Chapter 11

He would think later that some people saw their lives flashing before their eyes when they were facing death, but his brain definitely was not wired that way, at least while submerged in water. Maybe it was the logical part of his gray matter stepping in and protesting that the grim reaper wouldn't be skulking anywhere near John Gage today; after all, he was still hooked by belt and legs to a rope and there were men who would get to him in time before he died a horrendous and painful death by drowning. Or perhaps it was because his thoughts were straying onto a path that was twisted and dark. How many screw-ups was he going to have in this shift? Throwing up on a rescue, leaving equipment behind, getting high and almost flying over an embankment in a van, and now dropping head first into a canal were all actions that were positively not going to get him an employee of the month award…

Even though his thoughts were splintering into a thousand different directions, his physical reactions were immediate and focused. At the moment gravity stopped pulling him downwards into the churning, sucking maelstrom and he felt the halting pull of the belt, he forced his badly abused stomach muscles into use once again. They screamed in protest as he employed them to pull himself up out of the water. His eyes squeezed shut, he grabbed blindly but accurately for the rope, spewing out water and gasping for air at the suddenness of the unexpected plunge.

Locking his wrists around the slick rope, Gage pulled himself as close to the rope as he could manage, trying to release some of the bruising pressure biting into his skin from the safety belt. He hung there a few seconds, panting and gathering the strength to move. Still spitting and eyes scrunched closed, he slowly shimmied his way down the line, forcing his quivering leg muscles to finish the job. Eager hands grabbed at his shoulders and then his belt, helping him close and then complete the distance. He barely felt himself being lifted up enough for the clip to be unfastened before his boots finally hit solid ground and the rest of him followed in a flow of boneless flesh. He had to lean on whoever was standing next to him as his trembling leg muscles refused to cooperate and let him remain upright.

Johnny barely noticed the belt being removed from his waist, or his turnout coat mysteriously appearing from the squad and dropped gently onto his wet shoulders. He obediently lifted his arms as someone slid them into the sleeves and didn't even feel the yellow blanket settling over him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the ropes were still holding the car in place, for now. He blinked and focused in on the voice that was trying to get his attention. It was Captain Hammer, a hand on his shoulder urging him towards the squad. He stumbled but managed to find his footing and weave in the direction he was being propelled towards, one arm wrapped protectively around his stomach and his dark, dripping head tilted down to watch the placement of his feet.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ok," he finally answered, as the assertive hand pushed him down into the squad's seat. He raised a not so steady hand and wiped at the water still sluicing from his hair. "A bit wet…"

Hammer bent down and peered closer at him upon hearing the surprising, halfhearted quip; Johnny, feeling the concerned stare, lifted his head and met the Captain's eyes. Gage couldn't help the shiver that enveloped him, a mixture of cold and foreboding, and he shifted his gaze to look beyond Hammer's shoulder, absently using the blanket to swipe at his hair.

"Cap, those ropes, and there was no one in that car."

"I know, John. The ropes, well, they will hold as long as they hold. Hopefully the Public Works people get their equipment here soon." Hammer half turned so that he could look towards the flowing water. "As for the driver, you were tied in and felt the force of the water…."

He left his sentence unfinished and straightened up fully, authority reasserting itself as he peered intently over the roof of the squad and checked on the activity still going on. Johnny swallowed back the sour taste of bile rising in his throat and leaned wearily back against the seat, drawing the edges of the plastic around him. He closed his eyes and couldn't help but mentally visualize the driver jumping out of that car, thinking he was safe, and then going on a wild, unexpected ride down the canal. He could recall quite vividly the brief moment of panic that had swept over him as he had felt the water pull at him, beckoning and enticing him to keep his head under. Even the knowledge that his legs were still wrapped around the rope, and his safety belt was firmly clipped in place, had not lessened or alleviated that dizzying blur of fear. He shuddered and resolutely tightened his jaw against the physical weakness overtaking him and the mental shadows that were threatening to envelope him in their cloak of blackness.

