Six Feet From The Edge
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A/N: Once again, I cannot tell you all how much I have enjoyed your feedback - you all have been wonderful! I can only hope that I won't disappoint!
What's more, I just want to let you all know that I will be leaving the country for the summer, so this will be the last update for a few months. I'm going to miss fanific terribly, and I am already anxious to read the new stories that will be posted while I'm gone! Keep up the good work, my friends, and have a lovely summer....
Jo, what can I say -- you're a goddess.
Warning: Contains graphic material.
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Hold me now
I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
That maybe six feet
Ain't so far down
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Though Sully was considered somewhat of a peon in the pecking order, his deep-set eyes had witnessed atrocities that some of the higher-ranking officials would never even dream of seeing. Despite the fact that he preferred not to show the wear and tear of the job, the deep furrows in his brow and his unforthcoming, stultified gaze displayed each and every trial on his countenance. Rapes, murders, shootings -- they all eventually took a toll on those who dealt with them on a daily basis. Coping was never a problem, as beer and hard liquor were always available, waiting to drown out or, at the very least, dull the latest fiasco.
But today was poles apart from the norm. There would be no liquor hard enough to smother the images away, no level of drunkenness that could completely expunge what he was perceiving.
It was by far the nastiest accident he'd ever laid eyes on. A vast sea of incoherent metal; a spitting, spiteful inferno; tens, maybe hundreds of people injured....
Sharp needles of slinging ice bit his cheeks, and he slowly ran a gloved hand down the length of his face. The initial dread of finding his partner somehow involved in the mess, had evolved into a surety. Davis could very well be down there, dead, or dying a slow death. He shuddered involuntarily. He needed to do something.
Sully's eyes roamed, but this time instead of drinking in the scene, they were searching, seeking out the dreaded familiarity of a cruiser. Though he found nothing, the lack of discovery did nothing to quell his nausea. If it was there, and he was now sure it was, it was buried under the mass of debris.
"What do we do now?"
Gusler.
Could the damn kid stop the godforsaken questions for at least a minute? Sully needed a minute to regain his bearings, to come up with a game-plan, to make sense of the thousands of spinning questions in his own head. The questions quickly morphed into a battle of the wills, conscience fighting impulse, together chanting away an internal mantra as each tried to win favor.
I should go down there....
He frowned.
No, protocol is protocol. Stay away; let the experienced, more capable firemen do the work. You'll only put yourself or others in danger if you go down there....
Sully took a deep breath and sighed through his nose. Squinting against the snow, he stole a glance at Johnson, The Lieutenant, shouting orders as he imperviously directed the rescue efforts, was more-than-preoccupied, but still doing his very best to command an unrestrained situation.
But it's Ty. I can't just stand here.
"Sir?"
Now Gusler was standing to Sully's right, leaning forward to fit into his eye line. The rookie looked as confused as ever, his upper lip curling to complement his knit brow.
I have this damn kid.
Impulse whispered louder, providing an answer.
I can leave him. I can pawn him off on Murphy.
Sully's eyes flitted back and forth from Johnson, to Gusler, to the disruption around and below him. If there was a chance, as little as it may be, that Davis was in there, he was more than obligated to do anything and everything he could to find him. Sully refused to consider and alternative -- he would not lose another partner; break another death to Ty's mother; live through another unfathomable dark time.
He knew what he had to do. Johnson would understand -- he'd have to.
"Jimmy, GO!"
He needed no further urging. Thrusting his body to the fore, he edged his way into the interior, each lunge pushing him forward inch by grueling inch. His ribs vehemently remonstrated every movement, literally popping and cracking as they traversed the metal threshold. Difficult and strenuous as it was, he really had no time to dwell on the surges of pain, or the sudden lack of air in the cavity. He blocked it out and forced himself to go on.
And then he was stuck.
His aching, exhausted arms pushed his body for the last time, and then refused to provide enough pressure. He hung, clenched so tightly in-between the jaws of the metal window that they seemed to gnaw at him. If it weren't for the baby to focus on, he'd have succumbed to instant claustrophobia.
