In Our Nightmares
By Rose Po
"Sometimes there was a weird callousness about the work we did. We couldn't let it get too close to us because we didn't want to be touched by it. We didn't talk much about the bad ones. When they happened, we dealt with them. Then we went back and ate or watched a movie or went on another call..."
Larry Brown, Oxford MS Fire Department (ret.)
From On Fire
Nightfall:
"Johnny," whispered Roy
DeSoto, holding out his hand. He kept
his movements slow and deliberate, and forced his body language to be neutral
and non-threatening. But inside he
shook, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
John Gage stood pressed against the
rear door of the apparatus bay, staring at the speaker in the wall.
"Gage, we gotta
roll..." Hank Stanley edged closer
to the two men. He was still unnerved
by the sudden yelling and violence that had erupted with the tones. "Roy?"
"Cap," hissed DeSoto,
"have them dispatch another unit."
John inched further from the
officer. Hank backed toward the radio.
"Johnny," repeated Roy,
again extending his hand. Gage seized
it and sagged against him. Roy cradled
his partner, as John collapsed.
"The street isn't like the ER. There are no walls, no controls. So to make up for this, they tried to teach me to act without thinking, like a soldier..."
Joe Connelly, NYC paramedic
From
Bringing Out the Dead
Twilight:
"Johnny, your turn,"
yelled Chet, padding toward his locker and rolled up bunker pants. Kelly's hair dripped, trickling down his
face into his dark brown mustache, and he clutched a small bucket full of
toiletry articles in one hand. He
snapped a wet towel at the paramedic.
Gage caught the towel, yanked it
from Kelly's fingers and tossed it over the row of lockers. "Thanks," he said, snatching the other
fireman's shampoo.
"Gage!" bellowed Chet,
grabbing the container and starting a tug of war.
"I ran out yesterday, when I
was working overtime. Haven't had a
chance to get any yet." He grinned
at Kelly. "Unless you'd rather I
stink."
Chet released the bottle. "Be my guest."
Whistling, John strolled toward the
shower and turned on the water. He
stood beneath the spray, rapidly massaging the shampoo into lather.
The bebop went off. "Engine 36, Squad 51 in place of squad
36. Possible overdose. 1-8-6-2-0 South Santa Fe. Cross street Del Amo...."
With an enraged snarl, John thrust
his dark hair under the shower and frantically tried to rinse out most of the
soap. He jumped out of the shower
stall, battled his wet body into a pair of briefs, and pulled on his turnout
pants. Eyes tearing from the shampoo,
Gage hurried toward the squad.
******
Killing the lights and siren, Roy
parked in the paper-filled gutter. John
gazed out the window, sizing up the scene before climbing from the squad. In the darkness a small crowd of teens --
most likely runaways turned hustlers and prostitutes -- clustered around the
entrance to crumbling old storefront.
Gang graffiti marked the sliding metal panels covering the pawn shop
windows. Deep shadows spilled from the
alley into the nooks and crannies in the brick façade. Through the legs of the milling crowd he
could see a fallen body. A pair of
policemen stood over the still form.
Beside him DeSoto sighed loudly.
Gage slipped from the squad.
John pushed his way to the
stoop. An emaciated Indian youth lay
unconscious across the step, dressed in tight jeans and leather. His face was dusky and he clutched a
crinkled paper bag. Flecks of gold
paint marked his lips and hands. A
pitted red rash surrounded his mouth. The
petrochemical pungency of paint thinner burned Gage's nose as he knelt and
placed his hand against the boy's throat.
After a moment he bent over the youth's mouth listening.
"Respiratory arrest,"
announced John, pulling the ambu bag from its case. He clamped the mask against the teen's face.
Roy dropped to his knees beside
Johnny and took the boy's wrist, counting. He wrapped the blood pressure cuff around the child's arm. "Pulse 52. BP...." He pulled
the stethoscope from his ears.
"60, I can't get a diastolic." DeSoto pulled back the youth's eyelid and flashed the beam of his
penlight across the surface.
Gage frowned. As the grit from the crumbling steps dug
into his knees, John became conscious of the boy's long black hair spreading in
a halo on the dirty concrete, and of the teen's uncanny resemblance to a
favorite cousin. "What's his
name?" he asked, looking up at the circle of youths, trying to distract
himself.
A dishwater blond dressed in a
suggestively tight red jumpsuit, who couldn't have been much older than
sixteen, looked down at the paramedic.
She hesitated. Thick clumps of cheap
mascara clung to her lashes, and a layer of too-dark foundation failed to
conceal the bone-deep weariness of her face.
Red wheals that looked suspiciously like human teeth marks peppered her
neck, disappearing beneath the low-cut collar of her jumpsuit. Gage suspected the heavy boots and long
sleeves covered needle tracks. A bitter
anger at the perverts who used these children rose in his throat.
Roy deftly attached the conductive
adhesive patches to the unconscious teen's chest. A forced stillness masked his face. He snapped on the wires and attached the cable to datascope. A slow, broken cascade of peaks crossed the
screen. He reached over and ripped open
the paper bag the boy had been holding, revealing a rag soaked with gold
paint. He held it up where Johnny could
see it.
Gage grimaced and looked away. "What's his name?" he repeated.
"Sinus bradycardia,"
announced Roy, opening the biophone.
"Rampart, this is rescue 51.
How do you read me?"
"Everybody calls him Crazy
Horse," the girl finally replied.
Shaking his head, John thought of
the warrior and shirt wearer who had so hated the whiteman and his poisonous
ways that he led his people in a long, bloody, and desperate war. "Runaway?" In the distance he could hear the wailing of
Engine 36's siren.
The girl shrugged. "He's from Montana or someplace like
that."
John looked down. Cheyenne, Crow, Blackfoot, Cree or
Assiniboine, he speculated. He
fought to block the feeling of hopelessness before the dark forces stalking the
streets.
"We read you loud and
clear. Go ahead, 51." Morton's voice was flattened by the radio.
"We have a male, approximately
15, in respiratory arrest. Apparent
victim of solvent inhalation. Pulse 52,
BP 60 over nothing...." DeSoto
glanced up as the engine stopped.
"Pupils equal and sluggish.
We are ventilating and have him patched in."
"10-4, 51. Send me a strip."
"10-4, Rampart." Roy flipped the switch.
Two firefighters climbed from the
jump seats and 36's captain stood over John.
"Gage, what'cha got?"
"OD, Cap. Huffing." John gestured toward one of the firefighters with his chin. "Bryan, take over." The young man knelt and took hold of the
mask, his turnouts rustling stiffly.
The gray-haired officer nodded. "Move along, folks; there's nothing to
see," he ordered, looking at the ragged crowd surrounding them.
"51, start IV Ringers, insert
esophageal airway, continue monitoring and transport."
"10-4, Rampart,"
acknowledged Roy, reading back the orders.
Behind him the ambulance braked to a stop.
"Hyperventilate him." Gage tore the paper wrapper from the airway
and smeared lubricant down the length.
"Let me in there," he instructed, flexing the teen's neck and
inserting the tube in the boy's mouth.
Again the similarity of the youth's face to that of his cousin struck
him. Biting his lip, John ignored
everything but the length of plastic sliding down the teen's throat. Skillfully he attached the mask and nodded
to Bryan to resume ventilation. Leaning
over the boy's chest, he listened to each lung. "Again," he said, moving the stethoscope over the boy's
stomach. "OK." John inflated the balloon, sealing the
airway in place.
"Johnny," called Roy,
holding up the IV bag. "I'll ride
in with him."
"OK," replied Gage,
turning away, refusing to look at the boy's face as they lifted him onto the
litter.
******
Gage pushed the last case into the
rear bay on the squad.
"Later, Johnny," called
Bryan, as the young firefighter climbed aboard the engine. Briefly, the engineer switched on the
flashers as the rig pulled into traffic.
The momentary burst of light illuminated a painting on the wall of one
of the decaying buildings lining the alley.
Startled, Gage stared.
The fierce face of an Indian man
glared out darkness. Worked in shades
of blue, it seemed almost a portrait of winter. Long black hair flowed across the brick. An eagle feather hung at angle from the back
of his head and a glowing white owl rose behind the figure. The image vanished into the night.
Shuddering, John grabbed a
flashlight from the bay. The beam
danced on graffiti-scarred brick, covered with layers of spray painted
names. There was no portrait. Shaking his head, Gage switched off the
light and closed the bay. Quickly, he
climbed into the squad.
******
John watched Roy walk toward the
base station. The paramedic's tee-shirt
clung to his chest in dark sweaty V's that dropped from his neck and
armpits. A long lock of damp blond hair
was flopped forward, revealing the thinning crown of DeSoto's head. His shoulders slumped. Gage didn't have to ask how the call had
ended. He averted his eyes.
"He arrested," sighed
Roy. "Morton couldn't get him
back."
John bowed his head.
Roy set the drug box on the counter
and held out the keys. "You
drive," he ordered, his voice too still.
******
Johnny emerged from the
latrine. The door to the darkened dorm
was closed, but the panel failed to muffle Kelly's snoring. Roy had changed to a fresh undershirt and
was bent over the sink. The glow of the
single light over the mirror reflected on his newly combed hair. DeSoto popped a couple of aspirins into his
mouth and sipped water from the collapsible plastic cup he kept in his shaving
kit.
Gage grinned. "Gettin' old, partner?" he asked,
his voice quiet.
Roy swallowed. "Gettin' smart. Besides, I seem to remember a certain
someone who could hardly move the day after working an MVA on the PCH."
Irritated, John exhaled
sharply. "You were on the other
side of the car. You didn't hafta force
the door while the surf kept bashing you into the rocks."
DeSoto chuckled.
Running his fingers through his
hair, John sat on the bench. His hair
had dried into thickets of stiff tangles, and Chet's choice of generic shampoo
had left his scalp dry and itchy. He
scratched. Smile fading, he leaned back
against his locker. "Why do things
like that happen?"
"If I knew that I wouldn't be
working here." Roy yawned and
headed toward the dorm. "I'm
beat."
"Ever wonder what keeps us from
ending up the same way?" Gage
studied the ceiling.
Stifling a sigh, DeSoto looked at
his partner. "Good
judgement." He stopped.
John shook his head. "Do you really think that is all?"
Turning, DeSoto studied Gage's image
in the mirror. Shadows obscured John's
face, but his eyes were visible and revealed his depression. Roy sat next to Johnny and waited, listening
to the tiny shifts and wiggles that punctuated the other paramedic's
thoughts. "Why is this one getting
to you? Is it because he was an
Indian?" he finally asked.
Shrugging, John closed his eyes,
again seeing the face of the young hustler.
"He reminded me of my cousin."
"Lots of people look
similar. Doesn't mean they're anything
alike."
Gage forced a smile. "It's in us all -- the history, the
fear, the loss, the anger..."
Roy bowed his head, shadows of the
rare glimpses into his partner's past clouding his features. "Johnny...."
"I've spent my life trying to
outrun it," Gage whispered, interrupting DeSoto and shaking his head.
"Johnny, we've all had bad
things happen. They don't have to
consume us." Roy tipped his head
and glanced at John out the corner of his eyes. "Come on, let's hit the sack." He stood.
The lights snapped on and the
two-tone alarm sounded. DeSoto
groaned. In the dorm, Kelly's snoring
rattled to a stop and the beds creaked as the engine crew woke. "Station 51, Man down. 3 - 0 - 0 - 8 East Albreda cross street
Martin. 3008 East Albreda. Time out 3:18."
John darted past Roy and through the
door into the apparatus bay.
******
"He's back here." The policeman led the two paramedics through
the warren of filthy rooms.
Other officers led handcuffed
strung-out or still-stoned crack addicts past the firemen. One man spewed a stream of profanity as he
was pulled kicking and screaming across the floor, his baggy pants sliding
below his knees. When the junkie saw
the two paramedics he began screaming about how his arms hurt. "You gotta help me, they're killin'
me."
Smoothing his bristling, steel-gray
crew cut, the cop climbed the rickety stairs.
"He's one of those rich boys, who like to take a break from real
life by playing Russian roulette with their brain cells."
Gage banged the drug box and his
shoulder against the wall as he stumbled on a cascade of beer and soda cans,
dislodged by the passing police officer.
Swearing under his breath, John struggled to regain his balance.
Roy grabbed Johnny's arm, steadying
him.
"Gonna be one of those
nights," Gage muttered bitterly.
"What's wrong with him?"
DeSoto asked the cop.
"We start to cuff him, real
nice like, and he keels over. Says his
chest hurts. I think it's badge-itis,
but we called you anyway." The cop
entered a darkened room.
"Paul," said the policeman, addressing a colleague standing in
the shadows.
A beam of the light blinded Gage as
he stepped through the door. Raising
his hand to shield his face, John squinted into the darkness.
"Sorry," apologized Paul,
lowering the flashlight.
As John's eyes adjusted, the details
of the room slowly resolved. The man
lay face down on a torn, dirty mattress in the middle of the floor. A block of moonlight, bleeding through the
broken window, cast a bluish glow across a sea of trash. Rags, crumpled paper, glittering fragments
of broken glass, and condom wrappers littered the floor. A half-eaten lump of unidentifiable fast
food writhed under the assault of a horde of cockroaches. In the cold light, the splotches of black
blood and irregular rings of dried urine staining the stripped surface of the
mattress appeared to swallow the man's bound arms. Inky shadows clung to the corners of the room. The smell of human excrement rose from the
debris.
Roy pushed through the crowded
door. He squatted cautiously, aware of
the possibility of infectious sharps in the detritus surrounding the pad. "Sir?" He reached for the man's neck.
The addict rolled over, flopping
like a dying fish. The sour stench of
body odor and other darker smells filled Gage's nose, gagging him.
DeSoto gasped.
"Roy," panted the
man. "Help me! Hurts!" He writhed in pain.
"It's Brackett," breathed
John, crouching beside the mattress.
"Uncuff him!" ordered Roy.
******
John pressed his fingers against
Kel's clammy neck. The physician's
jugular trembled frantically beneath his fingers. "Too rapid to count."
He moved his palm to Brackett's diaphragm and counted as the second hand
ticked by. "28. Where's it hurt?"
Roy unrolled the blood pressure
cuff.
Brackett panted. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead and
a day's growth of beard crusted his chin.
His eyes didn't focus.
"Crushing substernal chest pain.... Can't breathe.... Feels
like an elephant... is sitting on me....
Oh God, I've had an MI."
"OK, Doc." Johnny glanced at Roy.
"BP 170, palp," said
DeSoto.
"Whew," mouthed Gage,
soundlessly. "Let's get him out of
here. I can't see to work on
him." John unwrapped the mask and
tubing, turned the valve on the regulator, and slipped the oxygen mask over
Kel's face.
"OK." DeSoto pulled the HT from his pocket. "Engine 51, this is HT 51, can you
please send up a stokes?"
"10-4, HT 51," replied
Stoker. "It's on the way,
Roy."