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Captain Hammer relaxed his commanding stance somewhat when he realized that his crew was doing exactly what they needed to do. Chet Kelly was just returning from his journey to the other side of the canal after untying his end of the rope that Gage had used. Judging by the condition of his pants, Kelly had taken a slide in the mud. Apparently he had flew the return leg as fast as the incredible rabbit leaping pace he had used to get over to the other side, only this time several feet had been accomplished on his backside. The captain couldn't help the snort of amusement that escaped him as he noticed Kelly swiping furtively at his rear as he half danced his way around the back of the Crown. Good fireman, that Kelly, but there seemed to be a comedic side emerging from the curly haired lineman, whether intentional or not, Hammer wasn't quite sure. He exuded confidence, maybe sometimes too much, but he seemed to be able to keep it contained when needed. He was studying for the engineer's exam, but Dick wasn't quite sure if Chet was ready for that yet. Sometimes it seemed that the often glib lineman did a lot of running when he should be walking.

Kelly's counterpart, black haired Lopez, had neatly coiled the wet strands of Gage's rope and stowed it away in one of the compartments; Hammer had no doubt that once they returned to the station Lopez would remove the rope and lay it out to dry. He would also tag it for further inspection; once it had dried it would need to be checked for damage. Hammer had seen it catch on the mirror of the Charger and throw Gage off balance; it had been hung up for only seconds but it had been enough for the paramedic to catch an unwanted baptizing.

Excluding himself, Marco was the oldest man on the crew. He also had the experience under his belt to match. Despite his knowledge, the often quiet man didn't seem to have the desire to crawl up the promotion ladder. The captain had heard several casual comments made about Lopez's interest in cooking and also knew that he had a friend who owned a restaurant. Apparently Marco liked to spend some of his down time helping out this friend in the kitchen, learning the intricacies of preparing food; maybe this explained his lack of interest in going further within the fire department. Which was good, Dick reasoned. Pulling hoses and running up and down ladders every shift was a job for the younger men in their twenties and into their thirties. Marco might have a few more years left in him physically, but it showed his cleverness and foresight if he was already embarking on his training for his second career.

He also liked how the Hispanic lineman was methodical in his actions, almost like he was reviewing and checking off a giant list in his head. In his case, though, he did it so quick and efficient that Dick figured the list idea was in his own imagination, unless Lopez used shorthand? The captain snorted in dismay at the odd slice of Kelly humor that had penetrated his own mental evaluations of his men and tapped an annoyed hand on the roof of the squad.

Closing the door, Marco trotted around to the front of the engine and checked that the ropes were still securely fastened; he straightened up and peered towards the channel as if assessing the time left on the straining strands of hemp. Hammer watched as Marco came to a decision and slapped the front of the engine, no doubt communicating something to the equally vigilant engineer perched in the driver's seat. Mike's head nodded in agreement; he leaned out of his seat and carried on a five second conversation with Lopez, who had moved back around the muddy Crown to stand several feet away. Marco shook his head and Mike nodded again. The brief dialogue concluded with Marco trudging off in the direction that Kelly had taken, who had now completely disappeared from Hammer's sight. The captain lifted his eyebrows and wondered what those two had been bantering back and forth; he was glad to see the interaction between the two men even though he had a strange feeling that the discussion didn't bode well for Chet Kelly.

Captain Hammer slid his gaze back to Stoker, who had resumed his upright position in the engine, keeping an eagle eye on the ropes and waiting for his reinforcements to arrive. He was definitely engineer material; even though this was only his second assignment in his fairly new position, he seemed wholly comfortable with it. Hammer had no misgivings about his ability to do the job and was confident that if Stoker had to pick up the reins of command in his stead that he would be an equally excellent leader. He would, however, need to find his authority voice. Any voice actually, to start with. Right now it seemed that the tallest member of his crew didn't have a whole lot to say, and while that worked well when he was paired with the gregarious Kelly, it definitely wouldn't fly if he had to issue orders in a tense situation. The captain, though, was pretty sure that Mike's silence was deliberate, and that he kept his spoken words to what was absolutely necessary. If the situation warranted it, the words would flow out of Stoker's mouth as fast and sure as the water spraying out of one of the charged hoses.

