Refuge

“Jones told me yesterday, Castelli's out for a couple months at least.”

“Hmm?” Roy answered his partner, distracted. His mind and stomach were focused on getting the squad safely to the grocery store before they got a call.

“Yeah. It's crazy,” Johnny said. He craned his neck, sticking his head out the window to survey the parking lot. “Over there, there's one,” he interjected, pointing at an open parking spot.

Roy headed the squad in that direction. “What's crazy?”

“Roo-ooy, aren't you listening?” Johnny said, sounding briefly like a frustrated child. “I said, Castelli's out for a couple months.”

“Why?” Roy asked.

“You didn't hear? Some nut-job kicked him right out the back of the ambulance.” His hands waved wildly in the air in an unnecessary attempt to illustrate his story. “Just like that. Messed up his knee, broke his tailbone, broke his wrist. Got his bell rung too, when he hit the concrete. It's crazy, I tell you. It's not safe to do this job anymore.”

Like it ever was, Roy thought as he ducked Johnny's flailing hands. “You're kidding,” he said. “I didn't hear about that. When did it happen?”

“When you had that Kelly day last week. I can't believe no one told you.”

Roy steered the squad into the parking spot his sharp-eyed partner had spied and switched off the ignition. He turned to Gage. “Some nut-job?” he repeated.

“Yeah, a psych eval,” Johnny answered, using paramedic shorthand for a patient transported to the hospital for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. “The nursing home told Castelli and Jones he was gorked out on Ativan and wasn't going to be any trouble at all. Then to make things worse, Jonesie flattened the guy right afterwards and bought a 5-day suspension.”

Roy didn't say anything as he stepped out of the squad. He was too surprised to comment. His growling stomach was momentarily forgotten

Johnny got out as well, but paused for a moment, his foot on the running board. “No trouble at all, huh? Guess what?” he said, shaking his head. “They were wrong. Way wrong, man.”

*

“About time you got back,” Chet said as the paramedics walked into the dayroom, grocery bags in hand. “We're starved. I've got the table set and everything,” he said, flourishing his hands unnecessarily over the table in front of him.

“We were talkin' about Castelli and Jones. No one told Roy,” Johnny explained.

“Yeah, he got a bum deal there,” agreed Chet. “A real nut-ball. I don't know why they have you guys pick up psychs. What are you going to do with them except take them to the hospital?”

“And then the hospital just signs them in for an involuntary hold. They're out on the street a couple days later,” Roy said.

Marco was monitoring the conversation from the sink, where he was rinsing left-over breakfast dishes. “No one knows what else to do with them,” Marco said. “They shove them off on you because the government let them out of the mental hospitals, and the cops and nursing homes don't want to deal with them either.”

“Well, I for one am sick of it,” Johnny said. “We're paramedics, not babysitters.” He slammed the grocery bags on the table in frustration.

“Someone is going to get killed one of these days,” Roy agreed. “Joanne understands that I could die in a fire or accident. But she'll never understand if I get whacked by a crazy.”

Mike moved his head out from behind the newspaper, which he had been sitting on the couch reading. Henry -- whose head lay on the engineer's lap -- mimicked the action, eyeing the men who dared interrupted his nap. “Why don't the nursing homes call the ambulance company directly for a non-emergency run?” Mike asked, absently scratching behind Henry's ears.

“Because non-emergency calls have a response time of three hours or more,” Johnny explained. “Sometimes it takes them a whole day. The nursing homes want to unload the trouble-makers as soon as possible, and the cops don't want them in the lock-ups. So they call us.” Gage started unloading groceries, wincing when he noticed what his sudden display of anger had done to the contents.

*

After weekdays filled with house duties, drills and the day-to-day operational minutia that keeps the fire service running smoothly, Sundays in most firehouses across the country are a day of rest and recreation. It was a tradition that Station 51 followed closely.

Johnny had his Land Rover in pieces in the back lot for a long-overdue brake job. Roy alternated between helping Johnny and paying bills that he had carefully spread out on the kitchen table. Chet and Marco played a game of one-on-one out back before settling down to argue about which game to watch on TV. Mike brought in a stack of unread newspapers that had built up at home and barely budged from the couch. Captain Stanley finished up some paperwork in his office before settling down at the kitchen table with a cup of a coffee and a long-awaited donut.

Except for an activated fire alarm shortly after the start of shift and an MVA with a case of Allstate-itis before lunch, all had been quiet. Eventually, Marco pulled himself away from the TV long enough to start assembling the items that the paramedics had picked up at the grocery store.

“Whatcha makin'?” Chet asked as he lazily tipped back in his chair, hands behind his head.

“Jambalaya,” Marco responded.

“Jamba-what?”

“Jam-ba-lay-a,” Marco repeated patiently. “It's rice and sausage and shrimp and veggies and all kind of good things.” He heaved a deep sigh. “You'll like it, I promise.”

“I can't eat anything I can't pronounce,” Chet whined. “Caa-aap?”

Captain Stanley looked a little worried. “Are you sure about this, Marco?” he mumbled around his crumbling donut.

“Guys,” Marco began, “have I ever led you astray when it comes to food? Roy made that beef bourginon stuff you couldn't pronounce, and you loved it. Trust me.”

“Don't drag me into this,” Roy said, waving his checkbook at Marco. “But, Chet, I think you'll be safe. I had jambalaya at a restaurant when Joanne and I went to New Orleans. We survived.”

“See?” Marco said triumphantly. “Nothing to worry about. Now, Chet, come here and chop onions for me.”

Chet maneuvered his chair back onto four legs with a sudden clunk. He leaned over to turn off the TV… and the tones sounded.

“Squad 51. Unknown illness. 123 Lakawana. 123 Lakawanna. Cross street French. Police ask that you stage at French and Winston, and respond non-code R. Time out 1428.”