"Doc, how much did you
do?" asked John.
Brackett shrugged weakly. "Don't remember."
Gage looked around, trying
hopelessly to estimate from the litter of vials just how much of the drug the
doctor had consumed.
Kel snorted. "I never thought I could be
caught. Saw the junkies coming into my
ER and I looked down my nose at them -- weak."
Gage pulled the bandage scissors
from their holster. Hurriedly, he slit
the front of the doctor's blue and orange-stripped shirt. He attached the electrodes to Brackett's chest. "Roy," Johnny pointed to the
screen with his chin. "160. PSVT."
A spasm of pain passed through the doctor.
Brackett gasped. "But, then the hours stretched on, a
parade of ugliness -- more than I could fix, more than I could block
out...." Words trailing off, Kel
grimaced in agony. He panted for air,
his face darkening alarmingly.
"Just once... to relax....
I... never... intended... to get... addicted.... Too strong.... Now... here... I... am."
A thin stream of spittle ran down his chin.
Pride goeth before the fall,
quoted Johnny silently, nodding to the arriving firefighters. Chet and Marco lowered the stokes. "Shh, Doc. Let us do all the work."
He looked at Lopez. "On
three." Gage slid his hands under
the doctor's shoulders, ignoring the sticky dampness of Brackett's
clothes. "One -- two --
three." They lifted Kel into the
wire basket. "Don't move him
around too much," cautioned John.
DeSoto placed the datascope and
oxygen between Brackett's legs.
"Get him out of here," he instructed, standing.
******
"Roy, not Rampart," begged
Brackett as the firemen lowered the litter to the relatively clean grass
outside.
John took a deep breath, greedily
sucking in the fresh air, the stench of the crack house fading. "Calm down. We're gonna take good care of you."
"St. Francis," he
insisted, struggling against the straps.
"Heart rate 190,"
whispered John, leaning close to his partner.
Roy placed his hands on the older
man's shoulders. "Dr.
Brackett," he said, firmly, "you must lie still...."
"Not... Rampart..." repeated Kel. He grimaced again, his respirations becoming
irregular.
"Doc, you gotta calm
down." Frowning, Gage glanced at
the scope and then at DeSoto. He shook
his head slightly.
Brackett stiffened. Abruptly he clutched at his chest, groaned
and then his muscles went slack. Before
they closed, his eyes stared accusingly at Johnny.
"V-fib," yelled John,
jerking his head up.
"Bag him, Chet," ordered
DeSoto, aligning and raising his arm to deliver a precordial thump. Kel's body jerked as Roy struck him. Roy looked at the monitor and shaking his head
began chest compressions.
Kelly scrambled to Brackett's
side. The sooty, leather-covered span
of his gloved fingers concealed the doctor's face as Chet clamped the mask over
Kel's nose and mouth.
Lopez knelt, replacing DeSoto. The scream of the siren on the arriving
ambulance ricocheted off the scarred walls of the crack house.
John threw open the case of the
defibrillator, grabbed the paddles, and held them toward Roy. DeSoto squirted the conductive gel on the
pads. Swiftly, Gage rubbed the metal
plates to together to distribute the goo and pressed them against Brackett's
chest. Glancing at the defibrillator's
monitor, he confirmed the erratic twitching of the heart muscle. Sweat gathered under Gage's arms.
Roy punched the charge button. "One... Two hundred."
"Clear!" called Gage. Marco dropped back on his heels and Chet
pulled the ambu bag from Kel's face.
John pressed the buttons, the doctor's body convulsed under the shock. A fresh stink of urine joined the stale odor
clinging to the physician's clothes.
"No conversion."
The firefighters resumed CPR. Roy opened the biophone, swiftly snapping
the antenna into place.
With a savage two-fingered motion,
Johnny adjusted the energy level and started the unit charging. "Clear!" Again the physician's body jerked. "Damn it! No
conversion."
DeSoto reset the defibrillator. "One.
Two. Three. Three-sixty," he counted.
"Clear!" On the screen, the disorganized line of
light twitched and then caught, reforming into an even but frantic pattern. Gage pressed his fingers against Brackett's
carotid. "We've got a
pulse." Tombstone-shaped humps
wandered along the trace. John clicked
his tongue in disgust. "He's
throwing PVC's." He inflated the
blood pressure cuff. "Get
authorization for lidocaine."
"Rampart," started Roy,
"this is County 51. How do you
read me?" Making quick notations
on the MICU form, DeSoto waited.
"Unit calling repeat,"
crackled Dixie's voice.
Roy met John's eyes and made a
face. "Rampart, this is County
51. How do you read me?"
"Loud and clear. Go ahead 51."
"Pulse 128, BP 80/40,"
reported Gage.
"Johnny," called Chet,
yanking the mask away from Kel's face and struggling to roll the doctor on his
side.
John grabbed Brackett's hip, pulling
him onto his side. A foul smelling,
mustard-yellow tide poured from the unconscious man's mouth as he vomited. Gage grabbed the suction equipment.
"Ugh," commented Kelly,
backing away from the spreading puddle.
"Bag him," ordered John,
easing Kel onto his back, positioning his stethoscope and listening. "Shit, he's aspirated." He looked at Roy.
"Rampart, we have a male,
approximately 45, complaining of chest pain after consuming an unknown quantity
of crack cocaine. He went into v-fib;
we defibrillated times 3 before conversion.
Patient has aspirated vomitus."
Roy touched his pen to each item as he talked. "Pulse 128, BP 80/40, no spontaneous respiration and is
being ventilated. Skin is pale and
damp. We're reading multifocal
PVC's." He took a deep
breath. "Requesting lidocaine, and
esophageal airway."
Mike Morton's voice replaced
McCall's. "10-4, 51. Go ahead with the airway. And send us a strip."
Gage nodded and tore open the packet
covering the airway.
"Transmitting
telemetry." Roy flipped the switch
on the biophone and waited a moment.
"Rampart, did you receive our transmission?"
"Affirmative, 51. We concur.
IV normal saline, TKO; 100 mg lidocaine bolus; and start a lidocaine drip,"
ordered Morton.
"10-4," acknowledged
DeSoto, "IV NS TKO, 100 mg lidocaine bolus and lidocaine drip." He scribbled the order on the patient care
form.
John pushed the tube into the
doctor's esophagus and fitted the mask to the adapter. He bent, listening as Chet squeezed the
bag. "Ventilation is..." His lips twitched downwards. "OK." He pulled the stethoscope from his ears. "I hear rales. He's got a lotta junk down there," he
said, glancing up at his partner.
Roy passed Johnny a large bore IV needle,
then carefully attached the administration set to the bag of saline.
Gage tied the tourniquet and swabbed
the doctor's arm. Grime stained the
pad. The vein collapsed and pulled
away. He made an angry, frustrated
noise, replaced the needle, and selected a new spot.
"Johnny," offered Roy.
"I got it!" On the third try, the beveled edge finally
broke through the wall of the blood vessel and red blossomed at the base of the
needle. "I'm in," said John,
taping the thin catheter into place.
"Give it here." He
reached for the bag, and snapped the tubing to the cannula.
Stoker squatted next to Lopez,
counting and getting the rhythm. He
relieved his colleague.
"Lidocaine." DeSoto passed John the prefill.
Gage reread the label and expelled
the excess medication.
"Lidocaine's in," he reported, pulling the needle from the
medication port. John reached for the
drug box, preparing the IV infusion.
Roy watched the monitor.
Holding the second bag aloft, John
studied the datascope. After a moment
he gave a rapid thumbs-up gesture.
"Better."
Standing, Roy gestured to the
ambulance attendants. "Let's
go. Chet, please drive the squad
in."
******
Signs and street lamps flashed
outside the window as the ambulance sped down the darkened road. The multicolored flickers of light glittered
reflected by Roy's eyes as he sat at the head of the stretcher, squeezing the
ambu bag. The IV's swayed with the
movement of the rig, brushing the tubing against Gage's shoulder while he
leaned over Brackett's arm, again measuring the doctor's blood pressure. Scowling, John studied the cardiac
monitor. "He's throwing PVC's
again." He reached for the
biophone. "Rampart, this is County
51.... Hold!"
The datascope wailed.
"V-fib!" John dropped the radio handset and grabbed
the paddles.
"Stop the ambulance!"
yelled Roy, pushing the charge button.
"One. Two. Three.
Three-sixty."
"Clear!" Glancing up briefly to make sure his partner
was clear, he pressed the buttons. Brackett
jerked as the current passed through him.
"No conversion."
DeSoto scooped up the receiver and
clamped it against his shoulder. He
replaced the mask, squeezing the bag rhythmically. "Rampart, this is County 51."
"Again," Johnny exclaimed,
listening for the charge tone.
"Clear!" The doctor's
body convulsed beneath John's hands.
The random wiggle continued to wander across the datascope screen,
mocking him, its amplitude decreasing.
"No conversion."
"Rampart, this is County
51. How do you read me?" repeated
Roy.
Transferring the paddles to one
hand, Johnny adjusted the machine.
After a few interminable seconds, the machine beeped its readiness. "Clear!" Brackett jerked against the straps securing him to the
litter. John abruptly repositioned the
paddles, staring at the defibrillator's monitor. A straight line bisected the screen. "Flat line."
Gage scrambled for the drug box.
"Go ahead, 51."
"Rampart, patient's
asystolic. Requesting
epinephrine."
"10-4, 51. 1.0 mg 1:10,000 Epinephrine IV push."
"1.0 mg 1:10,000 Epinephrine
IVP," confirmed Roy, reaching over his shoulder and rapping on the
communicating window. "Hit
it!" The driver glanced back and
raised his hand. The ambulance
accelerated.
John adjusted the dosage and inserted
the needle. "Epi's in," he
announced. Time dilated as he preformed
CPR. Sweat ran down his back and his
hair flopped in his eyes. He glanced up
at Roy.
"Rampart, no response,"
reported DeSoto, flatly.
"51, repeat Epinephrine."
"10-4, Rampart."
Gage injected another dose and
forced the drug through the doctor's body.
A weak, abnormally slow wiggling rattled to life on the screen. He pressed his fingers against Brackett's
throat, felt a faint pulsing, and nodded.
"Rampart, we have a ventricular
rhythm of 30. No spontaneous
respirations," said DeSoto.
"1.0mg Atropine IV push,"
ordered Morton.
"10-4 Rampart, 1.0 mg Atropine,
IVP," repeated Roy.
Gage grabbed the vial and syringe,
popped the tops off, screwed the two pieces together and administered the
medication.
"Atropine's been administered,
Rampart," confirmed Roy.
Gradually the doctor's heart rate
accelerated.
DeSoto peeled back Brackett's
eyelid. The huge black circle of the
doctor's pupil did not contract as the light struck it.
Still holding the syringe, Gage
shook his head.
******
"Oh my God, it's Kel,"
breathed Morton, falling into step alongside the gurney.
"...Pulse 50, BP 90/66, no
spontaneous respirations, pupils fixed and dilated," recited Roy,
following the litter down the hall.
Johnny trotted at the head, squeezing the ambu bag, forcing O2
into Kel's lungs.
Dixie looked up as they came through
the door. Her eyes went wide; her mouth
opened and closed soundlessly. Then
McCall's face stilled, going expressionless.
"Carol, Louise, get over here." She gestured toward the litter.
Roy hooked the two IV bags onto the
stand as Morton and the nurses prepared to transfer Bracket to the exam table.
"One. Two. Three," counted
Dixie, her voice quiet and steady. They
lifted. She nodded sternly for the
blue-smocked student nurse to relieve Gage.
"...No idea how much cocaine he
consumed," finished DeSoto.
Johnny ducked beneath Roy's arm,
exchanging cables, attaching Kel to the ER's cardiac monitor. He frowned as DeSoto concluded his report.
"Draw blood for CBC, SMA - 12,
CK with isoenzymes, ABG, PT, PTT, blood alcohol, and serum tox screen,"
instructed Mike, pushing past Roy.
"We need a UA and urine tox screen. Chest films." Morton
leaned over, listening to unconscious doctor's lungs. He pulled the stethoscope from his ears and looked at John. "Sounds like shit. Did he aspirate?"
"Yeah," nodded John.
"Let's tube him. Hyperventilate," ordered Morton,
gesturing for McCall to bring him a tray of instruments. While Mike tilted Kel's head back, the nurse
slit the tape sealing the sterile blue covering over the instruments. "8.0 french," mumbled Mike,
pushing the other tube aside and sweeping the doctor's limp tongue out of the
way with the laryngoscope blade.
Without looking up, he took the airway from Dixie, slipped it into place
and reattached the bag.
"Rate 50, BP 92/66,"
reported the student nurse, confirming DeSoto's last readings.
Gage reached behind Carol, who was
bent over the doctor's arm filling tube after tube with blood. Quickly, he grabbed the datascope.
"Again," directed McCall,
moving the bell of the stethoscope to the other side of Brackett's chest. "Placement's OK."
As she straightened, Johnny looked
into her blue eyes. He bowed his head,
refusing to acknowledge what he saw there.
Mike attached the ventilator to the
airway.
Joe Early burst through the door,
practically knocking Roy to the floor.
A group of nurses and attendants stood in the hall just beyond the
door. Joe was wearing rumpled,
sweat-soaked scrubs and looked like he had come straight from surgery. "Mike, I just heard."
Morton glanced at Early out the
corner of his eye. "Dix, start an
isoproterrenol drip."
"Yes," said McCall,
tearing open the white paper sack covering a bag of saline.
"What happened?" asked
Early, pulling out his penlight and pushing back Brackett's eyelid. He frowned.
"Gage and DeSoto found him in a
crack house. Looks like cocaine toxicity." Morton continued to stare at the
monitor. "Increase the rate a
little, Dix."
"How long was he without
oxygen, Johnny?" asked Joe, looking at the paramedic.
Louise pulled the no longer
necessary, esophageal airway from Kel's throat. Gage shrugged. "One,
maybe two minutes. But he didn't really
pink up, even with the EOA."
"Mike, did you see,"
started Early, nodding toward Brackett's eyes.
"Yes," snapped Morton, not
looking up.
******
John leaned against the windowsill
in the Captain's office, peering between the slats of the blind, watching the
stars slowly fade from the sky over the refinery. The surface of the rough brick pushed uncomfortably into his
forearm. Gage clung to the sensation, a
welcome distraction from his thoughts.
Another whiff of disinfectant drifted in from the apparatus bay. Roy had been inventorying and cleaning the
squad and its equipment since they had returned, searching for a reason for
their failure to successfully resuscitate Brackett, trying to avoid his role as
the Angel of Death. Johnny could hear
Hank talking to Roy. The station
officer had stayed up waiting for his paramedics and was now alternating
between cleaning the dayroom and fussing with a new coffee cake recipe he had
gotten from the engineer at 110's.
