over him, all his childhood fears of monsters in the dark coming back with a vengeance. It's instinctual, and totally out of his control and he bears down, pushing past it, just like they taught him at the academy. It fades, and the demands of his battered body rise up again.
He can feel all of his limbs which is both a blessing and a curse. It means there's no damage to his spinal cord for which he's intensely grateful but it also means he can feel every bit of damage to his body and it really fucking hurts. He clamps his teeth down on his lip and rides the worst of it out, waiting for the wave to crest and wash over him. In any other situation he'd be ashamed of the whimpers coming out of his mouth but down here in the dark there is just him and the noise helps and so he can't bring himself to care.
Both hands are trapped under the beam. His left wrist feels broken, but his right arm is the bigger problem, pinned between the wood and his body. He needs a hand free and so spends an agonising thirty seconds- he thinks, time has no meaning down here in the dark- working it loose.
A skittering search of his body tells him he's not bleeding heavily. Well, from anywhere he can reach, at least. I might be bleeding on the inside but that's okay. That's where the blood is meant to be, he thinks and has to choke back a half hysterical laugh. Gabby is going to kill me, he thinks and tries to picture her face but his thoughts keep slipping away from him. It's like trying to catch fish in his hands, impossible and frustrating.
The pain is getting to him again and he closes his eyes against it, right hand flexing helplessly as he tries to find something to hang onto, some anchor he can use against the relentless barrage but it's no use, and he drifts, head dipping onto his chest.
"Matt?" a voice calls from the darkness. A rough glove touches his cheek and he startles, jerking back hard enough to force a cry of pain from his lips.
The lights are blinding and he has to close his eyes, blinking stars from his vision. "Sev?" he manages, on an uneven breath, and the hand returns. He reaches for it and hangs on, needing a lifeline. The other man squeezes tight.
"We got you, Matt." Severide says and he's never heard such a reassuring sound. "Just hang on, bud. We'll get you out."