Head over Heels
 by Kelly Blecher

The keening wail of a stuck horn was deafening to Los Angeles County Deputy Vince Howard as he reached through the shattered window of the car he had just chased down. He tried to find a pulse on the young victim. Nothing.

The sounds of approaching sirens alerted him that the County Fire Department would be on scene in less than a minute. Vince knew that the paramedics were going to be too late. There's little hope for this guy, he thought sadly. The entire front seat and floorboard of the aging car was awash in blood from a deep gash on the young man's leg. The youth's face was unrecognizable and the officer noted the spiderwebbed windshield and bloody glass where his face had struck the unyielding substrate. Unwittingly, a few lines from Humpty Dumpty came to his mind. All the King's horses and all the King's men – couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again. The light grey cloth and vinyl of the car seat was stained red, contrasting sharply with the paleness of the driver's slack features. I'm no paramedic, but this kid is gone.

The shiny red rescue squad belonging to Station Fifty-one lurched to an abrupt halt at the scene, with the engine following a heartbeat behind. Paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto scrambled out of the squad and hurriedly pulled equipment out of the side compartments -- the large, black rectangular trauma box containing splints and items necessary to treat cases of severe trauma along with the tackle box-like drug box with life-sustaining drugs and inter-venous fluids and the orange encased bio-phone with which they maintained contact with Rampart Hospital. These were the tools of the rescue trade.

"There's just two victims," Vince shouted, alerting the paramedics. "The driver of the truck is unconscious, and this guy," he said, nodding to indicate the bloody figure in the car. "There are two ambulances en route."

Communicating silently, the two paramedics chose their victims. Johnny hustled over to the mutilated frame of a fairly new Ford truck to assess the driver. Roy, the heavy trauma box in hand, rushed to aid the car's driver.

DeSoto took one look at the heavy trauma sustained by the too young victim and cursed silently. His handsome face was tight with strain as he went to work. Damn -- the femoral artery is cut! He's bled out! Roy began the ingrained ABC protocols -- airway, breathing and circulation.

The 'whoosh' of air brakes announced the arrival of engine Fifty-one as Mike Stoker brought the heavy Ward pumper to a stop behind the squad truck. The car's horn continued to scream, as loud and mournful as any siren.

Hank Stanley swung down from his position on the passenger side of the engine. He surveyed the scene with a grim look, evaluated the situation in a glance and deployed his men. Hank cupped both hands around his mouth to shout over the din. "Lopez, disconnect both batteries, and that horn! Kelly, give Gage and DeSoto a hand with the victims. Stoker, let's get a reel line on that gas!" Hank yelled over the noise.

He jogged over to Vince's position beside the car. "What've we got, Vince?" Fifty-one's Captain queried the Deputy Sheriff. Vince gestured towards the crumpled remains of the ancient, black Pontiac convertible, which even before the accident had seen better days on the road. The paint had faded to a shadow of it's former luster – resembling a ghostly grey, rather than the oil slick blackness of its showroom debut. The car was now totally demolished. The automotive cadaver sat in a pool of gasoline, oil and antifreeze – its own life's blood, leaking onto the pavement. The hiss of escaping radiator steam faded away as it died, along with its driver.

"I was in pursuit of that stolen Pontiac down Market Street when the driver tried to turn left onto Squire, and didn't make it. He had to be going at least sixty when he hit that telephone pole," he explained, shaking his head as he relived the accident. "The impact spun the car into the path of that lady's truck," Vince added, pointing towards a mangled, white farm truck. "It's a good thing that today is Sunday – any other day and the street would be congested with traffic. Then we would really have a mess on our hands."

Hank nodded his head in agreement at Vince's comment and looked over the chaos of the accident scene. His men had the situation under control. Mercifully, the car horn was finally silent. Marco Lopez had disconnected the batteries of the vehicles to prevent any electrical sparks or flashes that might ignite, effectively silencing the noise. John and Chet were working to free the victim still in the battered pick-up as it sat drunkenly against a light support pole. The threat of fire was extinguished as his engineer, Mike Stoker, washed away the remnants of gasoline and other engine chemicals on the street.

"Marco! Help Roy," Hank re-directed the firefighter. "LA, Engine Fifty-one. Return assisting units. Engine Fifty-one, out forty minutes," he communicated to dispatch.

"Engine Fifty-one," was the reply from LA.

The crowd of bystanders was increasing in size and Vince turned to herd them out of the firemen's way. "Come on people. Let's move out of the way and let these men do their jobs."

The pick-up driver was a pretty, young woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties. She was slumped against the driver side door, unconscious, held in place by her seat belt. Her shoulder length, dark hair was a mess and she sported a large bruise on her forehead, where it had made contact with the steering wheel.

Both John and Chet tried to open the truck's passenger door, but it wouldn't budge. "We're going to need a pry bar," John grunted, tugging again on the jammed door. Chet nodded his understanding and ran back to the squad to gather the necessary equipment.

"Better get the short backboard too, Chet!" Johnny shouted after the other fireman. He flipped the release on the trauma box, reaching for a 4 x 4 bandage. She had a thin, bleeding cut beginning at her forehead hairline and trailing to just above her left ear. Johnny gently bandaged the cut through the driver's window and examined her ears for blood and spinal flood. Thankfully, there was none.

Chet returned quickly with the bar and backboard. Together, they pried the passenger door of the truck open and John slid across the bench seat to continue treating the young woman. He recorded her vital signs in a small notebook to relay to Rampart.

Kelly leaned his torso through the driver's window into the cab and held the female driver's head while John immobilized her neck with a c-collar. Johnny was checking her blood pressure when she stirred and slowly regained consciousness.

She gazed up at the two firemen and panicked. "What happened? Where am I? Who are you?" she cried out, eyes wide with shock and pain.

Chet backed out of the cab when he saw that his presence was frightening her and let Johnny practice his bedside manner. "Easy now, miss -- everything's going to be okay. You've been in an accident. We're from the fire department," Johnny soothed. He restrained her gently as she fidgeted. "My name is Johnny and that ugly guy over there is Chester," he smiled crookedly and pointed to Chet just outside her door.

She eyed the two fireman fearfully, taking in her surroundings. As she noticed the crumpled hood with steam escaping from under it, the twisted dash and the broken windshield, she started to cry. "My truck!" she sobbed. "Oh my gosh, it's totaled!" She tried to sit up and gasped as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.

Chet reached into the cab to steady her. "Whoa there. Don't try any sudden movements, okay? Don't worry about your truck. The important thing here, is you," Chet said, his blue eyes serious.

"I…guess you're right," she sniffled.

"Miss, I need you to stay still for me. What's your name?" Johnny asked in a conversational tone.

"Wendy," she whispered, eyes closed against the pain.

"Can you tell me where you're hurt?" he asked, while continuing to probe her for injuries. He frowned as he shined the penlight into her eyes, gauging their reaction. Her pupils were reactive, but the right one was slightly sluggish, indicative of a concussion.

"My head…and…my…left arm," she explained and winced as her head pounded with each word she spoke. "Oww! My left shoulder too!"

"We'll have you out of here in no time, Wendy. Isn't that right, Chet?"

"Right, Johnny," Chet agreed, smiling down at her as he lightly squeezed her right shoulder in reassurance. Chet's blue eyes twinkled and he grinned beneath his mustache. "Now, Wendy don't you worry about a thing, because the cavalry's here. I parked my horse right over there," he pointed to the area next to the engine

Even in the midst of a rescue, Johnny couldn't ignore Chet's comment. "Now Chet, you're supposed to give her confidence in your abilities. How can you claim to be the cavalry when you're working with an Indian? Don't you remember what happened to Custer and his Cavalry?" he scoffed, smirking at Chet.

Wendy smiled weakly at their light-hearted attempt to distract her from her predicament, and relaxed slightly. She caught herself staring at the young fireman. He's cute. What was his name again? Ah yes, Chet. That mustache makes him look a little like Clark Gable – kind of sexy.

No airway possible. He wasn't breathing. And the majority of his blood had pooled and congealed around him. Roy DeSoto mentally checked off the list of reasons why the youth's injuries were incompatible with life. With a sigh of frustration, he pronounced the victim D.O.A., placing a yellow safety blanket over the traumatized body. There was nothing to be done for the young man. No amount of effort would coax life into him. Marco shook his head and whispered a short prayer in Spanish, crossing himself.

Roy straightened and headed in the direction of the wrecked truck to give a report to Captain Stanley, who was busy relaying information to Rampart via the bio-phone. He needed a moment to regain his professional detachment. When will people realize that automobiles are deadly weapons? Roy never got over the senseless deaths he saw in his work as a paramedic.

"Rampart, we have two patients – victims of a motor vehicle accident. Patient number one is a female, approximate age 25. She has a large contusion on her forehead from impact. She was unconscious for approximately ten minutes. Stand by for vital signs," Hank reported to Dr. Brackett on the other end of the line.

