"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Fourteen
A patrol car was cruising down McKlellan Avenue, one of the streets the alley John Gage had been dumped in, entered into.
"Can't," its passenger informed its driver. "Maggie's waiting up for me." Out of habit, the patrol officer happened to glance down the alley as they drove past. He could have sworn he'd seen something white moving—and that something white bore the outline of a body.
"C'mon! One drink? She's not holding her brea—"
"—Hold it, Mike!"
Mike obligingly slowed the car and braked to a stop. He then turned to his partner, for an explanation.
"Back up. I think I may have seen something in that alley."
"Forget it, Nick! We're off at midnight. Remember?"
"It ain't midnight yet."
"It will be by the time we get back to the precinct. Besides, I thought you said Maggie is waiting up for you?"
"She's not holding her breath. C'mon! Back up! I wanna check it out."
Mike emitted an exasperated gasp and reluctantly shifted their squad car into reverse. He backed down the street and stopped in front of the alley.
Nick grabbed the handle on his spotlight, flicked it on and shone it along the dirty, damp pavement. His hand froze, as the beam of his light illuminated something white—a motionless, white-shirted body.
Mike threw the car into PARK and killed its engine.
The police officers grabbed their nightsticks and piled out.
The moaning paramedic heard the muffled sound of car doors slamming…and footsteps approaching. He lay there, in the cold dark alley, feeling almost too scared to breathe.
"Police!" came a shouted voice. "What are you doing in here, Mister?"
'No,' John thought to himself. 'No-o. That's not right…' He felt someone frisking him.
"He's clean. Not even an I.D."
Gage groaned as he was rolled over onto his back. He groaned again, as a bright light was shone in his eyes.
The officers gazed down at the white-shirted body's blood-streaked face.
"Sheesh!" Nick exclaimed. "This guy's a mess! How did you get that cut on your head?"
"He probably had a little too much to drink…stumbled…and fell," Mike surmised, when the guy on the ground failed to reply.
"Na-ah. I don't think so. I don't smell any booze. He's got a bloody nose, too. What's your name?"
Again, the guy on the ground didn't answer.
"If he ain't drunk, then he must be stoned. He's really out of it!" Mike gave the stoned guy a disgusted sneer. Then he grabbed one of his arms and tried pulling him to his feet. "C'mon, buddy! We'll take you someplace nice and warm, where you can sleep it off…"
"No-o!" the paramedic pleaded, and struggled desperately to pull his arm free. "No-o…you got…you got…the…wro-ong…gu-uy!"
Mike managed an amused gasp. He stuck his nightstick in its holster. Then he stooped down, grabbed 'the wrong guy' by his wrist and rolled his filthy white shirtsleeve up. The veins in the guy's arm bore needle marks—from his wrist clear up to his elbow. "We got the right guy, all right! Buddy, you been makin' more tracks than a centipede wearin' golfer's shoes!" He glanced up at his partner, looking more disgusted than ever. "Gawd, I hate hypes! I hate hypes even more than I hate drunk drivers! And I HATE drunk drivers! In fact, the only thing I hate worse than a hype, is a rapist!"
Nick completely ignored his partner's comments. He just stood there, staring sadly down at the moaning young man at their feet. "Look, maybe we should take him in and have that cut taken care of."
"They kin put a Band-Aid on it, over at the shelter."
"I really think we should take him to an ER and have it looked at."
"Why-y? Why waste our time on a hype? You know, as well as I do, that he's probably gonna be right back out here tomorrow night!"
The guy in the white shirt let out a particularly pitiful moan and started choking.
Nick dropped to one knee and quickly turned the choking fellow's head to one side. He grimaced, as a stream of blood began trickling from a corner of the moaning man's mouth. "We're taking him in!" he adamantly stated. "If he's gonna die in an alley, he's gonna have to do it on someone else's shift!"
Mike looked positively miserable, but then brightened. "There's a paramedic squad parked at that fire, over on Ames! Let's call it in and have them take care of him!"
Nick nodded his approval of his partner's proposed plan and started heading for their car radio.
Fire Department operations over at 1424 East Ames had moved into the salvage and overhaul phase.
Brice and Hill were standing in front of Squad 16, talking with Captain Mason and a Battalion Chief.
