Asher (Station 47)

Chapter 1

1

Asher

“You gonna stand there and watch me prep, or are you going to help out?”

My bunkmate—Grayson Hawk—was hovering again, pacing like a dog waiting for scraps to hit the floor. Impatient bastard. I didn’t care that the crew relied on me to cook on the nights I was on duty. Most of them could barely make a decent sandwich, let alone work the stove. But the kitchen at the station was large enough for everyone to lend a hand.

I was just as tired and hungry as the rest of them, but instead of eating as many calories as possible in less than a minute like I’d done in the military, civilian life afforded me time. The multi-vehicle accident callout this morning had left a mess of car parts and fluids all over the highway. Fortunately, both drivers left with their lives intact, so that was one less scar to add to my soul. And since no one wanted to run for pizza, it was up to me to feed everybody.

Right now, though, I was considering walking out to the bay and taking a fire hose to my face. The onions I was cutting were killing me. My eyes felt like they were on fire.

Hawk leaned up on the long counter behind me. “I’d rather be eating BBQ at the food festival down at the mall, but since that’s not an option…”

“You could always eat Atta’s left over chili.”

Hawk shivered at that thought. “And die a slow death? No thanks.” He pointed over at the large sink. “Did you see what that shit did to the pot? If it can burn through metal, I really don’t want to know what it will do to my intestines.”

I had to agree. Somehow Atta had managed to scorch the pot. “That thing needs to be thrown out. You want to eat soon? Grab a knife and start helping. My eyes are burning and the chicken needs cutting.”

“Blame it on the onions all you want, Hayes,” Hawk teased as he snagged another cutting board off the stack. “But we all know you’re still sad at being rejected the other night.”

“Rejected?” His assumption made me laugh. “Don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you got bad intel.” These guys were worse than a bunch of nosy women.

“I don’t think so,” Hawk countered.

He was starting to irritate me. “Worry about cutting chicken so we can eat.” The guys could think what they wanted; it was simpler than the hour-long razzing that would take place if I tried to explain what they think they saw. So much for a few beers out with the guys after shift.

Truth was, I was the one that walked away—more like ran . Three minutes into my conversation with the leggy redhead, I knew the maintenance wasn’t worth the squeeze. Fake nails. Too much makeup. Rambling on about some drama while asking me if being a fireman paid well. I stopped paying attention after that. She was a clinger and way too drunk. I stayed far away from that type of woman. It all equaled trouble.

The aroma from the sizzling onions and garlic filled the kitchen. Toss in some sliced chicken, a little red bell pepper, broccoli, and carrots—top it all off with stir-fry sauce and sriracha on a pile of rice noodles and bam—you’ve got dinner. There was enough food to feed a mess hall of Army recruits here, not just the twenty guys on duty tonight.

The amount of grub we all consumed never ceased to amaze me. We’d kind of missed lunch earlier since we were busy clearing debris and oil off the highway, so getting a square meal in our stomachs wasn’t a priority at the time. Food often took a back seat to daily calls.

“Dinner’s up,” I called out, making my way to the table with a heaping plate. I was just about to lift my fork to my mouth when the screeching tones of a fire call echoed through the building. Of course . I shoveled forkfuls of goodness into my mouth as the call replayed. I knocked it out of the park with this new recipe. Damn, this shit is good.

The call squawked throughout the building and over my radio. “Engine 42, Battalion 3. Respond to a vehicle fire at Trident Mall. Nashville Food Festival. Multiple reports state food truck vehicle is on fire with explosions. Cross streets Rincon and Shea North parking lot. Time out 1240.”

Explosions? That’s not good. I shoved more food in my mouth because any second now…

“Engine 47, Medic 45. Respond to the Food Festival at Trident Mall. Time out 1242.”

And there it was. Second alarm.

So much for a hot meal. My excellent dinner would be cold and potentially inedible by the time we returned, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I was right where I was supposed to be—doing exactly what I’m meant to do as I sprinted to my locker.

My blood was pumping as I kicked off my shoes and pulled on my boots and bunker pants. I grabbed my coat and helmet and was in my assigned seat in less than a minute.