Johnny poked his head back out of the truck with more information for Stanley. "Cap, her left arm and shoulder hurt her, but I can't find a break. She has a minor cut, about here," he motioned with his hand, indicating a spot along his hairline, between his left eye and ear. "Blood pressure is 100 over 60, respiration is 15, and pulse is 90. I'd like to start an IV to keep her BP up."

Hank continued to relay the patient's condition. "Rampart, female victim also has a minor laceration near her left temple and is experiencing pain in her left arm and shoulder, but there is no evidence of a break. Vital signs are pulse - 90, BP - 100 over 60, respiration - 15. We are taking spinal precautions. Request permission to start an IV."

"Ten-four, Fifty-one. Immobilize the arm and shoulder and start an IV, D5W. Is the ambulance on scene yet?"

Hank glanced around to see the attendants ushering an empty gurney towards him. "That's affirmative, Rampart."

"Ten-four, Fifty-one. Transport as soon as you have her stabilized," Brackett advised. "What's the condition of your second patient?"

Hank looked up as Roy approached for information to relay to Rampart on the second victim, but Roy shook his head sadly and turned away to assist Johnny. He reached for a splint to immobilize Wendy's arm.

After a short pause, Hank spoke again into the bio-phone. "Rampart, patient number two is Code F, uh…DOA at the scene."

"Acknowledged Fifty-one. Rampart base out," Kelly Brackett's weary voice ended the transmission.

"Wendy? We're going to slide you out of your truck onto a backboard," Johnny explained. "We don't want to take any chances that you might have hurt your neck or back, okay?" He spoke slowly so that she wouldn't become frightened or confused.

"Mmm, whuh," she replied fuzzily, attempting to turn her head from side to side. Man, why am I so sleepy? Better stay awake. That's what Mom always said when I bumped my head. She tried to focus on the paramedic speaking to her and then looked towards Chet again. She smiled dreamily. She frowned as a new face came into her line of sight, blocking her view of Chet.

"Now, just relax and let us do all the work," Roy instructed her.

"Okay," Wendy spoke forlornly, frustrated that the cervical collar prevented her from turning her head to look at her handsome fireman.

"Ready here, Johnny," Roy informed his partner.

"It'll hurt some and may be a little uncomfortable, but you just hang in there," Johnny soothed.

Yeah, and that "little sting" you described as you jammed that needle into me, felt more like acid burning up my arm. Wendy did her best to glare at the man responsible for her torture. It still hurts like hell.

"Are you ready to get out of this popsicle stand, Wendy?" Chet's voice brought her back to the present. He held the plastic bag of IV solution in his hands.

Anything you say, handsome. "No popsicles please, but I sure could go for a push-up right about now," she answered with a little more enthusiasm. He sure knows how to cheer up a girl. She sighed.

"Hey, those orange sherbet things?" Chet asked, grinning. "They're my favorite!" he exclaimed. "Where's the Good Humor man when you need him?"

"On three, Roy. One…two…three," Johnny counted. They teamed up to simultaneously lift and slide Wendy onto the backboard.

Chet handed the IV over to Roy after they settled Wendy onto the stretcher. As they wheeled her towards the waiting ambulance, she reached out with her uninjured arm to him. "You are going to ride with me, aren't you?" she asked expectantly.

Chet looked startled and blushed. "Uh, n-no, Wendy. Johnny here, well, he'll…um…he'll take good care of you," he stammered, clearly embarrassed.

"Oh," she said in a small voice, withdrawing her hand. "I was kind of hoping you'd be there."

"How about if I come visit you tomorrow?" Chet offered after an uncomfortable pause.

Wendy smiled up at him. "That would be nice," she answered as the attendants carefully placed her into the vehicle for transport to Rampart Emergency. Roy passed the IV and bio-phone to Johnny for the ride to the hospital.

"See ya at the hospital, Junior," Roy said. He shut the doors and gave them a couple of good thumps. They pulled away, sirens blaring. Roy scurried to the squad to help escort the ambulance to Rampart.

"That was good work, Chet," Captain Stanley remarked and slapped Chet on the back. "You really calmed her down and made it easier for Gage to take care of her."

"Thanks, Cap," Chet acknowledged the compliment.

Hank gestured towards their equipment and put his crew into action once again. "Let's pack up and go home fellas," he said. With the victim extricated and ready for transport, he turned the scene over to Vince who awaited the Coroner for the removal of the deceased driver.

"Engine Fifty-one, available," he informed LA through his H.T. unit.

Businesses and homes passed in a blur as Roy and John followed the familiar route on the return trip from Rampart General Hospital to the fire station. Johnny slouched in his seat on the passenger side of the squad.

"Man, that Wendy was one hostile chick," Johnny complained, resting his tanned right arm on the open window. The wind tousled his already unruly black hair into complete chaos.

"You'd be a little out of sorts too if somebody did a number on your truck and sent you to the hospital," Roy reasoned. He glanced quickly at his partner. I can read him like a book. "Don't tell me. You used that fatal Gage charm on her and she blew you off."

"She didn't blow me off," John insisted, sitting a little straighter. "Geesh! I was just trying to help her."

"By asking her out?" Roy guessed. When are you ever gonna learn, Junior?

"Well, no…" Johnny stopped. "What I mean is – oh forget it. Can't a guy be friendly anymore? She was just…hostile – like it was all my fault that she was there."

"I think they call that transference, Partner," Roy suggested. "They taught us all about that in training, remember? Maybe you need a refresher course?" he quipped.

"I think I got one today," Johnny muttered to himself, turning to stare at the scenery of suburban Los Angeles.

Chet Kelly walked into the hospital with a bouquet of wildflowers in hand. He approached Dixie at her desk in the ER where she was elbow deep in patient charts and nurse's schedules. "Hi, Dixie. How's it going?"

"Pretty good, Chet. What do we owe the honor of your visit today?" she asked him, nodding towards the posies in his grasp. "Don't tell me we've got one of your partners in crime here and I didn't know about it?" she joked. Placing her hands flat on the ER desk, she leaned forward and smiled at the young fireman. She eyed his outfit, struggling not to show her opinion of his taste in clothes. Where do firemen get these outfits, anyway? Even Ward's and Sears Roebuck have better looking ensembles on their clearance racks!

"No, nothing like that. Remember that girl from the TA Roy and John brought in yesterday afternoon -- Wendy?"

Dixie squinted in concentration, recalling the young woman. "Sure, concussion and dislocated shoulder -- right?" she asked.

"Yeah…I guess," Chet answered haltingly. His confusion showed.

Dixie chuckled at the expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Chet -- we medical types tend to describe people by their ailments. Bad habit."

"Well, she was awfully upset at the scene and I offered to visit her after my shift, to make sure she was okay," Chet explained.

"Oh, that's sweet of you," answered Dixie. Then realization dawned as she recalled yesterday's events. "So, you're the Clark Gable fireman she kept talking about in the ER!" she exclaimed, pointing at him in astonishment.

Chet's eyebrows shot up and he stammered. "Clark…Gable?" Now he was thoroughly confused.

"Sure, she went on and on about this handsome fireman who saved her life and kept her from passing out," Dixie explained. "She said something about push-ups but I just thought it was the concussion talking."

"She was just upset, and I helped calm her down is all," he explained, a little red in the face.

"Well, it sounds like you made quite an impression," she commented, raising an elegantly arched eyebrow in his direction.

"Just doing what the County pays me for, Dix. Do you happen to know what room she's in?" Chet was anxious to get away from Dixie's teasing.

Dixie just smiled, glanced down at a chart and pointed towards the elevator, "Room 305, Mr. Gable."

Chet's ears began to burn as the blush swept over his face and neck. Geez, I hope she doesn't repeat that to the rest of the guys. I'll never hear the end of it!

Chet quietly pushed the door to room 305 open a few inches and peered inside. Wendy lay against the pillows with her face turned towards the sunshine streaming through the narrow hospital room window. The door squeaked slightly, alerting her to his presence.

"Chet!" she greeted him enthusiastically. "You came!"

"Hi, Wendy. How are you feeling?" Chet asked politely, suddenly at a loss for words as he stood in the doorway.

"Pretty good, considering," she replied. "I must have a hard head," she joked halfheartedly. "And I won't be doing the chicken dance at my cousin's wedding next Saturday, that's for sure," she quipped, indicating her left arm and shoulder encased in a sling.

Chet shifted awkwardly, clenching the flowers a little tighter in his grip. "Well, you were very lucky."

"Yeah," she commiserated. "Real lucky. I'm just sorry about the other guy." She plucked at the sheet and cover with her right hand. Looking up, she noticed the bouquet in Chet's hands. "Oh my! Flowers, for me? Thank you!"

"Your welcome." Chet looked around the room, searching for an appropriate container. "Here, let me get something to put them in."

"Hey, I don't have a roommate. Why don't you snatch that water pitcher?" Wendy offered helpfully, indicating the harvest gold plastic pitcher near the next bed.

"Good idea!" He plucked the empty pitcher from the rolling narrow table and went to fill it with water.