"We found a pool of blood on the floor, where he left his chalk," Brice informed his superiors. "Hill and I followed a blood trail to the stairwell, where we found his SCBA. We continued to follow the trail down the stairs, but then lost it out in the alley—" He stopped to answer the Squad's 'bleep' ing radio.
"Squad 16…What is your status?…"
"LA, Squad 16 is Code 8 at the scene," the paramedic reported, sounding annoyed by the disruption.
"10-4, Squad 16…"
Craig replaced the mic' and slammed the truck's door. Then he aimed a deeply troubled gaze at his Captain. "Sir, Gage is a responsible firefighter. He would never leave an incident scene without letting someone know why he was leaving and where he was going. I really think that we should look for him! He may be seriously injured!"
"Agreed!" Captain Mason turned to Chief DeWitt for permission to conduct a search.
The Battalion Chief remained completely baffled. "I don't know what to make of any of this, Jimmy. But, if you want to take your crew and go look for him, I certainly have no objections."
Just two blocks away, a frowning police officer stood beside a patrol car's open door. The unhappy cop pressed the call button on their radio's mic'. "Roger that, Central. Then, show Unit 11 on a follow up to—standby…" He turned back to the alley. "Mike! Are we closer to St. Andrews? Or Rampart General?"
"General! Why?"
"The paramedics aren't available! We end up taking him in, after all!" Nick heard his partner curse and was forced to smile. "—Rampart General, with our John Doe 218. Unit 11 out."
"Roger, Unit 11…"
Nick replaced the radio and hurried off to give his partner a hand.
John's head was now hurting him more than he could bear. He tried to reach for his throbbing forehead, but somebody grabbed both of his wrists and began hauling him up onto his feet. He glanced wildly about. Everything was all dark and blurry. He tried to concentrate, but his mind seemed to be just as clouded as his vision. Memories of dark alleys and policemen with drawn guns and offices and agonizing pain flitted through his on-fire brain.
"On your feet!" Mike ordered gruffly, as the guy in the white shirt refused to stand.
Not only did the 218 refuse to stand, he kept trying to pull his wrists free.
Mike braced himself and then jerked the junkie up off the pavement.
Nick grabbed an arm and helped his partner with their now completely unruly John Doe.
"Let me go!" John begged. "Let me go-o!" he repeated, and finally succeeded in pulling an arm free. He tried to shove whoever it was that was keeping him upright away. He just wanted to lie back down. His head didn't feel like it was going to explode as much when he was lying down.
"Keep it up," Mike breathlessly warned, as they struggled with their burden down the alley, "and you're gonna be under arrest for resisting an officer!"
Gage thrashed violently between his two custodians. He managed to get another arm free of their grasp and took a swing at the person who was clutching his right arm so painfully hard.
Mike's already narrowed eyes narrowed even further, into angry slits. "Okay, buddy! That does it!" He half-dragged and half-carried the hype up to their car's front grill and then forced him—face first—down onto the hood. "You are under arrest for resisting an officer!" He reached back and pulled out his cuffs. "You have the right to remain silent!" He jerked the junkie's arms behind his back and slapped the cuffs on their unruly John Doe's needle-scarred wrists. "Anything you say—" he gave up, as his squirming prisoner exercised his right to remain silent by suddenly going completely limp.
"Better make it Code R!" Nick suggested, as their unconscious prisoner was laid across their patrol car's back seat.
His partner nodded.
Nick heard the guy choking again and climbed in back, to keep his airway cleared.
Blood was trickling from the young man's mouth again and there was some kind of yellowish fluid draining from his left ear.
Nick wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but he knew it couldn't be a good sign.
Mike slid back in behind the wheel and gave his partner an annoyed glare in the rear view mirror. "Do me a favor, will yah. Don't look down anymore dark alleys!"
Brice, and the rest of 16's B-shift came straggling back up to their trucks, following an unsuccessful 'search and rescue' mission.
Just as Craig reached the Squad, its radio began 'bleep' ing.
"Squad 16…Report to Rampart General Hospital at your earliest possible convenience…"
Upon hearing the request, the paramedic's gloomy countenance instantly brightened. He turned to shoot his Captain a hopeful glance.
Mason looked equally hopeful, and nodded.
Brice latched onto the dash-mounted radio's mic' and thumbed its call button. "10-4, LA. Squad 16 en route to Rampart General. ETA ten minutes."
TBC