Chapter 19
I can barely see anything through the visor, as we crouch across the platform again.
The fumes are thicker and the heat is rising.
Luckily, most of the victims have been extracted, but there are still a few people trapped in the train.
I try to peer through the smoke. There is an orange hue coming from the tunnel.
Its colors are no longer muted, but flashing bright.
“Move it,” I hiss at Díaz and Rivera.
There is an uneasy feeling nestling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s a feeling I have only experienced once before on call.
Dread. We are in direct danger, and I know it.
Maya’s words echo in the back of my mind.
You are going to kill yourself if you keep pushing like this.
Of course she is right, she hardly ever isn’t.
I can’t leave those people to die, though. That’s not why I became a firefighter.
“South team, location?”
The Battalion Chief does not sound too happy. I saw his glare when we came out. If we hadn’t gone back in as quickly as we did, he would not have allowed it. All three of us know it. Díaz and Rivera hop on the train as I grab my radio.
“South team entering the southern train. Extracting last victims. PAR 3, airtime 17 minutes.”
“Goddamn it, Gonzales! This is your last round, do you copy?”
I swallow hard at the reprimand.
“Copy.”
There is no sense in fighting it. Not every unit pushes their people like this after all. But at stationhouse 2 we do—especially when there are lives on the line. I can’t help but look at my two crew members though, who both glance over their shoulders. Are they grinning?
“Let’s go, boss. Before we turn into crispies,” Rivera taunts.
I huff out a fake-offended breath and motion for him to keep moving. The corners of my lips are tugging up, however. This man, who is now pushing himself to the point of exhaustion to save others, was a rookie only four months ago. I am proud of how far he has come.
We reach the second-to-last wagon and step in. The heat presses against my chest and the light is so bright it hurts my eyes. I clench my teeth and step forward to Marta, whose face is now dripping with sweat. Her eyes dart to mine. She seems tired.
“Carino,” her voice is strained from stress, but her eyes are still gleaming.
“Hola, Marta, you are a sight for sore eyes,” I smile at her, hoping she can see it through the visor.
I reach out my hand, but before I can place my fingers against her arm, there is a deafening sound.
I am being pushed back with such force that it knocks the wind straight out of me.
Flames push through an opening in the front of the wagon.
An opening that wasn’t there before. They roll toward us, and I feel the intense heat engulfing me, before it pulls back and clings to the ceiling.
“Marta!” My scream is hoarse.
Díaz grabs me just in time, as I try to rush forward. The floor crackles under my boots. The woman’s body lies unmoving. Her flesh is scorched, her eyes are white. Still, I push for her. To at least bring her home to her daughter. I promised. God, I promised.
“Let me go,” I snap at Pedro, but he only tightens his grip on me.
“We need to evacuate. Now, boss.”
His voice leaves no room for argument, even if he is lower in rank.
He is right. His call is just. I push against his hands one last time, my eyes on Marta.
How can I leave her behind? This woman—who made her daughter leave, who helps people day in and day out—now lies there, helpless and alone. Dead. Because I made her wait.
Díaz doesn’t budge. He just steps in front of me, breaking my gaze.
I shake my head once, then twice, and snap out of it.
He is right. There is nothing I can do for Marta.
The flames are closing in on us. We need to leave, and we need to leave now.
If we don’t, we will all die down here. I nod at him and reach for the radio.
“South team, flashover. Explosion in tunnel, collapse risk. Retreating, PAR 3.”
Right as I speak, a piece of the roof crashes down. I yank Díaz backwards and we tumble into Rivera, who was standing in the doorway. Somewhere I hear the radio crackle. A sharp pain shoots through my hip and I let out a scream.
“Elena!”
Rivera scrambles to his feet and pulls me backwards.
The pain intensifies. It rolls over me in waves and I feel bile rise up in my throat.
Drops of sweat roll down my face as everything turns white for a moment.
Only a second later, Díaz and Rivera pull me back to my feet.
You can still stand, Gonzales. So, suck it up.
I glance down and see a large gash in my uniform. It’s stained red around the edges.
“Fuck,” I mutter and look up at the boys. “Now I need to break in a whole new uniform.”
Their laughs are rough and short, enough to break the tension. The radio crackles again.
“Come in, south team,” the Chief urges now.
“South team here, roof of train collapsed. PAR 3, airtime…” I glance down quickly, “14.”
“Copy, south team. All units, emergency traffic: flashover and explosion confirmed, structural collapse risk. Maintain PAR. Evacuate tunnel immediately. Switch to defensive operations.”
I nod at the crew. The boys crouch back through the train. They move faster than I can, but I hold my tongue. Let them get out. To safety. I’m right behind them.
The pain in my hip flares up and I flinch.