"They're beautiful, Chet. Wow! A guy who makes a promise, sticks to it AND brings me flowers. Will you marry me?"

The sunlight was dazzling, even at seven-thirty in the morning. Another perfect weather day in beautiful southern California was unfolding as fireman Chet Kelly lounged against the door of his beat-up VW van. He was early for the start of A-shift at Station Fifty-one and wasn't quite ready to enter the firehouse just yet. Man, what a beautiful day! He grinned to himself. It seemed everyone had gotten an early start on the day as he noticed Roy's old Porsche, Johnny's Land Rover and Mike's pick-up sitting in their usual spots in the station's parking lot.

Chet watched the rush hour commuters jockey for position on interstate 405. The fire station was positioned so that the interstate virtually ran through their little backyard. He glanced at his watch. 7:35 am – time for my third cup of coffee. I hope Hookrader didn't make it -- his brew could be used to tar roofs. IF he ever decides to retire, he could go into the roofing business.

His step was light as he breezed into the station, whistling a jaunty tune. When Irish eyes are smilin' he sang along in his head. Chet was rarely in a bad mood, and today was no exception. He wore a cheerful smile and handed out top of the morning greetings to his fellow firefighters on C and A shifts. He met John Gage as he was leaving the kitchen, ritual cup of coffee in hand. "Mornin' Gage, what did you do on your days off?" inquired the smiling firefighter.

"Why are you so concerned about my time off Chet? Afraid I might rain on your little parade?" Johnny spat out, approaching Chet menacingly.

"Hey, what did I do?" Chet backpedaled until he bumped into the squad. Johnny just scowled at him and stalked out the back door towards the old engine in the back parking lot. Chet was stunned -- his good mood vanished in an instant. He stumbled into the locker room in time to catch Roy DeSoto getting ready for his shift.

"All right, what gives?" Chet asked the other half of Fifty-one's paramedic duo. He shook his head, still confused about his encounter with Johnny.

Roy looked up from buttoning his uniform shirt and acknowledged Chet's question with a question of his own. "What gives with what, Chet?"

"What gives with your partner, Roy? He's acting like a lion with a thorn in his paw," Chet bellyached. He jerked open his locker and began shrugging out of his civvies.

Not already. Roy sighed. A-shift doesn't start for another… He glanced at his watch. …twenty minutes, and they're at it already. "Oh, I don't know Chet. Maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or something," Roy commented vaguely, reaching for a shiny, black shoe.

Chet would never be classified as a slave to fashion. The wide collar of his polyester shirt splayed across his shoulders, threatening to take flight at any moment. Olive green with a lazy orange and yellow paisley pattern, the shirt screamed at least 80 decibels. Of course, it was also unbuttoned the required three buttons so that an ample amount of dark chest hair could be viewed. The chicks love a manly man, after all.

Roy finished lacing his shoes with a double knot. He stood abruptly, hastening to tuck his BVD undershirt and uniform shirt into the regulation, dark blue pants. "Since when does one of Johnny's moods require an explanation?" he questioned as he carefully pinned the department's silver badge on the left side of his uniform.

"He practically bit my head off a minute ago!" exclaimed Chet. "All I did was ask him how his days off went -- a perfectly friendly and innocent question. And he almost took a piece out of me! I swear, the guy's certifiable."

Roy took a few steps towards the locker room door that lead into the apparatus bay. He paused with his hand on the swinging door. "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it," reasoned Roy. "He'll snap out of it. He always does. Better hurry up – Cap's about to call roll." He adjusted his name plate and made sure the back of his paramedic pin was secure before pushing the door open, leaving Chet to huff and mutter to himself about everything from Johnny's parentage to Roy's blase attitude. He continued his tantrum while rummaging in the bottom of the locker for his uniform accessories. He panicked momentarily when he couldn't find his badge right away. See what you do to me, Gage!? He reached for a crisp, light blue uniform shirt and sighed when he realized he had already pinned the badge onto the breast pocket.

The five members of the A shift crew assembled in the apparatus bay for roll call. The men filed into a single line in front of the engine and squad, adjusting the dark blue caps on their heads. The morning ritual was more of a formality than anything. As usual, there was a mix-up with hats. Marco and Johnny quickly traded as they realized that they each had the other's headgear.

Captain Stanley was doling out the duty assignments for the shift. "Kelly, Stoker – we need to test at least 300 feet of hose today. C-shift had a busy night at a warehouse fire and I want those hoses inspected closely. Gage -- the latrine. DeSoto -- dorm." Hank paused, sure that Chet would get in a comment about Gage working latrine duty. Nothing. "And by the way, we've got a group of fourth graders coming in today for a tour. John, Roy -- try to keep them interested in the equipment instead of playing with the door and radio, hmmm? I still get grief from Sam Lanier every time I set foot in headquarters about the still alarm at Fifty-one involving HR Pufnstuf and Witchiepoo."

Roy ducked his head, suppressing a grin. "Sure thing, Cap," he replied, chagrined.

Marco Lopez and Mike Stoker both snickered at Cap's chastising, but didn't comment. Chet Kelly remained silent -- no sarcastic jab, no guffaw, no reaction -- period. Hank eyed his crew once again. Everyone was punctual today, a little unusual, but sometimes he got lucky. Chet looked distracted and John's face was a thundercloud, about to burst. Hmmm. Something is definitely amiss – I'll have to fetter it out and make sure that it isn't anything serious. He continued, puzzling over the unusual pall hovering in the atmosphere. "Lopez, it looks like it's your rotation in the culinary department. All right men," he concluded, clapping his hands together, "Let's get some work done."

But dispatch had other plans -- the engine was called to a trash fire.

The two paramedics completed their top to bottom check of the squad, supplies and rescue equipment. Roy noted that they were low on bags of ringers and burn dressings. Johnny was withdrawn and spoke only when Roy asked him a question regarding the task at hand.

"We better get to Rampart and get those supplies, Johnny," Roy commented. "We've both got housekeeping duties to take care of, and that tour is due here right after lunch."

They climbed into the cab of the Squad with Roy behind the wheel and pulled onto West 223^rd Street. John plucked the microphone from its resting place and informed dispatch of their destination. "LA, Squad Fifty-one is 10-8 to Rampart Emergency for supplies."

LA acknowledged their 10-8 status. "Squad Fifty-one."

They had gone about six blocks when Roy cut through the thick silence enveloping the truck's cab. "Okay, it goes against my better judgment but I'm going to ask anyway, and I'm quoting Chet Kelly here, which is even worse. What gives?" Roy asked his silent and sullen partner.

"Nothing, Roy. I don't want to talk about it," Johnny warned. He scowled at Roy but didn't elaborate, continuing to stare out the windshield.

"Hey, that's my line, Junior," Roy's amused voice countered. If I could just break him out of this funk – maybe, just maybe -- I can survive the shift.

"Well today it's mine, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't smother me with your motherly concern, Pally" Johnny finished hotly, immediately regretting his harsh response. "And leave Chet Kelly out of any future conversations we might have, okay?"

Roy wisely kept his mouth shut and the pair rode along in silence. He knew from experience that whatever had his partner in a snit would come out eventually. It's going to be a long shift.

While Johnny chatted with one of the new nurses, Roy took an opportunity to pull Dixie aside. "Hey, Dix – you notice anything odd about my partner?" he asked, fishing for information.

"Odd? Now, Roy – that's a loaded question," she smirked, amused at her own joke. She turned towards the supply cabinet, locking it.

He reached out to grasp her arm lightly. "Seriously, he's been in a foul mood all morning – won't even talk about it. Doesn't that seem a little out of character to you? Usually ya can't get him to shut up," Roy lamented.

Dixie pondered Roy's observations. "Hmmm. That is strange. Or stranger than normal, for John Gage."

Their pondering was interrupted by the familiar beeping of the handy talkie. "Squad Fifty-one, what is your status?" intoned the calm voice of the dispatcher.

Johnny was carrying the HT radio and brought the communications unit to his lips to acknowledge the transmission. "Squad Fifty-one, available."

"Squad Fifty-one. Stand by for response," ordered LA.

John motioned for Roy to follow him towards the Squad. He waved in the general direction of the nurse he'd been speaking to and towards Dixie.

"See ya, Dix," Roy waved at his favorite nurse.

"Bye guys!" she called after their departing backs.

The squad backed into the station after the false alarm call that took them to an all too familiar address. Mrs Harris, their lovable old hypochondriac, had experienced abdominal pain and immediately called for help. Johnny and Roy had discovered that she had eaten chili and eggs for breakfast.

"Gas!" Johnny said disgustedly, slamming the passenger door shut. He walked towards the utility closet to retrieve the cleaning supplies. "That old woman had gas and she called the paramedics! I swear, Roy – sometimes I'm not sure WHY I'm even in this business."

"I know what you mean, Partner," Roy agreed, wheeling the mop and bucket towards the sleeping quarters. He paused with his hands on the mop handle, leaning against the brick wall. "But, what if it had been a real emergency? Then we'd have been able to help."