Roy got up from the table, being careful not to disturb his bills and envelopes. “Leave my piles. I've got everything sorted,” he announced to the room before exiting to the apparatus bay. He jogged out back to make sure Johnny was on his way. Johnny met him half way, buttoning his clean uniform shirt over a grease-stained t-shirt.

“Things going OK?” Roy asked, jerking his chin toward the Land Rover.

“Yeah,” Johnny replied as he slid into the seat of the squad. “Should have the rears done by suppertime.”

“Good.” Roy carefully steered the squad out onto 229th street. “Wonder what the unknown illness is?”

“Beats me,” Gage said. “But with police asking us to leave the sirens at home, my guess is something violent. Maybe a domestic?”

“Or maybe a psych,” Roy ventured. “That's all we need.”

*

“Jeez, what's taking so long?” Johnny asked. His long fingers restlessly tapped the side of the squad. The paramedics had been standing outside their vehicle at French and Winston for what felt like forever to him. In reality it was about 15 minutes, but that was more than enough to put the normally energetic Gage into a morass of boredom.

“What am I, psychic? Use your imagination,” Roy replied testily. His partner's impatient fidgeting and pacing was starting to get on his nerves. Just then the radio crackled.

“Squad 51, LA.”

Johnny reached into the open window to grab the mic. “Squad 51,” he replied shortly, his frustration evident to all who listened.

“Police ask that you approach the house now, non-code R.”

“Copy that. What do we have there, LA?”

Sam Laniere's calm voice replied, “35-year-old suicidal male, psych eval.”

Johnny rolled his eyes at Roy. “10-4, LA.”

*

When they walked into the house, they were immediately assaulted by the smell of gasoline.

“Holy Moses,” Johnny said, waving his hand in front of his face. “What the heck happened here?”

“And they aren't much into cleanliness either,” Roy gasped between short, shallow breaths. There were newspapers stacked all over the front room, dirty dishes on every available surface, and grocery bags filled with what appeared to be pieces of cardboard scattered around. A quick peek around confirmed to the paramedics that the rest of the house was in a similar condition.

“Hey guys, down here,” a familiar voice floated from beneath the floor.

They followed the voice down a rickety set of stairs, through a dank basement, to an area behind a boiler that obviously hadn't provided hot water in years. There they found a mattress with a blanket and pillow. What they saw on top of the blanket made them gasp.

At least a half-dozen cops were sitting, literally, on a shirtless, obese man who was breathing heavily and spitting almost constantly. The man was cuffed and face-down on the mattress. His mousy brown hair was matted to parts of his head. His ratty jeans were soaked with an unidentified liquid, while his filthy bare feet stuck out from under an officer who was sprawled on his legs. The odor of gasoline was stronger downstairs, tinged with two even more distinct smells that the veteran paramedics recognized as pepper spray and urine.

Vince was on his knees examining something on the floor. He stood up when the paramedics approached. “His neighbors called when they smelled something,” he explained. “We found him down here, holding a gas can in one hand and a lighter in the other, threatening to blow himself up. We jumped him and got him down, but we had to mace him to keep him down. And now there's gas everywhere too. We've had him before; he's coo-coo for Coco Puffs,” the officer concluded, waggling his finger in a circular motion around his ear.

That explains the spitting, Roy thought. Pepper spray was hard on the eyes and throat. His own eyes started to water involuntarily in sympathy. He felt a quick tap on his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Johnny heading back upstairs. Probably for a backboard and kerlix to wrap him up nice and tight.

Roy reached for his handi-talkie. “LA, Squad 51.”

“Go ahead, 51.”

“Can we have an engine company at our location? There's been a….” he paused briefly to figure out how to phrase it. “…small gasoline spill.”

“10-4, 51.”

As Roy knelt near the mattress to begin his patient assessment, he vaguely heard the tones for 68's, the closest station to the scene.

Meanwhile, once he got back upstairs, Johnny took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. “Man,” he muttered, “we're going to smell like gas forever.”

*

At Rampart, Dixie gave the paramedics a pretty wide berth when they came looking for supplies.

“You know we have a gas shortage boys,” she teased as she stepped away. “I think you are wasting it when you use it as after-shave.”

“Ha ha,” Johnny said humorlessly, while Roy slunk against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“We picked up a psych who decided it would be a great idea to set his house, himself and several cops on fire,” DeSoto said. “Luckily the cops disagreed.”

“Where'd you take him?” the charge nurse asked.

“Straight upstairs,” Johnny replied. “Although he could probably use some decon, considering the amount of gasoline, piss and pepper spray he's got on 'im.”

“If he smells half as bad as you, I'm thankful they'll be washing him off upstairs,” Dixie responded. “Meanwhile I'll give President Carter a call and tell him the real reason for the energy crisis.”

*

The reception at the firehouse wasn't much better.

“Phew, Gage, what the hell did you step in?” Chet asked. Marco nodded in agreement, while Mike and Cap subtly shifted their bodies away from their reeking crewmate.

“Shut up, Chet.” Johnny flopped into a kitchen chair.

“Gage, get your stinky ass out of that chair until you've showered,” Captain Stanley ordered, simultaneously plugging his nose. Johnny sprung out of the chair, his hands in a “who me?” pose on his chest.

“I call the shower first,” Roy said, moving quickly toward the washroom.

“Oh what a shock,” Johnny said in a monotone that suggested he was not at all shocked.

“Rank has its privileges, Junior,” Roy said with a grin. Gage rolled his eyes as DeSoto stepped out of the kitchen. In deference to his offended co-workers, Johnny slunk nearer to the door, as far away as possible without actually leaving the room.

“So what happened?” Captain Stanley asked.

