Chapter 16
Flash popped open a bottle of Mountain Dew and dropped onto the firehouse sofa beside Waylon.
It was only mid-afternoon, and it had already been a busy day.
She knew things would get crazier as the winter weather approached.
Snuffles sprang into her lap, licked her nose, turned a few circles, and settled into her comfy spot. Flash took a swig from her bottle.
“Remember, when all the snow hits the fan, I’ve got a pickup truck,” Waylon said. “You call if you need to go somewhere. It’s too dangerous to try driving a motorbike on ice. Besides, you’d freeze your butt off.”
“I know. Thanks, Waylon. Do you have all your supplies?”
He huffed out a laugh as he lazed casually beside her. “I’ve got supplies for years—a freezer full of venison, cases of beer, canned beans, and bottled water to last through Armageddon.”
“A generator and gasoline?” She arched a brow.
“Damn straight,” he answered with a confident nod. “I reckon you’ve got the same.”
“I have plenty, and my building has backup generators. I even have a nifty solar- and battery-powered charger for my phone—that is, if any towers are functioning to give us service. If not, I can at least play solitaire and listen to my tunes.”
“Hey guys, guess what?” Shaquille asked as he sped into the common room, eyes lit, bursting with energy.
Just then, the alarm sounded again. “Engine Eight, Engine One, Squad Eight, Ambulance Eight, respond to hotel fire at Lamar and Caroline.”
“That’s us, guys!” Flash sprang off the couch, setting Snuffles aside. “You stay and guard the firehouse,” she commanded. Snuffles’ expression drooped as she laid her head on her paws. Flash raced the others to the turnout rack.
“I’ll tell you later,” Woods sighed. “Fires come first.”
“It’s been a while since we had a hotel fire,” Flores said. “The last one was when Romeo and Juliet knocked over their romantic candles, setting their room ablaze.”
“We’ll see when we get there.” Flash was the first one on the truck just before Waylon hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Dispatch, Engine Eight en route. ETA three minutes.” It was only a few blocks away.
Waylon turned the key while Woods and Flores buckled in.
The siren blared as they sped down the street.
Traffic was thicker than usual, Flash noticed, but not as bad as it had been on Sunday.
People are at work, she thought. Waylon pulled the air horn and hollered for spectators to move out of their way as they approached the northwest side of the large hotel, where an entire section encompassing several floors was engulfed.
Houston police cars arrived about the same time, blocking the other end of the street, and officers waved the crowds back.
Flash hopped out to make a quick visual assessment before Waylon had engaged the parking brake. Captain O’Riley, who’d come in his mobile command vehicle, joined her.
“It looks like the ninth and tenth floors are involved, possibly the eleventh,” Flash determined. “It’ll move up, so we need to evacuate those floors first and get a line on the twelfth to keep it from extending upward.”
“And floor eight, in case its ceiling collapses. Jackson,” O’Riley called.
“Get Squad clearing floors eight through twelve first. Use an uninvolved stairwell if possible. Engine Eight, take the standpipe on the ninth floor. Trevino, get Engine One’s aerial into position and hit that corner from the outside. Don’t let the fire spread.”
“We’re on it,” Flash said and waved to her crew.
When she glanced up, the breath caught in her throat as a chill swept through her.
A teenage girl smashed out a windowpane on the tenth floor while flames leaped from the open window to her left.
Smoke billowed out around her. She was screaming and waving, but, with the roar of the fire and noise on the ground, Flash couldn’t hear her words.
She didn’t have to. If she jumped from that height, she wouldn’t survive.
“Captain!”
“I see her! Trevino, Jackson, get back here,” he called. “I want the aerial up to the girl in that window. Jackson, put someone from Squad up there to get her down.” Cupping his hands, he yelled up to her, “Don’t jump! I’m sending someone up to get you.”
“I’d go myself,” Jackson said, and instructed the rescue squad to move in and clear the floors.
Trevino raced to reposition the aerial ladder.
They had their jobs to do, and Flash had hers. She nodded to Captain Jake. “Flores, Woods, charge the FDC from the hydrant. Adams and I’ll stretch two lines to the standpipe on nine. Hustle up there to meet us, and let’s knock this thing down before it takes the whole hotel.”
Hoses over their shoulders, Flash and Waylon took the service elevator to the eighth floor to avoid clogging the stairs while guests evacuated the tower.