"I know. I know," Johnny muttered, heading towards the bathroom.

Time passed quickly as the paramedics dutifully fulfilled their housekeeping chores. As they were storing the mops and other cleaning supplies, their tour group arrived. "You mean firemen have to mop floors? I thought you did important stuff like put out fires and rescue people!" a scrawny, freckle faced boy with bright red hair called out, startling the two men.

"Fred McLaughlin!" chastised his teacher. Her brown eyes flashed with impatience. It obviously wasn't the first time she had called young Fred on the carpet. She turned to the two firemen, embarrassed by her student's outburst. "I apologize for Fred's rude comments," she interjected, glancing back at her student disapprovingly. He pretended to notice something fascinating about his worn sneakers and the cement floor of the vehicle bay as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"I'm Miss Lucas," she introduced herself. "Karen Lucas," she elaborated, extending her right hand. Her wavy, chestnut hair cascaded down her back and her tanned complexion spoke of hours in the sunshine. A smattering of freckles were dusted across the bridge of her nose. She was a tall girl with a slender, athletic figure. Her cheekbones were high and revealed some Native American ancestry.

Johnny stared at the attractive young woman in front of him. They sure didn't have teachers like that when I was in school! I wouldn't mind being 'teacher's pet' if SHE was the teacher.

"Welcome to Station Fifty-one." Roy clasped her hand in his. "Fireman/Paramedic – Roy DeSoto. Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucas."

She's almost as tall as I am. "Fireman/Paramedic – John Gage. The pleasure's all mine, I assure you," Johnny gushed, reaching out a hand in her direction. Miss, huh? I bet she's one smart chick – being a teacher and all.

Roy could see the wheels turning in his partner's one track mind. Uh, oh – here comes the old Gage charm. He'll probably start with something about how dangerous his job is. Right about…now…

"Ya know, being a firefighter is a dangerous job," Johnny spoke, answering the silent cue from Roy's mind. He smiled, displaying a well used dimple and a row of straight teeth.

"Is that so?" Karen countered, lifting an eyebrow at Gage's less than subtle approach. She ignored the veiled come-on and turned to her charges. "Children, are there any questions you'd like to ask Mr. Gage and Mr. DeSoto?"

Questions were fired in rapid salvos. Roy and John began the tour of the fire station in the dormitory but quickly discovered that the rowdy bunch of ten year olds were fascinated by the rescue equipment, particularly the K-12 and Jaws. Several tow-headed boys were full of questions and morbid curiosity in hearing detailed accounts of the really 'gruesome accident' scenes.

With patience and good humor, the paramedic team answered questions and demonstrated the use of a fire extinguisher and a porta power. The tour was a success and both paramedics were a hit with the kids. Witchiepoo didn't make an appearance, nor did Pufnstuff, and thankfully, no still alarms were called in to dispatch.

"Well, I hope that you all learned something today about being a fireman, er, firefighter," Johnny corrected himself, noticing the sullen frown on one of the little girls. He smiled his most charming smile for the kids and their pretty teacher. "I would be more than happy to stop by your school anytime if you'd like to learn more," he commented as he sidled up next to Karen and looked hopefully at her.

"You do seem to be a natural at what you do," she conceded. "We might want to put on a program for the entire school. I'll have to talk with my principal and she may want to contact your Captain about it."

"Feel free to contact ME anytime," John hinted. "As a matter of fact, let me give you my number -- in case you have any questions." He reached for the lime green pen in residence in his left breast pocket and flipped open his vitals notebook, jotting down his number. Before he could pass it on to Karen though, the same annoying kid tugged on Johnny's shirt sleeve.

"Hey! You never did answer my question, Mister," little Freddy McLaughlin pointed out to the dark-haired paramedic. "Why do you guys have to clean and stuff? Isn't that women's work?"

Johnny rolled his eyes and darted a furtive glance at Roy. Help me out here, Roy – you're the senior partner.

Roy stepped into the fray -- the calm voice of reason. He squatted down next to Fred, his backside resting on the squad's bumper. He braced his hands on his knees and began to explain the intricacies of housekeeping in a firehouse. "Well, it's like this," he began earnestly, "your Mom wants you to keep your room clean, right?"

Fred's lower lip jutted out, petulantly. "Yeah."

"Because she's kind of your boss?" Roy continued, hoping he was making headway.

"I guess so," the kid answered, a bit reluctant to concede Roy's point.

"It's the same way at a firehouse, Fred. Captain Stanley -- that's our boss, has us clean up our own messes because we live here when we're on duty," he explained. "It would get pretty messy around here if we didn't. So yes, we have to mop floors, wash dishes and make our beds."

Fred mulled over Roy's explanation, quirking his mouth in acceptance. "I guess that's cool," he finally said.

Roy grinned at Fred and ruffled his shaggy, red hair. "Well, I'm glad we have your approval."

"Time to go, children," Miss Lucas advised her class. She turned to Roy and Johnny, a grateful smile on her lips. "Thank you Mr. DeSoto," she said as she shook Roy's hand. She nodded towards John. "Mr. Gage," she acknowledged.

"But wait, I…" Johnny was interrupted by the rude sounding of the station's alarm.

"Engine Eight, Station Fifty-One, Engine Thirty-six; structure fire, 1-3-3 Wood Street. One, three, three Wood Street. Cross Street; Mill Road. Time out: 13:52."

"Stand back kids!" Roy warned as the men from the engine crew hustled out of various corners of the station to don their turnout coats and climb aboard the pumper. He slid behind the wheel of the squad truck and pulled on his helmet, starting the engine and letting it idle. His partner jumped into the passenger seat, slipping into paramedic mode once again.

Fourteen fascinated children and one thunderstruck teacher stood rooted to their spots, in awe of these men and their machinery. They watched slack jawed as Mike Stoker brought the big, red fire engine to life with a roar of diesel cylinders and Captain Stanley calmly took the incident information from the dispatcher.

The children were forgotten as the men boarded their vehicles and rushed out into the bright sunshine, barely clearing the moving overhead door. There was a fire, somewhere. And these men were going to put it out.

As the sirens screamed and emergency lights flashed through the early afternoon, one little red-headed boy looked after the disappearing vehicles with a grin on his face. I'm going to be a fireman when I grow up! Even if I do have to make my bed…

The flames surrounded her, gold and greedy, and terrifingly hot. Fire raced along the floorboards, hissing like an angry snake. She was trapped, fire writhing on either side of the open doorway. Smoke burned her lungs and stung her eyes as she sputtered and coughed, her lungs screaming for clean air.

I don't want to die! She stumbled backward, unable to judge just how far it was to the door and open window. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the wail of sirens. Thank God -- the fire department is on it's way!

She lurched into the safe haven and pulled the door shut, but smoke still filtered underneath it. Struggling to a sitting position, she pulled the ribbed collar of her tee shirt over her nose and mouth, trying to block out the choking haze. The sirens got louder. Please -- hurry!

Grabbing a couple of towels, she turned the cold water on full force, soaking the absorbent cotton thoroughly before shoving them into the crack under the door, effectively blocking the smoke. She coughed raggedly and tried to inhale great amounts of the precious clean air, coming through the open window. Her lungs screamed for nourishment. Struggling to remain conscious, she pulled herself upright. The ceramic tile felt wonderful on her hot skin. She laid her forehead against the oversized, antique claw foot bathtub, savoring it's coolness. The edges of her vision seemed to crowd towards the center, blocking out the horrifying mental image of her beloved home going up in flames. She slid bonelessly to the floor and knew nothing.

Engine Eight was the first unit to arrive on the scene and Captain Franklin Stone (aka Stoney), one of the few African American Captains in the LA County Fire Department, went about the task of setting up the fire command. He deployed his own men with hoses to fight the blaze.

"LA, Engine Eight. Respond a second alarm assignment to our location."

"Engine Eight, ten-four."

Thick, pungent smoke greeted the firefighters from Station Fifty-one as they pulled up next to the fully involved house. It clogged the air, changing day into night. Flames crackled and popped as the fire ate away at the old wood and plaster of the Italian style century home.

Stoney's voice echoed across the radio. "Fifty-one, lay another supply line. Eight's crew is in the rear of the house on the first floor. We need another manned inch and a half on the second floor." The engine company from Thirty-six's arrived behind Stanley's crew. Stoney directed them to ventilate the structure and protect the surrounding exposures.

Fifty-one's Lopez and Kelly scrambled down from their jumpseat positions on the engine as Stoker braked to a stop, scurrying to the hose bed. Chet tugged at the length of inch and a half hose, dragging it towards the front door of the blazing home. He screwed the nozzle onto the end and awaited the surge of pressure indicating the water was ready for the demands of the fire.

Marco grabbed the heavy four-inch LDH with brass two and a half inch connectors, connecting one end to the intake manifold and hauled the other towards the hydrant. He made quick work of the cover and attached the hose, giving Stoker a thumbs up for connection. He then strapped on his tank and breathing apparatus and rushed to aid Chet, manning the line.

