Human After All

Fire and Rain

.

A/N: Thank you all so much for each and every lovely review. Your encouragement means the world to me! As the holidays are upon us, things have gotten very busy, but I'm hoping to have another chapter up soon. I wish you all the best, and very Happy Holidays!

This chapter is brought to you in part by Joey's supreme guidance.

Warning: Contains graphic material.


Won't you look down upon me, Jesus

You've got to help me make a stand

You've just got to see me through another day

My body's aching and my time is at hand

And I won't make it any other way


As the night wore on mind-numbingly, Lieutenant Johnson grew more and more horror-stricken by what he was seeing. More than anything in the world, he wished to wake up from the awful nightmare that encircled him, wished that somehow the grotesque wastage of human life was just an outrageous dream.

His jaw worked back and forth slightly, as though he were about to say something but couldn't come up with any words. Hell, he was barely forming thoughts at that point in time, however competent he might have appeared.

Thank God for autopilot, he thought wearily, his chin dropping a fraction as he exhaled deeply. Years on the job had trained and exercised every nerve in his body to react just as it should; no matter what a devastated wreck he was internally. He would deal with the ramifications of all that later.

Just minutes earlier, he'd sent two or three men over to investigate what John Sullivan had unearthed, though the Lieutenant knew full well what it was. Falling into a lapse of self-preservation, he had just hoped to shove the gory demise of the two cops aside in his mind, if only, for an epigrammatic moment, to not have to deal with the seething nausea that would undoubtedly commence. He had enough on his plate as it was. Selfish of him, he knew, but the constant barrage of emotional A-bombs dropping down around him had weakened his state of mind, his morale, and his steadfastness -- and in his position, he had to bring whatever he had left to the table, then play his cards shrewdly. If he were to survive the night, he'd have to be as resilient as possible and try not to fall prey to his emotions.

He yanked his gaze away from Sullivan only for it to land on another ghastly facet of the horror show. The situation below him, the fateful loss of contact with his men, nearly made his heart bleed.

"Tell me something," Johnson called out to Billy Walsh, his voice booming over the clamor.

Walsh trotted up to the Lieutenant, forgoing his helmet for a moment to wipe at the perspiration beading on his forehead. His expression did little good for Johnson's optimism; Billy's compassionate eyes were downcast and flooded with dread, his mouth set firmly as though consciously restraining the inescapable and dismal report.

"It's not good, Lieu." Walsh shook his head dejectedly and fumbled with his helmet. He shifted his gaze from the ground to stare Johnson in the eye. His disconcertment was evident. "We got too many casualties, too many entrapped, and one hellofa fire. S'not good at all."

"Yeah..." Johnson responded, rather distractedly. Though he was listening to some extent, most of his attention remained focused on the raging conflagration, the dramatic situation clutching his heart in fear. It was hard to miss the treacherous pain etched deeply in his perspicacious features; his frown lines were distinctive, the vexed furrows in his brow creasing his handsome face like ugly scars.

Walsh caught the distant and distressed look splashed across The Boss' face and frowned, then looked around quickly, immediately discerning the absence of familiar faces in the bustling activity around them -- his crewmates in particular. His eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion.

"Where's Jimmy and DK...and Doc?"

The question, innocent enough and spoken almost mellifluously, enticed the Lieutenant to lose control of himself and surrender to the torrent of tears that he had been so painstakingly holding back. But to save face and to remain unwavering for the sake of everyone who needed his resoluteness, not just for himself, he sighed away the gnawing guilt consuming him, rapidly blinked away the smarting in his eyes, and licked his lips before nodding toward the incineration. "There."

Walsh turned, and straight away, his face went slack and his shoulders slumped wretchedly. "What...?" His sickened hiss was barely audible against the blaring, strident soundtrack of dreadfulness. He grappled for the appropriate questions, but only managed to stare, gaping in revulsion. Yet, his normally benign face said all that was needed, contorting rapidly from thoroughly alarmed to utterly brokenhearted to intensely angry without break. Walsh's widened eyes flashed, gleaming brilliantly in unbridled fury. "You sent them down there?!"

The Lieutenant visibly cringed, but he wasn't hurt or even offended. Emotions were obviously running high, as evidenced by this very uncharacteristic outburst from a man who Johnson would consider one of his most level-headed, kindly and sanguine. However, the loyalty and devotion to his squad was as impervious as it was exceptional. His men cared for each other deeply; each and all considered their small squad a makeshift, but close, family. And they were; complete with the usual quirks -- the fights, the feuds, the teasing, the laughter, and the love ran strong between them. Their shared blood was their devotion to each other. The Lieutenant knew inherently that Walsh's resentment was merely a product of that fidelity.

