Death Alarm Read online

  Jackson's partner shouts, "Gonna be a hot one," and Jackson's gut instantly knots. "Basement fires suck," his partner continues. "You get to the door. I'll feed you the hose line."

  Jackson shutters and flings his door open to leap from the truck. Thick snowflakes stick to his mask, then melt away as quickly as they land. The ground is slick and he's careful to keep his footing. Even through all his gear, the brisk air takes his breath away.

  He climbs onto the rear bumper, pulls a stack of folded hose onto his shoulder, and then jumps from the tailboard. He drops sections of hose every few feet until he holds nothing but the nozzle at the porch. His lieutenant slams an axe against the front door, shattering the frame. His partner straightens the kinks in the mess of hose behind him while the driver gets the pump going.

  Jackson starts toward the door but a beast of a dog plows through, almost knocking him over and scaring the piss out of him in the process. The dog is obviously more concerned with freedom from the growing blaze than snacking on firemen. Jackson squats and stuffs the nozzle between his legs like he was taught in drill school. "Can't let another firefighter steal your glory," they told him. He clamps the air bottle's hose to his mask and takes a deep breath. A click, followed by a burst of glorious air blows against his face letting him know he is attached. His mask makes his breathing sound like Darth Vader on speed.

  "Slow your breaths, kid," the lieutenant reminds him. "Follow me."

  They crawl through the front door and into the thick black smoke. The lieutenant climbs the stairs and Jackson follows. Find the bedroom like they taught you. That's where the victims will likely be in the middle of the night. The lieutenant crawls away from him, not burdened by the weight of the hose. The rookie's partner feeds the hose through the doorway from the outside.

  "Drop the hose," the lieutenant shouts from the blackness. "We got one. Help me drag him out."

  Jackson drops the nozzle and crawls through the smoke toward the lieutenant's voice. He feels along the floor until he finds a pair of legs and grabs hold. The guy barely feels like a person beneath his bulky gloves.

  "On three," the lieutenant orders. "One. Two. Three."

  They heave the man's dead weight toward the steps in short, enthusiastic bursts.

  "Again," the lieutenant shouts.

  They lug him down the stairs where his partner waits at the door. "I got him," he says and pulls the man free of the smoke.

  The lieutenant grabs the rookie's shoulder strap, his masked face inches away. "I'm going to finish the search. Follow the hose to the nozzle and wait for me there." He disappears back into the smoke.

  Jackson blindly swipes his hand along the floor. Come on, where are you? There… He finds the hose and starts toward the nozzle, but stops when he hears something. It’s a woman's faint voice, almost a whisper. "Help ussss."

  He hesitates on the stairs. "Hello?" he shouts.

  "Help usss," the feeble voice says again and he is shocked that he can hear it over the roar of the basement inferno.

  He yells for the lieutenant, but no one answers. He has to check it out; that's what firemen do. He drops the hose and feels his way into the black smoke-filled basement stairwell. The heat is nothing short of unbearable in spite of his turnout gear and it intensifies with every step. He hugs his body as close to the stairs as he can.

  Maybe he should turn around, go back to the safety of the outside, and wait for the lieutenant to tell him what to do. Even as he thinks it, he knows better. Someone needs him and that's why he went through the academy, that's why his bosses pay him, that's why he became a fireman. He glances at the flashlight that should be shining from his chest but sees nothing but blackness.

  "Down here," again the soft voice whispers, somehow above the roar.

  "I'm coming," he shouts. "Hold on."

  The heat eases a tad as he crawls from the stairwell which acts like a chimney and onto the concrete basement floor. The fire crackles at his side and wears on him like a relentless thrashing. He remembers his hose at the top of the stairs and thinks about what a good idea it would have been to bring it along.

  "Hey," he shouts through his muffled mask. "Where are you?" He slithers along the floor, sweeping ahead with his gloved hands, shoving clothes and garbage and shit out of his way.

  The smoke twists and parts like the Red Sea as if he’s climbed into a bubble. He looks down and sees his flashlight's beam again. The beam shines against the farthest wall. The world around him slows; it’s like he’s in a "Matrix" movie. The heat softens as the smoke and flames recede from his flashlight’s path. It’s as if someone flipped a switch and he is suddenly all-aware. He wonders if this is what happens before death.

  And then she appears again, his angel, and she is as beautiful and angst-ridden as she was a few days before. He feels love for her yet doesn't know why. She moves with the fluidity of a ripple of water. He stares through her, unable to divert his eyes.

  "Let's go," he says, calmer than he should ever be. "We gotta get outta here."

  Something crashes near the stairs and he flinches, though he never breaks his gaze from her eyes. "Come on. We need to get out."

  "Noooooo," she answers. "We cannot leave this place. You have to tell them about usssss. Tell them how he killed ussssss."

  "Rookie," the lieutenant's muffled voice echoes from the top of the stairs. "We're coming."