Mike started the water pump that would charge Kelly's line. He yanked on the demand valve, sending the water on its way. Stoker monitored the pressure gauges, going about his work with quiet competence.

"Oh my God! Jane!" screamed a fair-haired man from down the street. He dropped the leash attached to a bay colored Bassett Hound and sprinted towards the burning house.

Deputy Howard stopped him at the base of the porch steps. The man struggled in Vince's grasp. "No! Jane, my wife is in there! I took Henrietta for a walk around the block while she was painting." He clawed at the deputy's arms, in a frenzy to reach the house.

"Calm down, sir! Which area of the house was she in?" Vince asked the distraught husband, avoiding the man's swinging arms.

"Uh…upstairs, in the hallway and in the master bedroom," he stuttered. "It's the last room on the right from the top of the stairs. Please, hurry!" He tried to rush forward once again, but Vince restrained him.

"Okay, but promise me you're going to stay put." Deputy Howard pointed at him, meaning business. "We'll get her out," he promised.

"Hank!" Vince called for Captain Stanley.

The old wood crackled and hissed loudly as it burned – the house was nearly gone already. As Johnny donned his SCBA, he realized there was little hope of finding her alive. If the flames hadn't reached her, the deadly smoke would have, making it impossible to breathe.

While Chet and Marco doused the burning staircase, Johnny rushed into the inferno. Heedless of the forty pound air tank on his back, Gage bounded up the stairs, barely touching the steps. Knowing how little time remained for the victim, John headed directly for the master bedroom. The beam of his flashlight did little to cut a path through the darkness and swirling smoke. Ironically, the light from the fire lit his way. The flames blocking the doorway licked at what once had been solid oak trim and crown molding. Tendrils of flame invaded the room to torch the sheer curtains hanging in the windows.

He raised his hands, as if to ward off the intense heat, trying to see into the bedroom. He backed away to the stairwell, pushing his air mask up off of his face and yelling for back-up. "Chet, Marco! Up here!" he screamed, coughing as the choking smoke filled his airway. He replaced his mask, being careful not to breathe too deeply, using up the precious supply.

Kelly and Lopez moved a little more cautiously up the stairs, dragging the leaden fire hose with them. They opened a full stream on the flames burning in the hallway, extinguishing the danger for Johnny to enter the master suite.

Gage entered the room, searching all corners. A beautiful handmade quilt adorned the four-poster bed. He searched the entire room. Nothing! Where is she? As he swept through the room once again, he caught site of a piece of cloth sticking under what appeared to be a closet door She wouldn't…" he thought. Then remembered all of the hiding places both children and adults crawled into when panicked by fire.

He pried his glove off of his hand with his teeth, placing his unprotected appendage against the wooden door, testing its temperature. It was barely warm. He pulled on the handle, surprised when the body of a woman literally fell at his feet. He perused the tile covered floor, noting the wet towels on the floor and the open window. A bathroom – attagirl! He cheered silently.

Johnny reached for the unconscious woman, placing his fingers against her carotid artery, searching for signs of life. There, a faint but discernible pulse. He removed his air mask, placing it over her soot streaked face, willing her to breathe in the sweet oxygen mixture. Other than a scrape on her forehead and the dark stain of soot around her nose and mouth, she looked perfectly normal, as if she cat-napped on her bathroom floor every day.

Gage folded her comatose form into an easy to lift human package, picking her up and positioning her across his shoulder in a classic fireman's carry. He also picked up a wet towel and draped it over her body to protect it from the searing heat of the flames before exiting the room under the overspray from Kelly and Lopez' line.

Whump, whump! Johnny banged on the ambulance rear doors and the victim and his partner were whisked away in a cacophony of sirens and emergency lights towards Rampart. Gage turned away to clean up the remnants of their treatment regimen – a couple of adhesive bandage strips. She was lucky – smoke inhalation and a bump on the head. A couple more minutes and…

"Cap!" yelled Marco, pulling a stumbling Chet Kelly behind him.

Kelly bobbled and nearly fell, save for Marco's steadying arm. He appeared drunk, swaying to and fro, like he had just gotten off of Alice's swirling tee-cup ride at Disneyland. He was sweating profusely.

"What the hell happened?" barked Stanley.

"I don't know, Cap. We were working on containing the fire on the second floor and Chet started having trouble holding on to the line," Marco replied. He cast a worried glance at his friend.

Gage came forward, offering a supporting arm to Kelly. "Let's get him over here." He led them to a spot down the sidewalk, into one of the neighboring yards.

"Let's get this turnout off of him, Cap," advised Johnny. He unbuckled the hooks and Hank helped him slide the coat off of the firefighter. Johnny layed the back of his hand against the ashen man's cheek. "He's burning up!"

Chet's head lolled to the side. He was incoherent and struggling to keep awake. "Ssso tired," he murmured.

"Chet. Chet, can you hear me?" Johnny urged the stocky Irishman. "Get a hose, Marco."

Chet came to as a long pink tongue roughly lapped at his cheek. He was wet and had a pounding headache. "Geesh, Henry – stop that!" Another lap over his mustache and nose brought the distinct odor of dog breath to Chet's nostrils. "Henry!" Eyes closed, Chet pushed absently at the offending canine.

"Boy, Chet – no wonder you have a hard time with the chicks. You don't even know when you're in the presence of a lady," Johnny joked.

"What?" Chet tried to sit up, entangling himself in the tube of his IV. Man, it's hot!

Sad brown eyes stared straight into Chet's blue ones. Henrietta, the homeowners' pet Bassett looked forlornly at her new best pal, Chet Kelly.

"Hey, now! Don't go and mess up the professional job I did on that IV," warned Johnny, urging him back down onto the grass.

Chet was confused. That looks like…Henry, but it can't be. "What happened, Gage?"

"You went and passed out on us, is what happened, Chester B. Me and Henrietta, here, nursed you back to health."

Chet looked from the dog to the paramedic and shut his eyes, drifting. What a dream…no a nightmare. Gage and…Henry? I hope he didn't give me mouth-to-mouth.

Hank walked into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffee pot. He had finished the paperwork on the house fire and gotten an update on Chet's condition from Rampart. If someone had told me that being a captain involved so much worrying and paperwork, I would have stayed an engineer!

"How's Chet doing, Cap?" asked Marco, from his position on the couch. Henry, their newly acquired station mascot, rolled his sad Basset Hound eyes and shifted his position into a more comfortable repose on Marco's lap.

"Yeah, is he going to be all right?" Mike asked, obviously concerned for his fellow firefighter.

"I told you guys – Chet's too ornery to stay down for long," Johnny joked. Since the fire, Johnny's funk had seemingly disappeared. He had been chatting up a blue streak while sitting at the giant kitchen table. Roy sat next to him, nibbling on one of Joanne's famous oatmeal and raisin cookies, updating the squad log.

"Yes, Chet's going to be just fine," Hank informed his crew. "They're keeping him overnight for observation and he'll be off his next shift. He'll be back in a few days. Headquarters is sending over a replacement for him."

"That's good news," commented Roy.

"So John, Roy – how did the tour go today?" Hank asked his paramedics.

Roy glanced up from the log to reply. "Great, Cap! They really seemed to enjoy it. Miss Lucas may want to set up something for the entire school. I know that getting called out to that fire was an added bonus for them. Did you see their faces when the alarm went off?"

Hank smiled. "Well as long as it was informative and they didn't cause any trouble," he said, hinting at the Pufnstuf disaster.

"Did ya get a load of that teacher -- Karen?" Johnny sighed. "Man, I bet she's smart."

"Pretty too," Roy chuckled, knowing his partner's weakness.

"Yeah," Johnny breathed. He reached for a cookie, distracted by thoughts of the pretty and obviously, single schoolteacher. "And that darned kid!" He turned to face Roy at the table. "I was this close," he complained, holding his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. "I was this close, to getting her number." He snorted in dissatisfaction and continued to stuff yet another cookie in his mouth.

He took a swallow of milk, creating a disgusting sight when he opened his mouth to speak again. Johnny had a revolting habit of talking with his mouth full.

Hank turned away from the nauseating view of John's chewed food. That's disgusting, Gage! Where were you raised -- in a barn?

"Boyh, ith bin a quieth shiff so fah, hashin ith?" John commented around a mouthful of oatmeal and raisins. "Eshpechiwee wiffout Cheshah Beeh around."

He barely got the words out as the tones sounded. "Squad Fifty-one, man down. 3-2-2-5 University. Three, two, two, five University. Cross street Central. Time out, 15:00."

"You had to go and say the 'Q' word, didn't ya, Junior?" Roy shook his head as he pushed his chair away from the table. Johnny took another gulp of milk to wash down his mouthful of cookies. The dynamic duo sprinted for the Squad.

"Squad Fifty-one, KMG-365," acknowledged Hank Stanley, from the communications alcove. He handed the call address to Roy through the Squad window.

"Thanks, Cap," Roy acknowledged his Captain before flipping on the lights and sirens and pulling into traffic.