"I didn't..." Johnson whispered, literally choking on his words before continuing, "...send them down there. Jimmy and DK were just trying to help. Doc and Carlos ran in after them.... Then...well, then I lost contact with them. A few minutes ago, I think." His deliberate testimony really was pathetic in nature, but correct even so. It was difficult to acknowledge the harsh facts, and even though he was fully aware of the situation, he felt a renewed dread heave up his throat, and could safely assume that his expression mirrored Billy's to a T.

Johnson's extemporized explanation did little to alleviate the passion glaring fiercely from Billy's narrowed gaze, but softened the abrupt, hard lines around his eyes a bit. He understood...barely.

"I'm goin' down there."

There were no further queries, no arguments, no finger-pointing for which Johnson had immediately braced himself. At any rate, he felt as though he deserved it all and much more. The lack of condemnation in Walsh's softy-uttered, simple proclamation coerced the lieutenant's eyes to moisten and his knit eyebrows to ease up in incredulity. However much he appreciated the volunteering, though, he would not and could not lose another man.

"No," he spat out, firmly grabbing Walsh by the upper-arm as he turned to leave. Billy stiffened and spun around rapidly, blinking in surprise. A long second elapsed as the two men silently stared each other down, ardor oozing from one set of vividly intense eyes to the other like a frigid shaft of ice.

"Boss...." The grief and misery in Billy's tone of voice was clear-cut and unequivocal, though his tone suggested he was warning his superior rather than questioning him. He wrenched himself away from the Lieutenant's grasp; his breath was fast, heavy, sending a profuse cloud in the midnight air. The caginess on his face was clear as day. He was livid, hurt, and confused regarding the low command. But he would have to understand.

Johnson slowly shook his head and reiterated his position on the matter, equally and absolutely enraged at himself, the horrific decisions that he was being forced to make, and the iniquitousness of the situations at hand. It was all slowly killing him.

He swallowed hard. "No. I said no. I'm sorry, I can't risk you too."


The impromptu rains, artificial and falling from the mouths of hoses, mingled with the slinging snow and ice and cascaded down around Sully, plastering his dark hair to his forehead as it rolled down his flushed cheeks. The substantial amount of water spilling downward hampered his efforts as the precipitation weighed down, compacting the dense earth until it felt like cement. Each new fistful of dirt was harder and harder to manage, and the force he had to use just to dig his scrambling fingers into the heap ached all the way to his shoulders. But he strove on intrepidly, as though his very life depended on his actions. And perhaps it did.

So determined and unduly shell-shocked, the senior officer had yet to scream for help, had yet to even fully comprehend what the smooth white paint he was unearthing meant. He just knew what he had to do and did it, without taking the time to process the dreadful significance of the emerging metal. Adrenaline saw fit to rocket his heart rate well above the norm, and surged erratically over and over, threatening to take away his ability to breathe correctly. He was only just respiring as it was, each intake of icy air short and painfully sharp, well-nigh hyperventilation.

He was numb; his thoughts were non-existent. It was the resonation of his pulse hammering in his head that filled his vacant mind, the pounding of his fear manifesting itself.

It was only after the whole of a license plate was in view of his desperate eyes that the situation became apparent, hitting him unsympathetically like a swift kick in the teeth. He sank back on his heels, gasping for breath at the abysmally familiar numbers.

It was 55-David, as he'd feared.


Oh god, this's hell....

His blood seemed to be pooling in his head and his skin felt scorching hot and fevered, yet internally, Bosco was freezing, chilled to the bone. The irrepressible shivering that quaked his heave-wracked body only seemed to exacerbate, instead of lessening as he assumed would happen as he slowly died; his arms and legs were aching hideously from the constant trembling, muscles strained and exhausted from sporadic convulsing. The deadening cold numbed his aching body to some extent, but also ironically heightened whatever pain he did feel to an excruciating intensity. The loudest noises in his pitch-black tomb were the incessant chattering of his teeth, his gurgling, gagging inhalations that only just resembled breathing, and the occasional reflexive whimper or moan emitting from his dry, chapped lips. The skin on his face was burning red-hot from tears and blood as the hot fluids gouged searing lines in every hypersensitive inch of his cold, exposed flesh. But his internal pain was far worse.

