Death Alarm Read online

  Death Alarm

  A collection of three horror stories

  By

  Douglas R. Brown

  Published by Epertase for the Kindle

  Copyright © 2012 Douglas R. Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any mean without prior permission

  of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book

  review.

  Edited by Bobbe Ecleberry

  Cover art by Steve Murphy

  Visit author Douglas R. Brown on the Web at

  http://www.epertase.blogspot.com

  Follow Douglas on Twitter @Rasi22

  Like 'Epertase' on Facebook

  Books by Douglas R. Brown

  Tamed- Jan. 2012

  The Light of Epertase: Legends Reborn - August 2011

  The Light of Epertase: A Kingdom's Fall - August 2012

  The Light of Epertase: The Rise of Cridon - August 2013

  A note from the author:

  Thank you for checking out my collection of horror short stories. I wrote these three stories while preparing my fantasy novel, The Light of Epertase: Legends Reborn, for publication with Rhemalda Publishing.

  The first story in this collection is a violent tale about a rookie firefighter on the emergency call of his life. Death Alarm follows this young firefighter as he brutally discovers life doesn't always end with death.

  My next twisted tale is titled Janitor where sometimes sickness gets the best of people.

  And finally, Skelwaller Lane shows you that everything isn't always what it seems in the beginning.

  Be warned, my stories don't always end with happily-ever-afters. Read at your own risk.

  After you finish my collection of three short stories, continue on and take a peek at the first two chapters of what has been called, "The Jurassic Park of werewolf stories" in my free preview of Tamed included here.

  If you enjoy my writing be sure to check out my novels from Rhemalda Publishing or visit me at www.epertase.com.

  Thanks for buying and I hope you enjoy.

  DEATH ALARM

  By Douglas R. Brown

  “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” ~George Santayana

  FIRST ALARM

  Their airhorn roars like a freight train as the engine screams and weaves through the monotony of rush hour traffic. The rookie can't imagine a tornado's rumble being much louder, yet Engine 15's wails hardly make an impact on the surrounding heavy traffic. Self-absorbed drivers yak on their cell phones in their airtight, soundproof Cadillacs and SUVs, failing to heed the warnings. Do they not hear, or do they just not care? Don't they know someone needs help, that someone's home could be burning at this very moment?

  "Hey, rookie," the lieutenant shouts over the squealing sirens. "You're on the knob."

  Jackson's heart beats faster than the frenetic beat of a heavy metal drum thrashing. This could be the one, he imagines, and I get the nozzle.

  The dispatcher reports some poor schlep's smoke detector is ringing which could mean anything from a fire to a false alarm.

  There's a part deep within Jackson, to his core, that prays for a false alarm. He's not ready. Hell, he was sure the nine months of drill school had prepared him, but now, facing the real deal, he's not so confident. That's it, turn this heap around. Let's go home. We'll do this another time.

  He slings his air bottle's awkward harness over his shoulders and cinches it tight across his chest.

  "You hear me, rook?" the lieutenant shouts from the front seat. "You're on the nozzle."

  "Yeah, yeah, Lieu, I heard ya."

  They pull in front of a house straight out of the horror movies, complete with boarded windows and a front yard that looks more like an overgrown field than a lawn. We're goin' in there?

  The lieutenant barks into his microphone, "Engine 15's on the scene. We got a two story split-level residential. Nothin' showin'. We'll investigate."

  Jackson leaps from Engine 15, knocking his precious lid from his head. The chauffeur, as firemen call their drivers, shoots him a look that says, "Hey, kid, calm down." It's a look he's all too familiar with already in his short career. With a damn-the-calming-down zeal he rips the top section of hose from the engine and lugs it to the front porch, proud of his aggressiveness.

  The lieutenant tilts his head forward and shakes it, his lips pressed tight together. "A lot of hose to pick up for a fire alarm, kid." Jackson feels ten years old again, having just smacked a baseball through his parent's minivan windshield. All his blood rushes to his cheeks and he looks away. "Stupid," he whispers to himself.

  The rough-looking homeowner who meets them at the front door needs a bath and a dentist. He doesn't seem overly concerned. "I saw a puff of smoke in the basement just before dat smoke detector went off," he says through a gap where his front teeth should be.

  The lieutenant asks to walk through the basement just to be safe and the guy hesitates, but ultimately agrees. A dog more like Cujo than Benji raises all kinds of hell from behind a flimsy child gate at the top of the stairs and Jackson thinks twice about going in. But since the lieutenant goes in, he cautiously follows.

  "Leave the hose, Rook."

  Jackson drops the nozzle and hurries to catch up.

  The basement is a dungeon with its only lighting coming from a dim, 40-watter that dangles from exposed wires off in the farthest corner. It's not much help. Jackson switches on the flashlight hanging from his coat. The lieutenant's light is already on, not that it’s doing much good all charred and covered in soot.

  "Nice junkyard, huh, Lieu?"