In the passenger seat, Johnny mentally plotted the quickest route to the address. "That's the underclassmen dormitories at the college, isn't it?" he asked his partner behind the wheel.

"Yeah. I wonder what it is this time," Roy muttered.

"Probably another initiation or hazing prank," Johnny complained. He shook his head in disgust. Stupid kids.

As they approached University Avenue, the pedestrian traffic became heavier. Students were walking to and from class and didn't blink an eye at the approaching emergency vehicle with sirens screaming.

"Turn here, Roy," Johnny advised. "There it is," he informed Roy, pointing to an old four-story stone dormitory building about a third of the way down the street.

A frantic young man was waving them down as Roy screeched to a stop beside the curb. They piled out of the truck and reached for their equipment.

"Hurry! It's Michael -- he's passed out, I think."

"What's your name?" Roy asked the panicked youth.

"Howard," he answered. "Howard Collins."

"Can I help you with that?" the kid offered.

"Thanks," Johnny grunted as he passed off the Datascope and defibrillator to him. He was left with the heavy oxygen unit while Roy toted the orange encased communications equipment and drug box.

Following Howard, Johnny and Roy trotted up the steps into the building, past a group of young students to the second floor – room 211. They entered the dorm room where a thick, white cloud of vapor hung in the air. Coughing, Johnny covered his nose and mouth. "What is that – Right Guard?" he asked. The odor was strong enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"We can't treat him in here," Roy pointed out, unnecessarily. "Johnny, we better move him out into the hall." Johnny lifted the boy under the arms and Roy grasped his legs as they shifted the unconscious boy into the hallway to a lounge area. They placed him on a well worn sofa, where Johnny immediately began his assessment, coughing a little as he palpated a weak pulse.

He inspected the boy's arms, looking for puncture sites from drug use. He noted that his veins were tiny. This might be a hard stick. Johnny hung the patient's left arm down off the couch as low as possible so that the blood flow would increase in that direction.

Roy extended the antenna on his H.T. unit. "LA, this is Squad Fifty-one."

"Squad Fifty-one," dispatch acknowledged.

"We have possible hazardous vapors at our location. Please respond an engine," Roy explained, clearing his throat roughly.

"Squad Fifty-one. Do you have any information on the materials involved?"

"Negative, LA. There's a faint sulfur-like odor – probably butane, but there's an almost overwhelming smell of deoderant that's masking it. The entire second floor requires ventilation."

"Squad Fifty-one – ten four."

Less than a minute later, they heard the familiar cadence of Sam Lanier's voice as he dispatched Engine Fifty-one to the scene. Cap and the crew were on their way.

There were fumes leaking from underneath the closed door. Roy turned to the gathering crowd of students. "Could someone get a blanket from one of these rooms and stuff it under the door until the engine company gets here? And send somebody downstairs to meet them and the ambulance."

As the group galvanized into action, Roy cautioned the remaining kids. "Could the rest of you step back, please and let us work." He looked to the frightened boy who had directed them, pinning him with an intense gaze. "Do you know him, uh…Howard?" he asked, stumbling over the young man's name.

"Yes, we've been friends since high school," he replied. "We decided on CUOn the verge of tears and obviously distraught over his friend's condition, he stood wringing his hands and darting worried glances at the prone figure on the couch.

"Does he have any history of asthma, allergies, heart problems -- any medical conditions that you know? Is he on any medication?" Roy continued to ask while he set-up the bio-phone. "Does he use drugs?"

"No…no," the frightened student answered. "Michael's a normal, healthy guy. He runs almost everyday. He's totally against drugs -- doesn't even drink beer."

Roy squatted next to the sofa and contacted the hospital. "Rampart base this is County Fifty-one. How do you read?" DeSoto reached out a hand to the Collins boy, intent on getting his point across. "Listen, Howard, you've got to be straight with us. Keeping a confidence isn't going to help Michael here." Roy gestured towards the prostrate form of his friend.

"I swear, Mister, Mike's not like that."

Johnny was listening intently to the young man's heart with his stethoscope. "Roy, his pulse is 130 and thready." He inflated the bp cuff and released it slowly, looking up at his partner. "Pressure's 80 over 50." He then held his hand lightly on the boy's chest. "Respirations are 28 and real shallow," he said, with concern. He's not getting enough oxygen. He reached automatically for the oxygen unit, setting it up and placing a mask over the boy's nose and mouth, allowing the maximum amount of the O2 to flow.

Doctor Kelly Brackett, head of emergency medicine at Rampart General was making notations in a patient's chart when the base station crackled to life. He answered the call, recognizing Roy DeSoto's voice. "Fifty-one, this is Rampart. We read you loud and clear. Continue with your transmission."

He reached for his clipboard and a blank patient information form, intent on gathering as much history and relevant information regarding the victim's condition. He listened as Roy
relayed the vital signs to Rampart and informed them of the fumes he had inhaled. "Rampart, we have a male patient – approximately 18 years of age. He was found unconscious in his dorm room. He has inhaled unknown, possibly hazardous fumes. Patient is also cyanotic. Pulse is 130 -- respirations 28 and shallow -- BP is 80 over 50. We have him on 15 liters of O2."

Brackett quickly summarized the patient's problems – low bp, too rapid heartrate and low oxygen intake. He needed oxygen and volume replenishment immediately to bring his blood pressure up to normal and hopefully oxygenate his overtaxed lungs and heart. His instructions were clear and precise as he activated the communications link via the base unit. "Start an IV – Normal Saline, TKO with a 500 cc bolus. Can you send me an EKG? We'll also need a blood sample for labs."

Roy glanced at Johnny, who was attaching the leads to the boy's chest and returned to his transmission. "Ten-four, Rampart. Saline – bolus of 500 cc's, TKO. We're patching him in now. Stand by for a strip. This will be lead 2, Rampart."

Both paramedics watched the Datascope with concern. Johnny pulled the drug box a little closer, readying the possible needed drugs if the situation turned sour. Epi, bicarb, lidocaine…

DeSoto replaced the phone receiver and went to work readying the infusion set-up for the IV. With the blood pressure cuff still in place, he inflated it once again. It acted like a tourniquet to keep the blood in the lower portion of the patient's arm – making the needle easier to insert. DeSoto deftly inserted the needle into a vein and attached the cannula.

Kel's voice crackled across the airwaves. "Fifty-one, I read sinus tachycardia with PVC's. Do you have an updated set of vitals?"

Roy confirmed Brackett's diagnosis as he took the patient's pulse and respirations again. "Ten-four, Rampart. We concur on the PVC's and sinus-tach. Stand by for a new set of vital signs."

Johnny removed the stethoscope from his ears after recording the victim's blood pressure. "Roy, BP's up a little to 90 over 60."

Suddenly, the wavelengths changed on the EKG transmitting over the Datascope.

"V-fib!" clamored Johnny.

DeSoto and Gage quickly deposited the kid on the floor, clearing everything out of the way. Roy reached for the defibrillator paddles. Johnny grabbed the tube of conductive gel, smearing a liberal amount on one of the paddles before rubbing them together.

Brackett's baritone voice was controlled as he barked orders over the communication link. "Fifty-one, v-fib! Countershock at 400 watt seconds."

DeSoto placed the paddles – one to the right of the victim's sternum and one on the left side of his lower ribcage. "Charging!" Johnny alerted him to the defibrillator status. "400!"

"Clear!" Bwawump. The young man's body stiffened as the charge of electricity channeled through him. It relaxed again as the current ran it's course. The Datascope still read that annoying little squiggle. No conversion.

"Nothing! Again!" Gage counted off the charge. "One…..two…..three….four." The tone sounded, indicating a full charge to the defibrillator. DeSoto shocked the victim once again. The patient's body jerked, but there was no change in the rhythm on the monitor. "Still nothing! Hit him again!" Johnny hated to lose. He activated the defibrillator once again. "Come on, come on," the dark-haired paramedic urged.

Roy discharged the defibrillator a third time. The monitor still showed no conversion to sinus rhythm.

"Pulse?" Gage demanded.

Roy rested his fingers on the victim's carotid artery. He shook his head. "No pulse."

Roy started chest compressions. He instructed the victim's friend to hold the resuscitation mask and how to activate the oxygen flow.

"Howard?" Roy needed assistance and it was going to have to come from this scared college teen. "Howard!" DeSoto barked.

"What?" Howard looked like he might be their next victim. The kid was really scared.

"You're going to have to help Michael. See that resuscitator hanging there on the side of the oxygen tank? Take it and place it over Michael's nose and mouth. Remove the clear mask on his face first. Now, count with me – after every five compressions, you press the nozzle to give him some oxygen."

Johnny, sweat now beading on his brow, lunged for the bio-phone and asked for help. "Rampart, no conversion. We have defibrillated three times. Patient is still in v-fib!"

"Lidocaine, seventy-five milligrams followed by one amp Sodium Bicarb, IV push, and countershock again, Fifty-one," was Kel's brusque reply.

