Page 17 of Bronx

Some nervous chuckles followed. While a mile and a half wasn't a great distance, the course was mostly uphill and through crumbling rocky terrain. Getting a foothold on the loose trail, especially when weighted down with a hundred plus pounds, was the key to making it through. Traction, planning and a whole shitload of fortitude were essential.

Kingston's pick in the winner pool looked a little unsure about the whole thing. He kept putting his pack on the ground and then lifting it. King took note and grew quickly annoyed. "Bucky, why the hell are you using up all your energy before we've put one foot on the trail?"

"I think my pack weighs more than the hundred and ten pounds." Bucky was one of those guys with perpetually pink cheeks and hair that never stayed down on the part.

"Is that right?" Kingston walked over. He lifted up the pack and paused as if he was actually weighing it with his arm. "Yep, that's a hundred and ten pounds." He handed it back to Bucky and went to the front of the group. "All right, we're going to start. Check your laces, settle those packs squarely on your shoulders and get ready to move. First person to throw up is going to earn the nickname Pukey."

Kingston pulled out his radio. "We're ready to move, over."

"Roger that," Kaos answered.

Kingston lifted his arm overhead. "Let's go."

The trainees took off, enthusiastic and still full of energy. The first part of the trail was just a gentle slope running along a stream. King, without the burden of the pack, took off and headed up the steep terrain that would eventually wind its way down to the finish line. Since I was coming up behind, I only had to jog slowly. A few of the participants were already struggling, but Novak, the guy my money was on, was moving along at an impressive clip.

Alex, the wiry guy, was right behind him. Occasionally, his pack pulled him off balance. He persisted, though, and stayed the course. Bucky, on the other hand, was starting to lag behind even the others. He grunted and muttered complaints as he trudged at a slow, plodding jog up the rough landscape.

We'd passed the halfway point. The climb was getting steeper. According to my timer, the runners had about five minutes to get to the finish line or be disqualified. This was their first try, so they'd be allowed another chance in two weeks. Some people went for it but most didn't bother. There were so few spots available on the crew that you had to make a good showing this first run to get moved up to top tier in the final list. Two of the runners, twenty yards ahead, simultaneously bent over to get sick. One guy gulped a little water and got right back to it. The second one, a guy named Tad, from North Dakota, had to sit down. His heavy pack pulled him down hard onto the rocky trail. His skin was pale and green and sweat poured down his forehead.

I reached him. He looked up at me with that gaze of surrender, one I'd seen often. "So damn hot here."

I nodded. "And this is like a frosty day compared to the weather up on a burning hillside. Do you need help getting up? I can't leave you here."

He swallowed and took a few breaths. Color was returning fast. His face was bright red from the heat. He offered up his hand and with some effort and shifting of the pack on his back, Tad was once again steady on his feet. He took off at a jog but quickly reduced his pace to a slow plodding hike. One down, I thought as I trudged behind him. We'd gotten far enough away from the others that they were around the next ridge. A yell of pain sent me running.

I passed Tad. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. That sounded like Bucky."

We'd all heard Bucky whine and groan enough during training to recognize his call of distress. I rounded the next ridge and found Bucky on his knees. His pack was on the ground next to him, looking dirty and scarred as if it had been dragged along the forest debris. Bucky was holding his arm against his chest. Dirt and sweat streaked his face, a face that was distorted in pain. The others had gone ahead. They needed to get back to qualify. This wasn't a time for teamwork. This was a time to show what you had. Besides, my short straw had given me the task of taking care of illness and injury. I'd taken care of illness, and, now, it seemed there was an injury.

"It's broken," Bucky said between deep breaths. "This fucking pack." He stretched his leg out and kicked the backpack. "I leaned too far to the right and the fucking pack took me down. All the weight landed on my wrist." He held out his arm to reveal a wrist that was no longer in alignment with his forearm. His hand looked tight and was already swelling up.

"Looks like we need to get you to the emergency room. Can you get up?"

Bucky kicked at the pack again. "Fuck. Can't believe this. All that training and now I'm going to the ER. Not my day." He had been an irritating trainee for the past six weeks, but I felt bad for the guy. He got through a lot of tough coursework only to have victory snatched away. The only thing he'd be walking away with was a broken arm. And from the looks of it—a couple of pins and a good amount of time in a cast. I braced my hand under his good elbow to help him to his feet.

I heaved his pack onto my back and started walking. He stayed in place.

I glanced back at him. "Can't carry you and the pack. You're going to have to walk out on your own. The finish line is closer than the start so let's go."

Bucky looked extra grumpy now. For the rest of the hike my ears were filled with his cussing and his moaning.

14

Acrowded emergency room was just the cherry on top of a delightful fucking day. And my buddy, Bucky the crybaby as I'd now named him in my head, was not making things any more delightful.

"What the hell do you have to do around here to get seen by a doctor?" he grumbled. He shifted for the millionth time in the hard vinyl chair as if that might somehow make it more comfortable. "Everyone looks sickly. We're both going to catch something sitting here. They should have a separate room for people with non-contagious injuries."

I looked over at him. "Maybe we could get you a plexi-glass cubicle to sit in."

He laughed. At least his sense of humor wasn't broken. Otherwise, just sitting through this with the guy made me wonder how the hell he had chosen smokejumping. "Hey, Bucky, just curious—what made you choose this line of work? If you don't mind me saying so, just doesn't seem like your thing."

Bucky relaxed back. The triage nurse had given him an ice pack once she'd determined that his injury was not life threatening. "I'd done the whole firefighting training as a teen and young adult. Did some ambulance and medic stuff but—" He hesitated.

"But what?" I asked.

"All right, I'm going to say this, but you can't tell Kaos or King. I always pegged you as the nicer guy, and those two would probably broadcast the whole thing." He slumped down some in the chair. He was young, not more than twenty-three, and he still had those baby fat cheeks that sometimes stuck around long into adulthood. Something told me Bucky's were there to stay. "Not that it matters now because I'm out, and I'm not going to see any of those people again. But I joined up because there was this girl—"

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