“Psych,” Johnny responded from the doorway. “Of course. Decided he wanted to redecorate his home with gasoline and a lighter. Probably would have been an improvement. 68's is cleaning it up now.”

The other men grinned, all except Marco, who shook his head sadly. “Actually, I feel sorry for him,” Marco said.

“Whadaya mean?” Johnny asked. “He almost roasted his house.”

“It's not his fault,” Marco said. “Maybe his medications aren't working. Or, well, I don't know. But I'm just saying that it's not all his fault.”

“Fine, whatever,” Johnny said, dismissing Marco's opinion with a wave of his hand. Marco looked over to his captain for support. Hank shrugged and turned his attention to the pile of newspapers Mike had discarded next to the couch.

*

C-shift had a probie, which was great news for everyone -- except the probie.

“Hey, new guy,” Chet said as the rest of A-shift was filing into the kitchen one morning, about a week after the gasoline incident. “Top me off.” He held out his coffee cup to illustrate his request.

The probie, whose name was Jim Mathias (not that it mattered to anyone), ran for the coffee pot. At least he'd get to go home in a few minutes.

“Hey, new guy,” Roy said, winking at Chet, “top me off too.”

Jim almost tripped over himself to fill up Roy's cup. The guys laughed, and Jim's cheeks colored a bright pink.

“Hey, new guy,” Johnny said as he stepped into the kitchen. “Get me a cup, would ya?”

Jim let out a deep sigh and headed for the cabinet.

Captain Stanley walked into the room. “Hey, new guy,” Hank said, “Marco called in sick. HQ says I need to force mandatory OT for someone. You're it.”

Jim let out an even deeper sigh.

*

After roll call Engine 51 got called out as part of a second-alarm response to a burning warehouse. The crew hopped off the engine, and Captain Stanley went to get orders.

“Where's your helmet, new guy?” Chet asked Jim. Jim barely heard him; his eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at the fully-involved warehouse.

“Um, right here?” Jim reluctantly turned away from the conflagration and looked at the jump seat he had just vacated. No helmet. Mike and Chet shook their heads in mock disgust.

At that point, Hank had returned. “OK, Chet and the new guy, you are going to go relieve 16's men on the south sector.” At that, the probie grinned. He would finally get to handle the business end of a hose! “Mike,” the captain continued, “they have a tanker operation going on since the hydrants are iffy at best; report to the water officer to get our engine in the mix.”

“We can't, Cap” Chet said with a smile, watching Jim's excitement deflate like a faulty balloon. “Guess who left his helmet back at the station.”

Captain Stanley put his hands on his hips and glared at his probie. Desperate to prove himself, Jim came up with an idea.

“I could wear his,” he suggested, pointing at Mike. “He doesn't need it.”

It was Mike's turn to put his hands on his hips and glare at the probie.

“I think you have your answer right there,” Hank said with a chuckle. “Mike and Chet, go relieve 16's. Jim and I will haul water.”

*

When they got back around lunchtime, Johnny and Roy had cold cuts waiting. The men of station 51 sat around the table and started to dig in.

“Hey, Cap,” began Chet as he reached for the mustard, “I think the new guy is a little cold. Covering his head may make him feel warmer.”

“Ya know, I think you are right, Kelly,” Hank agreed, grinning. “Get your helmet, new guy, so you don't freeze to death.”

Jim stopped chewing his sandwich and looked at the men in confusion. Johnny and Roy, who had received a quiet heads-up from Mike when the engine crew got back, nodded in agreement. “I definitely think a helmet would help his situation,” Roy added.

Jim looked to Mike, the only one at the table who seemed sane at the moment. Mike -- who hated hauling hose and didn't appreciate his reintroduction to the art during their last call -- leaned back, pulled his pocketknife out and started silently cleaning grime out from under his fingernails.

Jim slunk away from the table and got his helmet. Putting it on, he walked slowly back to the kitchen and started munching his sandwich again.

*

He wore the helmet all day. He wore it while hanging hose. He wore it during dinner. He was even forced to wear it when they went on an impromptu ice cream run later that evening.

Wherever he went, everyone seemed to know of his transgression. Charlie the mechanic got his two cents in when he stopped by that afternoon to swap out the engine for a tune-up. “Forgot your helmet, huh probie?” he groused before driving away with Engine 51, leaving the guys with an ugly, but serviceable replacement engine.

Jim wore the helmet to bed before Hank took pity on him and told him to put it away. It was cruel, but the old-fashioned probie punishment worked. The A-shift veterans knew with a certainty born of their own tumultuous early years in the fire service that Jim would never forget his helmet again.

*

When the tones went off at night, sometimes Captain Hank Stanley was immediately wide awake, alert and raring to go. Other times he moved as if swimming through molasses to consciousness. That next morning, as the wake-up tones echoed through the bunkroom, it was a combination of the two. A disturbing dream right before the klaxon left him awake but disoriented. He acknowledged LA, and then sat back down in his bunk, forehead in his hands, attempting to clear the mental cobwebs.

“You awake yet, Cap?” Mike teased.

“Workin' on it Michael, workin' on it,” Hank responded. “Sheesh, that was a strange dream.” He couldn't remember most of it, just a vague impression of gunshots.

“Ooo, ooo, a dream?” Chet sprang out of his bunk in his excitement. “Tell me about it, Cap, I can tell you what it means.”

The captain turned his head toward Kelly. “I dreamed… I… “ He paused, belatedly realizing his vulnerability. His voice turned gruff. “I dreamed that there wasn't any coffee made when I walked into the kitchen this morning, you twit.”

“On it, Cap,” Chet responded, grabbing his bunker pants and rushing out of the bunkroom. The tones went off, pausing his forward motion.