The baby. He was beautiful, innocent; full bow lips, long lashes resting against chubby cheeks, his angelic expression peaceful as though only asleep. So beautiful that he provoked tears to well up in the 55's 'toughest' firefighter's eyes.
The thought of losing something so perfect, so pure to this monster was too much for Jimmy, and it grieved him dangerously, breaking him as he realized that, for once, he was not able. He was no longer in control, the hero, but was instead completely at the mercy of his archenemy: Fire.
But he refused to lose. Straining, he reached out his right arm, extending it fully, ignoring the ardent pain in his torso at the unwelcome lack of support, gasping and wheezing as he strove intrepidly.
The tips of his fingers stretched, reached, and missed the infant's seat by half-a-foot. Fearful frustration ate at him, tensing his body while adding to his suffering.
"God, help me... Please..." he hissed. In spite of the fact that he wasn't a religious person, the prayer seemed appropriate, or strangely enough, necessary.
From somewhere behind him, he heard DK issue another grunt of pain, his discomfort obvious by the profundity of the throaty groan. An ephemeral glance out the front window drove Jimmy onward, compelling him with the menace of death. The inferno was already gobbling up the front hood, maybe a mere foot from the windshield, and not much further from DK. He swallowed against dread, squirming and wriggling his torso to fit.
Again, his outstretched hand fell short. A few more precious inches....
"Shhhhhit!" He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, until his head pounded with pressure. Tears streamed down his face, from fear or frustration, he did not know.
"Jimmy! God, Jimmy, hurry!"
The raw scream tore his heart in two, ripped his last thread of composure. He needn't turn to look to know that the flames had reached his brother.
Pain.
The pain was exquisite.
Had he been in any more pain, he'd have been dead; had he been in any less, he'd have been screaming. But he was at a loss, held fast in-between screaming and death, every fiber of his being alive in shock.
Years could have passed, for all he knew -- time only clocked by the furious thrashing of his heart. He could breathe, only just, and relished every morsel of air, only to regret it as he exhaled. His tautened chest punished the action again and again, a vicious cycle of cause and hideous effect.
Straight away, Ty could tell that he'd been injured to the degree of incapacity, for at the least infraction of movement, he paid dearly. His arms and legs were surely broken in numerous places, though the pain was unapparent as to what and where. While his entire body was subjected to the unbearable torture, it was his abdomen that pained him the greatest and he instinctually knew that he was damaged internally.
He cringed at the realization, rapidly becoming overwrought, but was not allotted even that much without punishment. Deep swelling in his face contorted the entire right side, inflaming his cheek until it seemed to press against his equally swollen brow. His eye was lost amongst the engorged skin, cinched shut and throbbing in protest. Converse of the fiery hot of inflammation, the left side of his face felt bitterly cold, harshly shoved up against something frozen. It became increasingly clear that he was severely compacted, or more likely crushed, into a human-shaped box, merciless metal pushing at every part of him.
He bit back a strangled cry of panic.
Fathomless darkness only heightened every feeling, the lack of anything to concentrate on leaving him no choice but to focus on the intense pain. He could only lust for numbness.
He was going to die, and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before it would all become too much -- physically or mentally. He had no idea how long his ravaged body would hold out, but knew his shattered psyche wouldn't endure as long.
His mother would be devastated, the loss of her only son another horrifying blow after the abrupt bereave of her husband. It wasn't fair -- life had already dealt her enough suffering. He could see her face; feel her black, choking grief. Anguish, for her heartache, tightened his throat, roused tears to sting under his lids. The knowledge of his impending end heaved his disposition, fraying and unraveling what small bit of composure he had left.
And then he lost it.
A muted sob ruptured through his upper body, escalating the torture, but by some means relieved a small bit of the emotional agony. Through his tears, he bitterly longed for reprieve, but dreaded dying more, altruistically thinking only of the heartache that would be left in the wake of his untimely death.
Through the foggy depths of his grief, low murmurs seeped in, until he could clearly make out someone gasping and wheezing tormented half-sobs. Desperate fingers suddenly tugged and twisted at his left arm, pinching him through his layered clothing. His heart stopped.