Ty's dead.

The last few moments had substantiated the atrocious fact. As he left, the stomach-turning resonance of Ty's choking had slowly eased away into oblivion, and though Bosco had tried his best to rouse his friend -- first calling out as loudly as he could manage, and then resorting to harshly digging his fingers into Ty's arm in full-fledged panic -- the reality remained. The lack of reaction was positively crushing; it hit Bosco like a vicious punch in the stomach.

He'd been left, now to die utterly alone.

A bitter taste seeped into his mouth, coppery and thick as his nose bled unremittingly in the back of his throat. He swallowed it away as best he could, but the acerbic taste remained; he could only hope the blood wouldn't coagulate.

Keeping his thoughts about something other than the categorical darkness that enshrouded him was a feat, as his body threatened to get the best of him and lose it, spiraling out of control. The last thing he needed was another panic attack; not here, not now. But despite his best efforts, he hovered precariously on the brink of the inevitable. He concentrated on his feeble attempts to breathe to keep his aimless mind from wandering over the edge.

But he was so tired - exhausted really, completely done in. His laudable fight for his life became more and more ridiculous and unreasonable to him as the night wore on, and the temptation to cease and desist was as tantalizing as it was wrong. Nevertheless, regardless of his advantageous intentions, he found his eyelids dragging shut, eyes gradually rolling backwards into his head. He relaxed slowly, easing his tremulous form away from the painful agony gleefully goading and stabbing at him.

Wake up or you're dead....

Maybe he was doomed to begin with, and he had pretty much resigned himself to the fact, but the thought sent his eyes open once more. Giving up suddenly seemed completely out of the question, as his pride and stubborn streak got the best of him.

Stay awake. Stay awake until they find you, Boscorelli, or you're dead.

He blinked, squeezing scalding tears out of the corners of his eyes. He was delusional, he was sure of that now. Nobody would find him. Ty was dead already, why not just give up the infernal struggle to survive, the struggle he was so adamant about fighting? It would most certainly prove to be the easier, less painful way to transact things, but he knew himself all too well. Even if he mentally forwent the epic endeavors, his tenaciousness and the intractable strength of his will would, without a doubt, slide in and take over, leaving him striving all the more vehemently to remain alive. A lose-lose situation, as far as he was concerned.

Had he been in any state to do so, he would have snorted at himself in disgust. Of all the times to be a stubborn ass....

He sighed and groaned loudly, his hot, moist breath shrouding his face. The heat was comforting, almost, like the gentle caress of fingers on his skin. His heart ached severely as he wished someone could be with him, so he wouldn't have to die alone. The thought impelled his preservation instinct to gain even more strength.

And so he would persevere, carry on superhumanly if it killed him, or to be more precise, until it killed him. It was only a matter of time.

This is so fucked up.


"Oh shit, oh man...."

Carlos was unaware that he was muttering under his breath, that his hands had began to shake from the adrenaline that was surging through his veins like liquid lightning, or that he was repeatedly swallowing at the growing lump in his throat, sending his Adam's apple bobbing furiously. He was, on the other hand, very aware that each movement he made from that moment on was crucial, and every decision made by either he or his partner could prove life-threatening. It was that very realization that had his stomach roiling up in knots.

His eye-line had taken on sort of a tunnel-vision quality, as he mentally disregarded anything in his peripheral, and was exceedingly focused on the body that was crumpled in a heap directly before him. His actions had become very unselfconfident, almost spastic as he moved in sporadic increments. But he was moving, and that was all but a shocker to him, considering his thrown brain was currently drawing a massive blank.

Carlos' partner seemed to be as competent as ever -- surprise, surprise. He was leaning over DK, draped atop him like a blanket as he pressed his ear next to the fallen firefighter's slack and open mouth. Even through the smoke and excessive watering of his eyes, Carlos didn't miss Doc's hand stroking DK's head comfortingly as he listened intently for signs of life, and the touching sight broke at the rookie's furiously fraying capacities. That damn lump was getting huge and harder to ignore.

Doc mumbled something and leaned over farther, moving down now to press his ear to DK's throat. His movements were gentle and sensitive, as though he was making a great effort not to hurt his friend any further.

A thick tongue of fire began to lick hungrily at the senior paramedic's back, as if tasting or sampling the would-be treat.

