3.) Well, this is a tight spot. Mike looked around the caved-in building surrounding him and Chet. He took a quick inventory of his own body and was surprised (and pleased) to note he had no major injuries from the collapse. Chet, however, was not so lucky. The lineman was pinned under a piece of debris too heavy for Mike to move on his own. There was a possibility that doing so would hurt Chet more than it would help him, so he was stuck until someone came for them… which was a problem unto itself. Mike and Chet had gone pretty far into the old building in order to work recovery, so it would be a while before someone could get to them, especially since the H/T had been broken in the collapse. Knowing there was nothing else he could (and hating it), Mike went over and sat by Chet.
The debris had him pinned at the abdomen, already causing breathing difficulties. Mike estimated its weight at anywhere between 300-350 lbs., and while he was no paramedic, he knew what could happen with accidents like this. Internal bleeding. That's what Roy and Johnny would worry about. That's the big problem with crushing injuries. Mike abruptly realized Chet had been silent for the few minutes since the collapse and found him to be unmoving, his eyes closed. In a panic, Mike ripped off one of his gloves and pressed his fingers to Chet's neck, praying he would find a pulse, almost crying with relief when he did. Chet thankfully groaned and blinked into consciousness a minute or two later.
"M-Mike? Wha' happened? Wha-?... Where am I?" he slurred, not quite alert yet and beginning to panic, "Mike, Mike, I-I can't breathe! Why can't-can't I breathe? M-Mike-!"
"It's okay, Chet, " Mike soothed, "You're gonna be alright. We were doing recovery in this old building after that fire, remember? The building collapsed, and you were pinned under some debris. Well, you're still pinned under the debris. It's too big for me to move by myself, so I'm afraid you're-"
"Don't say that," Chet blurted, his blue eyes wide and unfocused.
"Say what?"
"That-that you're afraid."
Chet's voice was barely audible, as if he didn't want Mike to hear. But I am afraid, Chet. I'm very afraid. Mike spoke again, choosing his words more carefully, "I'm pretty sure you're gonna be stuck like that 'til someone finds us. H/T was crushed in the collapse."
Chet's gaze was unfocused for several more minutes, as was his mind. Mike waited patiently for him to fully come around, tried to engage him simple conversation, to keep him awake. He tried to hide how bothered he was at not being able to help his friend more. Chet finally shifted as much as he could under the circumstances, his face going bright red.
"What's wrong, Chet?" Mike asked worriedly, "Are you-? Is it pain? Your breathing?"
"No… no… shit," Chet mumbled, "Would ya fuckin' believe-…"
"Look, Chet, are you alright? I just-"
"Jesus H. Christ, Mike, do I fuckin' look like I'm alright?" Chet snapped brutally, "I'm pinned under what's probably 400 lbs but feels like a fuckin' ton, I can hardly breathe, and I'm pretty sure I fuckin' pissed myself in all this crazy bullshit! I don't think I qualify for alright just now!"
His face was nearer to purple than red now, and Mike was still more concerned for his well-being than anything else.
"I get that, Chet, but you need to calm down," Mike told him in his calmest fireman's tone, "Pleas, just… calm down. Gettin' yourself all worked up isn't gonna help you any."
For a moment, Chet's expression only grew angrier, but the moment passed. The red faded from his face. He coughed and winced, more color draining from his face than Mike would have liked.
"Hey, Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever, uh, ever been pinned by 400 lbs. of debris?"
"Can't say I have, Chet… though it looks more like 350 to me."
"Well, either way, I do not recommend it. You ever been wounded at all? While at work, I mean?"
"There was just one time. My first year after probie year."
"What happened?" Chet asked.
"Oh, I was pretty stupid. Probie mistake really. Got my forearm sliced clean open at a call, pretty much from elbow to wrist. Apparently I nearly bled to death, from what they told me at the hospital when I came to. Caught some flak from the other guys at 69s when I got back to duty."
"I never knew that."
Mike shrugged, "Would you wanna tell anyone you got sliced open by a drunk who didn't wanna be rescued?"
Chet's blue eyes went wide.
"What, you mean someone did that to you?"
"Yup. I was tryin' to get him out of this crappy hotel. Took out this big, crazy sharp knife and sliced my arm to hell. Went clean through my turnout."
"That's… that's actually a pretty cool story. Much better than bein' crushed by debris and-and pissin' yourself. Gives Johnny a run for his money... 'course he tops that in sheer numbers," Chet responded, his voice starting to get rough and labored.
"True. No one gets themselves into more trouble than John Gage."
Chet laughed, but it quickly turned into a pained moan.
"Chet, what's-?"
"My insides are bein' crushed, Mike. It's not exactly pleasant," Chet grunted, "Come on, keep talkin'. I wanna keep my mind off this mess."
"Talk about what?"
"Any- fuck ! Anything, just talk…"
So Mike told him about the time he and one of his childhood friends managed to flood Mike's parents' bathroom. He explained, "Honestly, I don't even know what happened or how we did it. One minute we were just playing, and the next we'd flooded the bathroom. Never had my ass smacked so hard in my life."
"Implies you had your ass smacked a few times. Just can't imagine you in trouble, ol' Straight-laced Stoker."
"That's 'cause it didn't happen again. I was a pretty quick learner."
"Never again?"
"Alright, maybe a few times when I was a teenager, but nothin' really bad."
He looked to Chet, finding the younger man's face far too pale and tinged blue, veins popping in his neck and forehead.
"You stopped," Chet wheezed.
"I can't think of anything else to say."
"Well, what happened to your friend?"
"Jeff was drafted and went to 'Nam. He died in a POW camp not too long ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Isn't everyone?"
Chet wet his lips and asked, his voice almost inaudible again, "Am I… am I gonna die? I-I don't wanna-"
"No," Mike told him firmly, "I won't let you die. I promise."
"You… you can't prom-promise that."
"Watch me."
The noise Chet made was supposed to be a laugh but only sounded like a choked sob. Maybe it was supposed to be a sob. Please, Chet, I just need you to hang in there… I need someone to come soon… I need someone to help me help you. A voice, faint but recognizable, called, "Chet? Mike? Can either of you hear me?"
I made a promise, Chet. I'm gonna help you remember? Mike yelled louder than he ever had.
"Over here! Please! Chet's trapped! I need help! Over here!"
I tried to do the best research I could on how much weight the average human body can withstand and how long it would take to succumb. I looked into the old torture method called 'pressing', where weight was applied to a victim's chest until they either confessed or died.
If anyone has any information to improve upon this, please let me know and I will do my best to fix it.