Moving toward the burning corner, they pulled their masks on and jogged up the nearest stairwell, which was filling with smoke.
The heat struck them as they exited onto the ninth floor.
Securing their lines to the standpipe, they charged the hoses, leaving one coiled near the stairwell for Woods and Flores.
“Fire department, call out!” Flash shouted. She figured Jackson and the rescue squad had already started moving stragglers out, but extra caution never hurt.
Thick, black smoke banked down from the ceiling, forcing them low as they advanced.
Fire alarms blared, and water sprayed from sprinklers onto already soggy carpet.
Emergency lights glared like high beams through thick fog.
Flash and Waylon advanced slowly, glancing inside open doors and knocking on closed ones.
It was only a minute or two before Flores and Woods joined them.
Ahead, the heat intensified, and the fire roared.
A wet, shirtless man, barefoot with a towel wrapped around his waist, rushed past them.
Flash held out an arm. “Anyone else in your room?”
“No, man—just me. Where’re the stairs?”
“A few yards that way,” Waylon said, pointing behind them. The man whipped around Flash, coughing, and made a beeline for the staircase.
“Fire department, call out!” Flores yelled and pounded on a closed door.
“Cash,” Waylon said, looking up. Acoustic ceiling tile pieces rained down on them as the firefighters batted them away.
“Let’s cool it.” Flash aimed her nozzle and turned the valve while Waylon steadied the hose. Water heated to steam in an instant. Woods released his stream on the ceiling as well. Ahead, thick black smoke billowed from beneath a closed door, signifying an active blaze was likely behind it.
Flash hesitated. Opening the door could flood the room with oxygen, feeding the flames, maybe allowing it to flash outward. Neither could they walk past the hot zone and leave it burning behind them lest it cut off their retreat to the stairs.
“I’ll get it,” Waylon said. He released the hose, its full force jerking in Flash’s grip, and pulled up his Halligan.
“No, wait!” Flash braced the hose behind her butt and turned the spray on the door, wetting it down and shooting water under the crack. “No one’s getting barbequed.”
“Right,” Waylon agreed, positioning his tool to pry the door when she gave the OK. “Good call.”
“Woods, stay on the ceiling,” she instructed. As the smoke dissipated, Flash gave Waylon a nod. “Now.”
His muscles met with little resistance as he forced the door.
Sure enough, flames leaped within, engulfing the bed, curtains, and furniture.
One interior wall was fully consumed. Waylon took hold of the line, and Flash aimed her stream at the wall of fire.
It spat, sputtered, and hissed as the water tamed it.
“Lieutenant!” called Flores, his voice choked.
Flash looked around, noticing that Flores and Woods had moved down the hallway into the heart of the fire.
Then she heard a desperate scream cutting through the rumble of the beast. Ahead, several doors down the hallway, stood a woman holding a small child.
Between her and the firefighters, a section of burning ceiling had collapsed, blocking her path.
Beyond, the full inferno blazed. She stood in a sea of smoke on a tiny island of wet carpet, her hair and clothes drenched from the sprinklers as the flames closed in.
Time stopped. Flash’s first instinct was to dash over the burning ceiling tiles to rescue the woman and child, carrying them to safety before the ceiling above them fell in as well.
Captain O’Riley’s words rang in her brain.
You’re a lieutenant now, and I’ll have no cowboy heroics out of you.
You’ve got more than your own life on the line from now on.
In a split second, she assessed the situation.
Fire shot up from the burning rubble before her, a wall of twisting flames behind the woman, the ceiling tiles breaking up, wires dangling, water ineffectively sprinkling from spigots, and a trapped civilian holding a toddler.
She ground her jaw, her muscles tensing.
This was all on her: saving the trapped victims, protecting her team, demonstrating decisive leadership, obeying her captain’s instructions.
“Woods, stay on the ceiling. Adams, take the floor.” She passed the nozzle to him and dashed, vaulting the burning debris.
The heat seared up her legs for an instant before her boots hit the floor, nearly slipping in a steaming puddle.
She whipped off her turnout coat and wrapped it around the coughing woman, her eyes red and running, her tears mingling with the sprinkler droplets.
She held the hem of her shirt over her child’s face.
“Thank God!”
“This way,” Flash ordered, shuffling her toward the still-burning pile between them and safety.
“What?” Frightened eyes locked with Flash’s. There wasn’t time for explanations.