Dick thoughtfully scratched at his jaw. No directions or commands had been issued, yet the three men had followed their instincts using their training and years of prior experience to effortlessly work together and perform their self-assigned tasks well. The medics had completed their rescue just as successfully, getting that young man out of that wrecked car in well-coordinated movements. The medical side of the incident Hammer couldn't really make a judgement on quite yet; he was slowly but steadfastly absorbing the jargon that the paramedics, with obvious growing confidence, exchanged between themselves and the hospital. Of course, the several medical books and training manuals stacked neatly on his desk were helping decipher the previously incomprehensible words. For most of his fire career, the healing part of his work had consisted of knowing how to use the oxygen. Now Dick had a chance to change that, and he was moving very quickly towards his personal goal to familiarize himself with as much of the new program as he could.

As for that second rescue….Dick glanced back down at the youngest member of his team, in the station actually, and allowed a grim smile to tug at his mouth. Impetuous maybe, daring definitely, stubborn always, but reckless or defiant assuredly not. He had seen no examples of the infamous Gage temper an acquaintance had warned him about, only a serious, dedicated rescue man who was somewhat tentatively feeling his way through the medical side of things. The only flaw that Hammer had seen in the shivering, yellow swathed figure below him was a barely noticeable wariness in dealing with the victims and their families, a hesitancy or unease that would evaporate with time. Hammer had experienced that himself. While he was sure that Gage and DeSoto had been taught excellent paramedic skills, Hammer had a feeling that they had received little or no training in dealing with the public. In the past, as firemen, their interaction with the citizens was limited; it was when they started ascending the chain of command that diplomacy and tact were absolutely necessary. The paramedic program had changed all of that. Dick knew it was only a matter of time before additional training was going to be required for his rescue men.

DeSoto seemed comfortable with the whole process, but then again, the older medic had been with the department longer and had also served in the army. He seemed steadfast in both the rescue and medical side of the business, and displayed, for the most part, a rather calm demeanor. Hammer also knew that Roy could be assertive and outspoken if the need arose; he seemed to be able to choose his battles well. Hopefully his new partner would soon catch the nuances and learn that patience was indeed a virtue, especially when dealing with the usually hysterical and often angry folks that paid their salaries.

The captain of Station 51 dropped his hands from the roof and finally spied the now thoroughly soaked figure of Chet Kelly. Dejection was dripping off of him as fast as the water. He trudged with weary steps towards the Dodge truck, the captain his obvious target. Hammer moved away from the cab, gently closing the door, which elicited no response from the man within except for the slight rustling of plastic and a soft sigh.

"Kelly," Hammer said, as the curly haired lineman finally moved into range and stopped several feet away, half of him hidden behind the vehicle. "Take the squad to Rampart and make sure Gage gets checked out. See you back at the barn."

Chet nodded, words suddenly failing him. He circled around behind the squad and laid a still gloved hand on the handle of the driver's door. The captain, who was following him, noted the slumped shoulders and wasn't quite sure whether they were bowed in defeat or weariness.

Hammer's next words stopped the sodden figure in his tracks. "And Kelly, good job and initiative with the canal run…"

"Yes Sir! All in a day's work!" Chet responded proudly, the unexpected reel line hosing assault by Lopez promptly forgotten in the surprising but welcome praise from their usually tight lipped captain. His lips curled upward in delight as he quickly unfastened his turnout coat. As he opened the driver's door, he tossed the sodden garment onto the seat. He jumped into the truck, started the ignition, and then chanced a fast glance at the immobile lump in the seat next to him.

Blinking eyes looked back at him, water still dripping off the black hair and down the sides of his face. Gage moved his lips as if about to make a comment, but then turned his head and settled back into the beige seat. He brushed a hand in irritation at the water then pulled the plastic up around his neck and crossed his arms under the covering, so that only his fingers were visible.

Chet figured the blanket was probably only protecting the seat and not actually giving any warmth; he reached over and flipped the fan speed to high, making sure the heat was on. He pulled off the glove on his right hand and let his bare fingers stray to the communications radio. He unobtrusively twitched the volume down; no need for any of that radio chatter to penetrate the sanctum of the cab. His fingers danced over to the turnout coat and scrabbled for a moment, making sure that his HT was still concealed within the pocket. He was pretty sure that it was only going to be a matter of time before they found the driver of that Charger; hopefully the discovery wouldn't be broadcast over the channel until AFTER they had exited the vehicle and Gage would be safely out of earshot.