His partner. He was not alone.
He didn't know whether to be relieved or regretful for the company. The stifled, panicked cries meant that Bosco was still alive, but living though the excruciating hell that he was being forced to endure. He wouldn't have wished it on anyone, and wondered if instant death would have been a better state for the man beside him.
By the way Bosco was hyperventilating, death seemed a kinder fate.
Instinctually, he sought to calm him, and taking a shuddering breath, Ty exhaled slightly, sighing through the pain before he spoke, "Bosco...."
His voice was low and faint, his tongue numbed, and the word came out slurred, sluggish, dropping off at the end in anguish. He wondered if it was coherent or loud enough to reach his friend.
The begging, suffering fingers momentarily ceased their grappling, only to grip down on his arm as though they would never let go. However, his partner's panic-stricken struggle for breath never wavered, each gasp hysterical and tragically short.
He had hoped for a verbal reply, but the firm clutching of fingers would have to do, as it was plain that Bosco was not capable of anything else. The fleeting rapidness of his pain-ridden gasps was alarming enough to warrant another prompting on his part, and Ty wheezed out, "Jesus, Bos..." Again, his voice sounded alien, and he attempted to right the inaudibility of his awkward speech, taking in another treacherous breath, "...calm down."
The fingers tightened, shaking now, so much so that Ty could feel every quaking twitch through his thick coat. A moan erupted, just inches away from his ear, long and low, thick with affliction, but it had interrupted the gasps for a moment, quelling them before starting up once more. He was getting somewhere, he thought.
"Breathe...." It was the obvious thing to say.
If Bosco hadn't been rendered half-dead at the moment, he probably would have quipped back some snide comment. Conversely, he seemed to gag on the next clipped inhalation.
His powerlessness made Ty's stomach turn violently. Bosco was invincible, untouchable -- the unlikely cornerstone of the Third Watch. Sure, they all teased him, laughed at his cockiness, made fun of his brashness and impetuosity, but their own way, they'd each been jealous of his confidence and assurance. He was a rock, unwavering.
Now he was fallen, crushed, defeated, and pleading for his life in a mangled heap of perverted metal. It was so wrong it hurt.
"C'mon, man..." he whispered, fighting against the sudden urge to vomit. Each breath he took made it worse, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before he'd throw up. Talking made him forget his situation for a moment, even though it hurt like hell to do so.
Another moan, wretched and pathetic. The gasps then retreated into a long rasp, the most pain-wracked noise that Ty had ever heard. He flinched involuntarily, struggling not to weep from unadulterated grief.
This...everything -- it was too much to cope with.
But though he couldn't stand to survive another second, he couldn't bear to die.
One step forward quickly turned into two steps back. He would endeavor once more, advancing a foot-length, only to be forced to draw back by the billowing flames.
And so they waltzed, forth and back, back and forth, again and again in perfect harmony -- a strange, mesmerizing dance.
Doc and the fire.
Carlos couldn't stop watching.
Not more than five minutes ago, without thinking --Carlos was sure-- his partner had lead them down into the rumbling bowels of the wreckage, weaving around and over masses of debris and remains, rushing to reach the focal point of everybody's attention. Though all heard the pitiful cries and now watched, it was his partner that had volunteered their services. A move that was so very Doc -- Carlos could not have expected any less.
But the situation turned out to be a great deal worse then they'd thought initially -- fire and smoke so opaque and impenetrable that they could not get close enough, three daring firefighters who may well have to be rescued themselves, and a deafeningly silent infant. Completely hopeless seemed much too weak a term.
Though he was fully convinced that if they turned back now they'd remain unharmed, versus staying and eventually frying, Carlos didn't have the heart or the energy to voice anything. He merely watched, one hand covering his mouth to filter out some of the smoke, the other resting atop his head, completely at a loss.
Doc and the fire.
Again. Backward and forward -- a disturbing, spellbinding dance.
