"An Equitable Trade"
Chapter Five
The third temblor, while not as violent as the first two, shook the slabs of concrete and granite enough to cause them to shift.
As they shifted position, the wedge/chair settled lower into the V-shaped void, widening the slot at the bottom and freeing the fireman's right hip.
John was just about to pull his no longer trapped leg up out of the hole, when the slab his left foot was planted on slipped. A white-hot shaft of pain tore through his right thigh. He threw his helmeted head back and screamed, "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
The tremor—and the screaming—gradually subsided.
E.J. was alarmed.
The young fireman had just screamed until he'd run out of air. And now, his chest wasn't moving, again.
She hoped it was because he was holding his breath. She was tempted to hold hers, too, as the air was—once again—filled with that damn disgusting dust. She removed herself from the fireman's lap and retook her wedge/seat.
Her young companion was in a world a' hurt! To make matters worse, a gasped inhalation was rewarded with a lungful of pulverized plaster dust. The irritant sent J.R. into a coughing jag. With the pressure removed from his hip, his formerly asleep right leg was rapidly 'reawakening'. So, the initial white-hot shaft of pain was being closely followed by a constant searing pain. He really, really, REALLY needed to take his weight off of his right leg! "E.J.?!" he somehow managed to get out, between coughs—and tightly clenched teeth. "Can you grab that rope up there?!"
The old lady latched onto the requested rope and pulled it down for him.
J.R.'s trembling left hand grabbed the lowered rope, but even with the both of them pulling down, it wouldn't stretch enough for him to get his lifebelt re-attached to it. In fact, the only result of their combined effort was more screaming. It seemed pulling up on his right leg hurt every bit as bad as pushing down on it did. John loosened the straps on his lifebelt with his trembling right hand, and tried again. This time, he was able to get the belt's clamp clipped to the rope. After some excruciatingly painful 'trial and error', the fireman was finally able to get his lifebelt buckled into a non-scream-producing position. "So," he gasped, once he'd regained his breath and, at least, some semblance of his composure, "how'd you break your ankle?"
E.J. completely ignored the injured young man's nonchalant inquiry. It was time to 'act', not 'talk'. 'Circulation…Circulation…Circulation.' She took the bandage scissors she'd just stolen—er, borrowed from the paramedic's assessment kit—and began cutting the bottom of her cotton housecoat up into strips of bandages.
"I see you're—"
"—Yes!"
"I don't suppose—"
"—No!"
J.R. exhaled a resigned sigh.
By the time E.J. finished cutting, her cotton housecoat was little more than a cotton blouse. She threw the long cloth strips over her left shoulder and started taking her leave.
J.R. locked his right hand and onto her left wrist and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "Please...be careful down there."
She placed her steady right hand over the paramedic's trembling appendage and gave it a few comforting pats. "Don't worry. I will."
J.R. exhaled another sigh, of utter frustration, and, reluctantly, released his grip.
"I'm leaving you in charge of the lighting," E.J. lightly announced, and carefully began lowering herself down through the opening at the bottom of their V-shaped void.
J.R. dutifully removed his flashlight's wrist strap from the chandelier and beamed its soft yellow glow directly below.
E.J.'s good right foot hit the basement floor. She balanced on one leg for a few moments and then slowly—and carefully—dropped to her knees. Her hazel eyes widened in horror and she stifled a colorful expletive, or two, as she got an up close look at the young fireman's badly injured leg.
The tip of that steel reinforcing rod was now sticking out the right side of J.R.'s leg. This latest shaking and resettling had shoved the rusty half-inch diameter rebar clean through his lower thigh. Worse yet, the wound seemed to be bleeding even more profusely.
E.J. sent a silent prayer, for strength, heavenward and immediately set about stemming the steady flow of blood. "The floor is wet," she calmly relayed, noting that her sweatpants felt damp at the knees. "But there doesn't seem to be any raw sewage or standing water anywhere."
"That's a good sign," her suspended patient replied, sounding equally calm. "They must be trying to reach us through the basement. They'd have the Sanitation Department pump it out, first."
The woman was on her fourth layer of bandages and still the dark stain continued to appear. "We seem to be just outside of the laundry room. Too bad I can't get to it. Mister Greenbough does his wash on Tuesdays and he has the most luxuriant 100 percent Egyptian cotton, 800 thread-count sheets. They'd make incredible bandages!"
J.R.'s right eyebrow arched.
"I know what you're thinking," E.J. continued. "You're thinking: 'How does the old bat know so much about Mister Greenbough's sheets."
The young fireman was forced to laugh.
"Well, we both do our wash on Tuesdays and I help E.G. fold all his bedding. This isn't too tight, is it, dear?"
"It's not tight, at all."
That was probably why the crimson stain continued to appear. She wasn't tying the bandage strips tight enough. She snugged up the sixth and seventh layers of cotton cloth and was relieved to see they remained relatively stain free.
"So, how did you break your ankle?" J.R. re-wondered.
"Every Saturday night, we turn…used to turn the lobby into a ballroom. E.G. and I were dancing. Marv Dunlop cut in and stepped on my left foot with one of his two left feet and my ankle snapped like a dry twig. But, it's a clean break and my orthopedist claims I'll be back on the dance floor in about four more weeks." E.J. used the last strip of cloth to wipe the drying crimson stains from her hands. "How are you doing up there, dear?"
"I was doing a whole lot better…when my leg was asleep."
E.J. could easily believe that! The old woman knelt there, silently berating herself for having allowed J.R. to delay her bandaging efforts. Blood had pooled on the tiled floor, beneath his dangling right leg. Thankfully, her young rescuer was right. The pool wasn't the bright red color of arterial blood. She tossed the crimson-stained cloth aside and started struggling back onto her one good, slippered foot.