Kelly rolled his eyes back to the windshield and settled his hand on the gearshift. As he pulled out into the street, he swallowed hard and bit his lip, unnerved by the sight of his crewmate waterlogged and miserable. John's skin was a ghostly white, and Chet could have sworn that his lips looked blue. Plus the bruising down the side of his face reminded him of one of those terrain maps he had stuffed into the glovebox of his car, all greens and blues. Well, maybe there was some purple in there too, kinda hard to tell in the graying light surrounding them.

"Hey John…." Chet began, wondering if he was going to get a response. He did, even though it was a plain "huh?" that constituted Gage's reply.

"Just curious, you know….. How do you like being a paramedic?"

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For almost ten minutes, Kelly kept a steady stream of chatter aimed at John. He purposely asked questions, trying to draw the other man out of his stupor. Maybe if he distracted him enough, he would feel better. Chet wasn't sure what wrong with him, but he had seen him take his head first dip in the cold, dirty water. He'd also seen him spitting and coughing as he wormed his way along the rope back to the bank, so he'd probably swallowed a gallon of that nasty stuff.

He liked the skinny paramedic slumped on the seat next to him, he really did. Chet had to admit, though, that there was another reason he was trying to engage him in a two sided conversation. Right now, Johnny was at the top of Chet's list for future shenanigans. This was a perfect time to draw some information out of him to finesse his methods, now that they were alone in the cab, even if Johnny wasn't at his best.

Chet never seemed to be able to catch the medic by himself without triggering some kind of wary, instinctive reaction. The several times that he had been able to get to Gage, usually in the locker room, the other man had reacted to his subtle attempts to extract data by simply turning his questions right back at him. If he asked the question of "where did you go to school?" John would answer "here and there, where did YOU go to school?" until Chet felt that he was on a political merry go round, words flowing fluently from the other man's mouth but not one personal question actually answered. Of course, maybe his queries really hadn't been that indirect, but still, wasn't it polite conversation to at least respond to some of the questions with straight answers?

Chet had had no intentions of starting up his pranks again at his new station; he had simply decided to move on and find another outlet for his adoration and appreciation for tomfoolery. He had even considered becoming a stand-up comedian but had decided that his interest leaned towards a different kind of humor. He was certain that he could have been a writer for one of those guys that specialized in physical, slapstick comedy; it was too bad those vaudeville acts no longer graced the stages. It just seemed to be a shame to waste all of the ideas that he had brewing.

His future career plans thwarted for the moment and laid on a back burner to simmer, Chet had turned his attention to his new crewmates. It had all started innocently enough. They, the single guys, meaning Johnny, Marco, and himself, had met up several times on their nights off. To Chet, at the time, it was an uncomplicated attempt to get to know his fellow crewmates better - mainly Johnny. There had been no ulterior motive involved in the casual get togethers; he had simply never met or worked with Gage before.

He had discovered, however, during those pool shooting forays that the paramedic was an odd duck. He blew hot and cold and changed moods faster than the temperamental heating system in his van. After getting his butt whipped in pool, Kelly had sat back and watched John and Marco shoot the balls around the green, felt covered table in friendly but competitive play. He had realized then that the energetic Gage, while displaying some street worthy mannerisms, was also naïve and awkward, notably when he had to deal with the chicks.

That conclusion had set the wheels in motion within Kelly's brain. He had decided at the moment to resurrect the "phantom" at his new station; he would have to check the other guys out for potential "pigeons", but had decided that John Gage was definitely going to be the main target. He just needed to change his approach to gather some ammo on his unsuspecting pigeon, which was what he was attempting now.

Unfortunately, that was not working either. Maybe he was losing his touch, Chet mused, flicking another quick glance over to his right. All of Johnny's answers were one words, or even worse, grunts, and involved pulling each word from him, one by one by one. The whole tortuous process reminded Chet of the machines that made taffy; the sticky goo slowly winding and stretching itself out into an impossibly long, twisted length of sweetness.