Never one to give up without a decent fight, Doc had his hands up, shielding his face, rocking back on his heels in between attempts. Intermittently, he'd hiss an obscenity, as though cursing would end the eerie one-step. His dance partner didn't seem to appreciate the contempt and suddenly lunged itself forward, spitting and growling spitefully. The burst of flames scorched his face, and Carlos recoiled, coughing and choking against the smoke filling his lungs like molten lead.
That was enough.
He opened his mouth to call his partner back, but Doc took the hint. He was astute enough to not underestimate the wrath and capriciousness of the conflagration, and backpedaled rapidly until he was standing right beside Carlos, all the while never removing his angry, leveled gaze from his enemy.
"Let's get outta here..." Carlos suggested weakly, blinking the smoke out of his smarting eyes.
Even though his option was the easy, obvious choice, if there was one thing he knew about Doc, it was that the paramedic left no one behind. His proposal would not even register in Doc's brain, and this was evidenced by the never-wavering, defiant stare beaming from his partner's brown eyes. Doc's mind was whirling, finding a way, reevaluating every option until he came up with the one that would work. This was just one of the countless reasons that he was the best paramedic in the city and would always be admirable at what he did.
Carlos, though thoroughly afraid for his life at the moment, could only revere and covet his mentor's determination and aptitude. As much as he dished on Doc's methods and mind-set, he secretly longed to have the same respect bestowed upon him. Often he wished that he had it in himself to be so unassailable, so selfless, so heroic.
A raw cry punched them from within the inferno, instantly receiving the reaction it deserved. Both medics stiffened considerably before exchanging sideward glances. One look at Doc's face divulged to Carlos that his partner's intentions mirrored his own. Carlos wished to leave like he'd never wished before, but they were there and they would do this.
It was then that he realized -- he did have it in himself. It was there all along.
Neither of the two let on that the enormous undertaking ahead of them fazed them in the least bit. Silence spilled no secrets, revealed no vulnerability, or in this case, exposed no shock-induced incompetence. Better to remain stolid than to appear incapable at a catastrophe such as this one, where they, and their composure, were needed more than ever. Remaining quiet wasn't difficult, however -- utter astonishment easily took care of that.
Bobby barely thought as he walked, also numbed from the artic cold. The snowstorm's winds and snow had picked up considerably and was rapidly whirling into an incontrovertible whiteout, distorting everything and everyone under a hazy, lurid fog. Before too long it would be hard to see at all.
Kim made a beeline to their boss, her pace picking up with each step, keeping her head down and gaze ahead, as though refusing to fully look at the devastation for fear it would glare back. But she had other reasons: worry.
"Lieu, where's Jimmy?"
Always the first words out of her mouth. Though he should have known that it was coming, Bobby fought back the customary rolling of his eyes, the soft sigh of disappointment -- this was not the time, nor the place. She never listened anyway, always so concerned about the welfare of her ex, despite the fact that she tried to tell him otherwise every day. She'd moved on, according to her -- however much her actions and expressions contradicted the notion.
"Kim..." Johnson's tone was discouraged at best, seamlessly matching the foreboding in his eyes that Bobby had sincerely hoped he had imagined.
"Where is he?" Her eyes snapped and she took a daring step forward, nearly in their superior's face.
Johnson's protracted hesitation was indicative of his nervous tension and devoted worry. The Lieutenant, though not much older than most of their crew, was a father figure to many of the guys, including Bobby. Always paternally concerned with the welfare of his squad, Johnson took the role on with ease, and his caring, respected competence had lead them though many a fire and fight. And though he strove to remain poised for the sake of his men, it was times like these that his fatherly apprehension came forth visibly as a clouding of his brilliant blue eyes, a consolidation of the lines in his face.
Looking as though the very life had been drained out of him, their Lieutenant mutely nodded his head towards the inferno. "There's a..." His voice cracked audibly, and he swallowed and started anew, "There's a baby."
"No...."
Kim's pathetic whisper of a denial was as heart-wrenching as the situation. Though everything in him screamed not to look, Bobby's eyes reverted, searched, and hit upon precisely what they didn't want to see.