Becoming increasingly disturbed and frightened by the impending feast of flesh, Carlos slapped at the beast with his hands, driving it away as best as he could. It growled and spat back, but fortunately retreated backwards a bit.

Doc didn't flinch at the unexpected touch, the forcible smack on the back; his mind and determination were so concentrated that he was pretty much oblivious to everything, including the fire rapidly encasing them in its claws.

Carlos opened his mouth to speak, probably to say something inane and obvious, but Doc beat him to it with a loud shout and a wave of his hand. "He's alive!"

The exclamation sounded as though it were underwater, as it was broken and effervesced by the cackling of the guffawing fire. And although he was glad to hear the good news, Carlos' relief was short-lived and spitefully pithy.

The fire abruptly bellowed in rage and leapt out at the three men, a huge mouth of flame, open wide and ready to eat; its breath was irately sizzling and impossible to ignore as it scalded bare flesh. Carlos heard himself yelp in terror, but it sounded far off and as if it had shattered into infinitesimal fragments.

"Help me!"

Thank God for Doc, Carlos thought as his arm was yanked down until his hand came in contact with the knobby bone of a wrist. The young rookie had no idea where he would have been had he not had the older paramedic's on-the-ball supervision and guidance. Probably dead, he mused bleakly as he reached for the opposite wrist to latch on to.

Watching his partner intently, Doc waited until Carlos had both of his hands fully wrapped around both of DK's arms and had tightened his shaky fingers into a death-grip, before he himself moved in, took up DK's legs and hoisted his end of the limp body off of the ground.

"Dammit, Carlos, GO!"

There was no further urging required, and Carlos snapped out of his panicky, trance-like state enough to backpedal as quickly as he could, lugging DK away from maw of death. The firefighter's body was a dead weight, as heavy as it was lifeless and static, and he swayed listlessly back and forth between the harried paramedics like a rag-doll, but he could have weighed nothing judging by how fast Carlos and Doc absconded toward safety.

His footsteps in sync with his halting respirations, Carlos soldiered on with true grit, only one thing echoing through his hollow mind, displaying the most selfless of thoughts. Don't let him die.... Don't let him die!

For some reason, at that moment, he really didn't give a damn if he himself died.


Jack Spence rolled onto his back, hacking soot and smoke from his febrile, constricted lungs. His mask must have been jarred from over his mouth when he'd fallen, and now pumped cool, sweet oxygen to his left cheek. He almost smirked at the quirk of fate, giddy from lack of oxygen, but he was still choking and heaving as though the next cough would exorcise a lung.

Painful shit, this was. He promptly reached up and adjusted his facemask to cover his gasping lips, and eagerly sucked in the much-needed influx of clean air with a greediness second to none. He took a moment to right his breathing before taking a stab at his bearings.

"God..." he groaned as he struggled to sit up, discombobulated as to where the hell he was, how the hell he'd gotten there, and why the hell he was there. A blistering inferno just about monopolizing every spare inch around him only added to his bewilderment, and he silently begged his sluggish brain to work with his instinctually unnerved and frightened body for a moment. His impulse to survive was instantaneous, nevertheless, and had him scrambling up into a low crouch, shielding his face with his arms as he squatted into as small a hunch as possible.

Alright, Spence.... Where are ya?

He reached out a hand swung it in a large arc, from his front to behind him. Halfway back, he hit something hard and unyielding, and his arm pinged off of the object with a harsh, braying crack.

Ow.

Though a painful one, his discovery was a start. He wasted no time and duck-walked over toward the hard mass, squinting against the haze of smoke and the mist of his breath fogging up his visor. He was having no luck with his ability to see, thanks in part to the fire spitefully singeing his eyelashes, so he used every firefighter's second set of eyes--his hands--to feel about.

It only took a second to realize that he was groping a car, and a very smashed-up one at that. He immediately pressed himself against the hot metal sideboard, and then slowly inched his body up, keeping his belly flush to the car for fear of losing his only landmark. His enthusiastically searching fingers found the door handle, and then the hollow of a broken window.

Christ....

It hit him violently and without warning, and all of the preceding events rushed back in a flash, with no penance or pity.

There was another firefighter in this mangled heap of red-hot sheet metal, and a helpless baby to boot, and it appeared as though he was the only fellow in any position to help.


"On my count. One, two, THREE!"

