Shift’s End

by A. R. Barley

  They slowed down now, making their way carefully down the hall in case the building started to come down around them. So far everything seemed pretty good. “You see anyone?”

  “Nah, boss.” Diesel took the right side of the corridor and Jack took the left, thumping on doors as they passed. “Maybe they all got out.”

  “We would have seen someone.”

  “Maybe they took one of the other stairs.”

  “Maybe.” Jack moved a hand to his shoulder, activating his radio.

  Fuzz. Crack. Fuzz. Crack. Reception wasn’t the greatest, but it never was in older buildings. “Anyone find our missing college students?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “Barnes,” he snapped. “Report!”

  Nothing.

  That wasn’t right. The tension in his body began to spread. He tapped the radio hard. Crack. Crack. Fuzz. And then nothing at all. Shit. “I think there’s something wrong with my radio.”

  The equipment failure put his hair on end. He checked his radio at the beginning of every shift. It still wasn’t working. He was cut off, divided from the rest of his men.

  If something happened to one of them, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t be able to help...

  Hell, if something happened to him or Diesel...

  He liked Diesel.

  “Mine’s still working,” Diesel said.

  “Good.” Jack swallowed away the sour taste of smoke and unease. “We don’t have time to switch out equipment. Tell Troy he’s got the comms.” He hated giving up control of his team, but he didn’t have a choice. “Ask if they’ve found any of the kids.”

  All he could hear was Diesel’s breath, pulling air in and out. The other firefighter swallowed hard. The man was nervous. For a long moment it seemed like he wasn’t going to say anything, and then he started talking, firing off orders with a confident professionalism completely unlike anything Jack had heard come out of his mouth. Even when they’d been hanging out at Smoke & Bullets the previous week, arguing about whether Yogi Berra or Babe Ruth was the best ball player of all time, Diesel had never spoken at more than a throaty whisper. Now, his voice was machine-gun automatic as he filled Troy in on their situation and Jack’s orders. He listened to the response, and then—

  “Some of them made it out through a stairwell on the east side. There are a bunch stuck in elevators two floors down. Troy and some of the others are getting them out. He said we should keep looking for stragglers. There’s a team right below us, but we’re the only ones who made it to this floor.”

  It was a good plan, one Jack might have come up with himself if he’d had all the information. Apparently, his radio had been out for longer than he’d thought. Damn it. “You’ll tell me if anything changes?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Good.” He took another step forward.

  The lecture halls were empty, thank God, but they finally found a pair of students in the warren of cubicles next to the main office. “There’s a fire.” Jack had to raise his voice to be heard over the blaring alarm. Neither of them turned to look at him. Either they were complete idiots or—he reached out and snagged a pair of noise-canceling headphones off the closest head.

  A hard-faced blonde with a nose ring snapped her head around to glare at him. “What the hell, dude?”

  “Fire, dude,” he responded. “Evacuate now.”

  “Right.” She jerked her friend’s arm. A second pair of headphones hit the desk. How good were those things? They seriously blocked out a building fire alarm? Or, had they turned their music up that loud? The small redhead jolted to her feet. “Fire!”

  At least this one wasn’t quite as dense.

  “Fire! Oh, God.” Both girls started gathering up their things.

  Unbelievable. Any minute now the fire could jump between floors, and they were worried about their laptops. “Leave your gear. Get out of here, now.”

  “I can’t,” the blonde snarled as she shouldered her computer bag. “You know how long I’ve spent working on my thesis, I’m—”

  “Now.” He pulled her into a standing position and thrust her back behind him.

  The redhead was bent over, wriggling forward to grab for a bag that had slipped between two desks.

  “No paper is worth your life—”

  “I need it,” she argued as he grabbed her arm.

  “No, you don’t.” He yanked her upright and started frog-marching the pair of them toward the hall. No one was dying today. Not for a laptop. Not for a purse. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  “It’s my medication. My inhaler and my insulin.”

  That actually sounded like it might be important. He opened his mouth to give an order, but Diesel was already one step ahead of him, anticipating his direction as he shoved the desk aside and bent to grab the bag in one easy move. He shoved the purse into the girl’s outstretched hand. “Let’s go.”

  Out in the hallway the smoke was getting thicker. The fire might not have jumped all the way to the top floor, but it was getting closer. They needed to get out, fast. “Is there anyone else on the floor?” Jack asked quickly. It’d be easier if they knew how many people they were looking for.

