Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Miles forced himself not to pace, instead drumming fingers against his thigh.
Usually, CPAT tests didn’t have an audience, but his situation warranted a unique approach.
Captain Ross stood to one side, Wes beside him.
Special exceptions. Miles’s own personal cheering squad.
Or execution squad. Depending on how this went.
Months of work, and today he’d finally find out if he’d done enough.
Miles hefted the heavy weights, one for each shoulder, into place, and gritted his teeth through the twinging pain in the one he’d dislocated.
Your leg and your shoulder are fully healed, he reminded himself. Even if it hurts, they’re strong enough to carry this load.
He stepped up to the stair climber. “I’m ready.”
The examiner launched into the usual spiel about the first event. Miles focused on the machine and caught only a few words: warm up, cannot stop, three minutes, sixty steps per minute.
He already knew all this.
“Begin.” The Examiner pressed a button on a stopwatch as Miles mounted.
Twenty seconds passed in a blur, the pace deliberately set lower, and he’d been careful to warm up his legs before beginning. After that, the pace increased, and in less than a minute, his legs burned with the effort. Still, the ache in his thigh remained manageable.
You’ve done this before. Two more minutes.
He breathed deeply and slowly, carefully placing each foot as the stair stepper continued its relentless pace.
This first event tested so many fitness benchmarks, but, more importantly, it also tested the head game.
The stairs would not slow, one following the next, no matter your exhaustion, no matter how much the muscles fought the tempo.
His legs quivered, and the weight at his injured shoulder dragged, stabbing down across his chest and up into his neck. A sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. It had to be almost over. He’d climbed a million steps already. A trillion. An infinite amount.
He gritted his teeth.
Just. One. More.
The timer beeped.
“Done,” the examiner announced.
Miles rode the steps to the bottom, then dismounted. His right leg buckled slightly as he stepped to the floor, but he forced the muscles to hold, pulling it into place under him until he stabilized.
“Hose drag,” the examiner reminded him, and Miles moved toward the coil of hose on the ground.
To one side, Captain Ross stood with arms crossed, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, watching Miles’s efforts with piercing, hawkish eyes, his heavy brows flaring like wings from the bridge of his nose.
Wes leaned back against the wall with one shoulder, relaxed.
Ross’ skepticism might be warranted, but Wes believed he could do it. Miles would take his wins where he could find them.
He hefted the hose to his good shoulder and set off.
Winding through the obstacles became progressively more difficult as the hose lengthened behind him.
Often, he’d have to pull it several extra feet to clear an obstacle, then backtrack.
After the effort he’d already expended on the stair stepper, he planned his route ahead of time and conserved his steps, but his leg still shook.
If the last event tested his determination, this one tested his brain.
He cleared the last obstacle and let the hose slide to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Captain Ross give a single, decisive nod. Returning his attention to the Examiner, Miles made his way to the next task.
Removing two power saws from a large, metal locker, he adjusted his grip, then set out to walk the prescribed distance.
He fixed his eyes on the faded plastic drum—his turnaround point—and took his first few strides at a steady, strong pace.
Halfway there, his leg began to tremble so hard he could barely keep moving.
His shoulder screamed as the weight of the saw pulled at it, step after step.
Almost as grueling as the stair climber, he adjusted his pace slightly.
Too much, and his weakness would be evident, but this didn’t have the inexorable tempo of the machine, so he allowed himself the slightest slowing.
An eternity later, he reached the drum, circled it, and started back.
Sweat dripped from his forehead and the back of his neck, soaking his collar, and his arms shook, along with his legs, as he staggered the last several yards.
Careful to place the saws on the ground—dropping them would constitute a failure—he wrenched the cabinet open and placed each one back on its rack, then turned and made his way to the next event.
Miles held his head high as he made the eighty-five-foot walk to the ladder raise.
This one might irritate his shoulder, and doing it on the heels of the equipment carry wouldn’t help, but the emphasis on upper-body work instead of lower-body work would give him a brief chance to rest midway through the grueling multi-event marathon.
