Chapter 55 Warren
FIFTY-FIVE
WARREN
Orange flames lick up toward the sky, dancing in the billowing dark gray smoke. It’s almost beautiful, if not for the fumes filling the air. Whatever burns in the storage units causes the clouds to turn a dangerous color, almost black.
The lot hasn’t been touched in years, the contents a mystery, making our job more difficult. According to the security guard, he spotted a bunch of kids on bikes fleeing the area shortly after smoke started filling the sky.
We’re split in to small teams to cover more space and extinguish the flames as quickly as possible. Smoke this thick and close to the city risks grounding flights and causing respiratory issues to people living nearby.
Riley Anders is doing his best to hide his nerves on the edges of our crew.
This is the biggest and most challenging call he’s had since qualifying.
Every single firefighter here remembers the nerves from their first few months as a probie.
No one else notices, and before I talk myself out of it, I amble over to him and slap him on the shoulder.
“I’ll go with Anders.”
Our lieutenant nods before turning to the next pair.
“You don’t need to do that,” Riley murmurs, adjusting the breathing apparatus on his head.
“Do what?” I check the valve on my SCBA bottle.
“Offer to pair with me. No one wants to be stuck with the probie.”
I tsk. “Anyone who thinks that way shouldn’t be on duty. You’re here to learn, and I’m going to make sure you take something away from this shit show.” I wave my hand at the smoke. “Fuck, almost twenty years in, and I’m still learning. Maybe you can teach me something.”
Through the layers of thick gear, his shoulders slacken, the tension easing. Good. The last thing he needs is his anxiety fogging his decision making.
“You ready? Got everything you need?”
With a firm tug on straps over his shoulders, checking his pack is secured, he nods once. “Ready.”
Our assignment is the west side. The units are outside, and whatever or whoever caused the fire didn’t start in one location.
By the time the call came in, six rows of units were up in flames, spreading quickly and violently.
Our goal: confirm there are no civilians here, stabilize the incident, and conserve as much of the property as possible.
Riley and I carefully move through the open corridors. Without knowing what’s inside the units, the last thing we’ll be doing is opening them up and feeding more oxygen to the flames. For now, we assess the risks and severity before determining where to attack first.
Our section isn’t too severe, with the thick concrete walls between units slowing the fire.
We’re taught to investigate first and rule out all hazards before implementing a plan of action.
Sometimes, we’re forced to act on instinct and to throw out the rulebook.
It’s hard to ignore what your gut tells you, something that got me into trouble more often than not.
Months ago, I would’ve walked headfirst into the danger without a second thought to my life.
Today, of all days, I don’t.
I think of Harriet.
Of her curled up on the sofa, humming softly with a record playing in the background. How she reaches for me and pulls me into her rosy embrace.
Grounding me.
Saving me.
Reviving me.
I think of our baby. Imagining them with her freckles and golden hair. Her laugh. Her kindness. Her compassion. Her patience. All the perfect parts of her bundled into a precious life.
It would be so easy to allow the past to consume me, succumbing to the darkness this day brings, to stop fighting as the claws slice through healing scars.
I think of my family, who’ve stood by and supported me through the worst moments in my life.
Life is fragile, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to take it for granted.
Fate, however, has other plans and refuses to be puppeteered.
My arm flies out, halting Riley in his tracks as a low hiss filters through my headgear, barely detectable.
“What is it?” His eyes scan the smoke-filled space.
“Listen,” I say quietly before easing my mask off my face and sniffing the air.
He does the same, confused, until he’s hit with the same odor.
Rotten egg.
Gas.
“We need to get back to the—”
I don’t finish my sentence.
A large explosion bursts through the metal shutters on our right, sending us soaring into the far wall.
Welcome or not, the darkness comes, and I’m thrust back in time.
Waking up alone is becoming less and less daunting with each new morning. No less painful, though. I avoid looking at the empty, untouched side of the king-size bed and drag myself from the mattress, stretching and cracking my joints.
I know what I’ll find before I draw the curtains, thanks to the incessant pounding against the windowpane.
Rain pelts the glass, drumming the same beat it has played non-stop for the last three days.
The storm is forecast to die off by the weekend.
Two riverbanks have already burst because of the heavy rainfall, with threats of landslides closing down multiple roadways.
Though my station covers the inner-city suburbs, most firehouses are on standby when severe weather persists like this.
My next shift doesn’t start for another three hours, and after fitting in a short workout, my body ticks with impatience.
Why stay at home, alone, when I could make myself useful at the firehouse?
Alison’s words come flying back at me.