“Jesus, Hayes.” Hawk nodded at my bouncing leg as he strapped in next to me. “Calm down. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

Unlikely, but anything was possible in this line of work. We’d all had a few close calls over the years. That was why we trained constantly. Danger came with the job. And I was ready for it. “Well, if it happens, I’ve got your sorry ass to save me.”

Hawk eyed me over. “Just so we’re clear. I draw the line at mouth-to-mouth.”

“Your loss.” I tugged my seatbelt tighter, making room for Hollywood to climb in. “You and the girls will have to find something else to gossip about.”

“What girls?” Rhett “Hollywood” Ferguson buckled himself into the seat facing me. “We still talking about Hayes not getting laid Friday night? You know they make pills for that now.”

Even on a fire call, these guys would be the death of me. “You all need hobbies.” Hollywood gave me the look , calling me out on my lack of game. Geez. You pass up on a willing woman one time and they never let you forget it. I could only imagine the new jabs they’d toss at me—maybe even earn me a new nickname rather than them calling me, “Hit It and Quit It.” I didn’t need to give them more ammunition.

Truthfully, random hookups were losing the appeal, especially seeing my fellow crewmembers falling for women one after the other. It was as if they all had found magic pussy, making them loved-up dickheads.

With everyone on board, the overhead door raised up and we were rolling out. Cap reached for the com. “Dispatch, Engine 47 is en route.”

Lights and sirens blaring down the road still didn’t get cars out of our way quick enough. Most motorists are clueless when emergency responders need to maneuver through the streets.

“Get the hell out of the way!” Jamie was yelling at the morons who failed to yield to the big, red fire engine behind them. He slowed the rig at each intersection before speeding through, trying to get us on scene as quickly as possible.

“Nashville 42, 47, be advised”—the coms echoed through the truck—“new caller says there are multiple explosions in the north side parking lot at Trident Mall. Multiple injuries. EMT42, ambulances dispatched and en route. Time out 1306.”

The dogwood-lined streets that had passed in a blur, all green and beautiful, were a distant contrast to the dread and destruction awaiting us in the parking lot. It reminded me of that compound we’d blown up outside of Kabul. Cap reached up and pulled on the line again, blaring the horn as we made the final turn into the lot.

“Engine 47 on scene,” Cap replied again to Dispatch.

Black smoke billowed up into the air, darkening the sunny afternoon sky. Flames shot out of a food truck, hissing and popping as it melted its cage. It was a sight that would strike fear into most human beings. For me, anticipation curled into my gut, aching to spring into action. It was the fuel that fed my inner needs to save and protect. I felt it when I joined the Army; now, nineteen years later, it burned even hotter.

“Jesus,” Hawk muttered as we got closer to the fire. Terrified people were running in all directions, weaving their way through the parking lot. Barriers once in place to keep cars and pedestrians separate were knocked down in pieces.

I faced him dead on. “He”—I pointed to the sky— “can’t help now. It’s all up to us.”

Ten-foot flames and black smoke shot into the air from two food trucks. My quick guess: one truck exploded and caused a chain reaction. Awnings and pop-up canopy tents lay scattered everywhere. Pieces of charred metal rested on the booths directly across from the trucks on fire. Colorful balloons from one of the vendors curled around the smoke and drifted off into the sky.

Adding to the chaos, what appeared to be fireworks were exploding all around us, whizzing across the ground and into the vendor booths. The likelihood of having burn victims became exponential.

As soon as we were fully stopped and registered, Cap yelled out an order: “People first, property second.” The crew from Station 42 already had hoses on the carnage. We were barely out of the cab when more pops, bangs, and screams echoed all around us. A streak of silver sparkle whizzed through the air and bounced off the front of our fire truck.

The next explosion had everyone covering their heads. Something within the second food truck had ignited, blasting fire thirty feet across the walkway and up into a mushroom cloud. Instinct made me duck as I waited for pieces of concrete and shrapnel to rain down on me. It took me a second to remember I wasn’t in a foreign country; I was in Tennessee, and this wasn’t enemy gunfire or missiles. Several of the crew had hit the deck, well, all except for me and Atta, who was looking up into the sky, shaking his head.

“What dumbass puts a firework stand so close to food trucks using fire and propane? You have to drive to Cheatam or Robertson to even use the damn things,” he bitched loudly as he started pulling equipment. “They should know you don’t store fireworks anywhere near a potential hazard. Let’s just add fucking mortars to the fun.”