“Engine 51, activated fire alarm, Woodglen Apartments. 1500 Deercreek. 1500 Deercreek, cross street Adamkis. Time out, 0705.”

The engine crew slid into their pants and trudged out to the apparatus bay. “Engine 51, KMG 365,” Captain Stanley replied from his seat in the ugly replacement engine. Mike fumbled for the battery and ignition switches in the unfamiliar cab, and they took off.

Johnny headed for the coffee pot, while Roy stumbled toward the latrine. A few minutes later, Roy joined his partner in the kitchen. “You know, that's a pretty big place,” Roy said. “You think they'll need some more manpower?”

“Yeah especially if they have to track down an activated pull box. Their locator panel is never working right. And they have a probie too,” Johnny said.

Roy walked into the bay and picked up the radio. “Engine 51, Squad 51.”

“Go ahead,” Hank's voice floated out over the radio speaker.

“You need assistance?”

“Can't hurt. LA, Engine 51.”

“Go ahead, 51.”

“Tone out Squad 51 to our location for manpower.”

“10-4, 51.”

The tones echoed through the station. “Squad 51, assist your engine. 1500 Deercreek. Cross street Adamkis. Time out, 0715

Johnny and Roy got into the squad and drove away. A few minutes into their trip, Captain Stanley's size-up drifted over the radio. “LA, Engine 51 is at the scene of a large apartment complex. Nothing showing. We'll investigate.”

“10-4, 51,” replied Sam Lanier briskly.

“Wow, Sam's awfully cheerful this morning,” Johnny said.

“I heard he's got a big vacation coming up,” Roy commented. “Somewhere exotic is what Jack Rockingham told me. Those dispatchers must do better salary-wise than we imagine…”

Their ruminations about Sam Lanier's salary were interrupted by another radio message from their captain.

“LA, Engine 51.”

“Go ahead ,51.”

“We have a resident pointing and waving us over from a 2nd floor balcony in the east building. We're pulling up alongside now to see if he knows anything about the alarm.”

“10-4, 51.”

Johnny and Roy smiled as they heard the transmission. Maybe this would be a quick run after all.

*

Captain Stanley's overriding goal on this particular call was to reset whatever pull-box or alarm some annoying little brat or aggravated resident had set off, make sure there was no fire, get back to the barn, drink his coffee, and go home. His heart did a little jig when he saw the man leaning from the balcony. Maybe they wouldn't have to search the entire five-building complex for the damn box, if this guy knew where it was.

“You know, this place had better not have a real fire some day, or it will be like the fire that cried wolf,” Chet groused as he stepped out of his jump seat. The sound of a buzzing fire alarm could be heard coming from the entrance to the east apartment building.

“The fire that cried wolf?” Mike questioned Chet. “Or the boy who cried fire?”

“Maybe the fire who cried boy,” Chet joked. Mike released a rare smile. Jim laughed at the banter between the senior men, attracting Chet's attention. “Hey, Cap, where do you want the probie?” Chet asked.

“You guys hang out here for a second. I'll go talk to that guy,” Hank ordered. He hopped out of the shotgun seat and crossed a small lawn. “Hey, up there,” he hollered at the man in the balcony. “Do you know anything about the alarm?”

“I know who's coming. They came before. And they are coming real soon,” the man responded. He ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair as he talked. “They are coming for me you know. Not you. I don't want you. I want them. The ones who came last time. The ones who maced me. They are coming, and then the others will come too.”

Hank tried again. “Do you know who set the alarm? Is there a fire sir?”

“I pulled it.” The man looked around quickly, as if looking for someone who hadn't yet arrived. “Are you a cop? They took me before. I want to go to jail. It's safer in jail. Please take me to jail before they come. They are coming you know. I want them.”

Hank took a closer look at the man. His mousy brown hair was disheveled, made even more so by his continued habit of running his fingers through it. His soiled flannel shirt was neither tucked in nor buttoned. His large stomach peaked out. His worn-out jeans and bare feet suggested some tough times. Captain Stanley gave a deep sigh and shook his head.

“Nut job,” he muttered.

Then much louder, “Thank you sir,” and turned to go back to his men. “Kelly,” he hollered. “Take Mathias and head to the second floor to find the…”

“Cap!” interrupted Chet frantically. “Gun!” he shouted.

“What?” Hank cried, and whirled back around. The man was now brandishing a gun as he paced back and forth on the balcony.

“Hit the deck!” Chet yelled, yanking the probie down with him behind a hedge. Jim yelped at the sudden movement, his brain not yet properly registering the danger. Mike, shocked into a standstill for just a moment, dove for another nearby bush. Captain Stanley was momentarily stunned. The once-small lawn now resembled a vast expanse offering no convenient shrubbery, in fact no shelter of any kind. Only a small patio, directly beneath the gunman's balcony, presented any hope of protection.

The sounds of gunshots spurred Hank into movement. He dashed to the patio, scraping his hands as he crashed into the wall. He crouched down, bleeding hands over his head, praying that the man didn't look down between the cracks of his balcony floor. The rough stucco, having done its job on his palms, now dug into his back. His knees creaked from the sudden rough treatment. He didn't dare move or speak, except to slowly reach down and turn off his handi-talkie. One radio crackle could mean instant death.

*

Mike saw that the Captain couldn't use his handi-talkie, for fear that the man would hear and start shooting downward. They needed police on the scene.

The gunman had stopped firing, but was now yelling non-stop from his balcony. “Where's the cops? Take me to jail! I want to go to jail! They are coming to get me. I'm not safe! I want to go!”

“Mike, you got an HT?” Chet called in a stage whisper from the relative safety of the sparser-than-he'd-have-liked bush.

Stoker shook his head. “You?” he asked in turn, already knowing the answer.