"I've managed to get the bleeding under control," she relievedly reported as her grey-haired head popped back up through the opening.
J.R. slipped his light's wrist strap back over the chandelier's shiny brass arm and extended a helping hand.
E.J. declined the young fireman's gracious offer, realizing the pain, even the slightest movement on his part, would produce. She opted, instead, for hobbling up a sort of 'debris stairway'. It took some doing, but the old woman finally found herself perched back upon her wedge/chair. "You're being awfully quiet."
"I've been trying to think of something I wouldn't do for a shot of Demerol, right now. So far, I haven't been able to come up with anything…short of murder."
"Well…That's a relief." E.J. smiled, as her deadpan reply prompted the pain-racked paramedic to laugh, yet again.
"Thanks for saving my life, E.J."
"Thanks for saving my life, J.R."
Two short, muffled blasts of an air-horn suddenly sounded.
J.R. slipped his helmet off and handed it to his savvy companion.
E.J. accepted their noisemaker and began banging out a rather loud, encoded message.
Over at L.A. County's Fire Station 51…
Headquarters had assured the grief-stricken crew that their families were all safe and secure.
That knowledge did little, or nothing, to lighten the somber mood that seemed to permeate the entire station.
Hank and his Engineer were currently seated in his office. The pair had just finished giving their signed statements to the authorities.
That meant that the wheels were now in motion to see to it that the party responsible for the building collapse was brought to justice.
Unfortunately, that knowledge also did little, or nothing, to lighten either man's somber mood.
Recalling his boss' 'At. This. Time.' comment to dispatch, Stoker felt compelled to inquire, "Cap, do you really believe John could have survived the collapse?"
"Depends," the Captain quickly came back. "You asking my head? Or my heart?"
"You're one hell of a Captain," Mike quietly confessed. "Bordering on brilliant," he added, with a wry, shy smile. "But the times I've been proudest to be under your command, are the times when you've led with your heart, and not just your head."
Hank flashed his friend back a grateful grin. "Thanks, Mike. That means a lot…coming from you."
"So. What are you going to do?"
"This…situation…reminded me of something I read a while back…in a fortune cookie, of all the damned places. It said, in part, that 'As long as there is hope, there is life'. So, I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to hold onto that hope and save the damn grief for another damn day."
"So…what's stopping you?"
His boss' face suddenly filled with an unbearable sadness. "What if I'm wrong?"
"I read something a while back, too. If I recall correctly, it was along the lines of: 'The loss is forever. Grief over that loss is not.'"
The Captain flashed his Engineer back another smile, this time, a sad one. "You're gonna make one hell of a Captain, yourself, someday."
"So you keep sayin'. Yah know, if I was a less secure person, I might take it that you were trying to get rid of me."
"Now, why would I wanna get rid of the best damn engineer in the entire department?"
The two friends exchanged grins.
Stanley started getting stiffly to his feet. "What da yah say we cut all the mutual admiration crap and go see what the rest of the guys are up to," he ordered more than asked.
"Great idea, Cap," Stoker replied, and then quickly added, "I know. I know. 'All of your ideas are great—and that is why you are the Captain'."
"Damn straight." At least, Hank hoped all of his ideas would turn out to be great.
Back at 1126 East Berkley Avenue…
The firefighter listening for signs of life suddenly froze all motion.
Through all the loud 'crunch'ing and 'crack'ling in his headphones, there filtered the faint, but deliberate 'bang'ing sound of something other than resettling building debris.
It took the wide-eyed listener a few more seconds to finally realize what he was hearing.
He stashed the probe under his armpit and pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. It took several more listens to get the encoded message recorded, but, once it was down on paper, the fireman raised his hand-held radio to his smiling lips and keyed its mic'. "Battalion 14 from HT36…"
"McConike here…Go ahead, 36…"
"Chief, they're alive!"
"Say again…"
"Gage and the victim are alive!...Sir."
"You're positive it's not just debris settling from that last aftershock?"
"Not unless settling debris knows Morse Code…Sir," he wisely replied and proceeded to read the Battalion Chief the 'bang'ed out message, "Two alive STOP Entombed in V-shaped void STOP Please hurry STOP."
McConike lowered his HT and beamed a big grin in his engineer's direction. "Brinkman, sound 'message received'!"
Brinkman returned his boss' grin, "With pleasure, Chief!" That said, the engineer spun on his heels and trotted off in the direction of his truck.
Gage heard his firemen friends honking at passing motorists again and surpassed both of their grins. He reached out and stopped E.J., right in mid-bang. "Three short blasts mean 'Message received.'"
E.J. lowered her aching arms. "Thank God! I sure hope they hurry."
"Firemen work a little faster and are more 'inspired', when it's a rescue…and not just a retrieval."
E.J. gave her young rescuer's still trembling hand a few more comforting pats and began praying, fervently, that it would turn out to be a rescue operation. Two rescues, and no 'retrievals'.
Back over in the rec' room of Station 51…
Hank had just finished proposing his 'As long as there is hope, there is life' plan of action, when the phone rang.
Being in closest proximity to the annoying instrument, he turned around and answered it. "Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking…" His bushy brows shot up into the middle of his forehead. "Well, I'll be damned!" The Captain covered the phone's mouthpiece and aimed his amazed gaze in his engineer's direction. "It worked! Headquarters just confirmed it. They're both alive!"
TBC
AN:
Thanks for all the typing finger fuel. : )
Speaking of which, I had a cut on the tip of my left index finger that prevented me from typing. lol
I know, I know, I'm a wuss.
I tried padding the cut with a band-aid, but then the band-aid was so bulky it caused me to hit more than one key. lol
Here's hoping you continue to enjoy
this latest adventure of Johnny and Roy. : )
:) Ross7 *wave* *wave*