Probably should give up for now, Chet decided with a sympathetic sigh, and make further attempts when his passenger's brain was at least partly engaged or dried out. He could wait as long as needed; it would just give him more time to plan his strategy. And, that one brief flicker of uncertainty about his own ability to gather data, well that was only because he didn't have Gage pegged into a hole yet. Kelly was confident he'd get this guy figured out eventually. After all, you don't grow up with an abundance of siblings and not learn how to read people or how to cope with strange situations.

But still, if this was the way that all the men of the station were going to communicate, then Kelly figured he had his work cut out for him. Stoker was downright impossible to carry on a normal conversation with; the engineer might be a bright guy but there was no way he had made it through speech class in school with an "A". In fact, how in the world had he managed to meet a chick and marry her, if he couldn't string more than three words together at a time? But then again, maybe three words were all he had needed! Chet couldn't wait to meet the woman who had untied Mike's tongue. As far as being a potential target for his pranks, Chet had looked into the lanky man's eyes and instantly erased him from the list. Mike Stoker was just not a person to be trifled with.

Marco, well, Chet had worked with him for a bit over at 8s in West Hollywood. While he clearly had more words in his vocabulary then the mute engineer, he could be quite stingy with them at times. Of course he also had the distracting habit of breaking into his ancestors' native dialect whenever he was perturbed, or couldn't seem to express himself. Chet had picked up a few words of the lingo, but he still had a long ways to go before he would be able to converse, or even understand, the easy flowing language with any accuracy to it. He supposed it was because he was a bit lazy, but really, he just didn't have the time right now to learn a second language. It was bad enough keeping up with his own family's odd mix of accents, dialects, and just the Kelly slang as their tribe referred to it.

Because they were both single, the linemen hung out together quite a bit while off shift while at 8s, and still continued to do so. They had even met each other's extended family members on several occasions. Chet was pretty sure that Marco's family was bigger than his own, but sometimes it was pretty hard to tell with all of the cousins, second cousins and various other relatives popping out of the woodwork every time there was some kind of family get together. As far as friends went, Chet counted Lopez as one of his inner circle; he was someone you could talk to and not worry about confidences popping out somewhere else when you least expected it. He knew Marco felt the same way, being privy to some of the older man's secrets, hopes and plans for the future, and just some old fashioned gossip about some of the people they had worked with. Of course that also meant that Lopez was fully aware of Chet's devious little schemes; he also believed that Chet had decided to retire his shenanigans or at least lay them aside for an indefinite period at this new station.

Marco had no clue that his friend had changed his mind and had begun his hunt for a pigeon at their new station. Chet thought that he would keep him in the dark for a bit longer even though he usually didn't have much to say concerning the plots Chet was always hatching. His pal, for the most part, stayed silent unless he thought Kelly was overstepping the safety or common sense boundaries. So, since Lopez was privy to all of Chet's little schemes, this immediately eliminated his friend from the list. That narrowed it down to just the two medics, since of course the Captain couldn't be counted!

Now Roy DeSoto, he was still a nut that he needed to crack; he was even harder to understand then mercurial Gage. Chet had decided that he would have to watch paramedic DeSoto very closely. From the moment he had met him, Chet had pegged him for a serious, by the book kind of guy that probably wouldn't tolerate a face full of water or flour in his sheets. But as the days rolled into several weeks of shifts working closely together, he had begun to wonder if DeSoto was keeping a dark sense of humor tightly under wraps. He had observed him rolling his eyes once or twice at something his new partner did or said; he had felt the sharp and sly undercurrent to some of his comments, words that weren't directed at anyone in particular but just seemed to appear at the perfect moment when something out of the ordinary was said or done. Maybe that was just the way that DeSoto moved in life, friendly and smooth on the surface and a little bit rough underneath.

Chet had decided that he understood that combination. It just proved that the seemingly good guy Roy DeSoto had some flaws, minor maybe, but flaws none the less. But after observing the new medic, Chet couldn't decide how he would respond to the planned pranks he was about to implement. Something told him that DeSoto might not mind the occasional water dousing, but anything more involved might trigger a hidden temper. He had crossed him off the list of potential targets, at least for now.