Chet shook his head as well. He could feel the probie shaking underneath his arms. Chet wasn't feeling too secure himself right now, but at the moment their captain's welfare was foremost on his mind.

“Get his attention,” Mike said. Chet nodded and carefully removed his turnout coat.

The probie looked up at him. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Creating a distraction,” Kelly responded, waving the coat above the hedge. “Hey you!” he shouted. “You! Over here! Hey you!”

The man turned to look, and Mike took off, running in an awkward crouch. Chet suddenly tossed the coat off to his left. The man shot at the garment twice, hitting it each time. Pieces of the coat fluttered to earth in shreds. “Jeez, he's got good aim,” Chet muttered.

Meanwhile, Mike had almost reached the cab when the man returned his attention to his original focal point – the engine.

“Mike!” Chet cried out.

Mike didn't pause, but kept running for the cab. The man shot at the engineer. He felt something brush his turnout coat on his left side but kept running.

Captain Stanley could see nothing beyond the hedge, and could only imagine what had prompted the startled outcry from Chet. His stomach gave an acid heave as he began to plan a mad dash across the lawn, back to his men.

*

Reaching the safety of the passenger side of the engine's cab, Mike extended his arms upward to pull himself inside. As he began to haul his body up, his left side burned, a stinging flair of pain. “Ow!” he yelped, startled, and slid to the ground. He looked down. There was a hole in his turnout coat. He reluctantly peeked inside the coat. The bullet had skimmed his torso. Blood stained his blue shirt and the inside of his coat.

Mike Stoker could see bleeding people all day at accidents and MVA's without a problem. But the sight of his own blood had always made the engineer queasy, much to his wife's amusement. He couldn't even donate blood unless the nurse covered his arm with a towel so he couldn't see the needle. His vision started to swim. Pull yourself together Michael, he thought fiercely. It's just a scratch. Quit being such a baby.

Mike reached up again and pulled himself into the cab using his right arm only, his bicep straining from the effort. The engineer briefly debated how to reach the microphone on the center consol without putting his head in the line of fire. Then swiftly he grabbed for the radio, missing the mic but snagging the cord with his hand. He wiggled the cord and the mic fell from its holder.

“Bingo,” he gasped as the effort caused his side to sting mercilessly. He held the mic up to his mouth and spoke, interrupting a dispatch from an engine company across town. Only someone who knew him very well would have heard the pain and stress in his voice as he intoned, “LA, Engine 51. Emergency traffic. Emergency traffic.”

*

Johnny and Roy were about a minute away from the scene when they heard Mike's dispatch.

“LA, Engine 51. Emergency traffic. Emergency traffic.”

Sam's voice cut in sharply. “All units radio silence. Unit calling in emergency traffic repeat.”

“LA, Engine 51. We have a man with a gun at our location. Shots have been fired,” crackled Mike's voice over the radio.

Johnny inhaled sharply. Roy risked a quick glance away from the traffic toward the radio.

“Repeat, shots have been fired. The engine crew is under cover. Send police to our location.”

“10-4, 51,” acknowledged dispatch. “Do you want Squad 51 to continue into your location?”

“Affirmative,” continued Mike's voice calmly. “Have them stage at the south building on Adamkis. Send an ambulance to stage with the squad.”

“10-4 Engine 51. Squad 51, LA. Do you copy?”

“That's affirmative, LA” Johnny spoke into the radio. “Stage at the south building on Adamkis.”

Roy, who had already been doing a pretty decent clip, pressed harder on the accelerator. Johnny pressed on the dash with both hands, as if urging the squad to make up for lost time.

*

Police officer Vince Howard flipped a u-turn, switched on the squad car's lights and siren, and started speeding toward the apartment complex. Halfway there, another squad fell into line behind him. Five blocks away from the scene, they moved into oncoming traffic to get around an intersection clogged by rush hour traffic. A teenager heading to school in the other direction, distracted by the loud music coming from his car stereo, failed to yield.

Vince slammed on the brakes. The officer behind him did as well. Both were able to avoid the teen… but neither was able to avoid each other.

Vince's squad skidded through the intersection, clipping a few more cars. The teenager kept going, unaware of the traffic chaos behind him. The squads finally came to a stop. Vince and the other officer stepped out of the mangled vehicles. Blood dripping from his forehead, Vince stepped from the mangled remains of his vehicle. The other officer, cradling his right arm against his chest, staggered over to join Vince.

“LA, Charlie-2.”

A female voice responded. “Go ahead, Charlie-2.”

“Units responding to 1500 Deercreek have been involved in an MVA at Deercreek and Fredricks.” Disgusted, Vince watched a wisp of steam leak from beneath the crumpled hood of his squad. “There are injuries and we will be unable to respond to the incident. Please respond fire department and ambulance to our location at Deercreek and Fredricks.”

“10-4, Charlie-2.”

Back at the LA County Dispatch center, the woman handling police traffic that day turned to Sam Lanier. “Sam, did you hear that?”

“Yeah. I'll let them know. What's the ETA on another set of black-and-whites?”

The police dispatcher shook her head sadly. “I've got a couple in Dolanco Junction. But there's a broken water main closing the main route to Carson. It'll take a while. Unless they head over to the 110 and…. hmmmm.” Her voice trailed off as she started making plans to get the officers there as quickly as possible.

Sam shook his head as well and turned back to his radio. “Damn.” He keyed the mic. “Engine 51, LA…..” he started.

*

“….10-4, LA,” Mike acknowledged Sam's bad news about the police. He replaced the radio in its holder. The noise of renewed gunfire startled him. Despite the relative shelter afforded by the engine's metal walls, Mike cringed.

“You guys OK?” called Mike. His voice carried through the open window of the cab to where Chet was, crouching behind the hedge, still shielding Jim underneath him. “Chet, the cops are delayed.”