Moving quickly, Johnny retrieved the lidocaine. Popping the plugs from the syringe, he prepared the proper dosage and administered the medication. Roy and Howard continued CPR as Johnny assembled the syringe for the prescribed amp of Bicarb. After clearing the air from the ampule of Bicarb, he pushed the medication rapidly into the youth's system.

"Lidocaine and bicarb are in!" The stress of the situation made Johnny's voice crack slightly.

Roy stopped CPR and picked up the paddles once again. Johnny activated the charger. The system charged quickly and the tone sounded.

"Clear!" Roy shocked the victim again, looking to the Datascope for an answer. The familiar pattern of a heart's sinus rhythm was visible on the screen. "Got him!"

Gage picked up the bio-phone receiver, studying the tracings on the Datascope as Roy prepared to take another set of vitals. Roy looked at his partner, breathing normally for the first time in what seemed like hours, but in reality had only been a few minutes. Roy picked up the bio-phone receiver and contacted Rampart with the patient's updated vital signs.

Their moment of relief was cut short as the ambulance attendants ushered in the stretcher, followed by the crew from Fifty-one, in full turnout and SCBA gear. The two paramedics quickly bundled the victim for transport.

Brackett sighed, relaxing his tense muscles. He leaned closer to the base station microphone. "Sinus rhythm, Fifty-one." He noted the vitals, deciding on the best course of treatment. Sometimes it was damned hard to be on this end of the line, helpless to do anything, but advise and wait. "Start a lidocaine drip, 3 milligrams. Continue monitoring vitals and get him in here." Kel let go of the "talk" switch, exhaling a deep breath. Whew! I bet if someone took my BP right now, it would be through the roof.

ER head nurse Dixie McCall exited treatment room four with x-ray films from the seven year old future Don Drysdale. His arm wasn't broken, but he was out of commission for the 1978 LA County Little League Playoffs. She caught the tail end of Fifty-one's call. The tense stance of Brackett was enough for her to automatically be concerned. "What's wrong, Kel?"

"Dix, better set up five," was his terse reply. "We've got a kid coming in that just went into cardiac arrest."

"A kid? What's he on?"

Kel's mouth twisted in a wry grimace. "That's anybody's guess right now." He walked away from the radio unit, badly needing a cup of coffee. He turned after a couple of steps. "Oh, and Dix – better alert the lab. We're going to need an arterial blood gas, CBC, tox screen and electrolytes pronto."

Dixie smiled as she reached for the phone. "I'm on it."

Kel offered her a wan smile of his own.

Chet sighed as he finished changing into his uniform for the beginning of A-shift. "Guys, I am the luckiest man in the entire LA County Fire Department," he enthused. His expression was a combination of dreamy remembrance and anticipation. He mis-buttoned his shirt and had to start over again.

Mike Stoker was standing at his locker, changing out of his civvies. "Lucky?" scoffed Mike, slipping his sandals off and reaching for a fresh pair of socks. "You call collapsing at a fire and staying overnight in the hospital lucky?"

"Nah, Mike. I mean I'm lucky to have a great girl like Wendy to help nurse me back to health," Chet explained, grinning like an idiot. "That Wendy is one fine chick. She made me chicken soup and brought me a get well plant."

Johnny snorted, unimpressed. Chet shot Gage a scathing look.

Marco finished buttoning his shirt. "Chicken soup, huh?" His tone was full of innuendo. "When a girl starts cooking for you, Chet. You better watch out." He wagged his index finger at Chet as he started to warn his friend about the perils of chicks cooking for a bachelor.

"Pul-lease, Marco – spare me the food and chicks lecture," Chet defended, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "Besides, Wendy's not like that -- she's got class. You know, she's really into cultural events and hobbies. As a matter of fact, she's helping me add some new pieces to my barbed wire collection this weekend." He turned away from the other guys and reached into his locker. After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out his badge. "Wendy says that having a hobby, 'broadens my horizons' – something that you wouldn't know anything about, Gage," smirked Chet, turning to see the effect of his dig at the paramedic.

"Stow it, Chet. We're not interested in your pathetic love life," John retorted, smiling sarcastically at the Irishman. He yanked forcefully on his shoelaces. "Or your crazy hobbies."

"Well, Johnny, old pal, at least I've got a love life," Chet jabbed right back, tucking his uniform shirt into his pants.

"Ha, ha, Chet," Johnny was quick to reply. "Did you lounge around your apartment on County time last shift thinking up great comebacks like that?"

"Hey listen, Gage," Chet picked up his cue perfectly, "I was really sick!" he spoke indignantly, drawing himself up to his full height, looking to Mike for back-up. Mike only shrugged. "Heat exhaustion is nothing to sneeze at!"

"Poor baby," cooed Johnny. "Maybe you need to get in better shape." He reached over and patted Chet's expanding waistline. "Looks like you're expanding your horizons a little too much."

"He's got ya there, pal," agreed Marco.

Hank overheard the debate and poked his head into the locker area. "Children, can we get to work now, or is this cutting into your social hour?" he demanded.

It was late afternoon as John Gage bounced the regulation size orange ball on the cement parking lot. Johnny was taking advantage of the precious little free time. Any minute, the alarm could sound, sending him on another call. He enjoyed shooting hoops, but today he was without his usual luck of sinking a shot at least once in a while.

He caught the basketball as it ascended, shooting for the basket once again. It missed, and he chased after it as it ricocheted off the rim. It rolled to rest near the open bay door. Freshly scrubbed fire hoses in varying sizes hung in the California sunshine, drying. Johnny dribbled the ball a few more times, and then aimed for the net. The ball soared through the air, passing through the rim and net with a soft 'swish.'

"Er, nice shot," Roy commented as he walked towards his partner. "Thought you didn't play basketball."

"I don't," was John's reply, with barely a glance in Roy's direction. He focused, took another shot at making a basket and missed. The ball bounced off the rim and fell drunkenly towards Roy's position. Johnny moved forward a few steps to retrieve the wandering ball, but Roy was closer.

Roy scooped up the ball as it bounced towards him, pausing to study the texture of the orange rubber intently. "What's going on with you and Chet?" he asked, before passing it back to Johnny. "The last couple of shifts working with you two has been like working at the North Pole," complained Roy. "And today you're back to normal – like nothing ever happened."

"Nothing, Roy. It's over -- just forget it," Johnny insisted.

Roy turned away, ready to dismiss the conversation when Johnny started to speak. "I'm sorry, Roy. It's just this thing with Chet is a little hard to explain. It doesn't even make sense to me."

"Well, maybe I can help you figure it out."

"I don't know. Sometimes the guy just…bugs the crap out of me, ya know? He's always trying to one-up me – remember The Phantom? And up 'til now, the only area that I could really compete was with girls."

Roy still had a hard time understanding just why Johnny's shorts were in a knot. "Yeah, but why has that changed?"

"Roy?! Chet's got a girlfriend now!" Johnny raged, careful to keep his voice from carrying towards the open bay door. "Wendy, from the accident last week? They've been going out. I stopped by the hospital to see her last Monday. All she did was thank me for my concern and tell me that she was going out with Chet the next day!"

"So, all this posturing and bulling was over a girl?" Roy asked point-blank.

"Don't put it like that!"

"Well, that's what it all boils down to, isn't it?"

"I..I told you, it didn't make sense!"

You try too hard, Junior. Roy was sympathetic to his partner's plight. "Junior, instead of being jealous of Chet's girlfriend – why don't you go out and get one of your own?"

"I'm working on it, Pally. I'm working on it."

Karen Lucas turned her little foreign compact into Station Fifty-one's driveway and drove into the parking lot in the rear of the station. She parked next to a white monstrosity of a vehicle that looked totally out of place on the streets of LA. It had a huge tire on the hood. How can the driver see to drive that thing? Gathering her courage, she stepped out of the vehicle and headed towards the brick building.

Karen paused and looked through the glass of the heavy garage-like door. All was quiet in the station. The giant red fire truck was gone from its resting place in the apparatus bay. Shoot! I missed him. She turned to leave and caught sight of the rescue squad sitting in readiness for a call. Wait! He doesn't ride on the engine...

Johnny heard a bell ring and started to bolt out of the shower. It's only the doorbell – Roy'll answer it. The basketball practice and the talk with Roy had cleared his mind and a shower was just the ticket for washing his cares away.

Roy answered the door and was surprised to see the teacher from their tour group last shift. "Hi, Miss Lucas," Roy greeted the station's visitor. "What can I do for you?"

"Please, call me Karen."

"Well, Karen – what do we owe the honor of your visit?" Roy smiled encouragingly at the pretty young woman. He ushered her through the door and into the common area of the station.

"I spoke to my principal about a school-wide fire safety program and she thought it was a great idea. So, I thought I'd stop by and iron out some details. Your Captain…um, Stanley okayed it -- thought it was a great idea for the entire station to participate. And since your partner volunteered...

"Really?" Roy's interest was piqued. It wasn't often that ladies came to the station in search of John Gage. "That sounds great. I bet the kids will enjoy it."