  "I'll tell ya, if my junkyard looked like this, I'd be embarrassed." He smirks. "You played with one of these yet?" he asks and passes the rookie something looking more like a ray gun than a piece of low-bid equipment typically provided by the city's bean counters. "Point that at the walls and tell me what it reads."

  Jackson holds the thermal imaging camera up to his face. "It says eighty-six degrees, Lieu."

  "Yea, that's what I figured. Not hot enough for fire to be behind that drywall. Come on." He stomps back up the stairs. "Oh, yeah," he adds. "Watch your step." He points his flashlight at the cement floor which reveals piles of dog feces scattered like landmines among the mess.

  Jackson lifts his feet to his knee one at a time and shines his flashlight on each of his boot's soles. He's relieved at his clean findings and gingerly walks to and up the stairs. Before he reaches the top landing he freezes in his steps, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Something, though he can't quite place what, doesn't feel right. The lieutenant hollers for him to get moving so he shakes off his unease and scampers out to the front porch.

  The driver and lieutenant huddle around the spaghetti of hose in the front yard with their hands on their hips.

  Jackson doesn't need them to say anything to know he'll never hear the end of this mess.

  "Well," the lieutenant finally says. "Get this mess gathered and loaded."

  "By myself, Lieu?"

  "You got it off by yourself, didn't ya?"

  Oh, damn.

  SECOND ALARM

  Jackson's two days off were a welcome break from his incessant nerves and worries of mistakes on the job. He begins his next shift, only his third, with a far-from-volunteered attempt at cooking a big breakfast for the guys. He's not much of a cook, and lets them know, but the other guys don't seem to care.

  They start their shift in the same way they had ended their last--offering a playful verbal thrashing of Jackson's unfortunate and overzealous hose dragging incident. He tries not to let their ribbings get under his skin. His previous drill instructor said that he'd better have good self-esteem and
an enormous sense of humor or else the veterans would eat him alive. He also said that if the other firefighters ignored the rookie, it was far worse than the teasing, because ignoring meant they didn't accept him into the crew. As silly as it seems, the razzing actually means they like him, and Jackson was feeling pretty well-liked lately.

  His cell vibrates on his hip and a quick look reveals his girlfriend calling. He sneaks away from his cooking eggs and into the truck bay.

  "Hi, sweetie," she says when he answers. "Drag any hose yet today?"

  "Very funny. Hey, real quick, how do you make pancakes?"

  "You don't know how to make pancakes?"

  "Less judging, more explaining please. I don't have much time."

  The kitchen door swings open. "Hey, kid. Get in here and make us some cakes. We're gettin' hungry. And your eggs are burning."

  He couldn't have taken them off the burner or stirred them or something? Jackson panics a little, afraid they're about to see that he can't even make pancakes. Yet something else to grind him into the ground. "I gotta go."

  She says, "Goodbye," and he presses “End” before heading back to the kitchen for his daily beating.

  As he opens the kitchen door, prepared to fess up, an angel, maybe the "angel of getting rookies off the hook," blares the long steady fire tone over the PA. From one nerve-wracking ordeal to another. The guys pour from the kitchen as if someone shouted, "Bomb!"

  Jackson's pancake dilemma is a distant memory by the time he turns off the stove, pulls the eggs from the burner, and piles into the rig.

  They're no sooner out the door when the lieutenant says, "Ah, damn. This is starting to get on my nerves." He glances over his shoulder and shouts, "Three-Two-Five Riggs," and then pauses, probably waiting for some sign that Jackson gets it. Then he adds, "The fire alarm from last shift? The shit hole?"

  "Oh, right. I got it."

  "No hose this time unless I tell ya, hear?" He grins and Jackson nods.

  The engine pulls up to the front of the house. Once again, the lieutenant reports that there's "nothin' showin'," and he's going to investigate. He and Jackson make their way to the open front door, only without the hose this time.

  "Hello?" the lieutenant shouts over the barking dog at the top of the steps behind the child gate.

  The toothless homeowner yells from his out-of-sight upstairs perch, "Downstairs again. Damn thing. You know the way."

  As they make their way through the clutter and into the basement, the upstairs voice raises above the yapping dog, "Shut up, mutt," which is followed by a loud clunk and a yelp.

  "Reset that alarm, Rook," the lieutenant orders from the stairs, then grumbles something under his breath. Jackson continues down the stairs and pushes the red button on the smoke detector which silences the ear-splitting chirp. He shuffles his feet through the clothes and the garbage and the dog shit back to the stairs.

  He is three steps up when the same chill as the one from the shift before races up his neck like when his girlfriend touches him with her always icy-cold fingers. He whips his head around in time to see something dart past his flashlight's beam and back into the shadows. He fumbles with his light and then points it into the dark.

  A woman cowers in the corner.

  "Hey," he whispers. "It's OK. You can come out. I won't hurt you."

