Chapter 61
sixty-one
No one in the history of firefighting has ever said this job is easy.
Hip-deep in a hot zone, Pulaski in hand, I swing the axe into the smoldering earth alongside the Station Five crew. The fire is eating through old-growth timber like it’s got a personal vendetta against it, and the goddamn wind keeps shifting, pushing flames where we least expect them.
“Cap, we’ve got a spot fire about fifty yards north,” Justin calls, pointing with his shovel toward a fresh tongue of flame licking up a deadfall.
“Take three and hit it before it jumps the line.”
I wipe sweat from my eyes with the back of my glove. My radio crackles every thirty seconds with updates. The noise is constant—the roar of the fire, the hiss of hoses, the shouting, the rhythmic thud of axes and Pulaski’s biting into dirt.
Just as I widen my stance to take another swing, I hear a bloodcurdling scream.
I spin around, sweeping the line. The Station Five crew is about twenty yards to my left, working a section of the perimeter where the ground drops off into a shallow ravine. One of their guys—a young kid who couldn’t be more than twenty-two—is gone. Vanished.
“Where’s Dawson?” someone shouts.
Then I see it. The ground where he was standing has given way.
What looked like solid earth was actually a thin crust of ash covering a pit of smoldering embers.
An ash pit—the kind that forms when a fire burns through root systems underground, leaving hollowed-out cavities that can collapse under a man’s weight.
“Shit! Dawson fell in a pit!”
Taylor, being the closest, instantly reacts. Before anyone can stop him, he drops his shovel and races toward the pit.
“No! Taylor, wait—!”
The next thing I know the ground crumbles out from under him. There one second, gone the next, disappearing into the same pit that swallowed Dawson whole.
“A little help over here!” Heart slamming against my ribs, I’m already running, radio pressed to my mouth. “All units, we’ve got two firefighters down in an ash pit on the west flank. Need extraction and medical. Now.”
Skidding to a stop at the edge, I drop to my knees. The heat is blistering, suffocating. I can just make out Taylor’s helmet below, face contorted in pain as he holds Dawson in his lap. And he’s not moving.
“Taylor! Talk to me!”
“I’m good!” he answers with a raspy shout. “Dawson’s bad, Cap. It’s... bad.”
I turn to Justin and the rest of the crew who’ve converged around the pit. “Get a rope. Now!”
He takes off at a sprint as I reach for my radio again. “Dispatch, this is Captain Cade. Two firefighters down. One critical. Have medical meet us halfway on the access road.”
“Copy, Captain Cade. Ambulance One is en route from the hospital. ETA five minutes.”
Five minutes. It might as well be five hours.
When I turn back and look down, Taylor is holding the kid’s head above the embers. Smart. The ash below is still burning—hot enough to cause serious damage, but not hot enough to ignite their gear. Small mercies.
“Hold on, Tay. We’re coming.”
Justin returns with the rope, and we work fast. I loop it around my waist, two guys anchoring me from behind as I lower myself into the pit. The heat is brutal—searing my exposed skin, making it hard to breathe even through my mask. My boots sink into the ash, embers glowing red around my boots.
Taylor’s face is flushed, the right side red and blistering where he must have hit the wall on the way down. First-degree burns, maybe some second-degree on his neck where his collar shifted. Painful as hell, but survivable.
But Dawson is another story altogether. His leg is bent at an odd angle in what looks like a compound fracture.
I can actually see bone through the tear in his turnout pants.
My stomach churns. And the burns... Christ. His face is a mess, skin peeling, blisters already forming. At least third-degree, maybe worse.
“Get Dawson up first,” Taylor grits out, jaw clenched against the pain.
With no time to argue, I signal to the guys above, and they start to pull. The rope bites into my waist as I heave Dawson’s dead weight over my shoulder.
It takes three of us to haul him out. The moment we clear the edge, the Station Five crew swarms, cutting away his gear, checking for signs of life.
I look down at Taylor. “Your turn, bud.”
“I can climb,” he grunts, hands shaking as he reaches for the rope, pain etched into his determined expression. Tough son of a bitch.
“Like hell.” Jumping back into the pit, I wrap the rope securely around his waist.
Up top, the rest of the crew pulls, and I push.
The second he’s out, I scramble up after him, ash swirling as I clear the edge.
Surrounded by his crew, Dawson’s leg is somewhat stabilized by a makeshift splint using a couple of thick branches and someone’s belt.
Not the best option, but it’ll hold until the ambulance gets here.
His breathing is shallow and ragged. The burns on his face look even worse now that I can see them better.
Ones that will surely scar, possibly causing him pain for the rest of his life.
Taylor’s sitting a few feet away, leaning against a rock. Justin is already cutting away the collar of his shirt, exposing the burns on his neck. He winces, but doesn’t move.
“How bad is it?” I ask, dropping to a crouch beside him.
“Burns on my face and neck. I’ll live.” His voice is hoarse, but steady. “Dawson?”
I glance over at the Station Five captain who’s doing chest compressions. My stomach drops.
“Still working on him.”
The distant wail of sirens cuts through the air as I key in. “Dispatch, we’ve got two patients. One critical, one stable.”
“Copy.”
“Help me get these two to the road,” I bark.
Justin, myself and two guys from the other crew move fast. Four of us carry Dawson, one a man on each arm and one on each leg as Taylor limps along beside us, keeping a grim and worried expression on Dawson.
The access road is a quarter-mile hike through burning timber and choking smoke. By the time we get there, the ambulance is already waiting, red and blue lights cutting through the haze.
Reyna and Dave jump out and rush over. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes are sharp and focused, angelic face smudged with soot and sweat.
She barely spares me a glance, but it’s enough for me to see the flash of concern before her professional mask slides back into place.
“Get him inside and on the stretcher,” she orders.
They load Dawson into the back of the ambulance. Reyna climbs in after him and starts an IV, as Dave calls out medication dosages.
Working together like a well-oiled machine, Reyna checks his airway while Dave hooks up the portable monitor. I watch as she assesses the burns, checks his pupils, and listens to his chest.
“Third-degree burns on the left side of his face, compound fracture of the right femur, possible smoke inhalation. BP’s dropping. We need to move. Now.”
She looks over at Taylor, who’s standing next to me, bracing a hand against the open door.
“Tay.” Keeping her voice gentle, she sighs and says, “Let me see.”
He turns his head, and she winces. Carefully, she examines his face and neck.
“Looks like first-degree on your face, possible second-degree on your neck. We need to treat them and check your vitals. Get in.” She glances at me. “He’s coming with us.”
“Copy that,” I nod, clapping Taylor on the shoulder. “Go. I’ll check in with you later.”
Taylor gives me a tight nod before climbing into the back of the ambulance, settling onto the bench seat as Dave climbs into the driver’s seat.
As I slam one door closed, Reyna reaches for the other. She pauses, catching my eye as she gives me a soft smile. “Be careful?”
“Always, Angel.”
The door slams shut. Through the small window, I catch one last glimpse of her face before Dave hits the siren and pulls away, red and blue lights disappearing in a cloud of ash and smoke.