  She lifts his helmet from his head and pulls his mask away. He doesn't fight her. He implicitly trusts her, yet again he doesn't understand why. The air blows uncontrollably from his mask. She leans in and kisses him on his cheek before backing away along the clear path. The smoke oozes back into the clearing between him and his angel. "Wait," he says, as his ghostly companion fades behind the smoke. "I don't understand, what do you want from me?"

  "He is going to kill your friends," she whispers. "That is what he does."

  He can't turn away even as he loses sight of her behind the smoke. "Wait. Don't go. I have to know your name." The smoke closes in and smothers him. He shoves his mask back against his face.

  "Angelaaa," she answers as the smoke engulfs her completely. His flashlight's beam disappears again. The heat returns, scorching, hotter than before. His every movement causes his arms and legs to press against the inside of his coat and it burns like a hot water surge in the shower. His air bottle's low air alarm chirps and then begins to ring.

  "Lieu," he shouts. "Lieu." He crawls to the stairs, but newly fallen debris has blocked his path. He pulls and claws at rubble, but it is too high and too thick. "Lieu. The guy, the guy. He's after you."

  "What?" the lieutenant shouts back.

  "The guy ..."

  "No, it's OK. He's safe. We saved him."

  Jackson rips at the broken drywall and splintered wood. "No Lieu, you don't understand."

  The lieutenant either ignores his pleas or doesn't hear them. "We're coming for you, kid. The fire's in the walls. This whole place is coming down. Stay calm and find the nearest window. We'll open up the wall around it. We'll get you out."

  Though the heat grows even more unbearable, Jackson can't think of anything but the others and what his angel had said. "Wait," he shouts. "Listen to me. The guy that you rescued. He's a k …"

  "No time, kid. We're gettin' you out."

  Jackson turns away from the stairway. The ceiling roars above him. Before he looks up, what feels like the weight of a car slams against his shoulders and pins him to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. Something hot, maybe a gas pipe, presses against his leg and blisters his skin beneath his gear. He's never heard sounds like the muffled cry that leaves his lungs.

  A chainsaw screams from the other end of the basement. He tries to move his arms, but the weight is too much. He's never thought much about claustrophobia before, but he starts to panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Please, God. Help. Please. He grunts and strains against the weight, but it only tires him more. His bottle keeps ringing, a repetitious reminder that he's going to d
ie.

  The crack of axes against wood and the screech of chainsaws cease long enough for the lieutenant to shout, "We're coming, rook. Hold on." His voice sounds miles away and it might as well be. The racket begins again.

  The ring of his low air alarm slows. He remembers the maze back in drill school and how he was forced to run out of air before he was allowed to remove his mask. The bell sounds like it did then. He is surprised as an overwhelming sense of serenity, some might call it resignation, sets in. Even the high-pitch squawk of his firefighter-down alarm on his chest doesn't rattle him like it should.

  Won't be long now.

  The ring of his low air bell winds down like a dying alarm clock.

  Ding … Ding …… Ding ……… Ding ………. And then nothing.

  His mask sucks to his face, his air--gone. He closes his eyes and sees her face again. Angela. She said her name was Angela.

  A NEW ALARM

  The new recruits started on company today. Jeremy is one of them and he sweats over the stove cooking breakfast for the guys.

  "Hey, newboy. How're the eggs coming along? I'm starvin' over here."

  "Almost ready, sir."

  "Damn new guys. Slower than death."

  The newest member of the crew can't help but wonder how many meals his tormentor has actually missed in his distinguished career. The struggling buttons on his uniform shirt indicate that it hasn't been many. Jeremy serves the rest of the crew like a good newboy should, and then he sits down for his own bowl of eggs.

  "Let me tell ya a story, newboy. You ever heard about the rookie down at 15's?"

  Jeremy stirs salt into his mound of sizzling eggs, then drops three slices of pepper-jack cheese into the bowl. He thinks he might have heard something about 15's, but isn't sure. "No, sir," he answers, his voice void of any confidence.

  "It was ten years ago," the grizzled veteran begins. "A new guy, a kid named Jackson. He hadn't been on company long, maybe a few days, when he got himself a real shit-kicker of a fire. It was a basement fire, I believe. The engine crew had a pretty good rescue that day, but for heaven knows why, that rookie …" he trails off as if deep in thought and rubs his chin. "I can't believe it's been ten years already. Anyways, for some god-forsaken reason that rookie left his crew and went into the basement on his own. That's when the whole first floor came down on him." He sighs and shakes his head. "It was a damn shame is what it was."

  The salt-and-pepper-haired veteran, more salt than pepper, shovels a fork of eggs onto his toast, wraps it like a sandwich, and then continues his tale. "Where was I? Oh yeah, rookies. While the rest of that boy's crew …" A chunk of egg rockets from his mouth and onto Jeremy's wrist, but Jeremy tries his best not to acknowledge the projectile food. Meanwhile, the old head doesn't miss a beat in telling his tale. "... tried desperately to dig him out. They might have gotten to him, too, but, now this is the crazy part, the homeowner sneaked up on the lieutenant and jammed a knife into his back. That monster stabbed 15's entire crew that day."