Atta may be a retired SEAL, but I was a former Ranger, and I was well acquainted with taking cover and assessing my surroundings first before heading straight into the thick of it. The scene needed to be secure, but you were also no good to anyone getting yourself killed. Fire, fryer oil, and propane tanks were bad enough; fireworks were mini explosives with quick fuses.

Cap had a quick discussion with the other fire captain on scene while we pulled our equipment. He jogged over to us. “Hayes, Hawk, and Atta.” He pointed to the area across from the burning food trucks, where rows upon rows of vendors had set up booths and tables to sell things. Now it was partial debris and rubble from the concussions of the blast. “42 is working that section, so you take this area. Work your way through. Anyone not injured needs to be evacuated. Minor injuries go to the far end of the lot to the blue tent. They’re staging triage down there. We may have people entrapped so use your heads. I want these people safe and away from these trucks.”

Our tanker truck pulled in behind ours, hooking hoses, but the first two food trucks were fully engulfed. The fires were turning them to rubble. If anyone was trapped inside… I didn’t want to think about more loss. Our task was search and rescue now.

The three of us headed for the line of vendor booths that had sustained hefty damage from the initial blast. A piece of one of the food trucks had demolished the flimsy pop-up tent which had been over a booth selling bottles of honey. The tables inside had been twisted and flattened to the ground, scattering glass and bronze, sticky goo everywhere.

“We have a body,” Hawk said as he moved a vinyl sheet and a case of fresh flowers from the booth behind us out of the way. There on the ground was an older male who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, trapped beneath some plywood and jugs of honey. Fortunately, he was fully conscious, trying to extricate himself from the rubble.

We carefully moved the collapsed tables out of the way, tossing it into a pile. As soon as I moved the final sheet of plywood off of him, the man attempted to sit up.

I knelt beside him, quickly assessing his condition. “Easy there. I got you.” His clothing was intact. No burns or char marks either. No blood. No tears or visible compound fractures. How he managed to stay in one piece was nothing short of a miracle. The only blood I could see was coming from a small laceration on his cheek.

“I’m okay,” he said, fighting me a bit as I tried to get him to lie back down.

“Take it easy. Let me take care of you.” I held his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Simon. Simon Fleet. What happened? I heard the boom, and then…” He looked past me to where Hawk and Atta were clearing debris, utter sadness crinkling his eyes. “Oh, dear. No. Look at all my… My honey. Oh, it’s all gone.”

I needed him to focus as he was still partially trapped by it all and active fires were still cracking behind us. “It’s okay, Mr. Fleet. Let’s get you taken care of first. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Mr. Fleet clutched my forearm.

“Okay, sir, just relax. My name is Hayes. These are my partners. We’re going to get you out of here, but I need you to stay with me and keep calm. Can you tell me if you have pain anywhere?”

“No,” Mr. Fleet replied, failing to hide his wince when he tried to move.

“I need you to relax. Let us take care of you.”

Our patient seemed mostly alert and stable, but his foot and ankle were still pinned beneath one of his wooden display stands. Hawk tossed some fresh flowers to the side and then he and Atta made quick work out of moving several plastic jugs of honey.

The heat twenty feet behind us was intense. I reached into our bag and got out a neck brace. “I need to put this on you, okay? It’s just to keep your neck supported so we can safely move you out of here.”

“I don’t need that,” he groused at me. “Just help me up.”

I knew all too well how injured patients fought us. The shock and adrenaline tended to mask things, and terror made them combative. “How about you let us carry you? And then if the pretty girls over there at the ambulance say you’re okay, you can wrestle with them.”

Mr. Fleet seemed to like the idea. I was just glad my lie worked. With careful precision, Hawk and I rolled him onto a backboard and the three of us hefted him into the air.

Instead of walking on, Hawk stood immobile for a second; he tossed his chin towards the back of Mr. Fleet’s booth where more boxes of honey and flowers were scattered about. I followed his line of sight until I finally spotted what he was seeing.

All of the air left my lungs. Death apparently had other plans today. The tragedy of this day just kept on giving.

For there, between the piles of crushed red roses and tarps, was a woman’s hand.