Handling the ladder one rung at a time, he lifted it to the wall, then moved to the one already positioned beside it and pulled the tether to raise the extendable section. When it hit the stop, he slowly released the tether, lowering it back down.
The examiner indicated the way to the next event.
Halfway, Miles congratulated himself. He hurt, but he’d made it. He could do this.
He had to do this.
The forcible entry went much like the ladder event. While his shoulder screamed in pain, his legs had recovered, the shakiness slowly bleeding away. Swinging the sledgehammer almost felt good—a cathartic exercise of controlled power, reminding him of his strength.
From there, Miles ducked into the darkened maze.
Crawling along the ground, he swept his arms in front of him, finding his way forward without sight.
His confidence growing, he moved quicker, but a moment later, he froze as his leg, limited by the crawling position, tightened, then seized in a cramp.
His limbs collapsed as pain washed through his frame.
Miles rolled to his back. Forcing himself to breathe, to stretch, he countered the knotted muscle.
But when he engaged his quad to release the hamstring, that cramped, too.
How many seconds had already passed? How much time did he have left?
Scooting backward as quickly as he could, he forced his thumbs deep into the spasming muscles.
Long moments passed as he kneaded the cramps away, and as soon as he could, he flipped back to his front and rushed the rest of the maze.
In a stroke of pure luck, he made it out without getting lost or having to backtrack.
Staggering into the bright sunlight, he almost tripped, but recovered at the last moment.
His leg jumped and bucked beneath him, and not even his best effort could prevent the limp accompanying him across the pavement to the next event.
Reaching down, he wrapped both hands around the shoulders of the manikin lying on the ground and pulled.
Only thirty-five feet, he coached himself, ignoring his shoulder. Ignoring the flare of pain in his thigh. Almost there.
He glanced backward, and the drum marking the halfway point seemed farther away than when he’d started. His hands slipped, and he paused, releasing the manikin to the ground, then bending over and grasping it again. Step by agonizing step, he dragged it.
Once more, he checked over his shoulder, but as he did, his foot scuffed the ground. He tripped, dropping the manikin, arms wheeling to catch his balance. He staggered, his weight coming down heavily on his injured leg, and it buckled.
“No,” he shouted as he went to one knee.
He hadn’t failed. Not yet, but if he couldn’t recover and quickly, it wouldn’t matter.
This test measured grit and determination, physical skills, and mental stamina, and he hadn’t technically committed a fault, but a subjective rating from the examiner could still result in a fail if he deemed Miles’s injuries still too unhealed to be an effective firefighter and team member.
Struggling back to his feet, he grabbed the manikin once more but made it only another yard before his leg convulsed again, then gave out completely.
“No,” he repeated, whispering this time. “I won’t give up.”
Tears blurred his vision, blinding him until Captain Ross’ voice came from much too close. “Come on, Miles. You’ve got this.”
“Sir,” the Examiner scolded. “You can’t be over here.”
Miles let their argument wash over him while he caught his breath, then heaved himself up once more. Teeth gritted, he grabbed the manikin and took one step. Just one step.
Then another.
The drum appeared on his right side, and he swung wide, careful not to touch it.
I’m so close, he screamed at himself.
“Almost there,” Wes shouted back. “You’ve got this!”
He must have spoken aloud.
Halfway. Three quarters.
He stumbled again, crashing to the ground.
Ripping pain slashed through his thigh, his vision sheeting white, then red, then black, sparkling until the first excruciating wave receded, then another crashed over him, his breath gasping out of his chest. He pressed his hands to the ground, dragging himself upright even as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, an automatic reflex, the body protecting itself from too much stress, too much agony.
His leg wouldn’t respond.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder. His good shoulder.
“You tried, Miles. You almost made it.”
He shook his head, refusing Ross’ words. Refusing the truth that if his captain had left his perch, the test was over.
He’d failed.