My hand automatically reaches for it right as there is another loud explosion behind me.
I can barely keep myself standing, and the whole train shakes violently.
When I look over my shoulder, I see the ceiling of the other wagon collapsing.
The flames curl furiously around the debris.
Fuck! This whole thing is going to cave in. We have to get to the platform. Now.
When I look in front of me again, I see that Díaz and Rivera are already moving back toward me.
“No! You two, out as soon as you can. That’s an order.”
For a moment it feels like they are going to protest. I gesture wildly with my hand for them to go, my own feet moving as fast as they can.
The train shakes violently again, as more parts come down.
One of the iron bars snaps free. It crashes down so close to my head that I can hear the whooshing sound through my helmet.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! I grit my teeth and speed up.
“Move, now!”
My voice no longer holds a professional calm. It’s urgent, with a slice of panic. It’s enough to make Díaz gaze back over his shoulder. We are almost there, almost to the first open door that leads us back to the platform. Just one more wagon.
The train shakes violently as a loud crash vibrates through it.
The sound echoes through the tunnels, bouncing back off the walls.
I gasp as the lights crash down around us.
We don’t speak, but we move as one. No more crouching.
This time we are fully running for the exit.
Three more steps, two, one… Rivera jumps out, followed closely by Díaz, but right as I set my foot on the platform, the train tilts backwards and the world moves.
Díaz’s strong arms wrap under my armpits and he yanks me out, right as the bottom of the wagon crashes onto the rails. We fall on the platform, panting heavily. My hip is screaming now, but I have never been so grateful to be in pain.
“Are you okay, boss?”
I blink and look up at him. For a moment I am not sure. Calm down, Gonzales. Do your body check. I close my eyes. I wiggle my toes, flex my calves, twist my torso… Ouch! My fingers and arms work and I don’t have any spinal pain. I should be alright.
“Yeah, thank you. What about you?” My voice refuses to comply, so my question comes out as if it has been dragged over gravel.
“Me too. You, Rivera?”
“Me too.”
Before any of us can say another word, one of the other extraction teams comes rushing in. Torres appears from the smoke, like our savior in need. His hand is already reaching out to help pull me to my feet.
“Gonzales, sleeping on the job now, are we?” he teases playfully.
“Fuck off, Torres,” I bite back, but grab his arm regardless.
“Chief wants you and your crew upstairs ASAP. And so does your girlfriend.”
I snap my head toward him, my eyes glaring even though he can’t see them behind my visor. My muscles tense and my jaw ticks.
“What did you just say?” I ask him, my voice a few octaves lower now.
Torres raises his hands and takes a step back. He chuckles, but the sound is thin and nervous.
“The journalist chick, she was worrying about you and your crew. Can’t really blame her.” He shrugs and then turns on his heels before I can tell him to stay the fuck out of my business.
Díaz and Rivera shuffle a bit uncomfortably as I glare back at them.
“You heard the man,” I snap. “We are commanded to get back up. Let’s move.”
But there is no strength behind my words.
No fuel left for the fire. It sputters out on the last syllable, right as my crew starts moving.
I limp after them, crouched low again. The pricking in my eyes is not from the smoke or the strain.
Not from the claws ripping at my hip, or the exhaustion washing over me.
It pricks because we walk away from the train without the last victims we were to collect.
And even though Torres and his crew will extract the last few survivors from the back wagons, Marta will not be among them.
I am walking toward a daughter who didn’t want to leave her mother behind, to tell her that it was the last time she saw her alive.
That I couldn’t keep my promise. That I let her die.
By the time we reach the stairs, my breathing is shallow and I am swallowing to keep the tears at bay.
The climb up drains me of any energy I’ve left, and when we emerge, the sweat is gushing everywhere.
I don’t even wait until we are at a decent distance before I rip my helmet off and suck in the fresh air.
I blink a few times, before my vision comes back into focus.
The Battalion Chief is striding over, his steps long and angry. Not right now.
“Gonzales,” his voice booms over the square.
I tilt my chin, but can’t hide the way my body shakes. He gives me a once-over and his face softens immediately.
“You stupid girl,” he whispers, before he turns his head to the side. “Medic!”
Before I can say or do anything, I’m escorted to a stretcher. I am too tired to fight it, too drained to push back. My body trembles when they lay me down, and I have to squeeze my eyes closed to prevent the hot tears from falling.
“El?”
Maya’s voice cuts through all the noise inside my head.
I slowly lift my head, and when my eyes flutter open to find hers, a piece of me feels calmer.
She moves up next to me immediately, her eyes searching for answers I cannot give her.
Not yet. But she seems to understand. She grabs my hand and squeezes softly, stroking my damp hair out of my face with the other.
“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” she whispers. Words I whispered to her only days ago. How the tables have turned.