  “Econ 101—” the redhead started.

  “The classrooms all got out. Anyone else who might be wearing headphones or might not respond to the alarm?”

  “It’s early still,” the blonde finally said. “Most people don’t get in until after noon.” They’d almost made it to the stairwell. Another ten feet, maybe. The redhead was breathing heavier now. She reached into her bag and pulled out her inhaler. Her fingers clenched tight around white plastic as she held it to her face and took a loud puff.

  They were at the stairs now. If they started down then there would be no turning back. It was the sort of judgment call that could haunt a man for years—go down with the girls to ensure their safety or keep looking for more people.

  “We’re going down.” Jack took the lead. “I want everyone on their feet. Long, shallow breaths. If you start feeling light-headed then you let one of us know. If you need to stop then you let one of us know. Understand?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he took the first step, his muscles screaming under the weight of the equipment. All they needed to do was get to twenty-two and then they could hop one of the still-working elevators.

  Now it wasn’t just smoke in the stairwell. It was red and orange flames licking at the walls. “Report in,” he told Diesel but, again, the other man was already speaking into his radio, letting Troy know what was going on.

  Crack. The sound of the building shifting was something that would haunt his nightmares. Plaster and steel twisted somewhere up above, and debris rained down on them.

  “Barnes, know a safe route?” Jack asked.

  No response. Up above them the building was coming apart, and the farther down they went the hotter the flames got. In all likelihood, they were trapped. This wasn’t the time to get tongue-tied.

  “Evers,” he barked. “Report.”

  And then the steady rhythm of Diesel’s boots faltered. “My radio stopped working.”

  Jack’s hands clenched tight into fists. No way. One busted radio was a horrible accident. Two was impossible. Especially when he’d checked his gear before leaving the firehouse. He’d watched Diesel check his equipment too. They’d both had working radios when the fire started and now—

  They were going to die. Jack allowed himself a moment’s awful fatalism before shoving the thought back. He’d spent his entire life fighting fires in New York City. He wasn’t about to let one skyscraper get the best of him.

  Even if they were alone.

  Without backup.

  Without the proper information.

  With two civilians depending on them.

  “We’re going straight do
wn,” he said. “Fast as we can. All the way to the ground.”

  “Not the twenty-second floor?” Diesel asked.

  “There’s no guarantee the elevators will work a second time, and we can’t waste the energy.” They were going to need it. “You girls doing okay?”

  The only answer was another puff from the inhaler, but that had to be good enough for now. They needed to move.

  They picked up the pace now. Debris was still coming down from above, but as long as they hugged the exterior walls it couldn’t reach them. A few more floors and Jack was using his oxygen tank, taking two quick breaths at a time before passing it back to the girl directly behind him. Apparently, the emergency nature of their situation had finally caught up to them because he didn’t get any smart-ass comments or arguments, just two breaths and then the mask was passed back. They shared the oxygen all the way down to floor fourteen, where the air cleared up.

  They’d made it below the fire now. They could breathe easier and move faster. The debris had even slowed down. They could run for the bottom. Jack charged forward, and behind him came a steady flip-flop slap and then a heavy stomp like a metronome.

  Flap-slap.

  Stomp.

  Flap-slap.

  Stomp.

  Flap-slap.

  Why was there only one slap? There’d been two earlier, he felt sure of it. An ugly slapping sound for each girl they’d pulled out of the study carrels.

  His head twisted. The blonde with the nose ring and the bad attitude was right on his heels. Then two steps behind her Diesel Evers was standing tall with the second girl cradled in his arms, his oxygen mask affixed firmly to her face. She must have faltered on the stairs. Maybe her inhaler hadn’t been enough. It could have been a disaster, but Diesel had picked her up and kept moving.

  Jack couldn’t help but smile. Tito’s friend might be nervous in social situations but he was a good firefighter. Solid. Dependable. The kind Jack might pray for more of every night if he was that way inclined.

  They were going to be okay.

  The rest of the trip down was enough to make his knees scream and his shoulders twitch, but when they finally reached fresh air, the rest of his engine company was waiting for him.

  Yeah, that was the best feeling in the world.

  Firefighters and paramedics came running from every direction to collect the girls. Around the edge of the crowd, uniformed policemen had formed a firm line to keep the crowd away. They weren’t the only boys in blue who’d shown up. Jack and Diesel stowed their equipment on the truck, breathing easier without the heavy weight of the oxygen tanks on their backs.