He kept up his aimless chatter for several more minutes, even though there were no longer any responding grunts coming from Gage. Uneasiness stole over him as he wondered if maybe he had bored the poor man to sleep, or had he passed out? Braking for the right turn onto the road that led to the Emergency department, Chet reached out his hand intending to shake Johnny's shoulder. The hand dropped in relief when he saw him reach out an arm to brace his hand against the dashboard for the turn. The relief was short lived, however, at the words that tumbled out of the paramedic's mouth.

"Chet, pull over."

"What?" Chet asked incredulously, not understanding why he needed to perform that action when they were so close to the entrance of Rampart.

"Now, Kelly, now!" Gage choked in reply, one hand going up to his mouth and the other fumbling with the door handle. Chet quickly eased the truck over as he finally understood the urgency. Johnny, tangled up in the plastic still wrapped around him, fell sideways out of the door, caught his foot in the gap between the running board and the cement curb, and twisted awkwardly to his back onto the wet grass. Chet scooted across the seat, alarmed at the sounds he was hearing. The one that was really worrying him was the gasped out "aspirate" he heard over the noise of the plastic and the frantic struggles of the other man to roll onto his side. He was pretty sure he knew what that meant, and it was definitely not something that should take place.

He dropped to his knees next to Gage, just in time to help him tear loose of the wrap and roll haltingly but effectively to his side. Chet climbed to his feet and moved back, his movements clumsy and unsure. He could charge into a building red with flames and black with smoke or jump into ten foot deep water without pause, but this, this was not something he was used to. He wanted to help Johnny; he just wasn't sure of how to handle the situation. Should he call for help, even though they were only yards away from the hospital? Or stay back and let nature run its course, and wait for the medically knowledgeable man in front of him to cue him in on his next step? Surely Gage was just spewing up the canal water because he had just swallowed too much; it couldn't be because, no, that just wasn't possible, no matter what his sisters said.

Chet took a determined step forward, and then another to bring him behind his crewmate. He crouched back down and laid a hand on John's shoulder, observing the panting breaths and the skin color that had changed from white to grey.

"John..." he began softly, forcing a cheerful note into his voice and a half smile onto his lips. Gage acknowledged him by shifting to his stomach, then forcing himself to his hands and knees. He turned his hanging head towards Kelly and cast a miserable glance in his general direction.

"I uh, I uh didn't make you sick with my chatter, did I? 'Cause my sisters say I can't shut up, and that I make them sick by talking all the time." Chet forced the words out in a rush, grabbing the yellow blanket and crumpling it up in a ball to distract him.

Johnny snorted, trying to hold back an incredulous chuckle and failing. The laugh turned into a bout of violent coughing, which led to more vomiting. Kelly hovered uncertainly at his side, biting his lip and wishing he knew what to do with his outstretched hands, which he finally dropped. After several long minutes, when it looked like the medic had nothing left in him and seemed ready to topple over, Chet helped steady him. He helped him to his feet; John tottered several steps to his left and dropped weakly onto the seat. Chet crammed the blanket onto the floorboard and gently shut the door, making sure that Gage didn't fall out before he got it closed. He ran around to the driver's side and climbed in, realizing that he had left the vehicle running the whole time.

"I really am sorry," he apologized, accelerating and wishing that he had never opened his mouth. Johnny looked over at him and shook his head slightly; he crossed his arms and hugged them tight against his chest, trying to thwart off the shivering that had begun again.

"Chet…for crying out loud, it's not your fault."

Chet shook his head in denial. He drove the truck in nose first to the right of where the ambulances parked, threw the squad in park, and this time shut the ignition off. Johnny had the door open and his feet flat on the ground by the time he made it around to the other side.

"You're an idiot, Kelly." A tiny smile twisted up one corner of Gage's mouth as he insulted the lineman. Chet pursed his lips, debating a comeback, but instead thrust out his hand. The help was accepted immediately, and even though John's grip was not exactly impressive and his fingers cold, Kelly understood the message. He smiled back and pulled him up and out, throwing an arm around him to begin the unsteady trek towards the ER doors. He couldn't resist a parting shot, however, as they approached the automatic doors.

"You know, Johnny-boy, you better stop shaking like that. The nurses will mistake you for a bowl of Jell-O and serve you up for today's dessert. I hear the food here is…" The whoosh of the doors drowned out the rest of his sentence.

~TBC~