Bobby's tone was husky, crusted with tension, yet the grieved look in his rich brown eyes was the only other sign of his unmitigated dismay. He was the proficient, equable, compassionate medic to the untrained eye, but inside he was failing fast, fighting the itch to crack.

His tautened arms burned from the effort required to conscientiously, slowly lift the injured boy, Colin, out of the carcass of the vehicle; a vein or two showed the laboriousness on his neck, nervous perspiration dampened the back of his neck until his hair curled, and his features were drawn back in a strained grimace.

The two firefighters helping him reciprocated the stressed appearance as they themselves heaved with all of their might. A quick peek inside of their heads would have revealed a deferential admiration of the paramedic, as his swift disengagement of the victim was a consummate and praiseworthy move on his part.

But Bobby wasn't bothered with what a great job he'd just done, by any means. In fact, he couldn't have cared less. He was more concerned with getting the boy up and out of the hellhole, into the safety of an ambulance, and off to a surgeon. That, and he was secretly terrified of injuring his patient further, in view of the fact that he was working without an adequate partner, and in one of the worst circumstances imaginable. His confidence was running mighty thin.

"Got him? We all good?" He spoke to no one in particular, and took a moment to readjust his grip on the handle, fiddle with the saline drip, and make sure the poor kid was all the way covered up in the callously cold night.

Bobby had had a difficult time making eye contact with Colin the whole time he worked; seeing such compelling, uninhibited fear had roused his own deep-seated sentiments and had enticed him to nose-dive into the meticulously repressed emotions. Tempting, yes, but now was not the time.

"Let's go."

The three emergency workers made short work of scrambling away and reaching the freeway's cement incline, where they were promptly aided in hoisting the Stokes stretcher the twenty-or-so feet above. Bobby hastily clambered up after his patient, calling out stats and directives to the boy's new caretakers as he jogged alongside, "BP 80 over 40, pulse 130, resps 20, decreased breath sounds on the left, pupils reactive --left one's sluggish-- got a large-bore of saline running...."

One of the paramedics transporting Colin caught Bobby's eye for a brief moment and gave him a shadow of a smile that didn't reach her pretty eyes. "Good job," she nodded unflappably. "We got it from here."

She and her partner prepared to lift the stretcher into an awaiting ambulance, but the hoarse sound of Bobby's voice stopped them. "Wait."

He moved up and grabbed Colin's hand, and knowing that, in all likelihood, the boy could not feel his touch, held their hands up a bit so the young man could at least see the small act of compassion.

"You did real good, kid," he said, emotion tugging insufferably at the corners of his voice. He was vaguely aware that he was nodding his head slightly, out of nervousness, he supposed; his lips were pressed together in a half-smile, more lopsided and uneasy than he would have liked. Tears suddenly seemed more likely than ever, and the following utterance cracked hideously every-other syllable, but he continued on as though nothing was wrong, "You're gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay, you hear?"

It was all he could do not to lose it. So immersed in dread and panic, he couldn't tell whom he was trying to reassure more -- Colin or himself.

But when an appreciative smile faintly lit the boy's trembling lips, Bobby knew that his words had achieved what he'd intended, and though shaky, were just as sincere and considerate as anything he had ever said.

As the ambulance lit with lights and sound and roared off, Bobby remained for a long moment, staring after the bus but not really seeing it. He heaved a heavy sigh, breathing, existing, preparing himself for the worst. He didn't know if he could handle it.

His gaze rolled heavenward and he crossed himself religiously, his eyes bright with unshed tears.


He could hear himself screaming for help, could feel his lungs forcing the loudest of yells, but Sully was so detached that his own voice sounded alien. He was trembling beyond description, causing his teeth to rattle in his head, and his hands seemed to swerve and jerk from side to side so erratically that it was hard to continue raking and scratching at the earth.

"Help! Someone help me!"

He seemed to be getting nowhere. Aggravated, Sully yanked off both of his thick winter gloves with his teeth, digging his bare fingers into the dense soil. An icy chill instantly shot up his arms, making him shudder involuntarily.

Using the unburied bumper as an improvised guideline, he moved to his left a little until he was scratching at the dirt he assumed covered the side of the vehicle. And he dug, calling out intermittently, pleading for help.

Going on appearances alone, the casual observer could unmistakably perceive Sully's sentiments as though his face were an open book. The glazed-over look of his widened eyes suggested profound agitation, his lower lip was quivering slightly, his cheeks were ruddy and flushed notwithstanding the inhumanly low temperature, and he didn't seem to heed the driving rain and snow pelting him.