Sighing, Gage turned from the window
and sat in front of the desk, staring at the run sheet sticking out of the
typewriter. Lines of neat type covered
the page and in their cool recitation of the events utterly failed to explain
the real reason why Brackett was now as good as dead. A pile of crumbled, equally unrevealing drafts littered the
desk. John slumped, resting his head
between his hands, and contemplated pacing some more. He rubbed his burning eyes.
"Johnny," said Roy,
slouching wearily against the doorframe, a pair of mugs in his hands. Splashes of cleaner darkened his white
tee-shirt and fine lines and wrinkles had appeared on the firefighter's
face. "Cap made some
coffee." He walked over, sat on
the corner of the desk, and handed Gage a cup.
"You look like hell," observed DeSoto between swallows.
John snorted humorlessly. "I was going to say the same thing
about you." His words trailed off
as he sipped the hot coffee. He yanked
the paper from the typewriter and offered it to DeSoto. "See if this makes any sense."
Roy read. "Seems fine to me," he replied, his frown deepening as
the words intensified his depression.
"Find anything out there?"
asked Gage, pointing to the apparatus bay with his chin.
DeSoto shook his head. "The defibrillator battery is fine,
everything is in date.... Just like it
was at the beginning of shift." He
took a drink. "Just like it always
is."
"And we did everything by the
book," said John, his voice tinged with anger and frustration. He leaned back and closed his eyes, seeing
the entire run all over again.
"Yeah," agreed Roy,
setting down his cup. "Still, I
keep looking for a reason."
John looked up, meeting Roy's
gaze. "Me, too," he finally
replied, leaping from the chair and stalking across the room. "Maybe if I'd have..."
"Johnny..."
"Stop it. This has nothing to do with how either of
you did your jobs," interrupted Stanley.
Firmly he took John's shoulder and steered the paramedic back to the chair. He set a plate of still warm coffeecake in
front of Gage.
Johnny stared the slab of cake
Stanley placed on the desk and picked at the thick streusel topping. He
pushed the plate away and shook his head.
"Things like this happen. You both know that sometimes, no matter how
well you perform, the patient dies... or worse," added Hank, recalling
what Roy had told him about Brackett having been deprived of oxygen for too
long.
Roy nodded reluctantly.
"But this time," began
John, remembering all the strangers who had died under his care -- remembering
Drew.
"No buts. This happened because he was doing
cocaine," finished Stanley coldly.
"True," whispered Roy.
"Go get cleaned up,"
ordered Hank, taking the run sheet from the two paramedics. "It's almost time for wake-up
call."
Neither man moved.
"Go on," repeated Hank
softly, jerking his head toward the washroom.
******
John stood next to the stove in his
apartment, dressed in a pair of threadbare jeans and a worn flannel shirt. His smooth brown elbows poked sharply
through holes in the sleeves. The dark
spore of fatigue marked his face.
Absentmindedly, Johnny stared out
the window at the distant mountains, while twisting the handle of a can
opener. Shaking his head, Gage turned
back to the steaming skillet and dumped the can of green chilies in with the
sizzling diced potatoes. The sharp
smell mixed with the warm odor of browning butter as he stirred, making his
mouth water.
Gage set the hot pan on a folded
dishtowel and sat at the kitchen table.
He shoveled a forkful of steaming potatoes into his mouth and
frantically sucked in cool air. Tilting
the vinyl-covered chair John yanked open the refrigerator door, grabbed the
milk, and drank directly from the carton.
The cold liquid soothed his burnt tongue. Sighing, Johnny let the front legs of the chair drop to the
floor. For several moments, he remained
slumped over the skillet, immobilized by the weight of the past night. His neighbor's dog barked, sending a shiver
up his spine. Shaking his head, Gage lifted
the fork.
Abruptly, Johnny stopped eating, the
potatoes swelling and turning dry on his tongue. He struggled to swallow.
Gage dropped his fork and looked up...
...To meet the clear and critical
gaze of Kel Brackett's gray eyes. John
gasped. He squeezed his eyes shut, and
scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face.
Outside, the dog yelped frantically.
"Johnny."
The hair on the back of Johnny's
neck stood up as he remembered what his mother used to say about dogs barking
for no reason: 'Cinksi, a ghost goes past.'
He frowned. "I'm
tired. It was a long night,"
mumbled Gage. Reluctantly, he opened
his eyes. The doctor still sat across
from him. Instead of the soiled orange
and navy stripped knit shirt, Brackett wore crisp green scrubs and a fresh lab
coat.
John jumped to his feet, overturning
the chair and upsetting the carton.
Milk splashed on the floor, spreading in white streams across the
linoleum.
"You're making a terrible
mess," grunted Brackett.
"But, you're alive...."
The doctor laughed -- a harsh sound
more like a bark. "What caused you
to think that?" Brackett stood,
pressing his hands against the table.
His knuckles were white.
"The vital signs?
Spontaneous respiration? The
pupils' response to light? How much
alive?"† he asked, quoting his first encounter with the
firefighter.
Gage backed up, fell over the chair,
and slid down the wall. The rough
stucco tore his elbows and blood ran in warm rivulets down his arms.
Kel walked over and stood looking
down at the paramedic. "Enough epi
and a stone will have a pulse."
Brackett's voice gritted between
John's teeth like broken glass.
"Amateurs," snorted
Kel. He turned and walked toward the
kitchen wall. He passed through the
thick slab, like a pebble falling into deep water. The dog howled once and then was silent.
John lay on the floor until the
blood beneath his palms turned thick and cold.
******
Gage sat on his heels next to the
squad, the datascope laying on the concrete by his knees. Methodically he untangled the patient cable,
re-rolling it carefully around his hand, trying to pretend everything was
normal. He could hear Roy on the
opposite side of the squad opening the bays, making a quick inventory of the
physical rescue gear. The other
paramedic whistled tunelessly as he worked, behaving as though nothing had
changed.
Johnny slipped the rolled leads back
into their compartment and attached the patch cable to the back of the scope
and to the biophone. He reached for the
handset, preparing to transmit the morning EKG calibration.
"Rampart, this is County 51,
how do you read me?"
"We read you loud and
clear. Go ahead, 51," replied
Brackett's voice.
John stared at the receiver in
horror. The back of his neck prickled.
A puzzled noise came over the
radio. "Go ahead, 51,"
repeated Morton.
"Preparing to transmit EKG
calibration." John's words sounded
strangely hollow in his ears.
"10-4, 51."
Gage flipped the switch on the radio
and reached for the datascope. His hand
shook as he punched the test button.
"Calibration received"
"10-4."
"Rampart out."
"Radio problem?" asked
DeSoto, standing beside the rear of the squad, his hand resting on the shiny
rail surrounding the top of the squad.
John willed his voice not to
waver. "No. It seems to be OK now." Unlike you, Gage, he added
silently. He stood, returned the
equipment to the bay, closed the door and brushed off his hands on his pant
legs.
"Let's go to Rampart and pick
up those supplies," suggested Roy, pushing away from the side of the
vehicle. "And check on
Brackett," he added softly.
At the mention of the doctor's name,
Johnny's blood ran cold. Sweat began to
trickle down his back.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah -- uh -- right,"
John stammered.
Canting his head, DeSoto looked at
his partner curiously. "You
OK?"
"I'm fine," replied Gage,
shortly. Liar! accused the voice
in his head.
******
DeSoto stopped in the opening of the
cubicle. Johnny peered over Roy's
shoulder. Drs Morton and Early were at
the head of the bed. An unfamiliar
nurse stood next to the physicians.
Brackett was nearly invisible, surrounded by machines, his chest moving
with the mechanical evenness of the ventilator. The harsh blue-tinged light turned Kel's pale skin a ghastly
shade.
Gage studied the monitor mounted
over the comatose doctor's head. The
sharp spike of an artificial pacemaker preceded each beat, tearing through the
normal electrical signature of a healthy heart. Johnny frowned.
Early set down the stack of
flowsheets he held. Deliberately, he
peeled back Brackett's eyelid. The
black ring of the pupil remained unnaturally large and still, despite the
brilliant slash of light falling across the glistening surface. Slowly and gently, Joe trailed a wisp of
cotton over the corner of Kel's eye.
Roy winced in sympathy. But,
Brackett did not blink. Early lifted
the other eyelid and repeated the test.
For a second, the gray-haired doctor's hand shook as he threw away the
cotton. "Negative corneal reflex,"
Joe reported, forcing a faint tremor from his voice.
Mike nodded. He made an adjustment to the corrugated
tubing attached to the slender endotracheal tube protruding from Brackett's
mouth. "Turn off the vent,"
Morton instructed the nurse.
She adjusted a knob. "Vent's off."
The comatose doctor exhaled once and
then lay unmoving. Morton eyed his
watch, glancing away from the oxygen saturation monitor. Early stared at Brackett's chest. The room became quiet. The muted chatter of dispatch on Roy's HT
seemed abnormally loud.
John watched as the number in the
corner of the screen fell. Still, the
doctor did not move.
"Four minutes. Draw a blood gas," ordered Mike.
"Restart the vent," said
Early, his voice barely audible.
"He's apneic."
"Let's do another EEG."
Joe nodded, defeated.
Morton looked straight at the two
paramedics. Gage noticed for the first
time the gray peppering the hair at the physician's temples. Mike locked eyes with John, his dark gaze
boring into Johnny. Gage thought he
detected more than a hint of blame. He
turned away.
"51, what's your status?"
asked Sam Lanier, his voice distorted by the radio.
John nudged Roy, gently. "We got to get back." He nodded toward the handitalkie, clutched
in DeSoto's hand.
"51, available," replied
DeSoto slowly, still staring at Brackett's limp body.
"10-4, 51. Stand by for response."
"10-4."
******
"...40mg Lasix IVP,"
repeated John, reading back the orders.
The paramedic clamped the handset against his shoulder and, still holding
the pen, rubbed his nose.
"10-4."
Roy swabbed the IV line and injected
the medication. "This should make
you feel better real soon," he reassured, dropping the syringe into the
disposal container. The elderly woman
slumped in the recliner nodded between gasps.
He glanced at the long-term care facility's nursing supervisor, who
stood by the chair.
"Keep..." started Gage,
glancing at the attendants guiding the stretcher into the room. A crowd of residents and staff had gathered
in the hallway outside the door. In the
middle stood Brackett. John stared.
"Johnny?" asked Roy,
holding out the IV bag and looking up at Gage.
Gage blinked. Instead of Brackett, there was a dark-haired
man in blue coveralls. "Keep her
head up," stammered Johnny, reaching for the IV, still staring at the man.
Frowning, Roy followed his partner's
gaze and saw nothing but the nursing home janitor. "Let's go," he instructed.
******
"Roy, do you believe in
ghosts?" asked John, his voice shattering the late night quiet in the cab
of the squad.
"Been watching too many of
Chet's scary movies?" teased DeSoto.
The minute the words dropped from his lips, Roy realized he had said the
wrong thing. He risked a glance away
from the light traffic to look at his partner: John was slumped against the
door, the headlights of the oncoming cars flashing on his face. As DeSoto watched Gage's expression altered,
sealing over.
Johnny gritted his teeth. "No," he replied, shortly. He turned and gazed out the window.
Roy was silent until the squad was
stopped at a traffic light.
"Sorry." He listened,
waiting for the sigh and shift in position that would indicate John's
forgiveness. The light changed, he
accelerated. After a few moments, the
vinyl seat next to DeSoto crackled.
"No, I don't," said Roy.
"Do you?"
Gage shrugged. He watched the familiar signs advertising
used car dealerships and bars pass.
"What do you think happens when you die?"
"To a person's soul?"
asked DeSoto.
Johnny nodded.
"When I was a kid, I used to
believe if people were good they went to heaven. Streets of gold, dessert everyday..." His voice trailed off and he snorted.
John smiled thinly.
"I've seen an awful lot of
people die since then. Now, I just
don't know." Roy paused. "They say you see a white light and
feel at peace... I've never seen
anybody who looked happy when they died."
DeSoto shrugged as he turned the squad onto Main Street.
Gage nodded, remembering the scowl
twisting Brackett's face.
"What about you? Do you believe in ghosts?"
Johnny opened his mouth; for half a
second he thought the story of Brackett's visits would spill from his
lips. He closed his mouth and
swallowed, recalling the psychotic woman who had set her house on fire to free
the ghost of her daughter. He
shivered. "My people do," he
answered, slowly. "You hear a lot
of ghost stories growing up on the rez."
Gage stared at the lights and remembered.
******
"There she is," said
Howard Red Owl, pointing.
Johnny looked up. The breath of his uncle's horse rose in a
white cloud, blurring the edges of the brown and white spotted cow into the
snow-covered skeletons of wild plums and willows. The cow stood ankle deep in the middle of the creek, her muzzle
beneath the surface of the water. Blood
and pus trickled down her swollen right foreleg, flowing over a brown crust of
old, dried blood. Rolling her eyes and
flicking her tail, she lifted her head and exhaled in a loud whoosh.
"Don't spook her,"
instructed Red Owl, handing a coil of rope to his teenaged nephew.
Gage touched his heels to the side
of his horse and clicked his tongue, urging her off the soft, silt bank. The rotten ice bordering the water crunched
beneath the mare's hooves. Plumes of
muddy gray flowed downstream from each footstep, swirling and eddying before
disappearing. Carefully, he rode alongside the cow and slipped the rope over
her neck. She stamped and turned a
white-rimmed eye toward Johnny as he tightened the rope. Slowly, John led the cow out of the water,
the animal limping docilely after him.
Howard swung down from the saddle
and bent to inspect the inflamed leg.
Johnny watched the cow
uneasily. He felt cattle only respected
a man on horseback. The two ribs he had
broken as a child when Dwayne had dared him to ride one of the young steers
ached with the memory of the kick. He
watched his uncle touch the cow's leg.
"Barb wire," remarked
Howard. "I'll get the trailer, I
don't wanna walk her all the way back."
" 'K," acknowledged
Johnny, leading the injured cow to a sheltered bend choked with a thick growth
of dead grass, crusted with a thin layer of snow. Overhead low, moisture-heavy clouds gathered, turning the light
pale and watery. A cold wind tore up
the draw.
Shivering, Gage slid from horseback,
stretching his stiffening thigh muscles.
For a moment he stood, rubbing the velvety muzzle of his horse, savoring
the warmth of her breath on his face.
She nuzzled at his shoulder.
Johnny looped the reins over the branch of a fallen tree and wandered
into a thicket of willows, cottonwood and wild gooseberries, trying to walk the
warmth back into his legs.
A flash of orange among the grays,
browns, and whites caught John's attention.
Gage took a step closer, pushing back a thorny tangle. Raggedy Ann's stupid grin gazed back at
him. The doll was tied by her neck to a
stout chokecherry stick. The snow
beneath the toy was stained red and green, and the sharp smell of peppermint
rose from the melted Christmas candy.