  Jeremy is captivated. "No way. Are you serious?"

  The kitchen door swings open and two other crew members stroll in.

  One of the two, a good-looking kid who couldn't possibly have much more time on the department than he did, joins in the ribbing. "These eggs better be good, newboy."

  Newboy? He's got like a year on me, if that.

  A gold badge-wearing fireman who exudes authority and reminds Jeremy of his grandfather follows the cocky young kid through the door.

  The story-telling veteran swipes his sleeve across his face, smearing chewed-up egg on his uniform, and hollers, "Hey Cap. He don't believe the 15-house story."

  The captain simply grunts and continues loading his plate.

  "What happened to the other firefighters that got stabbed from 15's?" Jeremy asks. "Did they live?"

  "Yeah, they lived. It was a real mess though. I guess they struggled with the homeowner for a minute or so and got some stitches for their troubles." He stops cramming food into his yap long enough to turn to the captain. "Pussies, huh, Cap? You don't have to worry ‘bout me, though. Anyone gives you slack, I'll take care of it." He shakes his fist like he's in the golden gloves or something.

  The captain grunts again and smirks, seeming not quite assured.

  "And the homeowner?" Jeremy asks. "What of him?"

  "Oh, he ran off or something. But he stayed long enough to go back to the lieutenant on the porch and do a number on his poor face. Cut ’im up good. Put him in the hospital for a month, maybe longer. You couldn't recognize him, they say, at least not ‘til the surgeries. I never knew the guy before the accident, but I went to the hospital just the same. I tell ya, he was a mess. Lost a kidney and I think he was left with one of those shit-bags for awhile, too. Hell, he moved to Florida or somewhere sunny after it all. Hey Cap, did you know him?"

  "Um-hum."

  Jeremy asks, "They ever catch the guy?"

  "I dunno. Did they, Cap?" All heads turn to the captain as he sadly shakes his head.

  The veteran turns back with egg hanging from the corner of his lip. "Let that be a lesson to ya, boy."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  He crams his last mouthful of eggs into his mouth. "Don't go into fires," he says and almost spits his eggs onto the table while laughing at his own cleverness. Jeremy forces an uncomfortable laugh.

  The PA cracks open and the fire tones blare. Jeremy races to the engine before the tone finishes. The story-telling veteran bounces into the driver’s seat and the engine roars from the station.

  They arrive at a run-down, one-story house where a man stands by the road at the edge of his driveway. He's barefoot and smoking a cigarette. Grey smoke pours from a basement window of his house. He meets the captain before the captain can get out of the truck. "My kid's in there," he yells.

  "Where?" the captain asks.

  "In the basement."

  "OK. We'll find him. Stay here with him," the captain says and points to the driver before grabbing an axe and heading for the house. Jeremy races to catch up, but the captain doesn't hesitate and disappears through the front door.

  Jeremy kneels on the porch and puts on his mask before crawling through the doorway. "Cap?" he shouts. The piercing screech of a smoke detector drowns out his voice along with any answer his captain might have given. He crawls through the first room, keeping one hand on the wall like he had learned in recruit training. "Cap," he shouts again. "Where are you?"

  No one answers.

  The smoke detector squelches and then abruptly goes dead.

  In the smoky maze of the cluttered house, Jeremy reaches an open door and a set of descending steps. Heat pours from the stairwell. He considers retreating back to the truck for the hose line, but then the sudden high screech of a firefighter-in-trouble alarm from the bottom of the stairs pierces his soul and pushes him forward.

  He scrambles through the intense heat to the bottom of the stairs where he collides with his captain. The smoke and heat surrounds them but, for some reason, it parts around him and the captain like they are in a vacuum. They didn't teach this in the academy.

  The captain rests on his knees, staring forward with his alarm blaring. "Cap, what are you doing?" Jeremy resets the alarm on the captain's coat.

  "Cap?" he shouts again. "What is it?"

  The captain doesn't move, frozen with a locked stare into the smoke. "Did you see her?" he says without breaking his trance.

  "See who, Cap?"

  "You should run, kid."

  "What?"

  "You should get out of here."

  Jeremy grabs his shoulder. "What the hell, Cap? Come on."

  The captain turns toward him and curiously tilts his head. "I can't leave her. She is beautiful. You need to run." He shoves Jeremy toward the stairs as the smoke fills the void around them.

  "Cap, no. I don't know what to do." He reaches out again, but the captain is gone in the smoke. The glow of the fire in the corner of the basement explo
des into an inferno, knocking Jeremy against the stairs. The heat is excruciating and Jeremy presses his body against the floor until he fears his skin is melting.

  Every fiber within him wants to stay, to find his captain, but the self-preservation part screams for him to run. The ceiling crackles and creaks. Nearly a whole sheet of drywall crashes down against his shoulders and he cries out in pain. Another chunk of the ceiling crashes beside him. He rips it away and scrambles up the stairs and back into the living room as a roar echoes from behind. He turns back for the captain, but debris crashes onto the stairs, blocking them.