“He's shooting into the bushes now,” Chet responded. “He's gotta have more than one gun up there.” He paused. Jim twisted his body under Chet's to see the senior firefighter's face. Chet's expression was thoughtful, then resolute. “Hey Mikey, can you put her in pump? Maybe we can blast him off that balcony.”

Not a bad idea, Mike thought. “Hang on,” he called out to Chet. Mike reached over the center consol and flipped the pump switch on. Then he quickly put the engine in gear to activate the pump. The gunman continued to shoot into the bushes, apparently not noticing the movement inside the engine's cab, or the sudden change in engine noise.

“She's in pump,” Mike yelled. “Can you get to the panel?”

“I'll try,” Chet answered. He turned to the probie beneath him. “Stay here, stay low and keep quiet. I'm going to run for the pump panel and we're going to blast this moron into outer-space.” Even if he had the slightest idea of what was going on, Jim had no intention of moving. Everything was a blur to him, first the shooting, then his crewmates' frantic plans. He hugged his helmet and stayed put.

*

From the relative safety of his hiding place under the balcony, Captain Stanley heard bits and pieces of the conversation between his engineer and his pipeman. It sounded like they were hatching a plot of some kind. Where are the damn cops? He prayed that whatever they had planned, it didn't involve anything too stupid. He shrank against the wall, trying to become at-one with the stucco.

His hands shook involuntarily and he looked down at them, noting for the first time the scrapes from his collision with the wall. They didn't hurt. He wished they did; maybe that would make the situation more real. Instead he felt as he had when he woke up from the dream this morning, foggy and inattentive. Did I miss something? Should I have seen the gun first? More gunshots echoed through the yard, shaking him out of his thoughts. This was no dream. He strained to hear what his men were planning.

*

Mike climbed carefully back out of the cab, favoring his left side. The last tentative, squeamish check under his coat had revealed an expanding blood spot on his shirt. His head swam, and he quickly closed the coat again.

Thank God this isn't our usual engine, he mused. The previous day's swap had originally left him grumpy and out-of-sorts. But unlike Big Red, the back-up engine had crosslay pre-connects that would allow him to pull a line without ever leaving the safety of the passenger's side of the engine. Almost like Charlie knew we'd need it, Mike considered with grim humor.

As Mike pulled the line, Chet commando-crawled toward the pump panel. As he got closer, he eyed the unfamiliar panel. He felt a moment of panic as he realized he had no idea which valve controlled the crosslay. Pre-connect 1? Pre-connect 2? Aw jeez, Chester B. He nervously glanced toward the balcony.

The man was pacing back and forth, yelling nonsense, paying little attention to the drama unfolding in front of him.

Jim watched Chet's progress, his eyes shining with fear. The senior men were planning and taking action like it was second nature to them. When it first happened, he had had no idea what to do. Everything happened so fast. But now that he had a moment to think, he wished he could do more than just cower behind shrubbery.

On the other side of the engine, Mike had pulled the line the best he could, flaking out the hose, spreading it in a serpentine pattern so it so it wouldn't kink when it was charged. He was starting to feel a little woozy in the morning sunshine. He gave the line a last vicious yank, lost his balance and fell to his knees on the concrete parking lot. His side ached and burned. Breathing heavily, he tried to get up, but his attempt to orient himself failed and he toppled the rest of the way to the ground. His hand reflexively clutched his side. It came away covered in blood.

“Ready Mike?” Chet hissed from the other side of the engine, hoping the gunman wouldn't notice him crouched in front of the pump panel.

“Go ahead,” Mike gasped. Knock it off Michael. It's just a little blood. He struggled back upright. Grabbing the nozzle, he dragged it to where he'd be able to aim it at the balcony.

Oblivious to Stoker's problem, Chet reached up and pulled the tank-to-pump valve. The engine's noise changed yet again, and he froze for a moment. The man remained fixated on his rant. Chet pulled the valve for what he hoped was the correct crosslay. From the other side of the engine, he heard the distinct thump of hose against pavement as it filled with water. Bingo, he thought. Then he throttled up the engine.

But the change in PSI was too much for Stoker. After an abortive attempt to open the nozzle, he dropped it on the ground and fell to his knees.

“Go ahead, Mikey,” Chet called. “Blast 'em.”

Nothing happened. “Mike?” Chet yelled as loud as he dared.

“What happened?” Jim hissed, with panic in his voice. “Why aren't you blasting him?”

“I don't freakin' know!” Kelly barked back. Why the hell wasn't Mikey hosing this moron down?

The man on the balcony paused in his rant, noticing the commotion below. He took aim at the firefighter crouched by the shiny metal panel on the fire engine.

The bullet ricocheted inches from Chet's head. “Crap!” he yelled, and ducked. Quickly he scooted under the engine, elbows and knees furiously propelling him forward.

*

Johnny and Roy arrived at the staging area as pop-pop noises echoed through the parking lot. “Was that a gunshot?” Johnny asked, his head hanging out the open window.

“A couple of 'em,” Roy responded quickly. He yanked his impetuous partner back inside the window and pulled them both down low in the seat. Faces pressed against the naugahyde, they lay there for a moment, listening to the gunfire and their own quick, heavy breathing.

“We can't just sit here!” Johnny burst out, frustrated.

“I know,” his partner responded, barely able to control his own instincts to do something. “But we don't know what's going on over there.”

“This complex, isn't there a fire lane around back?” Johnny asked, trying to remember the various pre-plans they had done on the site.

“Yeah,” Roy replied, a questioning tone in his voice.

“We should go check it out.”

Roy didn't answer. He was already sitting back up and putting the squad in motion. Moments later, they were behind the building in question.