It was worse than he thought. The flames --high, hot, and relentless-- chewing and tearing into a crushed vehicle. Two silhouettes of men, their black shadows an austere contrast against the intense white and orange light. Doc and Carlos stood a few meters off, waiting. And the worst of it: legs, a pair of boots protruding from the wreckage of a crushed car -- unmoving.
Bobby knew Jimmy well enough to know that he wasn't one of the two men outside, but rather the owner of the lifeless appendages. His heart sank heavily.
Even though he was standing right next to him, Bobby barely noticed the Lieutenant hollering into his radio in a tone that suggested that this was the umpteenth time he'd told the firemen to, "Get the HELL out of there NOW!"
"Jimmy, why?" he heard Kim murmur, her voice flat, approximating her wilted expression.
Though Jimmy was regarded as family, a sort of prodigal brother to him, Bobby hated him intensely for doing this to Kim time after time, day in and day out. His recklessness and hero-like approach to firefighting wore her down with the constant threat of his self-assured bravado ending in death. Today was no different, and while Bobby was stricken with horror and the impulse to help save his friend, he found his resentment rising unstoppably.
"Hey! We need those medics!" The shout echoed in his head, snatching his concentration for a moment. A couple of firemen were yelling at him and Kim as they dashed past, dragging a backboard through the snow as they headed down towards the wreckage. "Get over here!"
"Go on..." Johnson nodded, as he knew that there was nothing that the paramedic could do to further aid in the rescue failing below -- it was already over-staffed at the present, jeopardizing five valiant men's lives. But he received no reply. "Bobby, now!" he commanded loudly, lightly smacking the seemingly detached paramedic on the back. The gesture snapped Bobby from his stunned and riveted gaze, but didn't promote movement towards his awaiting task. And although a sudden compulsion to run down and help out overwhelmed him, he remained fixed, frozen.
A myriad of old and new sights, smells, and sounds suddenly cascaded around him, igniting odious memories along with full-fledged dread. The cries for help, he'd heard them before aplenty. The sight of corpses littering the war zone, he'd dealt with enough to desensitize him thoroughly. But the smell, the smell that would never cease to strike fear in a body, was prevalent beyond anything he'd been subjected to. Gasoline. Blood. Burning rubber. Burning flesh.
And his brothers were down in the crux of it all.
Aptly sensing the need for support, their insightful Lieutenant spoke gently, easing Bobby out of the inclination to bolt, "It's okay, we'll take care of them.... It's okay...."
Lieu was saying the right words, yet their measured delivery lacked conviction.
Bobby licked his dry lips and stared his superior right in the eye before taking a few halting steps frontward, his long look silently holding Johnson to his hasty promise.
"Breathe."
It sounded so easy. If only it were.
Each intake was fire, each exhale a knife stab. His emotions ran haywire, building panic in his chest until he felt as though he would implode from the heaviness. Every last nerve in his body was lurid with arduous anguish, electrifying and deepening the pain until he thought he could withstand no more. The exertion it took just to breathe, to sustain his existence, was astronomical, and ironically, nearly killing him. Surely death had to be less painful....
"Easy, Bos...."
Ty seemed somewhat collected, even though Bosco could sense that every word he spoke took a great amount from him, and tortured his broken body drastically. His voice was raw, strangled, and slurred to almost no end, but he kept up the encouragement as though he weren't also in pure hell.
"Easy...."
Blood seeped into his mouth from his throat, coppery and thick, and Bosco choked against the liquid, fighting to keep his airway clear -- fighting to remain alive no matter how excruciating it was. Dirt fell in little increments, dusting his face with gritty, wet earth, and niggling its way into his open mouth. He ached to spit it out, but couldn't seem to find the energy to do so. He could only just breathe as it was.
Hyperventilation. He knew why he could barely respire, why he couldn't catch his breath for the life of him, why his whole body was rigid from exertion. Trying to think his way out of the debilitating hyperventilation had simply left him gasping all the more, and his respirations had viciously become even more fleeting and shallow.