"By the way, is Mr. Gage around?" she asked, looking around the sprawling kitchen and day room, her eyes darting towards the doorway leading to the vehicle bay.

"He's cleaning up – we had a fire earlier and…"

"He wasn't hurt was he?" She asked a little too quickly.

Roy suppressed a smile. "No, he's just fine – it's just that as paramedics, we have to keep ourselves pretty clean to treat patients – no one wants a soot smeared hand inserting an IV into their arm," he joked.

"Oh, I guess not."

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" he offered.

"Yes. That would be nice. Thank you."

Roy reached for a clean cup and tipped the stainless steel container, pouring the firehouse brew into the ceramic mug.

Johnny quickly finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair and grabbed a fluffy, white towel from the towel bar. He rubbed his hair briskly, absorbing as much water as possible. I really should get a trim, he thought absently.

As Gage exited the shower stall, he thought again about the raven-haired teacher from their tour group. Why don't you just go over to the school and talk to her? Because she's too smart for you, Gage.

He grabbed another towel and wrapped it around his 'skinny, but tough' twenty-nine inch waist.

Roy sat across from Karen, drinking his umpteenth cup of coffee of the day. Maybe your luck is changing, partner.

"You know, I was so busy trying to keep the kids from misbehaving the other day, I'm embarrassed to admit – I don't really recall too much of the tour."

Roy chuckled. "That's understandable. Want to have another look around? I'll give you the nickel tour since you got short-changed."

That comment made Karen laugh too. "Sure."

They walked out into the vehicle quarters, which seemed massively empty without "Big Red" sitting in her usual spot. Roy showed her the Captain's office and the radio equipment. He even told her the story of the famous still alarm incident.

"It was really funny, even if we did suffer the humiliation of the entire department hearing about it," he recalled. "Who knew that kids that age would have caught on so quickly? Johnny explained the radio procedure and we pulled out some of the equipment to do a demo and the next thing we knew, this kid was calling in a still alarm." He laughed outright, imitating the high voice of an eight year old. "LA, this is Station 51 – we have a still alarm with a possible Code I. Witchiepoo has kidnapped Mayor Pufnstuf. He is trapped in her fortress on Living Island."

Karen laughed right along with Roy as he was overcome with mirth again. "Oh no! What did you do?"

"Well, Johnny snatched the microphone from the kid's hands and canceled the call. To this day, he hates to use the radio when Sam, one of our dispatchers, is on duty. Sam took the call and hasn't let Johnny forget it, either."

"Uh oh. I'm almost afraid to ask what happened next."

"Sam called the station one day and asked for Johnny and when he got to the phone, Sam was humming the theme song from the TV show and then he said, "Hi, Johnny! Who's your friend when things get rough?"

They laughed together, the sound bouncing off the hard brick walls.

Johnny heard laughter echoing from somewhere in the station as he dried the droplets of moisture off of his bare torso. With a towel slung low on his hips, he strode towards his locker.

The laughing increased in volume.

"This is the locker room," Roy's clear voice sounded from just beyond the swinging door. He pushed it open, holding it ajar for his tourist. "It's pretty self explanatory. There are three shifts, so there are about twenty men…"

Roy stopped abruptly, noticing Johnny's scantily clad form standing in front of his open locker door. Karen started to make a remark about the mess caused by that many men when she noticed the nearly naked fireman in front of her. The comment died in her throat.

An embarrassed John Gage stood staring at the mirage in front of him. No! I'm seeing things. That's…Karen. It was like he had conjured her up from just thinking about her. Gage was so stunned that he didn't move. He was paralyzed, like a deer in the overwhelming brightness of oncoming headlights.

Roy cleared his throat, almost as embarrassed as his partner. "Er, Johnny – uh, shouldn't you…a…change or something?" DeSoto backed up out of the doorway, leading the mute teacher away.

"Huh?" Johnny continued to stare at the swinging door. "Oh, yeah…change. Sure, Roy," he answered, but failed to move.

Roy DeSoto, one half of Squad Fifty-one's paramedic team of DeSoto and Gage, finished up the required paperwork for the heart case they had just brought into the ER. Roy was better at remembering the details of their treatment protocols anyway. He stood at the emergency base station, signing one of the many necessary forms. He handed it over to Dixie and tucked the box of supplies under his right arm.

Johnny retrieved the Datascope from treatment room three and approached Dixie's makeshift desk. "Hey, Dix." He turned towards his partner. "Looks like Mr. Larson didn't have an MI. Dr. Early thinks it was just an angina attack. He's stable now and wanting out of here." He chuckled and turned back to Dixie without skipping a beat. "By the way, how's that college kid we brought in the other day?" he asked.

Dixie avoided his gaze and shook her head. "He didn't make it," she answered somberly. "The coroner's report said that his blood contained .37 milligrams per liter of butane. A fatal dose is only .1 milligrams. He went into cardiac arrest because of the high levels of the toxic chemicals in his bloodstream. His heart was just too weakened to recover."

Roy whistled. "How did he get exposed to so much?" he asked, puzzled.

"Well, believe it or not, it seems he was using too much antiperspirant," she answered him.

"What?!" Johnny exclaimed, clearly not believing what he was hearing.

At their perplexed expressions, she went on to explain. "His friend said he was obsessed with his personal hygiene -- especially how he smelled. Most of those aerosol antiperspirants and hair sprays contain butane as a propellant. It's pretty lethal stuff in high concentrations. He literally sprayed himself to death."

Johnny was taken aback. "Wow," he breathed. "That's freaky."

"Real freaky," she sympathized. It was hard to lose a patient, especially a young one. She quickly changed her tone and the subject. "Well, it seems the LA County Fire Department has a new fan," Dixie commented wryly.

"Well, at least one member of the department does," corrected Roy. He directed his comment to his partner, who shot him a scathing look in return.

Thanks a heap, partner. "But why?" Johnny questioned rhetorically. "Why Chet?"

"You mean why him and not you, hmm?" Dixie prodded, enjoying his discomfiture. "Maybe she likes his sense of humor," Dixie pointed out to her paramedic audience. "He probably makes her laugh. And she did say that his mustache was sexy," she said, rubbing salt in Johnny's wounds.

Johnny absently rubbed the smooth skin above his lip. I'd look pretty sexy with a mustache.

"I just don't get it," John muttered. "I really don't understand. I mean, she's a knockout, independent, funny – an all around nice girl."

"Oh I agree, Johnny. Wendy's a real sweet girl," Dixie answered.

"I thought you said she was hostile," Roy pointed out to his partner.

Johnny shrugged and dismissed Roy's comment with a wave of his hand. "Nah, she was just upset and I happened to be the closest person around. She just transferred all of her anger towards the jerk who ran into her," Johnny reasoned, yanking his thumb in the air impotently, "to me," and patting his own chest.

Now where have I heard that before? Roy shook his head. You only listen when you talk to yourself, Junior.

"The world works in mysterious ways, Junior," Roy commented, his blues eyes twinkling in amusement. He worked hard to keep from grinning, but failed miserably.

"It sure does," Johnny sighed.

"I can see the headlines now," Roy explained. He dramatically flashed a marquee in the air with his hands. "VICTIM HEAD OVER HEELS FOR FIREMAN WHO SAVED HER LIFE. It would make a great human interest story. What if they end up married?" he chuckled at his own comedic efforts.

"Well, I wouldn't go publicizing anything yet, partner. They've only gone out a few times," John replied sourly. He looked sullenly at his partner and Rampart's head nurse.

"Yeah, every day off since they met last week is a few times," was Roy's quick rejoinder.

"And I wouldn't start mailing invitations yet, either." Suddenly, Johnny brightened, remembering the small piece of paper in his shirt pocket. "Besides, I'm more of an intellectual kind of guy, myself," he commented loftily, rocking on his heels. Removing the slip from his uniform pocket and brandishing it like a sword, he looked smugly at his friends. "I think Karen and I are going to get along just great."

The teacher again. I'm going to have to buy a TV guide to keep up with this soap opera. At least she was smart enough to check out the goods before she gave you her number. Roy snorted, hoping to cut him off before he had to listen to another litany. "Come on, Junior, let's head back before they call the cavalry out to get us," Roy prodded his reluctant partner.

"Hey, don't mention the cavalry around an Indian, Pally -- especially this one," Johnny retorted, shooting Roy a trademark scowl.

Roy held up his hands in mock surrender, and gestured for Johnny to lead the way down the hospital corridor. He walked a step behind, carrying the handy talkie. He turned to wink at Dixie McCall, following his partner towards the squad.

Back to normal, or as normal as it gets.

Author's Notes: The butane poisoning accident is based on a true story. Kudos to the entire Station 51 Chat Crew -- especially Rose and Pat for their research and medical expertise. Beta thanks go to Karen, Beth and Debbie. Any inaccuracies are solely mine! This story is dedicated to my hubby, Howie, for putting up with my obsessions. I'm Head over Heels for ya!

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