Red and yellow cloth pouches of tobacco dangled from another stick --
waunyanpi. Coyote or dog tracks next to
a third fallen offering revealed the fate of the sack of wasna, once tied to
the stick. John jumped back, dropping
the branches.
Gage stared at the makeshift altar
in the bushes and recalled the stories he had heard. Late March, the warm east wind -- the enlightening breath -- had
blown in. Overnight Sage Creek and the
tributaries of the White River swelled with murky gray snowmelt. A group of children had gone to the low bluffs
overlooking the creek turned to a raging river. Little Darlene Olsen had wandered a ways from the rest of the
group, walking along the rain-soaked bank.
The floodwaters lapped away at the softened gumbo clay beneath her feet
and the girl fell screaming into the foaming water. For days the tribal police and local ranchers combed the banks
and draws as the waters receded, poking the sodden bush, probing piles of
silt. Finally, the family buried the
child's communion dress. While the
priest said his blessing and the father shoveled dirt over the tiny white
coffin, Darlene's mother walked the banks of Sage Creek, wailing
broken-heartedly. Her mourning songs
echoed off the clay banks for months as she wandered the brush day after day,
searching for her daughter's body. To
assuage his daughter's grief, old man Pretty Weasel -- the girl's grandfather
-- took a half a beef and a bag of tobacco to a Yuwipi man down in Kyle. The medicine man told them the spirits said
the girl's body was lying face down in a snag of willow with a wild plum in her
mouth. The next day Darlene's father
and uncle found her in the thicket, a withered fruit clenched between her dead
teeth and brittle lips. Ever since,
people had whispered about a small ghost seen walking the bluffs.
Shivering, John imagined the
sweetness of the plum and gritty bitterness of the mud. From the bole of a lightning-struck
cottonwood, an owl hooted, announcing a pending death, then it took flight in
the gathering dusk, its wings soundless as it wove among the branches. Abruptly, Johnny caught a whiff of rotting
flesh. Pulling the collar of his jacket
over his mouth, he nervously walked around a narrow spit of gravel and clay.
Lying against the base of the bluff
was the body of a black-tailed deer, long ago trapped and frozen to death in
the deep snows, which had piled in the draw.
The thawing body was slowly swelling.
The air carried the odor of stale blood and rancid fat, sour and
terrifying. Johnny gagged. Behind him the brush crackled and somewhere
something whistled in the wind. The
hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Gage stood, heart pounding, afraid to turn.
Suddenly the rattling of the metal
sides of a stock trailer echoed off the walls.
His uncle's pickup bumped along the road above the draw. "Johnny!" yelled Howard over the
grinding of the engine.
"Coming," called Gage,
scrambling for his horse.
******
"Johnny?"
"Huh?" muttered Gage. The squad had quit moving and was parked in
the apparatus bay. Turning, he looked
up into Roy's concerned eyes.
"Oh." He grabbed the
mic. "Squad 51 in quarters."
DeSoto studied Gage. "You thinking about Brackett?"
Johnny struggled not to jump at the
question, for a moment afraid Roy could see the mad delusions visiting
him. He shrugged. "A little, maybe."
"We did the best we
could." Roy's voice turned
cold. "He made a bad
choice." DeSoto opened the door of
the squad.
******
Gage rolled over, closed his eyes
and breathed slowly and evenly. Maybe
if I pretend long enough I'll actually fall asleep, he thought. Since he had gone off-shift the day before
-- really since the night they had found Brackett -- he had not been able to
sleep.
In the distance a dog barked and
Johnny's heart leapt. Jerking fully
awake he looked at the alarm clock beside his bed. "Three-forty," he announced to the empty room. He lay, sweaty palms pressed against the
sheets, straining to hear. Outside the
dog quieted. Gage slowly relaxed. Suddenly the dog howled mournfully.
Johnny threw aside the blankets and
struggled to his feet. He staggered
into the hall, determined this time not to be taken by surprise.
******
"Doughnuts," crowed Kelly,
watching DeSoto approach the table. A
huge grin split his face as he grabbed the box from the startled paramedic's
hand.
Roy backpedaled, barely getting out
of Chet's way. His cup of coffee
sloshed. Drawing a sharp breath between
his teeth, DeSoto shook the hot liquid from his burned fingers.
Kelly tore open the top. "Jelly-filled. Raspberry?"
Roy nodded. "They only had one raspberry left. But I got lemon and chocolate cream
too...."
Henry raised his head, sniffing the
air.
"Forget it, mutt," warned
Chet, shaking his finger at the dog.
"You too, Gage. You got the
last one last time." He moved the
cartoon carefully out of John's reach.
Gazing open-mouthed into the container, Kelly frowned -- all the
pastries looked the same. He started to
root through the box.
"Don't you dare handle them all
looking for the raspberry one," ordered Marco, grabbing his colleague's
arm and crinkling his nose in disgust.
He picked one up with a napkin and examined it. "There," he said, handling it to
Chet.
Kelly bit into the doughnut, the
confectioner's sugar powdering the hairs of his dark brown mustache. "Mmmm," he moaned.
Roy rolled his eyes, trying to
decide if it was safe to reach for the box or whether he would still be at
risking for losing a limb -- only this time to Johnny. He looked at Henry. The dog had resumed his contemplation of his
paws, having concluded no treats would be forthcoming this shift. Roy turned back to the table. Gage made no move toward the remaining
doughnuts; instead he sat staring into his cup of coffee.
Chet waved the bitten pastry beneath
John's nose. "Mmmm, Johnny."
Johnny gazed at the crimson goo
oozing from the firefighter's teeth marks.
"Get that thing out of my face."
"Jealous," gloated Kelly.
"No."
"What's wrong; get dumped
again?" Chet's words were muffled
by another mouthful.
"I'm not hungry," snapped
John.
"Must be sick," commented
Marco, munching on a lemon doughnut.
Kelly studied the paramedic's
face. "Yeah, he looks
feverish. Been playing with any monkeys
lately, Gage?"
Gage flushed with anger. "I'm going to finish mopping the
apparatus bay," he said stiffly, standing.
DeSoto watched his partner leave the
room.
"Roy," began Chet, his
face serious, the doughnut sitting forgotten on the table, "What's with
Johnny? I was just teasing."
"Things haven't been going too
well lately."
"Dr. Brackett?" asked
Kelly quietly.
Roy nodded. He swirled the dregs around the cup,
watching the brown liquid spin.
"That's part of it."
"There wasn't a thing Johnny
could have done," offered Marco.
Kelly's eyes narrowed. "It's not like anyone forced the crack
pipe into his mouth."
DeSoto nodded again and met Kelly's
gaze. He could tell from Chet's
expression that the firefighter had heard that the doctor was brain dead. "I know. But..." Roy heard
his voice falter. "We worked with
Dr. Brackett a long time -- he trained Johnny.
Then when he needed us we couldn't get his heart going again in
time."
"It wasn't you or Johnny's
fault," comforted Kelly.
"I understand that." Roy smiled thinly. "Or at least my head does." He stared at the door to the apparatus bay, imagining Gage
scrubbing grimly at the floor as though trying to remove a different
stain. "In time so will
Johnny."
******
Johnny counted out ampoules of
dextrose, setting each carefully inside a cardboard box. "Three," he murmured, closing the
steel and glass cabinet door and turning the lock. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Sixteen gauge
Angiocaths," replied Roy.
"Already got 'em." Johnny touched the long thin packages.
Roy shook his head. "That's it then."
"OK." Gage leaned forward and signed the drug
inventory form.
Dixie stepped out of the base
station enclosure and grabbed a student nurse.
"Get exam 2 ready. We have
a burn victim on the way in." The
young woman scurried off. Sighing,
Dixie sat behind the nurses' station counter, looking pale and drawn.
"Dixie?" Roy looked into her blue eyes.
Johnny leaned on his hip against the
cabinet. "Brackett," he whispered.
"How is Dr. Brackett?"
inquired DeSoto.
McCall's face got very still. "They withdrew life support at
13:38."
Pursing his lips, Gage drew a slow
deep breath. He shook his head.
"He's dead," finished
Dixie, lifting a chart.
Roy looked at the radio clenched in
his hands. "I'm sorry."
******
Gage watched DeSoto's lips
soundlessly shape, "Faking it."
Fingers wrapped around the old man's bony wrist, John finished counting
the strong, steady beat. Sighing, he
studied the man's still form, then looked up at the circle of drunken men
surrounding them in the dingy hallway of the cheap motel. Slowly, he raised the limp arm above the
unconscious man's face and let go.
At the last moment the limb
miraculously flopped away from the old man's head, striking Johnny's leg.
"Bill," began Gage loudly,
"open your eyes."
"He can't," offered one of
the bystanders, turning to Roy. His
foul breath caused DeSoto to narrow his eyes.
"He has these fits."
"Every time his bottle is
empty," added the hotel owner, his words clipped by a strong Delhi
accent. He pushed through the crowd,
pulling a brightly colored bathrobe tighter around his waist as he walked.
Involuntarily, the old man's head
twitched.
"Is he diabetic?" asked
Roy, even though he knew Bill's medical history better than the old man
did. Bill was an old, lonely drunk who
got himself checked into a hospital whenever his money ran out.
"Bill," snapped John. "I know you're awake."
Under the old man's grimy lids, his
eyes flicked toward Gage.
John pointed with his chin to the
movement. "OK. Roy call Rampart and get authorization for
an IV." He ignored his partner's
wide-eyed stare and ripped open an alcohol prep. He inflated the blood pressure cuff and scrubbed away the dirt
covering the man's arm.
"Roy," he repeated, making eye contact with DeSoto.
"Johnny," started Roy.
"He wants to go to the
hospital, so let's get it over with."
John selected a 14 gauge needle from the drug box, pulled out a bag of
saline and an administration kit. Below
his fingers Bill's arm twitched.
Horrified, the alcoholic stared at
the large needle from beneath his partially closed eyelids.
"Johnny." Roy reached for John's arm.
"Call it in!" exploded Gage,
pulling out a second alcohol-soaked pad and finishing cleaning the patch of
skin.
Roy released John's arm, threw open
the biophone, and twisted the antenna into place. "Rampart, this is County 51. How do you read me?"
"Go ahead, 51."
"We have a male," began
DeSoto.
Bill yanked away from Gage. "I don't wanna go to the
hospital," he slurred, fumbling with the Velcro securing the blood
pressure cuff. He tossed the device
aside.
"Stand by, Rampart,"
instructed Roy.
"Standing by, 51."
"Make up your mind, Bill,"
ordered Gage, feeling the liquid evaporate from the pad he held, praying the
coolness would drain from his fingertips into his heart.
"I don't wanna go." Unsteadily the man pushed himself
upright. "Gimme the form."
John dropped the soiled gauze and
picked up the clipboard. He shuffled
through the papers, selecting the correct sheet. He offered the board and pen to Bill.
"Rampart, the patient is
refusing treatment," finished Roy, forcing his voice to remain calm and
even.
"10-4, 51."
"Bill this form says...."
recited DeSoto, explaining the papers his partner held before the drunk. The whole time Roy talked, he never removed
his gaze from Johnny's face.
******
DeSoto slid the biophone into the
compartment. He glanced out the corner
of his eye at Gage. His partner's
expression was closed and dark.
"Johnny," began Roy.
"Don't start with me,
Roy," warned Gage. "We both
know there is nothing wrong with that guy." He slid the drug box into the compartment, listening to the solid
thump of plastic against metal.
"Five times this month.
He's a frequent flyer."
"It's not our place to decide
that."
"Someday someone is gonna die
'cause we're transporting Bill. Him and
all the other jerks out there who are poisoning themselves," snapped John,
slamming the compartment doors.
DeSoto looked at Gage, seeing the
reflections of the night Brackett had died playing across the other paramedic's
eyes. He turned away, remembering the
unearthly calm of Dixie's voice this afternoon as she told them that the
doctors had pulled the plug on the physician.
"We can't be expected to save
them if they're determined to commit slow suicide."
Roy bit his lip.
******
"...And this concludes our
broadcast day," proclaimed the mellow voice of the nameless TV
announcer. The colored bars of the test
pattern replaced the image of flags and mountains.
Gage switched off the
television. He peered into the shadows
in the corners beyond the set, willing the shapes he saw there to remain
still. Shivering, he remembered
searching the apartment for Brackett's ghost.
"Get a grip," he whispered, talking to himself. "Keep this up and they'll be taking you
out of here in a straightjacket."
He stood up. "All you need
is to relax and get a good night's sleep."
John walked into the kitchen, opened
the refrigerator, and removed a beer.
Slowly he pulled off the tab and lifted the can.
"Tsk. Tsk."
Gage whirled. The blood drained from his face.
Brackett looked at the can in the
paramedic's hand. "That's how it
starts."
"Go away," John defiantly
hissed.
The doctor stepped closer and
grabbed John's wrist. "It's just
one beer -- this time."
Gage yanked his arm free from
Brackett's icy fingers. The
apparition's words angered him.
"What do you know about it?" he demanded.
"It starts just like this. A little stress -- a little trouble sleeping
-- and you turn to chemicals to help you cope." The ghost stared into Johnny's eyes, holding the paramedic
frozen. "Just this once."
"Leave me alone,"
beseeched John, starting to shake.
"I need to sleep."
"By all means drink up,"
encouraged Brackett, smiling.
"Soon you'll be crawling on the ground, begging for nickels -- just
before you get really desperate and start drinking Sterno, antifreeze, and
aftershave."
The spirit leaned closer, until Gage
could feel Brackett's cold breath on his cheek.
"Then we can spend eternity
together, discussing how you killed me."
"I did my best," protested
John weakly. He tried to back away but
got trapped against the kitchen sink.
"Well, it wasn't good enough
was it?" Brackett grabbed Gage's
arm, forcing the beer to his mouth, crushing the skin of John's lips against
his teeth.
The bitter taste of aluminum mingled
with the salty flavor of blood. Gage
fought to push the can away, but the ghost held his wrist with an uncanny
strength. The burning, bittersweet brew
trickled out the sides of his mouth.
John choked.
"Drink up!"
Gage released the can. The sticky liquid spattered and foamed on
the floor, releasing its sickly smell.
The beer ran in brown rivulets through the space where the doctor had
stood.
******
Johnny ducked the grimy hand,
clenched in a tight fist, and the blow swished through the air above his
head. Gage grabbed the trauma box and
held it in front of him like a shield.
A second blow slammed the hard-sided case into his hands, the pattern of
the plastic shell pressing painfully into his palms. "Roy!"
"We could use some help
here!" bellowed DeSoto, hanging on to the man's arm. The frail-looking drunk pulled the
fair-haired paramedic off balance with a chemical-enhanced strength. DeSoto fell. The man dived toward Gage.
The victim, an alcoholic vet who self-medicated away his demons, was
familiar to every paramedic in the district.
Johnny and Roy pulled him out of various gutters at least dozen times a
year, but never before had he been violent.
But tonight he had been beaten and robbed by a drinking buddy.
