8. Nash
eight
nash
T he thick stench of smoke fills my lungs as our crew pulls up to the structure fire next door to old man Smith’s tackle shop. I hop out of the truck and take in the scene. A small crowd has formed, everyone panic-stricken as they search for a way to help. Mr. Smith definitely wasn’t exaggerating when he described the scope of the fire to our dispatch. An accelerant must be involved somehow with the intensity of the flames and oppressive heat in the air.
“Mr. Smith, it isn’t safe for you to be that close to the fire!” I shout over the roaring blaze. The poor elderly man is throwing buckets of water at the flames, which are licking dangerously close to his shop. His desperation is palpable as he frantically hobbles back and forth to refill his small bucket.
“Nash, you’ve got to help.” He pants hard, gesturing to the shop beloved by every fisherman in the community, myself included. “This shop is my entire life. I can’t lose it.”
“Go across the street and wait there. We’ve got this,” I reassure him.
My men and I get to work putting out the inferno as fast as we can. We quickly jack the hose and extend the ladder to tackle the flames engulfing the second floor of the shack. With each moment that passes, the flames creep towards the shop, licking dangerously at the wood. Each member of my crew works in tandem to keep everyone safe and smother the blaze. Thankfully, there isn’t any wind coming off the ocean today, so we’re able to contain the damage to the small wooden shack.
The crew works on inspecting what little remains of the structure to figure out exactly how this could’ve started.
I find Mr. Smith in the back of an ambulance receiving oxygen. His face is covered in a layer of black ash. He coughs, probably from smoke inhalation, but gives me a thumbs up to let me know that he’s okay.
“Cap, you got a second?” Alejandro walks over to me carrying an empty gas can.
“Is that what started all of this?”
“We think so. Found it laying in the middle of the floor.”
I shake my head at his report. When will people learn to be less reckless? Someone could’ve been killed today with the close proximity to so many homes and small businesses.
“Thanks, Al.” Patting him on the shoulder, I walk back to the truck. I fill in the local Sheriff so that his team can take over the investigation.
A sound in a nearby bush catches my attention as I’m heading to the driver’s seat.
I apparently have no self-preservation skills because I go investigate. If this was a horror movie, I’d be the first to die.
The bush rustles as I get closer, and a small furry face pokes out through the branches.
“What are you doing in there, little guy?” I reach my hand towards the small mud covered dog, allowing him to give it a sniff. Well, at least I think it’s a boy.
“Have I earned your trust yet?” I ask before picking the dog up and out of the brush. There’s no collar around its neck, and the poor thing whimpers when my arm brushes against its front paw.
“Ouch, that doesn’t look good. How on Earth did you hurt your paw?” Adjusting my grip, I open my coat and rest my new friend against my chest.
“What have you got there?” Cowboy shouts as he makes his way towards me.
“This little cutie needs some medical attention,” I explain, gently scratching behind the dog’s ears. It just whimpers more, clearly in pain.
“Poor thing.” Cowboy’s eyes furrow as he looks over the small creature. “We’re loading up the truck now. Why don’t we drop you both off at the vet clinic? Bethany will be able to fix him right up.”
Bethany has been a friend of my sister’s for years, and is the best vet in the area. She’ll definitely know what to do. Hopefully he’ll make a full recovery, and we can reunite him with his owner—even if he’s already stolen my heart too, like a sweet little redhead.