"An Equitable Trade"
Chapter Nine
Station 51's visitor's buzzer sounded.
Hank and his crew of four, plus one more, were seated in the rec' room with their eyes riveted to the television's screen. "Wonder who that could be?"
"That could be our dinner," Edward answered, rising stiffly to his feet. "I hope you fellows don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering us some 'take out', compliments of the Chamberlain Suites' kitchen."
The famished firemen were momentarily dumbstruck.
Kelly was the first to find his voice. "We don't mind."
"Thank you."
"That was very thoughtful of you."
"Tell them to pull into the alley," Hank directed. "They can carry the food in through the side door here."
Edward left to relay the Captain's message.
"One of the perks of having a billionaire bunking at your fire station," Chet determined.
His fellow firemen were forced to smile.
A Chamberlain Suites' van pulled into the alley beside the station. Four waiters piled out and began emptying the vehicle of its contents.
Stanley stepped over to the side door and held it open for them.
The rest of the firemen assumed their seats and watched in jaw-dropping amazement as the Chamberlain Suites' waiters carried an eight course gourmet meal into the Station's kitchen.
A crisp white cloth was draped over their kitchen table for the first time in the Station's 10 year history.
Hank and Edward took their seats and the waiters began serving the firemen their 'take out'.
"If you don't mind my asking," Chet addressed their guest. "How did you and Eleanor meet?"
The memory of that first meeting caused Edward's still a bit red-rimmed eyes to light up. "I was stranded in a hotel in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. A typhoon had the city's only airport shutdown. There was a woman sitting in the hotel's lobby, painting. I really liked her work and, since I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I commissioned her to paint my portrait. The typhoon passed, and the airport eventually re-opened, but I found myself staying in Port Moresby for another two weeks."
"How'd you ever end up in that apartment building?" Kelly further inquired.
"She said she couldn't possibly marry someone who was already married…to their work. So I moved in across the hall, to be as close to her as I possibly could."
Twenty minutes of fine gourmet dining later, the firemen thanked their 'take out' provider profusely and began pushing their chairs back from the table.
"No muss…no fuss," Chet realized, as the waiters proceeded to parade right back out into the alley with all the pots, pans and empty plates.
"Lights out in ten minutes," the Captain informed his no longer famished crew.
They probably wouldn't be able to sleep, but they should at least be able to get some of that 'ordered' rest.
Less than five hours later, the station's tones sounded.
The men didn't need to waste any time getting dressed because they hadn't undressed.
"Station 51…Respond to the scene of an ongoing rescue at 1126 East Berkley Avenue…Cross-streets: 5th and General…One-one-two-six East Berkley Avenue…Time out: 04:22."
Roy and Edward climbed up into the Squad.
"Station 51. KMG-365," Stanley acknowledged. Out of habit, he passed a copy of the call slip through the Squad's open window, before trotting over to the Engine and climbing up into its cab. "Michael, what d'yah say we go find our missing crewman."
"Aye, aye, Cap!"
Less than six minutes later, Mike Stoker brought Big Red to an abrupt stop, directly across from 1126 East Berkley Avenue. The engineer shoved the truck's tranny into neutral and gave the bright yellow knob in the center of its dash a sharp tug.
The engine's air brakes engaged with their familiar 'kacheee'.
'Déjà vu.'
Hank and his men jumped down from their truck and went jogging off across the floodlit street to trade places with the crew working in the tunnel.
Roy parked the Squad beside an abandoned ambulance. The paramedic told his passenger to stay put, and then went trotting off to catch up to the engine crew.
36's Captain, Mark Mitchell greeted all five of the new arrivals. "As soon as my guys are out, your guys can go in."
51's Captain's helmeted head bobbed in acknowledgement.
Mitchell's crew came staggering up, just moments later, looking like grey ghosts.
The grey fire brigade was plastered, from their helmets to their work boots, with pulverized concrete dust.
Chet, Mike and Marco promptly took their leave.
"We're right at 27 feet, Cap," 36's engineer informed his captain.
"How on earth did you guys manage to make so much headway, in such a short amount of time?" Stanley wondered in amazement.
"The lady did say 'Please'," one of 36's linemen reminded the amazed officer.
"She, uh, also said 'hurry'," the other lineman added.
"Which is why we just cleared a space big enough to crawl through," Mitchell summed up.
36's engineer turned back to his boss. "We're close, Captain."
"How close?"
One of the ghosts raised the dust-covered LDT in his hand. "Close enough to hear voices."
Roy noted the plural of voice and exchanged a hopeful glance with his Captain.
Where there was life, there was hope.
Speaking of voices, the collapse void's occupants had managed to talk clear through the night.
J.R.'s current narrative suddenly ground to a halt.
It was hard to speak through gritted teeth.
That steel rod in his thigh was acting like the needle on a seismograph. It jerked every time there was an aftershock.
And there'd been dozens of aftershocks. Whether big, or small, it registered them all.
E.J. coughed as, once again, the air in the void was filled with pulverized plaster.
The airway irritating light grey powder sifted down on the pair, every time the ground shook. And it had been doing a lot of shaking.
Their chandelier's crystal prisms gradually stopped swaying.
"Adults and dogs flee from danger," the paramedic picked back up, once the worst of the pain had passed. "So we find them by doors and windows. Kids and cats hide from danger. So we find them under beds, in closets, behind couches…"
E. J.'s eyes crinkled at the corners. "M doesn't know he's a cat. He thinks he's a dog." She couldn't help but wonder how the animal was doing. And her friends. How had they fared? "Were my fellow tenants hurt badly?"
"Nobody came to any of the doors we banged on. Were you the only person living on the fourth floor?"
"The others are off on a sightseeing tour of Europe. I imagine they must be in Spain, by now. They left for Barcelona, yesterday. Edward—Mr. Greenbough—and I were supposed to go, too. But I broke my ankle Saturday night. So we had to cancel at the last minute. What about the people on the other floors?"
"They must be a pretty tough bunch. Only one cardiac patient came into triage, and there were no 'life-threatening' injuries."
"We're definitely not your grandmother's retirement community. No surfing or sky diving. Still, we do manage to remain extremely active. And, when we're not dancing, or breaking our ankles, we're jetting off around the world. How are you holding up, dear?"
J.R. took stock. He had one hell of a low blood sugar headache, which was providing a distraction from the ever present pain in his right leg. His life-belt was digging into his lower ribcage and applying constant pressure to his diaphragm, which was making his already labored breathing even more difficult. To top it off, he was experiencing an insatiable thirst. "Forget the demerol. Just give me some good ole H2O." He licked his lips, but they remained dry. "It doesn't even have to be cold."
E.J. witnessed the young man's failed attempt to moisten his mouth. "The only good thing about not drinking anything is that you don't have to answer the call of nature."
J.R. grinned. "You remind me of my partner. Roy has this thing that he does. We can be in the direst of circumstances—I mean, it's lookin' like we're both gonna buy it for sure—and he'll say 'It could be worse…' And then he proceeds to come up with a dozen different ways the situation could be even worse. Sort a' helps to keep things in perspective."
E.J. grinned and gave it a go. "It could be worse…We could've been killed in the collapse."
J.R. joined in. "It could be worse…The debris field could be on fire."
"It could be worse…One—or both—of us could be claustrophobic."
J.R.'s grin broadened. "Yes, sir. You and Roy are gonna get along just fine."
TBC