"Bastards, you took my
bottle!" screamed the man.
"Chet, Marco!" shouted
Gage, trying the slip under the next blow and grab the man's arm. "Damn, there goes the IV." John's fingers caught a filthy sleeve; he
tugged. As he wrinkled his nose, trying
not to inhale the choking stink of the soiled clothing and unwashed skin, he
could hear Stanley radio for police assistance.
Kelly dived in, seizing the
waistband of the victim's trousers with his gloved hand. "Settle down," he ordered calmly.
Marco grabbed the man from behind
and held his arms tightly. Together the
four of them wrestled the injured man to the ground. Chet pressed the man's legs against the cold, rough pavement.
"Let me up! You..." The alcoholic cursed viciously.
"Calm down. Let us help you," instructed Stanley,
his voice strained and harsh.
Panting, Roy pushed to a kneeling
position. His hair stood on end and his
shirttails hung askew. "Johnny,
can you please get me a fresh set up," he gasped.
John turned.
Suddenly the drunk yanked his leg
free from Kelly's grasp.
"Damn," swore Chet, struggling to again restrain the man.
The heavy military boot heel smashed
into John's hip. Gage folded, the IV
supplies dropping from his hands. A
second kick slammed him in the chest.
Johnny flew backwards, landing on the pavement, his head hitting the
hard concrete. The world exploded in a
shower of yellow stars. Soundlessly, he
curled, fighting for breath.
"Johnny!" yelled DeSoto
and Stanley simultaneously. The station
officer squatted beside the crumpled paramedic. He lifted the HT.
"LA, this is Engine 51.
What's the ETA on the sheriff's deputy?"
"Stand by, 51," crackled
the radio.
"Johnny?" repeated Roy.
At last John caught his breath with
a whoosh. Drawing a great gasp of air,
he waved a hand, signaling he was uninjured.
" 'M OK," he finally wheezed, struggling to his knees.
"Two minutes, 51."
"10-4," acknowledged Hank,
steadying Johnny as he straightened.
"Are you sure?" he asked, examining the paramedic.
Gage nodded, retrieving the IV
setup. He started to hand the needle to
DeSoto.
The drunk spat.
The spittle struck Johnny in the
neck. He flushed. Gage stared at the gaunt face of the victim,
twisted in rage, sickness and drink. Involuntarily
John's hand flattened; he drew back his arm slightly. The blow never fell. The
movement transmuted into a shiver, twitching the muscles of his arm.
"Johnny?" asked Roy,
gently pulling the needle from his partner's hand. His blue eyes met Gage's dark ones. John stared back in mute horror.
Rapidly Gage stood, wiping his
neck. He walked stiffly toward the
arriving ambulance.
******
The ambulance door slammed on a
stream of corrosive profanity. Johnny
stood for a second, watching the rig drive away. Sighing, he straightened and walked toward the clutter of
discarded medical supply wrappers.
"We'll clean up, Johnny. You go get checked out." Hank nodded to Chet, who bent to pick up the
discarded bags and papers.
"I'm fine, Cap," argued
Johnny.
"He kicked you pretty
hard."
"Cap, I'm OK!" snapped
Gage
Stanley glared at the
paramedic. He shook his head. "Do it!"
Johnny nodded savagely, lifting the
trauma box. He threw open the rear
compartment door, setting the thin sheet metal rattling angrily, and shoved the
case into the bay.
"Gage," warned Stanley,
his eyes flashing.
John gritted his teeth, biting back
the angry comments that seemed too close to the surface nowadays. Wearily, he climbed behind the wheel,
slammed the door, and started the engine.
The traffic light turned red, Gage
braked to a stop. Frowning, he thought
about the drunk, his neck burning where the man's salvia had struck him. He had come so close to hitting a sick,
helpless man. John pounded his fist on
the steering wheel.
"Not what you expected?"
A prickle of dread ran up Gage's
spine. He struggled not to turn his
head, not to look at the apparition in the seat next to him, not to give
Brackett the substance of his acknowledgement.
"Didn't get to ride in on your
white horse -- excuse me -- shiny red fire engine," persisted the doctor,
"and save the victim, amid the cheers of his family and friends. Have him reach up from the gurney, clutch
your hand in gratitude."
Brackett's voice dripped sarcasm.
Johnny glanced out the corner of his
eye. The ghost's icy eyes were fixed
unblinkingly on the paramedic. His
white hand was positioned on the seat inches from John's leg. Gage shifted. "Why are you tormenting me?" he demanded in frustration
and fear.
Kel ignored John's plea. "You nearly lost it out there. I was watching." Brackett's voice fattened with glee. "We're more alike than you'll admit. Only I just destroyed myself. I never tried to take anyone with me."
Cold sweat began to pour down John's
sides and his heart pounded in his ears.
Behind the squad, a car honked its horn. Startled, Gage drove through the intersection. He risked a glance at the passenger
seat. The bench was empty -- the doctor
was gone.
Johnny took a slow deep breath. His bruised ribs ached.
******
Roy slipped into the treatment room,
slowly closing the door on the noisy, crowded hallway. Johnny sat bare-chested in his turnout
pants, the suspenders dangling around his knees. His coat and tee-shirt lay in a crumbled pile on a chair in the
corner of the room. A new resident was
completing a neurological check. She
glanced up when DeSoto entered.
"Well, Doc?" demanded
Johnny, impatiently.
Roy watched, trying to decide
whether or not he really had seen Johnny nearly hit a patient. Slowly he shook his head. Gage would never do such a thing, he
decided.
"I'm not done," she
answered, feeling the back of John's head.
Gage winced. "You're going
to have a lump." She turned her
attention to the purple bootsole-shaped imprint on John's chest.
"I noticed," remarked
Johnny, wearily. He inhaled sharply as
the doctor's fingers traced the ribs beneath the discoloration. Grimacing, he looked at Roy.
DeSoto caught his breath. Dark circles ringed John's eyes, like holes
burned in a blanket. Gage's left check
was scraped. His partner looked more
tired than he had after the Mt Hillyer fire, when they had worked first aid
detail in a brush camp for six straight days.
Silently, Roy cursed the understaffing and budget cuts that had all the
county's paramedics working heavy overtime.
The resident gestured for Johnny to
stand. She tugged on the waistbands of
Gage's turnouts and underwear, baring his hip.
Her fingers probed the dark blotch marking the crest of John's hipbone.
Roy stifled a sigh of frustration at
John's slender form. It seemed that age
was going to distill Gage to bone and sinew, while it left DeSoto battling a
receding hairline and a bulging waistline.
Roy felt himself sucking in his belly and shook his head in disgust at
his misplaced vanity. He looked at his
partner again, seeing the sharp lines in the harsh light. This was too skinny even for Johnny. Lately they had been missing more meals than
they had been eating. And he suspected
John had not been eating too well off-shift either. Silently, he vowed to surrender more easily next time Gage wanted
to grab some fast food.
"I don't think anything is
broken, but we're going to take some x-rays.
Just to be on the safe side."
She turned to the nurse.
John glanced at Roy, giving a half
smile. "Any more x-rays and I'm
gonna grow two heads." He heaved
himself on the exam table, lay down and closed his eyes.
DeSoto snorted, trying to hide his
concern. "Another photo for your
album." He started for the
door. "Johnny," he said, pausing
with his hand on the wooden panel.
"I'm OK," reassured Gage,
not opening his eyes and refusing to recognize the voice that whispered in his
head, telling him that he was far from okay.
******
"Listen to that,"
exclaimed Roy, jabbing his finger toward the radio. "Rampart, Harbor, Kaiser, St Luke's..."
"Yeah, I heard. The list might be shorter if they just told
us what ER's aren't on divert."
John slid down in his seat and glared through the darkness at the traffic
light.
DeSoto chuckled.
Unexpectedly Gage sat up, leaning
forward and peering out the windshield.
The full moon appeared in a crack in the thin clouds.
Startled by John's sudden movement,
Roy glanced away from the traffic.
"It's the damn moon; it's got
everyone acting nuts." He rested
his hand on the dash.
Shaking his head, Roy turned the
squad onto Alameda. "That full
moon stuff is nonsense."
"Really? They've done studies.... Look at our last call." Johnny slapped his hand on the vinyl-covered
seat. "Green death rays leaking
from the TV."
Roy shrugged. "You could've helped me."
John rolled his eyes and
sighed. "I’m a paramedic -- wrapping
tin foil around televisions is not in my job description."
"Where's that famous Gage
compassion?" teased DeSoto
"I lost it along with my trauma
shears about 400 calls back." John
turned and stared out the window. The
dark shadows from the street filled his eyes.
DeSoto frowned at the bitterness in
John's voice. Concerned, he looked at
his partner. This was more than the
usual Gage Rant.
John's stomach growled.
Roy remembered the sharp lines of
John's ribs and decided to change the subject.
"When did you... we last eat?"
"Last shift," replied
Johnny, sourly.
DeSoto sighed. Somehow, he suspected Gage had unwittingly
told him the truth. "I vaguely
remember getting about two bites of lunch."
"Chet cooked dinner so don't
get too excited." John's face
contorted. "Leftover macrobiotic
Tofu Surprise...."
Roy made a rude noise. "Nickoli's," he announced out of
the blue, naming a twenty-four hour, vaguely Greek mostly eclectic
drive-through restaurant by CSU-DH.
Johnny stared at Roy.
"Only place in LA where you can
get moussaka, lo mein and burritos at 3 am." He grinned at Johnny.
"Why bother? It's not like you'll get to eat it."
DeSoto glanced at Gage, slumped
against the door. "What'd'ya say,
best -- and greasiest -- gyros in town?"
John hesitated.
"My treat."
"OK."
******
Roy sat at the kitchen table in the
dayroom, the paper takeout bags spread in front of him. He took a bite of the soft pita bread and
lamb; tahini sauce dripped down his chin.
He grabbed a napkin. Henry gazed
hopefully at the food.
John fished a slice of onion from
his sandwich.
"OK, Johnny, what's with you
lately?"
Gage stiffened. For a second, Brackett's ghost came
close. "Nothing," he finally
lied, his voice tight.
"Look at yourself,"
ordered DeSoto.
Expression hardening, Johnny pulled
a strip of meat from his sandwich and threw it to the dog sitting on the
couch. Henry caught the tidbit in
midair. "Roy," he warned.
"Johnny," persisted
Roy. "You look like you haven't
slept in forever, you've lost weight.
You haven't gone out on a date in months."
"With the hiring freeze, who
has time for women?" joked Gage feebly.
He stared at his gyro, remembering his last date. The woman had leaned across the table and
asked him how long he had been a paramedic.
When he answered, her lovely eyes grew wide and she asked the question
he dreaded: 'What's the worst thing you've ever seen?' He thought of the woman mutilated by her
jealous boyfriend, backstroking in terror through the sea of blood covering the
floor; or of the paramedic from 36's shot by a gang member, his brains landing
in the front seat of the rig between the panicked ambulance attendants. John watched her soft lips wrap themselves
neatly around the slice of pizza as she ate and tried to imagine conversing
about death and dismemberment over dessert.
Instead he had smiled and whispered, 'Discussing my job with a beautiful
woman when we could be doing something better.' Shaking his head, he picked up his sandwich.
"Johnny..."
"Don't give me that all-knowing
senior partner bit. I've been doing
this for thirteen years, just like you."
John's eyes flashed angrily.
Roy ignored him. "...I've seen you flirt with nurses
when you were too sick to sit up on your own.
For you, there's no such thing as not enough time."
"Maybe I've grown up,"
interrupted John, loudly.
"And you almost hit a
patient," finished DeSoto.
Gage dropped his food and bowed his
head. His hands shook. He stuffed them under the table.
Roy picked at his own sandwich for a
few minutes. "Johnny," he
said gently, reaching for his partner's shoulder.
Gage leaned back, withdrawing from
DeSoto, and stared at his palms.
"You know, I've done almost a hundred hours of training this year
-- updating, re-certifying. I've worked
four shifts of overtime already this month." He looked toward Roy, his eyes staying in shadow. "I've been kicked, hit, spit on --
hell, even run over. But, it was worth
it. We came out ahead, you know, more
alive than dead. Lately..." His voice trailed off.
Roy sat, not moving, just
listening. He looked at the table and
thought about the bad streak they had been going through, about the plague of
drugs and violence that had descended on the city.
Gage's chair creaked. "Lately, we are losing more than we are
saving."
"Johnny," started Roy.
"Station 51. Structure fire. 1-6-7-2-0 Moneta Ave cross street 226th...."
John pounded his fist on the
table. "Damn it!"
"...Time out 4:01."
******
Johnny knelt on the filthy carpet;
suddenly realizing his knees were in the exact center of a pool of dried
something -- a something that he sincerely hoped was fossilized vegetable
soup. Forcing himself to ignore the
mess, he readjusted the position of the needle and stuck it through the skin
over the vein. The resistance to the
needle slackened, but blood failed to appear at the base. Gage made an irritated noise and selected a
new spot. A line of puncture marks
traced his path up the man's arm.
"Johnny?" asked Roy,
desperately. The cardiac monitor continued
its mournful wail.
Gage tried again. "He has garbage for veins."
"Let me in there," ordered
DeSoto, stopping CPR and shoving Gage aside.
Roy gripped the arm, placing his thumb just below the spot he had
selected. The bevel of the needle
sparkled just before it disappeared beneath the skin. Blood bloomed in the flashback chamber. "OK."
John grabbed the IV line, swabbed
the brown bubble capping the medication port and slowly injected the
medication. "Epi's in," he
reported, watching the monitor. The
beam of electrons continued tracing a straight line across the screen.
"Nothing," said Roy. He glanced up at John before resuming chest
compressions.
Johnny bowed his head and pursed his
lips in frustration.
"You took too long,"
accused the victim, his words broken by DeSoto's ministrations.
Gage looked at the supine victim, the hair on the back of his
neck standing up.
Brackett stared back at him, his
pupils huge in the fading light.
"You killed me," he sighed.
"My fault I suppose -- you can't run a code by remote control. Especially not with hose jockeys." The doctor spat out the last words as though
they tasted bad.
"I tried," offered Johnny
lamely.
"Of course you did,"
comforted Kel, pulling the conductive patches from his chest. "To the best of your somewhat limited
abilities." The doctor reached
over and unfastened the paramedic pin from Gage's uniform.
Numbly, John watched the doctor toss
his hard-won insignia into a pile of trash in the corner of the room.
Brackett tore open Gage's
shirt. The buttons popped like
firecrackers. Gently Kel attached the
electrodes to John's chest. "Maybe
with a little more practice, you might be -- adequate." He gestured to the drug box. "Roy, do you mind?"
"Normal saline?" inquired
Roy, positioning an oxygen mask over Gage's face. He retrieved a fresh setup from the drug box.
"Please."
"Wait," objected Gage,
trying to stand.
DeSoto pushed him back down. "Please calm down, sir."
