Page 5 of Burn

“This is McCoy — Floor 8, heavy fire, flashover conditions! Low air, need immediate backup!” His pleas for help are interrupted by his coughs, and my heart races. I pick up my pace, racing up the stairs. “I’ve got civilians. Conditions are deteriorating fast. Fuck. Guys. Help!”

Fuck.

His first fucking fire. He’s so young, barely 23, still green, still so excited about the job. When the call came in, we cheered for his first fire; he beamed from ear to ear and told us he couldn’t wait to tell his mom. His mom. Will someone call to tell her he didn’t make it out? He shouldn’t be alone. I left him to take her to the medics, and he said he was okay with staying. This is my responsibility — I should have ordered him out.

Move.

Fifth Floor.

Sixth Floor.

The heat intensifies the higher I climb, and my gear sticks to my skin. I’ve done this for years, but tonight, there’s a different pressure around me. Despite the heat, a chill crawls down my spine, and I feel claustrophobic for the first time in my life. A sound behind me makes me hesitate as I spin around, searching for the source of the sweet voice that seems to be calling my name.

Not possible.

Seventh Floor.

I take in the door to the eighth floor as I reach it. It’s closed, but black smoke seeps through the edges, crawling up the walls like large snakes that swirl and twist upward. The visibility is reduced to a foot. My lungs scream as I rip it open, and a shroud of smoke and darkness swallows me. The fire is a living entity; the heat pulses over me, suffocating me in its thick, blistering wave, burning through my protective gear. My throat is raw, and my lungs burn; it’s unbearable. Before this job, I had no idea that fire was so loud — it crackles and screams, and the roar drowns out everything else — my radio, my thoughts, and the thunder of my heart.

I know there’s a long corridor ahead, but I can’t see it. The fire is somewhere, but I can’t see that either. I can’t see McCoy. The air pulses and moves, feeling like standing too close to a bonfire or an open oven.

“Copy, McCoy. I’m on eight, via stairwell A — confirm the location of the fire.” My voice is rough and scratchy from my time without my mask.

His voice sounds weak when he responds.

“Everywhere. Adrian, it’s everywhere.”

I returned to the stairwell, noticing the immediate change in the atmosphere, even just out here. With my elbow, I smash the glass-fronted cabinet, accessing the fire hose reel inside. I yank it free and drag the line toward the doorway. There is no pressure.

Fuck!

“Command, standpipe on eight — where the fuck is my water?”

Time stands still.

“Working on it — pumps charging the riser.”

The connection cuts in and out.

My pulse hammers as I wait, listening to the roar of the fire mixed with the continuous tones of the building’s fire detection system. I know it takes seconds, but it seems like hours, and in situations like this, seconds could mean life or death for the kid somewhere in the sea of smoke. When the hose shifts in my hands, expanding with the increasing pressure, I don’t hesitate, pushing past the false safety of the stairwell and into the hallway.

“McCoy, report!” I bellow.

Silence greets me over the radio as I hit the first door. I slam into it with my shoulder, forcing it open. The apartment is empty and untouched by the fire. Fire needs access and oxygen,and with the doors closed, the unit stands in stark contrast to the hallway. I notice the dishes left on the counter and the toys scattered across the floor, with the only sign of disturbance being the small white teddy bear — its left side blackened by smoke. I pause momentarily, overwhelmed by the destructive power of fire — how swiftly it takes over. Smoke pours in around me, and I force myself to keep moving. I walk to the other side of the hall, searching for the next unit. The door is unlocked, and as I push it open, a small cat darts into the bedroom. I quickly retreat into the hall and close the door, hoping to keep the frightened animal safe until its owner can send someone for it. I realize that people probably thought it was a fire drill. They left everything behind when the alarms sounded.

“McCoy! Answer me! Where the hell are you?”

I slam through another door into another empty, untouched apartment.

“Command, conditions up here are shit. I can’t reach McCoy. Send additional units.”

The air is thick like mud; it’s impossible to see through, and I trip, landing flat on my stomach. I check behind me to see what I’ve tripped over and find regulation boots sticking out of the garbage chute area. Staying low, I crawl to McCoy. His eyes are closed, his blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, and soot lines his nostrils. I’ve worked a handful of shifts with him, and the kid has never sat still until now. His mask is on the floor beside him — I’ve seen it before. The smoke thickens, making you feel as if you’re being suffocated, and inexperienced guys pull their masks off, desperate for air.

This area is a bit lighter on smoke; he must have crawled here to find some relief from the heat and overwhelming darkness. I push him up to grab his tank; the needle is buried;he’s out of air. I reach for my gauge and realize I’m also dangerously low. Moving, I glance left and right down the hall. The stairs I came up are about twenty feet away, and I know they’re clear of flames.

I need to move.

His PASS alarm hasn’t gone off, so he can’t have been down too long. I grab his boots and drag him out of the alcove, struggling to maneuver behind him. Wrapping my arms under his, I steady myself — he’s deadweight, heavier than he should be with all his gear. When we reach the stairs, I rip off my mask, secure it on his face, and hoist him over my shoulder. My lungs burn with the effort, the thick, sludge-like smoke coating my throat like ash. I swallow hard and push myself to keep moving.

---