He could hear the popping and groaning of metal as somebody made their way toward him at a fast pace, but he didn't take the trouble to have a look. It was only after a firm hand alighted on his left shoulder did his head snap around.

"You okay, pal?" A large pair of bottle green eyes blinked back at him, waiting. The middle-aged fellow that they belonged to wore the dark blues of typical police getup, though he was unfamiliar, and he to seemed to be truly concerned, what with the way he was stooped over, squatting down until his face was only a half-foot from Sully's. The eyes shot downward, glancing at Sully's furiously toiling hands, and they abruptly darkened, then sparked, shooting up once more. "What's this?"

"My partner," Sully growled curtly, a hint of a more characteristic reaction lacing his tone. He hadn't meant to be gruff, but his frustration was stanch; he was really starting to frighten himself with the way he was literally hanging on to his composure by a thread.

"What? He's under...in there?!" The man's voice surged up nearly three octaves and he dropped to his knees alongside Sully, strictly clutching the older officer's arm in disbelief. His grip was tight enough that Sully could feel his pulse beating through his fingers. "Are you positive? You sure?"

"Yes."

The croak of certainty sent the green-eyed policeman into a mild frenzy, and he made haste to fall into sync with Sully, breaking up earth and shoving it aside as quickly as humanly possible.

"We need help," Green-eyes huffed a moment later, practically under his breath. Then louder, as he picked up his head to call out, "WE SOME NEED HELP OVER HERE! "

Several faint shouts of acknowledgement followed. People were coming; people were going to help him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, his face crumbling, it was all becoming too much, and Sully struggled not to weep.


Auspiciously, Jack Spence was one of the minority of hotheads in his field; he was fairly young and somewhat brash -- not quite a rookie, but not much more qualified, and his best and worst trait had to be that he had little or no fear of fire, his nemesis. He tackled the job as though every fire was just a hitch or an annoyance; his theory being "obstacles are just things to step off of."

While most firefighters had a grip on their mortality, he didn't seem to pay his own much heed. His impetuous way of thinking showed every now and again, as he was a bit more daring than his Captain would fancy, but he was damn good at what he did. His nerve and lack of respect for fire was commendable, paradoxically.

Instead of a look of trepidation he should have been wearing and would have been more befitting, his face was puckered strictly in concentration, his resolve totally leveled on the task at hand. Even now employing his barefaced audacity, he scooted himself farther upwards, ignoring how very hot his helmet had abruptly become and the little rivulets of sweat that began to stream down his face. His shoulder came up on something soft and very limp, and whatever it was subsequently draped over him and fell across his back with a lifeless thump.

An arm.... Bingo.

For a split second, his features crinkled into a rascally grin, and heard himself sigh softy in delight. If his memory served him correctly, they'd popped the roof of the piece-of-shit car just enough to allow the entry of his fellow comrade, so the busted window was a tight squeeze - much too tight for himself. And if he remembered accurately, the man that had wriggled through was a bit shorter and slighter than he. At nearly six-feet-five and 240, Jackson was a big guy, but trim, fit, and all muscle. Hopefully his brawn would prove useful.

"Hey, buddy?" he hollered loudly and shook the insentient man's arm with vigor, but as per usual, his words merely echoed around madly in his mask, only to be heard by his own ears or the exceptionally perceptive; the wilted arm remained flaccid.

Maybe he's dead.... Maybe, but make sure.

His mental self-talk kept him functioning in the intense heat, smoke, and vulnerability of the moment, despite how ridiculous he might have sounded to himself.

Besides, you idiot, you aren't leaving him behind to burn up. You just aren't.

Pushing forward, he reached both arms into the car as far as humanly possible, grasping furiously at the soft, motionless form, seeking a good grip. He found the baby initially, cuddled up in a heap, buried almost entirely in the other firefighter's strapping arms. For a moment, he was taken aback as he realized that a life-sustaining oxygen mask was covering the child. His heart dropped along with his mouth.

Ah, man...he risked his life for the kid.

Jack was now quite sure that the gutsy firefighter was dead, but thrust his fingers up under the drooping head until his fingers were pressed deeply into the skin of his neck, searching for a pulse, just in case.

It was there, barely, but it was there.