Inhaling gurgled, exhaling rasped. The sounds of his existence had become the most appallingly hideous sounds that he'd ever heard, rapid and guttural and grating -- a mournful dirge of death. Revolted unreservedly, his stomach heaved, straining his body with rigorous convulsions.
"Bosco?"
His partner sounded panicked now, but not nearly as exceedingly as himself. Struggling against the vomit burning away his esophagus, he writhed and coughed, groaning against the urge, against the unbearable, severe pain.
Please....
"Bos...please...."
His partner's stifled, slurred begging devastated him further, as he recognized that his presence was as much a consolation to Ty, as Ty was to him. And he was unable to reciprocate the support.
Bosco attempted to speak, but his teeth involuntarily began to chatter, repulsively grinding the loose dirt in his mouth. The infinite darkness seemed to bear down on him with each beat of his crazed heart, terrorizing his shattered frame of mind with ominous suffocation. Pitiably, his thoughts had become a mantra of pleading, Help me, help me, help me...Oh God, someone help me....
But he had to be there for his partner. Summoning all of the strength he could, he forced his heave-wracked body to cooperate for one solitary second, and took a long breath, moaning out the monosyllabic word, "Ty."
Although it was far from decipherable, and the one utterance took nearly everything from his writhing form, he took some comfort in knowing that he was still able to speak.
An extensive pause followed, as though Ty was shocked at the miserable response. Either that or he was unable to reply himself. Had he died? The thought welled even more panic, if possible, and lent way to a treacherous trembling in Bosco that rivaled a grand-mal seizure.
The pain intensified until it was unfathomable, and he thought for sure he would be dead within the minute, but Fate would not have been so kind. She nefariously allowed him to convulse until his entire body was saturated in sweat, despite the sub-zero temperature.
"Damn." The frustrated hiss was deliberate, and he knew that Ty could feel every erratic shudder of his incapacitated body.
From nowhere, a renewed vigor found Bosco gasping in another mouthful of air, trying once again to speak, if only to choke on the words as they crossed his dry lips, "Can't...."
"Yes, you can...." Ty spoke softly, slowly, breathing through his own emotional and physical pain, sounding as if he were trying to persuade himself equally. "You...have to."
Running after the firemen, Bobby struggled to slip into a professional mindset. That was what he was supposed to do, at least in order to stave off nightmares and haunting images. If he refused to let the job get to him, it was possible that he could leave the scene only fairly scarred. It was always very hard to do so, and there were days when he seriously considered changing his profession, if only to remove himself somewhat from the atrocity that was the world.
Then again, this was what he did best, and however straining and taxing the job was, it was still what he was meant to do.
"Down here..." huffed the leading firefighter as they slipped and slid down the cement incline bordering the road below. "Got a young guy with a neck injury."
"Uh-huh..." he replied distractedly, captivated by the enormity of his current surrounding. His feet struck solid, flat ground -- about the only spot where the natural, asphalt bottom was seeable, as the new metal flooring was arranged and set a few feet higher and nearly wall-to-wall.
He stole a moment to glance back up at Kim, his so-called 'motherly' side getting the best of him. Though she had busied herself with the care of a recently removed vic, she looked positively staggered, horrified, and lost. Not the competent paramedic that she daily endeavored to be, and certainly not the strong-willed woman that he knew.
"Hey, pal, look alive here!"
Bobby raised his brow at the snapped articulation. The firemen were a good ten yards ahead, and staring at him, waiting for him to continue on. "Yeah," he called, hurrying to catch up.
Focus, Caffery, com'on....
But as much as he wanted to keep his attention on the task he was undertaking, he could not help himself as his eyes roamed the premises, catching and then stopping to watch the battle being fought not two-hundred yards away. Doc, Carlos, Jimmy and who-knew-who-else were still there, doing their very best to rescue a trapped baby, though activity seemed to have ceased to nil. That could mean....
He forced himself not to think about it for a moment, to give the victim at hand a decent chance. "What've got?" he managed to call out, winding and twisting his way to the car where the firefighters had stopped.