"Roy!" Startled, John turned his head to gawk at
his partner. Roy's hands forced him
into a reclining position. The trash
covering the carpet dug into Gage's spine.
"Please relax, we'll take good
care of you," replied DeSoto distractedly, as he flushed the air from the
IV tubing.
"Johnny," said Brackett,
his voice mild, even tender. "What
is this dysrhythmia?" He pointed
to the datascope.
"But..."
"Come on, Johnny, you need to
be able to identify a rhythm quickly."
"Second degree heart
block," snapped Gage, struggling to his elbows and pulling the mask from
his mouth. "But..." DeSoto grabbed his arm.
Roy pushed the needle through John's
skin.
"Ouch!" Gage jumped. "Roy, that thing is huge."
"This?" quizzed the
doctor.
Unwillingly his attention was drawn
from the IV to the monitor.
"Atrial flutter. But this
is me..." John looked to Roy for
support, but DeSoto was busy popping the caps off a dose of lidocaine.
Brackett grinned evilly.
"...I feel fine," finished
Johnny weakly, pointing to himself.
"This one?"
John glanced at the monitor. "V-fib." His chest exploded in pain.
Frantically he fought to draw a breath of air. His head fell against the dirty rug.
Brackett smiled sweetly. "Correct. Three hundred watt-seconds, please, Roy," he requested,
lifting the paddles. He positioned the
electrodes. "Clear!"
Gasping Johnny sat up. The bedclothes were tangled in sweat-soaked
knots around his legs. Outside the
neighbor's dog barked hysterically.
Rubbing his chest, Johnny reached for the alarm clock, staring at the
face. "4:32," he read,
dropping back onto the damp pillows.
"I borrowed some shampoo,"
commented Brackett, emerging from the bathroom without opening the door. The ghost wore Gage's robe, the garment
stretching awkwardly over his bulkier frame, and scrubbed at his wet hair with
a towel. "Hope you don't
mind."
Gage closed his eyes. "Yes, I do. Go away." Sighing,
he opened his eyes, disappointed but not surprised to see Brackett still
standing in the middle of the room.
Kel ignored the paramedic. "Did you sleep well?" The doctor's mouth widened in an unpleasant
grin. His gray eyes fixed on John as
though he could see the other man's dreams, reading his terror.
"Why don't you leave me
alone?"
"Being dead is
boring." The ghost sat on the edge
of the bed, forcing Johnny to scoot away.
"Besides, we're having so much fun together."
******
Roy sat in his car, parked in front
of Johnny' apartment, debating whether or not to turn around and drive
home. He examined the scraggly oleander
bushes beneath the windows and the ailing eucalyptus tree, whose roots had
fractured the sidewalk, and tried to dismiss his partner's disturbing
behavior. Perspiration beaded on his
lip as he waited undecided. The glare
of the bright afternoon sunlight was giving him the beginnings of a
headache. DeSoto fumbled with latch on
the glove compartment, pulled out the bottle of aspirin Joanne kept there, and
swallowed two tablets, grimacing at the bitter taste.
Sighing, DeSoto slumped, closing his
eyes and waiting for the medication to work.
Images of Johnny's flattened hand and haunted expression floated before
him. Roy opened his eyes.
Johnny stood at the passenger's side
door. "Are you lost?" He squinted at DeSoto. Dark circles still ringed the paramedic's eyes.
"No." Roy opened the door and climbed from the
car. "But, are you?" he
asked, startling himself with his own abrupt approach.
"What?" Gage stopped and frowned, remembering. "Are you still going on about
that?"
"You were pretty upset."
"It was a momentary
lapse."
"Johnny," began DeSoto.
"I'm OK," interrupted
Gage, his voice low and tense.
"Johnny, you are far from
OK."
Paling, John swallowed hard as his
partner's words echoed the warning voice that had been whispering in his head
for weeks.
Watching Gage's face, DeSoto
frowned. "You need to talk about
this."
"No, I don't."
Shaking his head slightly, Roy took
a slow deep breath. "You know I'm
right." Deliberately, he slipped
his keys in his pocket and folded his arms across his chest.
Gage sighed. "I suppose if I go back in, you'll sit
out here all day."
Roy ignored the unpleasant tone of
John's voice and leaned on his hip against the side of the car. "Yes."
"Leave it alone, Roy,"
warned John, stiffening.
"I can't," began DeSoto.
"It's none of your
business." John's voice grew
louder. He looked past Roy, studying
the horizon.
"I'm your partner, that makes
it my business," replied DeSoto calmly, avoiding looking John in the eyes,
not wishing to force a premature confrontation. "And I'm also your friend."
Gage worked his jaw, angrily. He began to sweat, dreading what was to
come.
Roy pointed to the adjacent
duplexes. "Do you want to do this
here?"
Defeated, Johnny shrugged and walked
to his apartment door.
******
Settling back in the infamous
convertible chair, Roy watched Johnny pace.
The apartment was a mess. The
disarray was nearly unheard of for his normally neat partner. Barely visible through the half-open bedroom
door, John's uniforms lay crumpled next to the hamper. A pile of JEMS, still in their crisp brown
mailing sleeves, leaned against the sofa.
Dirty dishes soaked in the kitchen sink and old coffee grew an oil slick
in the pot.
Gage saw DeSoto's eyes linger on the
open box of stale Cornflakes atop the refrigerator. He dared the other man to make a comment. Instead Roy turned his gaze back to John.
Gage pivoted on the ball of his
foot, turned, and careened toward the kitchen, snatched the box of cereal, and
shoved it into the trash, desperately trying to outrun his own madness. He ran his hands nervously through his
already ruffled hair.
"Johnny, please sit down,"
requested DeSoto gently.
John glared at Roy and made another
circuit of the room before dropping onto the sofa and elaborately propping his
feet in the coffee table. Despite his
pose, an aura of bone deep weariness radiated from the paramedic. "Happy?" he demanded
sarcastically.
DeSoto ignored Gage's words. "We need to talk about what
happened," repeated Roy.
"Like I said, a momentary
lapse."
"Not good enough."
"It's all you're going to
get." Gage pushed himself upright,
his eyes sparking angrily. Inside he
shook. " 'Cause that's all there
is to it." His words sounded
hollow.
DeSoto cocked his head skeptically.
Johnny plowed on. "I lost my temper for a second. It won't happen again. There's nothin' to discuss." He stopped.
"Then let's talk about
Brackett," said Roy softly, after a long pause. The name exploded in the middle of the room, ricocheting off the
walls.
Gage resisted the urge to turn and
see if the doctor's ghost was standing behind him. A chill ran up his spine; he shivered. Johnny's expression softened and he caught his lower lip between
his teeth. "He made a bad
choice," he finally replied, gazing stiffly past DeSoto's head. "We did everything we could. He gambled and lost," recited John, his
face dark and still.
Frowning, Roy studied the back of
his hand for a moment. "Do you
really believe that?"
Johnny thought about the ghost's
face as the spirit tormented him -- the malevolent grin. Anger pushed up from his belly, burning his
throat. "Yes," he retorted,
meeting his partner's eyes. "Don't
you?"
DeSoto bowed his head and poked at
his cheek with his tongue.
In the silence Gage could hear the
beating of his own heart.
"No," answered Roy
softly. "I keep wondering if I
missed something."
Closing his eyes, John remembered
his dream. The anger crumbled leaving
him empty. He took a deep breath. "I keep thinking if I'd have just
gotten the line in faster, or the airway..."
******
Roy pressed the cup of freshly-made
coffee between Johnny's hands. Gage was
finally silent, staring at the ceiling, his eyes glittering in the yellow light
from the single lamp. The hours of
words, pain, grief, and guilt hung in the air like the damp smell of old
smoke. John's fingers tightened
convulsively around the mug, drawing the warmth into his body. For a second Roy let his hand linger,
touching his friend's arm.
"Drink," he ordered.
Gage looked down, avoiding DeSoto's
eyes. His jaw muscles worked
frantically. Sniffling, he sipped at
the steaming liquid.
"Thanks," he whispered.
Standing and drinking deeply from
his own cup, Roy considered the darkening streets outside the window. The mountains were gold and dusty green
against the indigo sky and a single star twinkled on the eastern horizon, while
the breeze stirred the scraggly weeds breaking through the curb surrounding the
drive. The streetlights came on as he
watched. Roy sighed, exhausted. Behind him Gage stirred.
"I've been seeing Brackett's
ghost." The words burst from
John's lips and spilled across the floor.
DeSoto turned. Johnny was slumped against the back of the
sofa, his chin resting on his chest.
Roy studied his partner's face; John's expression was a mixture of alarm
and relief. He met Johnny's eyes and
remembered.
The call had come in just before
dawn -- an automobile accident, station wagon versus bridge abutment. All he could see as he pulled the squad to a
stop alongside the crumbled vehicle was the sprung doors and the crimson splash
of blood across the shattered windshield.
The car had recoiled a twenty feet after hitting the concrete pillar and
had come to rest on the crest of a weedy embankment. Fragments of glass and metal glittered in the lights of the
engine and crunched beneath his feet as he ran toward the car, the biophone and
oxygen tank banging against his legs.
Johnny was already inside, checking
the driver -- a woman -- and Marco had his arm under the accordioned hood,
fishing for the battery cables, when Roy squeezed in the passenger side
door. DeSoto felt his jaw tighten as
the smell of blood and gasoline hit him.
The dash had been forced back and down pinning the driver's legs. He lay on his belly and forced his head and flashlight
into the narrow space. Beneath the
dash, her legs were hopelessly mangled.
"We're gonna have to roll it, Cap," he advised, sliding out of
the car. For the first time Roy let
himself look at the woman's face.
A film of blood, makeup, and salvia
covered her features. The injured flesh
was already a swollen angry purple and bubbles of blood formed on her puffy
lips, spattering the oxygen mask Gage was fitting over her face. Frowning, Johnny caught Roy's eyes and
slowly shook his head. DeSoto turned
away, knowing his partner was right.
She had suffered massive internal injuries and was going to bleed out
before they could get her free.
"Call Rampart, get permission
for two IV's and an airway," ordered Gage, his words nearly obscured by
the noise of the compressor for the jaws.
Roy stood and sprinted for the
biophone.
"Roy!" yelled Mike, his
voice uncharacteristically frantic.
DeSoto peered into the shadows. Stoker was at the bottom of the embankment,
kneeling in the weeds. The engineer's
torso moved in a frenzied dance over something hidden in the long grass. Roy scrambled and slid down the steep
hillside.
Mike was bent over the limp form of
a toddler, breathing into her mouth and pumping on her chest. In the red and blue lights of the engine,
his face was a ghastly white.
Roy dropped to his knees beside the
child. For a moment his mind refused to
process anything other than the color of her tiny overalls. Then some synapse closed and he began to
think again, to evaluate her condition.
The girl's face was blue and her limbs were bent at cruel angles. Her head was angled oddly back. Reaching for her, Roy's hand touched
something warm and wet; he switched on the flashlight and looked. Gray matter glistened on the gravel and
weeds. Turning off the light, he
swallowed hard. "Mike, stop,"
he ordered, his voice cold.
Panting, Stoker gawked at him.
DeSoto stood.
For weeks after the incident DeSoto
had seen the little girl's face everywhere.
He had even followed a young mother through the grocery, trying to get a
second look at her young daughter's face.
Alarmed the woman had snatched up her child, abandoned her purchases and
disappeared into the parking lot, all without him getting another glimpse of
the girl's face. He had begun to avoid
looking at children, afraid. Then one
day he abruptly realized it had been months since he had seen the toddler.
"...I'm so tired I'm not makin'
sense," babbled John.
Roy shook his head, realizing Johnny
had been talking for a while. "I
understand what you mean," he said, sitting on the chair across from Gage.
"You've seen him, too?"
asked Johnny, straightening slightly.
"Not Brackett. Other victims, though."
Gage sighed in relief. "What did you do to get rid of
them?" he asked after a long moment.
DeSoto shrugged. He sipped at his coffee, shivering in the
clinging dark fog of memory. He stood
up again, and wandered to the window.
More stars speckled the now black sky.
He watched the twinkling lights of a plane arcing over the San
Gabriels. "Made my peace with
them, I guess."
"Peace," breathed Johnny.
Roy glanced over his shoulder. Gage's eyelids were sliding shut. DeSoto stood, staring into the night,
guarding both of their dreams from the demons lurking in the darkness.
******
Gage parked few blocks from the
crack house and he walked down the broken sidewalk. Tattered streamers of yellow police line tape fluttered from the
rusty posts supporting the sagging chain fence. Large orange placards, loudly proclaiming "Condemned"
in English and Spanish, were stapled over the boarded up windows and doors. Johnny picked his way through the weedy
yard, past two nearly dead palm trees.
With each step, he inspected the ground before cautiously placing his
hiking-boot-clad foot.
Someone had already pried the
plywood from the back door. A ripped
screen covered the warped wooden frame.
Beyond the door, John could see a filthy stove blackened by abuse. Litter covered the floor. His sweaty hands crumpled the small fast
food sack he held. A scrawny cat with a
torn ear fixed its yellow eyes on him, some small creature squirming between
its jaws. Gage slipped through the
door.
He blinked in the sudden
dimness. The dark stink settled on him
as his eyes adjusted. He looked at the
garbage-strewn living room and decided he could make his offering here. Gage stepped forward, a discarded glass vial
crunching under his foot.
Johnny opened the sack, removing a
paper-wrapped Egg McMuffin. He tore the
sandwich in half, lifted the halves to the sky, and laid the two pieces on the
counter. Fumbling, he reached in his
pocket, pulling out a small sack of tobacco.
He took a pinch and held it aloft, offering it to the four
directions. He stopped. Uncertain of the words for what he was about
to do. Uncertain whether it would
work. Uncertain whether it was even
appropriate.
Gage bowed his head.
"Maybe you should try offering
some crack."
John stiffened, refusing to turn
toward the doctor.
"After all, shouldn't you feed
a ghost what it loved?" Brackett
walked past John, looking through the doorway into the living room. The scowl that twisted his face relaxed. "That is what you were trying to
do?"
Johnny nodded, mutely.
"Do you really you think you
can get rid of me that easily?" asked the apparition, turning to face
Gage.
Shrugging, John sprinkled the dried
leaves on the floor. "I thought
maybe it would help you get wherever you're going." The sweet odor of the tobacco rose around
him, masking some of the foulness of the building.
"And where is that?" Kel's eyes flashed.
"I dunno," sighed Johnny,
finally.
"Maybe it's Hell and I don't
want to go there." Brackett leaned
close to the paramedic. "Or maybe
you need to try harder. Aren't you
suppose to offer your flesh?"
Gage shuddered, the hair on the back
of his neck standing up as he remembered the one time he had seen flesh
offerings taken.