Now he was at a complete loss. There was no way that he could get all three of them out of the mess, and his heart rate picked up rapidly as he was forced to come to terms with this fact. But he was as obstinate as he was rash; instead of conceding defeat, choosing one victim over the other --or playing God, as he saw it-- he scrambled to figure out an alternative plan of action. The only sign of his nervousness showed itself as he clenched his teeth until his jaw-line was definite and rigid.

It took a moment to come up with an idea, and even then he was doubtful that it would work. On the other hand, he was never one to give up without a sufficient fight. Scowling in sheer absorption, Jack was the picture of fortitude and doggedness with his harebrained strategies and never-give-in attitude; he would stick to his guns in the face of the bleak outlook.

He never liked playing God anyhow.


He didn't know how long he'd been running, maybe a few minutes as he wove through the nucleus of rescue efforts, his aim a beeline to the Boss. The fabric of his pants swished as he went and his booted feet slapped the pavement in an imperfect rhythm: slap, slap, sidestep, slap.

Though he wished it not to, his gaze repeatedly wandered from straight-ahead to the side and down, curiosity gaining an advantage over his best intentions.

Focus, he reprimanded himself for the millionth time, almost piqued at his seeming lack of control. The self-reproach was not without warrant, nor was it the first rebuke of the night. There was only one way to survive what the city of New York had to sling at him, Bobby had found, and the credo was constantly on his mind, keeping him in check: He couldn't save them all, so he had to just do what he could. One at a time.

Such philosophy more or less went against every compassionate, selfless fiber in his being, but he had to implement it daily to be able to leave work relatively unscathed at the end of each day. The nauseating guilt of passing over the lesser injured, of having to place one person before another, was menacing, and had pitilessly garnered its fair share of tears from the kind paramedic.

You can't save them all.

One last inquisitive glance and he was immediately glad he took it, however difficult it was to behold.

"Sweet Jesus..." he moaned, all at once sickened.

He skidded to a halt, spraying snow up as he spun around rapidly on his heels then launched into a full sprint. Each panted breath was littered with a murmured diatribe of fear, low exclamations of horror droning fluently off of his lips.

As he converged on the wreckage, miserable wailing and crying lit the night air, and mercilessly taunted him with every sigh and scream of torture. He yearned to help so badly that his hands suddenly became numb, his heart dropped like a stone.

You can't save them.

He managed to spit out a colorful expletive as he slid aimlessly down the embankment, and eventually he found good footing and righted himself to his feet, running again. His eyes refused to tear away from the sight that so forcibly held his attention.

Bobby didn't need to be any closer to instantly recognize the body of his close friend, and he ceased his dash when he came upon an obstruction. He sagged, bracing himself upright against the hood of a crumpled car, trying to catch suddenly elusive air as he reeled, too staggered to vault his body over the car and help.

You can't save him.

The spectacle was as tragic as it was real, and left Bobby with agonizingly empty lungs and a thrashing, aching heart. On a small scrap of relatively clear pavement, Doc was kneeling down beside DK's motionless body, his locked elbows jogging up and down, his mouth mutely mouthing out a five-count metrically synchronized with his bobbing torso. Carlos was intermittently dipping down to force air into a slackened mouth; his fingers trembled as they pinched a sooty nose between them.

The young medic glanced up and caught Bobby's eye for a transitory second, a candid moment of raw, naked soul. His sorrow was unmistakable, and the slight shake of his head simply validated the tears washing white lines down his blackened cheeks.


Out of the darkness, stifled sounds hissed in Bosco's ears. They were low and sporadic, barely audible against the rushing of blood as his heart pulsated in his head. He grit his teeth and forced himself to restrain the rush of elation begging to arise, to save himself from inevitable disappointment.

Was he hallucinating?

He frowned and concentrated harder, focusing his energy solely on perceiving even the minutest of sounds. All of a sudden, dirt began to fall, dusting his face with granular, gritty soil, the infinitesimal grains easily finding their way into his nose and mouth, feeling not unlike an infestation of tiny parasites. And the murmurs bubbled louder.

No, he wasn't hallucinating; this wasn't a psychedelic deliration dreamt up by his fevered brain.

With help so close, the claustrophobia that he'd somehow managed to keep at bay laughed spitefully in his face and erupted. His skin began to crawl and the invisible walls of darkness seemed to close in on him like a tightening vice.

He had only a matter of moments before his weary body would lose control entirely.


TBC... Any and all comments/thoughts are appreciated :)

"Fire and Rain" is by James Taylor.