“You promised me you’d be there. You physically placed your hand over your heart, and yet you left me waiting at the doctor’s for over an hour.”
Shame at hearing the tears in her voice through the phone assaults me.
She had every right to be angry, sad, mortified.
Every emotion under the sun. I took an extra shift at the station, thinking we could do with the extra money.
I hadn’t meant to lose track of time. The doctor’s appointment had been in the calendar for weeks.
Fuck, I was excited about it, for god’s sake, but as usual, I allowed myself to be absorbed in other priorities.
It wasn’t the first time either.
Birthdays. Anniversaries. Dates.
Alison’s last ultimatum turned out to not be empty, and I only had myself to blame when I came home, exhausted and filthy, with an apology bouquet, only to find her bags packed and sister parked outside.
“I need some time, Warren. We both do. I’m tired of feeling like priority number two in your life. You need to decide if this is what you want.”
She didn’t give me the opportunity to respond before climbing into her sister’s car and disappearing into the night. That was two weeks ago, and apart from the odd text and phone call, we hadn’t addressed the issue at hand.
Of course she’s my priority, has been since the day we exchanged vows five years ago, but I knew my excuses would lead to more arguing, something we’ve done a lot of in the last twelve months.
I knew what she wasn’t saying: if things didn’t change, the divorce she threatened me with would become a reality.
I head toward the front door and pause outside the guest room. The smell of fresh paint wafts through the crack in the door.
Tomorrow, I’ll finish it.
Alison isn’t the only person relying on me anymore and maybe if I show Alison what I’ve been working on, she’ll know I’m serious about our marriage.
Warren: Once the weather clears, could you come over for dinner? I’d like to show you something and talk.
Alison: We’re thinking of traveling to my parents’ this weekend. Can I let you know?
Warren: The roads aren’t safe. Please stay home until the storm passes.
She doesn’t respond and I decide to call her later on during my lunch break.
The drive to the firehouse is a route I know with my eyes closed. When I arrive, it’s chaos, which only worsens when a river close to a busy interstate breaches its banks.
I can’t regret my choice of arriving to work early when it means my attendance is an extra pair of hands, with calls coming in one after the other. Stranded vehicles. Home evacuations. Fallen cable poles. It goes well in to the night, when a call of an overturned car comes in.
We’re not the only station on the scene, and we standby, waiting for further instructions as the first-arriving captain briefs ours.
The usual chatter in the rig stopped hours ago.
We’re all drained, saving our quickly depleting energy for the next call.
Someone bangs on the outside of the engine, and we all jump into action.
I’m soaked through within minutes. The rain is horizontal, battering the side of my face like tiny pinpricks.
Once our equipment is unloaded, we join the others, and I recognize a few of the faces.
“Doesn’t your brother-in-law work at eighty-two?” my crew mate asks.
“Yeah.” I scan the sea of people and find Marcus already striding toward me, shrouded in night, my captain hot on his heels.
“Long night,” I greet. “How you doing?”
He stops in front of me, and the headlights from the engine behind me reveal the distraught look marring his features.
Rain pours down his face, eyes red-rimmed, mouth set in a firm line. We’ve witnessed a lot over the years, and never have I see him look so distressed and visibly torn. We know how to conceal our emotions on duty, waiting until we’re behind closed doors.
“O’Connor, I need you to get back in the truck,” my captain instructs, voice level.
I don’t tear my eyes away from my friend. “What’s going on?”
“O’Connor,” he repeats.
“Marcus.” I close the space between us and grab his shoulder. He’s shaking. “You’re fucking scaring me.”
“Warren.” His voice cracks. “Let’s go talk.”
“Let’s talk here.” My eyes dart between the two men, neither of them saying much. Their faces, while impassive, give everything away. It’s the mask we’re taught to wear when you’re about to share devastating news. News that’ll tell destroy the ground beneath your feet.
News you never want to be on the receiving end of.
Two paramedics walk past, and I catch the tail end of their conversation.
Hydroplaning.
One passenger.
Female.
Vehicle overturned.
Deceased on arrival.
Marcus’s haunted eyes lock with mine.
I stride toward the flashing lights and commotion of people.
“No.” Marcus’s tone is sharp as he hooks an arm around my waist, hauling me backward. “No. I can’t let you go back there.”
“Get the fuck off me!” I roar. Another pair of hands clamps around my forearms as I fight against him. “It’s not fucking them. It’s not.”
People stare and whisper as I thrash to break free, yelling and shouting.
The life seeps out of me, pooling on the ground and washing away with the water, when Marcus twists me in his hold and presses his forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry, brother. I’m so fucking sorry.”