******
Johnny drifted between waking and
sleeping, riding on the plaintive entreaty of a half-heard spirit calling
song. The song disappeared into a
concerned buzz of adult voices. His
stomach muscles ached with the dully painful aftermath of two days of vomiting. Slowly, he became aware of something moving
on his arm. John lay, eyes closed,
trying to decide whether the pressure bothered him enough to make it worth the
effort involved in moving. Outside,
Roddy Gage's heavy rubber galoshes thudded on the porch and the mudroom door
slammed. Water splashed in the basin on
the washstand.
With difficulty, Johnny pried open
one eye. The watery winter afternoon
light reflecting off the heavy snow made the chipped white paint covering the
iron footboard glow softly. Dwayne
Baptiste -- the cousin he was learning to call brother -- had his chicken pox
covered hand wrapped around John's prized motorcycle model. Dwayne had used magazines and books to cover
his side of the bed with a complex array of ramps and jumps that ended on
Johnny's arm. Gage tried to complain
about the abuse of his toy, but his dry lips cracked when he opened his mouth
and his tongue struck to the back of his teeth. The lesions on his nose itched furiously. John wished his brother would crawl back
beneath the covers and help keep the bed warm, but he decided he didn't have
the energy to care and started to close his eyes.
"Niye," rumbled Roddy,
sweeping the books from his son's arm.
He frowned severely at Baptiste, who bowed his head in shame. The huge man bent over the bed, scooped up
John, and wrapped him in a blanket.
"Son," he whispered, settling Johnny on his shoulder.
Gage let his head loll against his
father's rough chapped neck. The bitter
cold of the Dakota winter still breathed from Roddy's clothes and, despite
having shed his barn overalls, the man smelled faintly of cattle and horses.
"He tohan yatkan he?" Aunt Kate's sweet Lakhota leaked into the
hall.
"Anpetu topa. Hanhepi k'un hehan he istime ehantanhan, he
leje sni ksto...." Marie Gage fell
silent as Roddy carried Johnny into the kitchen. Despite the weak light from the window, the glass oil lamp on the
kitchen table was lit. A spool of
cotton string, a muslin bag, scissors, scraps of red cloth, and a razor blade
lay on the faded Formica surface. Uncle
Howard stood in the mudroom door, shrugging on his coat. Between his dark fingers, he held a string
of tobacco offerings. The air was heavy
with the odors of kerosene, coffee, meat, and tobacco.
John's eyes widened in alarm at the
sight of his Aunt Kate standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of dark
liquid. His stomach roiled at the
thought of another of her bitter Indian medicines. "Momma," he moaned.
Marie took him in her arms. Her face was tight and frail, like it had
been the entire year. She had looked
that way ever since the day he had come home from school to find his
Grandmother Baptiste in the kitchen, telling him his mother was in the hospital
because she had 'lost the baby.' Johnny
gazed into his mother's dark eyes. No
longer were they dead and unseeing, but now were bright with unshed tears. Marie shifted his weight, settling Johnny's
head against her warm breast, the soft blue fabric of her blouse moving against
his cheek as she breathed. Her fingers
were cool against his forehead. Gently,
she rocked him.
"Drink," instructed Kate,
holding a mug in front of John. Steam
fogged her glasses and her stiff dress creaked as she leaned over him. The red pipestone turtle she wore around her
neck swung free of her collar, swaying over his head.
Johnny closed his mouth, too weak to
turn away. His mother stroked the
underside of his chin, like was done to infants to make them swallow. "Cinksi," she murmured, "you
need to drink something."
"It's just broth,
T'oshka," reassured Kate.
"Let me have it,"
requested Roddy, taking the cup from his sister. He squatted next to Marie and lifted Johnny's head. "Take a sip." He gestured with his chin toward the mug he
pressed against John's lips.
Gage took a mouthful of the warm
liquid and swallowed. The rim of the
cup stuck to his lips. Roddy wiped a
drop of broth from Johnny's mouth with the side of his blunt fingered hand. "Good boy."
John struggled with his stomach and
the strange emotions stirred by the oddly gentle actions of his normally
distant father. "Huh," he
groaned, his mouth filling with bile.
Kate held the trash pail as he threw
up. The sight of his vomit mixed with
old potato peelings almost made him get sick again. He shivered miserably.
Worried voices bubbled around his head.
"We're taking him to the
hospital," announced Roddy, pulling his coat from the hook. He ignored his sister's worried glance at
the drift-filled dirt roads. "I'll
warm up the truck." The door
closed over the end of his sentence.
"I'll stay with the boy,"
offered Kate, referring to Dwayne.
Marie carried Johnny back into the
bedroom and laid him on the bed. John
shivered in the cold. She removed his
old underwear and threaded him into clean clothes. His mother rolled him on his side, pulling up his jeans. As she worked, she pushed up the sleeves of
her blouse. Lines of tiny, round, very
fresh scabs ran up her arm, disappearing under the fabric. "Momma," he mumbled in surprise
and fear.
"Shh," hushed his mother.
The marks were left by the taking of
flesh offerings. Johnny had heard the
kids at school whisper about how the 'blanket Indians' did such things. Now he knew what else was inside the tiny
pouches on the string Howard had tied in the cottonwood by the creek.
"I mourned too much. Now they are going to take..."
whispered Marie, falling silent. She
tucked and folded the quilt tightly around his body.
Johnny looked at the crusted red
circles and shook with something other than fever.
******
"Coward!" yelled Brackett.
John closed his eyes, considering
the piles of flammable trash surrounding them.
It would be so simple; a candle left burning, until it burned down into
the papers. The structure would be
fully involved before the neighbors noticed.
If arson investigators found the remnants of the candle they would
assume a homeless person had set the place on fire.
"Coward," repeated Kel as
though he could read Johnny's mind.
Slowly, Gage opened his eyes. He was alone except for the flies crawling
on the sandwich.
******
Roy carried his dirty plate to the
sink. "Fine meal, Mike."
"Yeah, Mike, the best manicotti
I've had in ages -- since the last time I visited my grandparents back
east. It's as good as the stuff they
make in a little place in the North End," started Chet, his words
interrupted by a loud belch.
"Kelly," reproached
Stanley, standing and picking up his dishes.
"Excuse me, Cap,"
apologized Kelly, heading for the television.
Frowning, Johnny followed the
officer to the sink. "Chet, you're
not fit to be in the company of civilized human beings."
DeSoto surreptitiously glanced at
Gage's plate. Most of the food was gone
-- not Johnny's usual stripped clean of everything save the pattern, but better
than he had been eating. The other
paramedic had looked somewhat more rested when he had arrived at the station
this morning. Maybe the black sickness
that had been riding Gage was beginning to lift. Smiling slightly, Roy turned on the water and began to rinse the
plates.
"Chet, soccer's on 39. Brazil vs. Argentina," suggested Lopez,
switching on the set.
"Marco," began Kelly.
The bebop sprang to life. "Station 51, Truck 127. Structure fire. 3 - 0 - 0 - 8 East Albreda, cross street Martin. 3008 East Albreda. Time out 18:38."
A chill shot up DeSoto's spine as he
trotted toward the squad. As he turned
the ignition Roy heard Hank acknowledge the call. "Isn't that...?" he asked, opening the driver's side
door.
"Yeah. Where Brackett died," finished Gage,
cinching the strap on his helmet. He
reached across, taking the run slip from DeSoto.
******
Johnny leaned forward watching the
smoke billow from the second-story windows as Roy turned off Martin. The clouds rose gray against a blood-red
sky. A crowd milled in the street. In the fading light the assembly radiated a
vaguely sinister air. For a moment it
seemed that the spectators were not going to allow the firemen to approach the
building. DeSoto slowed, muttering
under his breath at the people blocking the squad's path.
Behind the squad, the engine rumbled
to a stop. Lopez leapt from the jump
seat, grabbed the suction hose and ran toward the pockmarked yellow
hydrant. Mike threw the engine into
gear and white hose rippled out behind the vehicle.
"Engine 51 at scene,"
crackled Stanley's voice over the radio.
"We have a two-story abandoned residential structure with smoke
showing."
Chet dropped from his place behind
Hank and snatched the hose clamp from its bin.
He locked it over the line and twirled his finger in the air over his
head, motioning to Marco.
Gage climbed from the squad and
pulled his turnout coat from the bay behind cab.
A slender black woman broke from the
crowd and stood in front of the paramedics.
"Hellfire," she screamed, her once beautiful face scarred by
poverty and anger. "Can't you
smell it?"
Roy retreated half a step from her
intensity. Involuntarily, he tightened
his grip on the radio.
"Let the fires of Hell rise up
and swallow the evil. You're
interfering with the hand of God."
She raised her fist in the air.
The last rays of the sunset sparkled on the thick strands of her dark
hair which were worked into an intricate pattern of cornrows.
The sing-song rhythm of her voice
reminded John of the old Kiowa minister who would come up to the rez every
summer to hold tent revivals, preaching against the evils of alcohol, sex,
peyote, R n' B, and capitalism. Gage
shivered, feeling the powers moving in the flames tearing through the walls,
feeding on the wood, trash and junkie dreams.
"Yes, the hand of God!"
"L.A., this is Engine 51
requesting police assistance for crowd control," hissed Stanley over the
HT.
"10-4, 51. PD has already been dispatched..."
In the pause the woman's voice
exploded. "Murderers! They killed my nephew. Let it burn!"
The crowd took up the woman's
cry. "Let it burn!"
John could sense the firemen behind
him tensing. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Hank gesture for Marco and Chet to come closer to the safety of the
engine. Roy edged nearer to the
squad. Gage eased back toward the still
open passenger side door.
"...ETA 1min," the
dispatcher concluded.
The sirens of the approaching
apparatus were loud in the tight air.
The woman lurched toward John, her arms upheld beseechingly. Gage stepped forward.
"Let it burn," she begged,
her knees folding.
Johnny caught her as she
collapsed. "Roy!" Her head sagged against his arm.
DeSoto ran to the side of the squad
and pulled out the drug box and biophone.
"Let it burn," the woman
pleaded, tears pooling in her eyes.
"Let it burn," echoed the
throng.
From the crowd a tall, muscular man
emerged. He gently took the woman's
shoulders, dragging her away from Gage.
"Mom," he murmured.
The people in the street surged forward.
"Gage! DeSoto!" warned Stanley, stepping
closer to his paramedics.
The woman's tears splashed on the
sleeves of John's turnouts, making dark spots on the ashy fabric. "Let us help her," offered Johnny.
The expression on the man's handsome
face was bleak. "You've done
enough," he said, gathering his sobbing mother in his arms. He gently stroked her hair.
"Let it burn!"
Truck 127 glided to a stop, its
lights flashing off the darkly angry faces surrounding the men, and the dying
wail of its siren bouncing off the walls of the crumbling houses lining the
street. A police cruiser pulled up behind
the fire truck. The officer slid from
behind the wheel, placing his hands on his gun belt. The arriving vehicles changed the forces raging in the mob. The woman and her son disappeared among the
shifting ranks of bodies. The cry
trailed off.
"Gage, DeSoto, make a sweep
looking for trapped victims," ordered Stanley, slowly relaxing.
Dragging his SCBA from the bay, John
took one last look at the crowd. For
half a second he thought he saw the old preacher, standing on the curb,
grinning as he watched the smoke rise into the heavens.
******
Gage yanked at the damaged screen
door hanging askew across the back door, tearing it from the single hinge
holding it to the jamb. The twisted
wooden frame dropped to the porch.
Expertly Roy tied the end of the lifeline to the porch railing, while he
forced open the door and stepped into the house. A thin pall of smoke hung in the kitchen, a slowly shifting
veil. The sandwich and tobacco John had
offered to Brackett still lay on the counter.
Johnny looked away, following Roy through the door into the front of the
house toward the stairs. In the
stairwell thick black smoke hung like a second ceiling, seeping and swelling
with every movement of the dank air.
"Upstairs first,"
instructed DeSoto. He crouched, playing
out rope before mounting the stairs.
John crawled after Roy, straining
his eyes, searching among the barely visible drifts of garbage for discarded
syringes. Smoke and heat slammed the
paramedics against the floor. Scuttling
along behind DeSoto, Gage kept one hand on the lifeline, feeling rather than
seeing the walls rimming the hallway.
He did not need to see the battered plaster; the outlines of the rooms
were seared into his mind. The rope
pulled between his gloved fingers as Roy scrambled into the first bedroom.
DeSoto probed the smoke-shrouded
perimeter with his axe handle.
"Clear," he announced, backing out of the room.
Johnny slashed his chalk across the
wall next to the empty doorframe. The
blue scrawl faded behind a curtain of smoke as he followed his partner down the
hall. At the end of the corridor a
faint red line -- exactly the shape of the bottom of a closed door -- flickered
briefly before disappearing into the thick blackness. The fire was roaring just behind the thin panel -- the door to
the room where they had found Brackett.
John jumped as an axe splintered the front jamb door, sending it
crashing open.
Roy felt Johnny start. "It's just the engine company."
"Yeap," agreed John
Marco emerged out of the haze, hose
clamped in one hand, pry bar in the other.
Kelly trailed Lopez, attached by the thick canvas umbilical of the
hoseline.
Gage watched the firefighters press
against wall, crouching below the level of a possible flashover. Marco fumbled with the locked doorknob. He wedged the pry bar against the knob and
snapped the mechanism. The door swung
open. An even darker wave of smoke and
hot gases flowed into hallway, spilling along the ceiling like a living
thing. The cloud boiled over Johnny's
head, the heat reflecting down on his helmet.
Inside the room was a solid wall of black, illuminated by faint flashes
of orange and red. Lopez opened the
bail, releasing a stream of water at the base of the flames. They danced and darkened angrily. A white cloud of steam rose from the burning
mass.
Suddenly there was the brittle
clatter of splintering glass. The smoke
began rising up and away, revealing the wire frame of the rotten mattress
writhing in the blaze. Lying on the
bare and blackened springs was Brackett, not even flinching as the flames
caressed him. The doctor's skin bubbled
and charred. Gage blinked frantically,
but Brackett did not disappear. The
water from Marco's hose fell on his body, boiling. Kel turned and grinned at John.
"Johnny?" repeated DeSoto,
glancing worriedly at Gage.
"Johnny!"
"Huh?" John shook his head. Brackett's apparition rose, floating through
the hole 127's had hacked in the roof.
"Sorry. For a second, I
thought I saw someone."
Roy looked back at the room. "If anyone was in there, they're gone
now."
Johnny gazed at the flames dimming
and guttering under Marco's assault.
"Yeap," he sighed, relieved.
******
Johnny pried the molding from the
window, exposing the casement. The nails
squealed as they were yanked from the old wood. A plume of smoke rose from the smoldering frame as air hit a hot
spot. Gage stepped back, debris
crunching underfoot, and let Kelly play a gentle stream of water over the
blackened wood.
Behind the two firefighters, Stanley
led the arson investigators. The men
looked at the conical smear of soot and char on the wall of the bedroom
closet. The black wedge pointed to a
pool of wax. "Candle,"
announced Hank.