“Where the hell are the cops?” Johnny asked as he stepped out of the squad, crouching beside the door. Roy exited the squad and scooted around to join him.

“Good question,” Roy said, reaching into the window and lifting the radio mic. “LA, Squad 51.”

“Go ahead, 51.”

“We're on scene, staging at Adamkis.” Roy figured that was close enough; no one needed to know about the illegal detour to the fire lane. “What's the ETA on the police?”

“There's still a delay, 51. Hang tight, they'll be there shortly.”

“Delay?” Roy's voice scaled upward. “Someone's shooting at the engine!”

“The responding units were involved in an accident and a broken water main is blocking traffic. We're dong our best, 51,” Sam's usually calm voice now sounded slightly peeved.

“10-4, LA,” Roy responded, dropping the mic on the seat. “Johnny?” he stage whispered to his partner, who was already sneaking a peek around the side of the building.

Johnny stopped and turned. “Yeah?” he said over his shoulder.

“Cops are still delayed,” Roy revealed, as he walked toward his partner.

“Of course they are,” Johnny said wryly.

The pair peered around the building together. They could see a hedge circling the building and its front lawn. The top of the engine was just visible from their vantage point. They crouched low and crept under cover of greenery toward the front of the yard.

When they reached the shrubbery that lined the front of the yard, the situation made itself all too clear to the paramedics. Chet was lying under the engine, covering his head with his hands. The probie was cowering behind the hedge. Their captain was nowhere to be seen. And Mike appeared to be struggling with a charged hose behind the engine, before stumbling and falling to his knees.

Johnny looked up at the balcony where the man was raving. “Hey, Roy, that's the dude…”

“I know,” Roy said shortly. It was the same guy who had tried to blow up his house weeks before. Apparently his psych eval didn't last very long. And where was Captain Stanley?

“Looks like they were going to blast him to high heaven with the pre-connect. You help Mike. I'll distract the guy from the inside,” Gage suggested. Before his partner could agree or disagree, Johnny was off at a run.

Johnny had lost little of his speed from his high school track star days. He sprinted through a thin spot in the bushes and was at the front door before the gunman could react. On the way, he noticed Captain Stanley crouching on a first-floor patio under the man's balcony. Hank stared open-mouthed as his paramedic ran through the front door.

Just don't do anything stupid, Gage, Hank thought.

Roy was echoing those thoughts as he made sure his partner made it to safety. Then Roy hollered to Mike. “You OK, Mike?”

Mike lifted his head to look at Roy but did not speak. From under the engine, Chet heard the commotion and quickly figured out what had happened.

“That you, Roy? Did that asshole clip Mikey? You, probie guy, you stay put,” he spewed out all in a rush. Jim stayed put. He couldn't see Mike from where he was, but it seemed like something had gone wrong with the plan. A tiny flame of anger lit up inside the probie. How dare this nut-case shoot at their engineer?

Roy responded quickly, before Chet got it in his head to do something stupid. “Mike's under cover behind the engine, but he can't talk. I don't know what's wrong. Johnny's inside, waiting for the hose.” Roy said all of this in a voice that he hoped Chet could hear, but the gunman could not.

The men cringed as the gunman chose that moment to start shooting again. Bullets ricocheted off the pump panel. One struck the throttle control and Roy could hear the engine noise start to wind down. If they didn't hurry up, the hose would lose too much pressure to be of use.

Chet wormed his way under the engine, to the other side. Pulling himself out with a grunt, he scrambled over to the glassy-eyed engineer.

“I'm fine, just woozy, can't look at blood too much,” Mike said thickly.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Chet answered, and took off Mike's turnout coat. Blood soaked the engineer's blue uniform shirt.

“Mikey my man, he creased you but good,” Chet said as he pressed on Mike's side with his hand. He saw Roy watching anxiously from behind the corner of the hedge.

“Roy, he's hit,” Chet yelled.

One thing after another, Roy thought. “Did you hear the engine?” Roy said. “Something's wrong with the throttle.”

The probie listened to this exchange carefully. He remembered how Chet and Mike had used a distraction to their advantage before. He didn't know how to pump. He wasn't a fast runner. But he had something they didn't have – his helmet, which had remained firmly on his head since the call began. He made a decision.

“Roy,” Jim yelled. “I'll distract him while you get to the pump.”

*

Meanwhile, inside the apartment building, Johnny hovered near the man's door. He had already quietly tried the knob, and it was unlocked. He pressed his ear against the door. He could hear the gunman ranting and raving inside, but he didn't dare go in until he was sure the guys had him under control.

*

Captain Stanley judged the distance between the patio and the entrance to the building. If Gage can do it, I can too, he thought. He's not the only former high school track star. He braced himself, and took off at a sprint toward the front door.

*

Before Roy could respond to the probie in the negative, Jim was standing up and waving his helmet. “Hey you!” he hollered. “Over here!”

“Dammit!” Roy gasped. Now he was committed to a course of action he hadn't wanted to take. Keeping the probie safe was vital. Under no circumstances did this qualify as “safe.” Resigned, the paramedic took off at a run toward the pump panel.

As Jim had hoped, the man turned his attention to the waving helmet. The gunman took aim and fired, only to find that he was out of ammunition. He reached behind him into the recesses of his apartment for something, whether another weapon or more ammunition Jim wasn't sure.

Whatever the cause for the delay, it did the trick. Roy sprang at the throttle control, which was not seriously damaged. Using some brute force, he turned it back up.

Chet and Mike felt the pressure build in the line again. Chet grabbed the nozzle and pulled it around the engine, aiming it at the balcony. Mike struggled to his feet and helped pull more line, ignoring the black spots swimming in his vision.