The driver's side door had been easily ripped away with the Jaws, exposing the contorted form of a young man, his head twisted towards him, though at an anomalous angle. His young face was stricken, etched with pain, azure eyes weeping tears that ran down and mingled with blood streaming from numerous cuts. His blond hair was matted with dark red, suggesting a serious head injury to go with the likelihood of a broken neck.
"Looks like a broken neck -- didn't want to move him without one of you guys," murmured the older of the two firefighters, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.
Bobby merely nodded and moved in, bringing the meds bag to set next to him. The injured young man watched his every step, his bottom lip quivering in pain, silently pleading for help.
"Hey, buddy, I'm Bobby -- I'm gonna get you outta here," he started, the line rehearsed and reused but never more heartfelt then now. He was instantly overcome by the habituated feelings of protection, empathy, and sadness for his young patient and worked to remain in check of his emotions. "Gonna get you fixed right up, so we can move you, okay? What's your name?"
"Colin...." the young man rasped painfully, slowly closing his eyes.
"Okay, Colin, just stay with me here..." Bobby reached around the backside of the Colin's neck, feeling for the anticipated swell of a break. His fingers were too numbed from the cold to feel much of anything, but he took it as a good sign, nonetheless. His main concern was extracting the young man without hurting him further, and by the way he was situated, Bobby knew that it wasn't going to be easy. But he had to work fast -- the cold night was hardhearted and unsympathetic, and would love to quickly depreciate his patient's condition.
"You need help?" He felt a hand on his shoulder, a squeeze of assurance from a coworker who understood.
Abruptly, a few distant, frantic shouts rang out from behind him, chilling him to his very bones. Closing his eyes for a brief second to compose himself, he took a deep breath, swallowing away his doubts and fears, trying desperately not to think about the possibility of losing a member of his family.
"Yeah," he barely managed, "the C-collar and a few four-by-fours. Get the board ready and hand me my radio."
"Goddamn you, Sullivan," he hissed through clenched teeth.
Outwardly he was frustrated, piqued at the lack of conformity, but Lieutenant Johnson knew that restraining the senior officer was out of the question. Years ago, he himself had been put in a similar situation and had reacted likewise. His fellow squad member had been trapped in a burning building, and responding naturally, he didn't think twice about breaking regulation to run in and save him. It was only years later, when he had his own squad of men, did he understand why his boss had chastised him thoroughly afterwards.
Though the Captain was proud and more-than-thankful for the heroic rescue, Johnson had brashly risked his own life, and others -- completely compromising further efforts for a long while. There were reasons for the rules.
Staring at the officer, determination reeking from his persevering pace, Johnson's face softened sympathetically, and he shook his head as he whispered, "God help you..."
Tormented and beset by DK's agonized cries, Jimmy gave it his all, his damndest -- not caring if he killed himself in the process.
Gathering every last bit of potency from his disobliging muscles, he drove himself home, ignoring the loud crack of a snapping rib, disregarding the intense heat suddenly inciting his world, paying no heed to the lack of oxygen that made him wheeze strenuously.
The sickening stench of burning hair and flesh rapidly clogged his nose as the iniquitous flames callously consumed the dead woman in the front seat, but his intent never wavered, his determination never vacillated.
At long last, he slipped the rest of the way into the back seat, and his fingers reached what they pursued -- the soft body of the baby. He nearly wept from sheer relief, but there was no time for that. Summoning an almost super-human strength, he reached into the infant seat and tore at the heavy restraints. They popped easily, much to his surprise, and he hastened to grab up the tiny little guy. The baby felt lifeless in his strapping arms, quivering from the recent exertion, and he hugged the little body to him as though he'd never let go.
"DK! I got him!" Jimmy yelled as loudly as he could, but the smoke in his lungs muted his voice into a jarring croak. "Get us out of here!"
He was rewarded with unforgiving, unbounded silence. He couldn't see though the thick black smoke, couldn't hear over the roar of the fire, and suddenly felt very alone.
To Be Continued...
"One Breath" is by Creed