The photographer leaned over the
puddle and snapped a picture.
"If you ask me," said
Chet, draping the nozzle over the windowsill and picking up his axe, "they
should give the guy a medal -- not jail time." He sunk the head of the axe into the plaster and tore away the
wall adjacent to the window frame, looking for fire spread.
Johnny watched the investigator chip
fragments of board and wax from the floor and drop them into a sample bag. "We were just lucky that no one was
hurt." The man straightened and
looked at Gage. Shuddering, John turned
back to the window.
******
"Squad 51 in quarters,"
said Johnny, holding the microphone and watching the last flashes of the lights
on the door as it lowered. He felt a
strange stirring beneath his ribs -- he was hungry.
Roy slid from the squad and stretched. "I'm going to hit the sack," he
yawned, watching the engine crew head for the dorm.
"I'll be there in a
minute. Gonna get a snack." Gage's stomach growled eagerly at the mere
thought of cold manicotti.
"What?"
"I'm starving. I'm going to get something to eat,"
repeated Johnny, slowly. He turned and
walked into the dayroom.
DeSoto watched him disappear. "He's hungry," Roy whispered,
feeling better than he had in a long time.
******
"Johnny," started Chet,
turning from the dirty basement level window.
"I see him! Looks like he's
unconscious."
"Here," offered Stoker,
holding out a halligan tool.
"Thanks, Mike." Gage pushed the v-shaped end of the prying
tool against the lock cylinder. The
teeth bit into either side of the plate.
John leaned against the bar, popping the cylinder free. The door sprung open.
The oily smell of decomposition
slipped past the jamb and spread like a dark, clinging blanket. "Whew," gagged Stanley, backing
away. He lifted his radio. "LA this is Engine 51, requesting a
sheriff's deputy at scene."
"10-4, 51."
John leaned the pry bar against the
wall. He peered down the stairs and
then looked back at Roy and Chet.
DeSoto's face was white and rigid.
Kelly's head was bowed, his eyes shadowed. "Gimme a flashlight," Gage instructed, quietly. Slowly, he descended the dark stairs.
Trash littered the floor: junk food
wrappers, old newspaper, rags... Faint
movements fluttered at the edges of the circle of light. The beam of Chet's flashlight moved nervously,
darting among the trash, peeling paint and rusting pipes. In the center of the room sat a broken-down
cardboard box.
In the box, cradled by a soiled
sleeping bag, lay a child. He was
dressed in dirty red pants and a frayed blue sweatshirt. His face was swollen and mottled with the
blue pattern of lividity. A brown
extension cord was wrapped around his neck.
"Mother of God," breathed
Kelly. "How could
anyone..." His voice trailed off.
DeSoto made a faint straggled noise.
"Get out of here, Roy,"
ordered Johnny, firmly. He didn't turn,
allowing his partner the privacy of his shock.
"I'll wait for the coroner."
He listened for DeSoto's footsteps on the stairs.
"Gage," called Stanley,
reaching past DeSoto, holding out a blanket pack.
"Thanks, Cap." Johnny ripped open the plastic sack and
unfolded the yellow sheet.
"Johnny," whispered Chet,
helping spread the blanket over the body.
"Look at his fingers."
Gage covered the boy's face and
walked away. He squatted at the base of
the stairs, staring past the body at the peeling concrete block wall. "Rats," commented Gage
matter-of-factly. "I saw them
running when we came down." His
face was an emotionless mask.
******
"Johnny," instructed
Roderick Gage. "Stay in the
truck." He looked down at the boy
on the seat next to him. Then he
slipped from the beat-up truck out into the winter white cold, leaving the keys
in the ignition and the heater running.
John pressed his face against the
window, holding his breath to avoid icing up the glass. Stamping to break a path through the deep
snow, his father climbed the stairs of the board and tarpaper shack. No white plume of smoke and steam rose from
the tin pipe sticking out the roof.
"Kunsi!" yelled Roderick,
pounding on the door. "Kunsi!" After a few moments, he returned to the
truck and dug behind the seat.
"Where's old woman Otter
Necklace?"
"Hush!" Roderick pulled out a tire iron. "Stay here." He closed the door.
Johnny turned, scraping the growing
layer of ice from the window. He
chipped open a narrow peephole. His
father struck the old-fashioned lock, springing the door open. He disappeared into the house.
Gage stared for a moment then opened
the truck door. The bitter cold took
his breath away. He plowed into the
drifts, the powdery snow burning the bare skin of his face. Panting, he squatted beside the propane tank
attached to a narrow tube that ran through a tiny hole beneath the window. The gauge over John's head read zero. Wrapping his fingers around the windowsill,
he pulled his chin over the edge.
On the kitchen floor the old woman's
yellow-brown mutts gnawed on something beneath the table. From under the edge emerged the hem of a
long dark woolen skirt. John's father entered
the kitchen, holding Otter Necklace's late husband's rifle. He pointed it at the dogs.
Johnny's scream drowned out the
sound of the shots.
The cold flakes stuck to Johnny's
wet checks, freezing to his lashes. He
whirled away from the window, stumbling in the heavy snow. He floundered in the drift, his nose and
mouth filling with the choking whiteness.
"I told you to stay in the
truck!" Roderick plunged through
the snow, dragging John to his feet.
"Sorry," blubbered
Johnny. His father twisted the collar
of his coat, propelling him into the truck.
"Stay here!"
******
A red-faced whiteman pulled a
stretcher from the back of a hearse.
"What'cha got?" A
tribal police officer, a thick felt cowboy hat covering his GI haircut, grabbed
the other end.
A thick-waisted man, wearing a heavy
fur cap and sitting inside a BIA car called to the mortician. "Some old drunk. Ran outta propane and froze to
death." He chuckled. "Her dogs were eating her."
Beside Gage, Roderick
stiffened. John looked at his father;
the man's jaw worked angrily.
Outside the policeman dropped his
end of the stretcher, leaving the man from the funeral home trying to navigate
the heavy drifts. "Well, you know
how they are," commented the mortician, glaring at the Indian.
******
"I got to get some air,"
stated Chet. The firefighter's face was
pale and his eyes looked tired and old.
"OK," nodded Gage,
watching Kelly climb the stairs. Chet's
retreating footsteps echoed on the dank walls.
Johnny stood, stretching his legs, trying not to look at the bundle
lying in the middle of the room.
"There's not enough epi in the
world for this one," observed Brackett.
The ghost bent over the child's body and lifted the blanket, studying
the boy's face. His jaw tightened.
Johnny glanced out the corner of his
eye at the ghost and shook his head.
The specter had not left his life.
Suddenly, he realized that gut-twisting terror no longer accompanied the
doctor's presence and accepted that he was going slowly mad. In fact, he reflected, it may be
the most sensible way to deal with a world where people strangle toddlers,
junkies poison themselves, kids blow each others brains out, and paramedics are
expected to walk around acting like this mayhem is the normal business of the
day.
"Another one you didn't
save." Brackett shook his head.
Gage shifted. "And how many have you failed to save,
Doc? How many like him have you seen in
your ER and let slip through your fingers?" The paramedic's voice was cold.
"Did you set his broken arm, and take his parents' assurances that
the boy was just clumsy?"
The ghost glared at John.
"This time you're shooting the
messenger."
"John?" inquired Stanley,
peering through the basement door.
"Sorry, Cap," called Gage
up the stairs. "Talkin' to myself." He turned back toward the body. Brackett was gone.
******
The pre-dawn buzz of rising traffic
on the San Diego Freeway seeped slowly through the windows of the dorm,
competing with Chet's snoring.
Awakened, John rolled over. He
glanced at DeSoto. Roy was breathing
softly, asleep despite the noise. Gage
pulled the pillow over his ears.
The alarm rang. "Station 51, traffic accident. Harbor Freeway at Sepulveda. Use the northbound ramp at Sepulveda."
Across the aisle, DeSoto rolled to
his feet, pulling up his turnout pants.
"Harbor Freeway at
Sepulveda. Time out 5:01,"
finished the dispatcher.
Stanley grabbed the microphone of
the radio sitting on the desk by his bed.
"10-4. KMG-365," he
acknowledged, adjusting the suspenders of his bunkers with his free hand.
Groggily John trotted toward the
squad. Abruptly he stopped.
By the back bumper stood
Brackett. The doctor held his arms
behind his back, concealing something.
He grinned and lowered his hands.
"Johnny?" asked Roy,
looking at his partner.
From behind the ghost stepped a
small boy. The child looked up at John
and smiled. A thick red welt marred the
milky smoothness of his neck.
"Come on, Johnny," snapped
DeSoto.
The toddler held up his arms.
"No!" shrieked John,
throwing himself away from the child.
In
the shadow of broad daylight:
"Johnny," said Roy
gently. He twitched nervously. This was the critical moment: either Gage
would turn and face him or ignore him.
DeSoto wished the attendant would take the jangling ring of keys he was
fidgeting with and leave. It's a
mental hospital, he reminded himself forcefully, privacy is not a real
big concern. He looked carefully at
his partner while John decided.
Johnny's hair was too long and messy
and he wore a faded fire department tee-shirt.
His pants were wrinkled; he had again been carefully rolling them up
like turnouts. Gage turned his head
very slightly toward Roy. He had
reached his decision.
I exist today. Roy smiled at Johnny. "Come on, let's sit down," he said,
walking down the hall toward the day room.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched, making sure Gage was following
him.
Shuddering, DeSoto remembered. "No!" John had shrieked when the
bebop sounded. Roy had sprinted for the
squad, then stopped, suddenly conscious that he was alone. Johnny still stood, frozen, staring into
some unspeakable nightmare. When they
had tried to help him, Gage had fought.
It was the last time Johnny had spoken to him.
As they walked down the hall, he
kept up a quiet line of chatter about the station. All Roy knew about Johnny's private hell was that he was still a
fireman. DeSoto sighed, wishing yet
again some different demon had devoured his friend. At least with fire or falling masonry, he would have been able to
help or grieve when there was no more he could do.
Roy sat at the small table by the
window. John took the seat opposite him
and leaned forward, turning his face toward the bright sunlight streaming
through the panes. DeSoto placed the
foil-wrapped piece of cake Joanne had sent on the scarred surface, yet another
treat she had prepared to tempt John's sweet tooth. Roy never had the heart to tell her Johnny would not eat them,
but instead carefully broke her gifts in half and pushed them away. When he first started coming, Roy would eat
the broken pieces on the drive back, hiding the evidence of Johnny's
rejection. He had continued this
practice until the taste of Joanne's cookies had became irrevocably entangled with
the odor of the ward and Johnny's blank expression, causing him to gag at even
the smell of baking chocolate chips.
Now he threw her presents in the trashcan in the parking lot.
Roy unwrapped the slab of cake,
listening the crinkling of the foil.
The smell filled the room. He
knew it was irrational but he wanted Johnny to eat this piece. Last Tuesday had been Gage's birthday. In a strange and sad way this was his
birthday cake.
Johnny reached slowly across the
table and pulled the cake toward him.
"It's chocolate. Your favorite," Roy said quietly. Eat the damn cake.
Gage lifted the cake upwards,
breaking it in two. He carefully set
the two pieces on the foil and slid it back to Roy.
"Johnny, it's real
good." Roy picked up one piece,
biting into it to demonstrate his point.
John smiled at him. For a second Roy saw a flicker of light
behind his eyes. Then Gage stood and
slowly licked the crumbs and icing from his fingers -- a pale shadow of the bachelor
table manners of his former life. He
nodded, disappearing into the hallway.
Roy watched him walk away.
"Land, does that smell
good," remarked the nurse.
Roy jumped, startled by her voice.
"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up
on you." She stood behind him and
was half a head taller than he was, and her hair was gathered into hundreds of
thin mahogany braids.
Roy held up the other piece of cake,
offering it to her. "Help
yourself. My wife made it."
She hesitated a second, then accepted taking a small
bite. "Umm," she moaned. "Thank you. You a friend of his?" she asked, sitting in the chair Gage
had just left.
"We used to work
together." He looked away from her
intent gaze, staring at some crumbs on the table.
"Maybe you can answer a
question for me. What's with the
pants?"
"Oh," said Roy, smiling
slightly. "It’s a firefighter
thing. At night when you're on shift,
you roll your turnout pants over your boots so you can put them on quickly if
you get a call."
"Oh," she replied,
nodding.
"What does he do in here?"
"If we let him, he cleans
things. He likes to make beds. He sleeps some during the day, 'cause he
sure doesn't at night." She
shrugged, swallowing the last of the cake.
DeSoto shuddered at the thought of
Johnny endlessly repeating the daily round of station housekeeping tasks. He closed his eyes trying to block the
images his mind was creating.
"Does he talk much?"
"Not really." She shrugged. "Please, thank you, stuff like that. Very polite."
Roy looked up.
"To be honest, your friend
makes me nervous," she said, standing.
"He has nightmares about things I know I don't want to see."
Roy watched her walk away. Me either, he decided, slowly rolling
the tin foil around the crumbs. Without
looking back, he followed the attendant to the door.
~~~~<51>~~~~
† From "The Wedsworth-Townsend Act"
written by Harold Jack Bloom and R.A. Cinader, directed by Jack Webb.
Author's notes: This story was originally a little Halloween
trifle. Then I remembered a late night
in the Frontier Restaurant on Central listening to two off duty EMT's tell
"war stories" to a EMT student. One tale following another, until
everyone within earshot had moved and the EMT student began to see the dichotomy
of the best/worst job on earth. After
that the stories friends and relatives had told me about working in the field
began working their way into this tale.
The story turned serious and very dark.
It became a sojourn into areas of the profession, which were not touched
on in the series or not fully acknowledged at the time. I am aware this story is a very one-sided
(and an outsiders) representation of the job.
About half way through the writing process, I finally got a
chance to see Bringing Out the Dead and was startled by the similarities
between my story and Joe Connelly's.
This was unintentional.
I probably should have put this before the story, but I hate
reading lengthy notes before getting to the meat of a tale:) In Lakhota tradition, like any culture,
there are all sorts of signs and omens.
I used a few of these in this story.
It is believed that dogs see the living and dead and bark at both. Therefore, when a dog is barking at nothing
it is said, "a ghost goes by."
Owls are messengers of death.
They tell Yuwipi men, medicine men and certain types of prophets of
imminent death. The snowy owl is an
associate of Hinhanwin -- Owl Woman -- the guardian of the ghost road. Black-tail deer are believed to have a power
that is not entirely benevolent.
Indeed, in some quarters they are regarded as quite ill-omened.
Finally but not lastly, I'd like to thank a few people: Aline, MA, Maggie, LH and HB for sharing
their stories and insights. Mary for
friendship, endless encouragement and the cyber equivalent of a firm hand when
I came unglued. Susan for her support
and friendship. And MJ, Aline, and
Inkling for beta and technical reading.