The gunman emerged from his apartment with another weapon. Jim tossed his helmet to his side and the man fired at it. The helmet shattered, and Jim ducked back down behind the hedge.

Chet took the opportunity to open the line. As 120 PSI of water pressure surged toward the balcony, the gunman never knew what hit him.

*

Johnny, now joined by an out-of-breath Captain Stanley, heard the woosh of the water and burst into the apartment. The man lay in his living room on his back, gun still in hand, dazed and dripping wet. He saw the two firefighters and tried to get up. Gage and the captain jumped on top of him. Hank grabbed the gun from his hand. The paramedic used his forearm to force the man's head to the floor. Captain Stanley used an old high school wrestling move to flip the large man on his stomach.

Captain Stanley tossed the weapon on a nearby couch and reached for his HT. Breathing heavily, he began: “LA, this is Engine 51…”

The gunman took advantage of the Captain's lost attention to try and buck the two firefighters from his back. “You can't hold me down. I'll kill you all. They won't take me alive. They'll come and get you, they'll come get all of us,” he raged.

Johnny and the captain held on tight, doing their best to keep the man down. But as the two thinnest firefighters at station 51, they were well out-matched. “Roo-ooy! Chet!” Johnny yelled.

Outside Chet and Jim heard the yell. “Stay with Mikey, we'll help 'em,” Chet told Roy. He grabbed Jim and sprinted into the building.

Entering the apartment, they dove into the fray, finally getting the man back down on the floor and tied up with some bathroom towels that Chet tore into strips.

“Now, let's try this again,” Captain Stanley said, after sitting a moment and catching his breath. He lifted his HT. “LA, this is Engine 51…”

*

Outside, Roy left Mike for a moment to drive the squad around to the front. Once there, he pulled out some equipment and started bandaging the engineer. Mike winced as the paramedic examined him, but said nothing. Roy was worried; Stoker was being even more reticent and reserved than usual.

“You'll be OK, Mike. It looks pretty messy, but I don't think it's deep.”

Mike simply nodded, his ability to speak tangled up in pain and embarrassment that he couldn't begin to explain to Roy – not now, anyway. The ambulance arrived, distracting Roy and allowing Mike to wallow in painful self-pity for a while longer.

*

“This is quite the war-wound Mike,” Dr. Early commented as he finished the last stitch on the engineer's torso. “Take the next couple shift days off so you won't pull these stitches out. I'll see you in a week or so to take them out.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Mike replied. He started to put on a pair of scrubs. His t-shirt and uniform shirt were blood-stained beyond repair, and his street clothes were back at the station.

He exited the exam room and met up with Roy in the hallway. The next duty crew had already swapped Roy's car for the squad in Rampart's parking lot, and Roy was to drive the engineer home.

During the drive, Roy seemed oblivious to Mike's emotional discomfort. “You are really lucky, Mike. You were covered in blood and looked pale as death. I didn't think you'd have it in you to help Chet, but you were doing it.”

“I dropped the nozzle,” Mike said simply. “You aren't ever supposed to drop the nozzle. Ever.” His shame was almost palpable; he couldn't handle his own blood, and as a result he had let his crewmates down.

Roy briefly looked over at the engineer, shock reflected in his eyes. “You understand you were shot, right?” his voice betraying his amazement. “Just because the bullet didn't hit anything vital, doesn't mean you didn't lose a lot of blood. Another couple of minutes, Doc Early says, you would have bought yourself an overnight stay at the hospital. You and Chet did a great job. That probie too. He's got some balls, that's for sure.”

Mike had to smile at the thought of the probie's helmet all busted up for crap. Yeah, the guy had some balls all right. The engineer's stitches itched and burned, and he twisted in Roy's car seat in search of a more comfortable position.

*

“That's the last time I call in sick,” Marco announced on their next shift day. “I didn't believe it when Chet called me and told me what happened.”

“Yeah, it was the same nut-case Roy and me picked up a couple weeks ago. I guess the hospital just did the 72-hour hold and sent him home. Except he had no home because of the gasoline and trash, so he got an apartment,” Johnny explained.

“Where is he now?” Marco asked.

“Who knows. Who cares. I just hope they lock him up for good this time,” Johnny said off-handedly as he reached into the fridge for a carton of milk. He tipped the carton to his lips, found it to be empty, and tossed it into the garbage in frustration. “Oh man, who would do something like that?”

Marco shook his head sadly. “I know, but I can't help but think that if he had the right treatment, and the right medications, and the right… oh… I don't know. But it's not all his fault.”

“Oh yeah? Ask Mikey whose fault it was that he almost got offed. I have no sympathy for the guy,” Chet interjected. “You are just a sucker for a hard-luck case, Marco my man. At least until he takes a pot-shot at you too, then you'll sing a different tune. Hey probie, where's my coffee?”

Jim reached for the pot. He was getting off shift, again. And praying for no forced overtime, again. His ruined helmet sat in a place of honor in his locker, the focus of stories for many years to come.

Author notes: Really this story almost deserves a co-author credit. Thank you Rose, my beta queen, for dragging descriptive language out of me, kicking and screaming the whole way. I hope I gave some overused words the rest they deserved. She also loaned me Todd Castelli. Thank you.

If parts of this story sound familiar to some of you, it's because they are taken from real life. My paramedic career almost ended a few years ago when a psychiatric patient who was inadequately sedated by nursing home staff kicked me out of the back of an ambulance. My injuries were pretty much as described in the beginning of the story.

The situation with “psych evals” is real. Paramedics get little or no training in dealing with people who, through no fault of their own, are having a psychiatric crisis. Yet every day, police and nursing homes call 911 for us to bring an unstable psychiatric patient to the hospital. I'm not sure if the answer is more training for paramedics, or more help for psychiatric patients, or more awareness by police and nursing home staff.

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