  She slowly rises from the shadow and her beauty almost steals his breath. As if she senses the natural kindness in him, she continues toward him. He can't turn away; it’s like he’s mesmerized. She seems to glide when she walks. She never looks up, instead staring at the messy floor like she is ashamed of something. His flashlight beam strikes the wall behind her as if she isn't there. For a second he wonders if he is dreaming.

  Though he doesn't believe he has ever seen an angel before, he can't imagine one having more beauty than the figure in front of him now.

  "Wh-wh-who are you?" he asks with a surprising quiver in his voice.

  She finally lifts her gaze to look into his eyes and his knees go weak. He shivers and stumbles backward a step. Her face is scarred with a pain he has only seen once in his life. It is the same pain he saw in his mother when he was seven years old and his father succumbed to cancer. He wants to cry. He reaches a hand out to her, but she jerks away as if suddenly spooked.

  "Wait," he gently coaxes. "Don't leave."

  She purses her lips together and puffs a stale breath into the smoke detector which sets off another god-awful wail.

  The lieutenant shouts from the top of the stairwell, "Rookie, let's go. Shut that damn thing off."

  He spins his head toward his lieutenant's voice and then back to the detector. His angel is gone. He presses the red button on the detector again and the silence that follows is what he imagines it would be like in a tomb.

  His lieutenant breaks the quiet. "Rookie," and Jackson sprints up the stairs as though he’s being chased.

  The lieutenant waits at the front door with the toothless owner. The rookie composes himself and stands quietly as they finish their conversation.

  "You need to get that taken care of soon," the lieutenant says. "We can't be runnin' over here every shift."

  "Sorry 'bout dat. But I don't see why not. Y'all just sleep, shit, and watch TV at the firehouse all day."

  Here it comes.

  The lieutenant's face twitches as he fights back the urge to spew his profane rebuttal. Jackson has only known him for a few shifts but he knows the lieutenant isn't the type of guy to bite his tongue for long. The lieutenant rubs his index finger and thumb along his bushy, handlebar mustache before taking a deep, calming breath. "Sir, you have a nice day," he says with a gravelly voice and a forced smile.

  "Yeah, jusasoon as I throws away that junk detector."

  "Whatever." The lieutenant and Jackson walk back to the truck and the crew heads back to the station.

  THIRD ALARM

  Most of the next shift has been relatively quiet by the time the rookie crawls into bed. The glowing red numbers on his alarm clock reads 10:30 P.M. As has been the case for the previous two nights, he drifts to sleep with his last thoughts being of the angel in the basement.

  At 3:07a.m., the PA cracks open with a long steady fire tone followed by the dispatcher's scratchy, tired voice. "Report of a fire on Battalion four fire ground. Three-Two-Five Riggs on a possible basement fire. Engines 15, 14, and 22. Ladder 15 and 22 ..."

  Jackson leaps into his boots, pulls up his suspenders and bunker pants, and is halfway to the truck before he is conscious enough to realize what he's doing. He stumbles as if drunk past the station pick-up truck and steadies himself against it. His heart pounds against his breastbone like it owns a hammer. He focuses his eyes against the brightness of the overhead bay lights and leaps into the jump seat of Engine 15.

  The painfully slow overhead door creeps up and out of the way. The driver crushes the accelerator to the floor. The fire truck's engine roars as the truck creeps forward like a sleeping snail that's been startled.

  They pull from the station into a winter wonderland. The view reminds Jackson of a Christmas snow globe that's been violently shaken and set on a fireplace. The rookie cringes when the cold hits him. He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his bunker coat and then fastens the buckles along the front.

  The fire engine's massive tires grab at whatever pavement they can, but the truck still slides from its first turn off the station ramp. Jackson doesn't think twice; he trusts the veteran "old-head" driver to get them where they're going safely. No, he's more worried about what he'll find when he gets there.

  He fidgets with the straps of his self-contained breathing apparatus and tugs them tight. He reaches a shaky hand out for the flashlight hanging in front of him and fastens it to a buckle on his coat.

  "Nervous?" his partner shouts over the blare of the siren.

  "Just cold," he answers. But really, he’s nervous.

  He turns on his flashlight so he doesn't forget. He reaches behind his back and cranks ope
n his air bottle until its bell rings like an old rotary telephone, telling him it's ready to deliver its payload.

  They turn onto Riggs Drive. This is what he's heard so much about. This, after all, is where firemen play.

  "Looks like a worker," his lieutenant yells back. "Rookie, you stay on my hip." He turns and gives a grin and all Jackson can think is what a crazy time it is to be grinning. The lieutenant adds, "You can pull the hose this time."

  Jackson grabs his helmet and wrests it onto his head. That's it, don't buckle it yet. Wait until I put on my mask. Should I put on my mask now? Or wait ‘til I'm at the front door? What's lieu doing? OK. Put it on now, but don't fasten the air hose yet.

  The engine slides to a stop in front of the very house he has become so familiar with over the last few days. Thick, black smoke billows from the tiny, shattered basement windows and reaches the dark sky. The lieutenant barks orders to the incoming companies via his microphone.