  Jack’s hands stilled as he untangled his radio and dropped it on the ground. The plastic and metal clattered uselessly. Broken. He didn’t know whether to scream or stomp the machine under his heel until it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Instead, he bent down to pick up the discarded radio. The plastic was surprisingly cold against his fingers, or maybe that was just nerves. He picked it up and wrapped the ear piece around the heavy mechanism. “You got your radio?”

  “Yeah, boss,” Diesel said.

  Any minute now and they were going to call him over to the command center. Reese was a fan of debriefing captains in the field—he said it was the only way to know if they were telling the truth. If Jack hustled, he might be able to track down Troy before he was summoned, or he could roll the dice on his new friend. He’d already told Diesel about his suspicions. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I need you to take both radios and hide ’em,” he said. “Keep them safe until I ask for ’em. Think you can do that?”

  Diesel cracked open his bottled water and drank down a large swallow. He put the bottle down. His lips pressed together in a thin line. His fingers twitched. He took off his radio. His head jerked back and forth, checking to make sure they were alone. Then he tucked the radio inside his jacket. “Yes, boss.”

  Chapter Seven

  The radios were plain plastic and metal. They were standard-issue equipment, the exact same kind Diesel had used in Atlantic City. He’d examined them at least a dozen times, fiddling with each button. There was nothing noticeably wrong with them.

  But they still didn’t work.

  In the end, he’d tucked the pair of radios into his boots for safekeeping, then loitered nervously in the locker room to make sure no one else found them. It had earned him a few weird looks from the other guys, but he didn’t give one good goddamn what anyone else thought. If someone was messing with firefighters—

  He could taste bile at the back of his throat. He picked up a glass of water and gulped it down. No one was messing with firefighters. The captain was just paranoid. It was insane. The police might have the occasional PR problem, but everyone liked firefighters. They ran into falling buildings and rescued kittens from trees. They saved lives.

  The captain found him during shift change. He’d changed into a pair of dark jeans and a pale blue polo that made his hair look like layered steel. He smiled. “You still got ’em?”

  “Yes, boss.” Diesel popped open his locker and bent down. The heavy yellow boots had belonged to at least one other firefighter before him. They smelled like sweat and smoke. It would take a brave man to root around inside. He held his nose as he pulled out the radios, holding them up for Jack to grab.

  “Bring them,” Jack said. “You like Mexican food? We’ll get Mexican.”

  “I like Mexican food.” More importantly, he liked Jack, probably a little more than he should. The thought made him flush. He jammed the radios into his pockets and followed Jack outside onto the street. The firehouse was surrounded by at least a dozen restaurants, but Jack didn’t head toward any of them. Instead, he waved down a cab and had it take them to a big restaurant up near Times Square.

  Neither of them said anything until they were tucked up in a narrow booth with red vinyl upholstery. The place was jam packed, but he didn’t recognize anyone so it wasn’t a firehouse regular.

  “Do you come here often?” Did that sound like a line?

  “I used to.” Jack sighed. “With my kid. Before he got too big to hang out with his old man, we went to the museums. We’d come here afterward and get burritos. They’ve got a machine in the back that makes fresh tortillas. It makes this noise, pop-pop-pop. He used to love watching it. Sometimes we’d wait half an hour to get a booth nearby. Pop-pop-pop.”

  That was actually kind of adorable. Diesel fiddled with the edge of his menu. It had splashy pictures on the front and big friendly text. He could see why a kid would like it, even without the added bonus of the machine in the back.

  “Too bad we couldn’t sit there,” he said. “Guess you’ll just have to make that noise some more.”

  “Pop-pop-pop.” Jack’s lips puckered around each syllable. “You got any idea what you want to order?”

  “The burritos any good?” Diesel shrugged. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He put the menu down and picked up the closest radio instead. It was the one Jack had been wearing earlier. It looked perfectly ordinary from the outside. “You really think somebody damaged the radios on purpose?”

  Maybe if he took a look at the wiring? Except, he didn’t know about wiring. He hadn’t even been able to fix the dodgy light switch in his old apartment in Atlantic City. “Just ask me to do it,” Chase had told him, and then after he’d tried to fix it himself, “Fucking idiot. If you can’t make a phone call, what makes you think you can fix bad wires?” Then there’d been a smile and a kiss. “It’s a good thing you’re beautiful.”

  He was right about some things. As an electrician, Diesel made a better firefighter.

  But the guy who’d fucked with the radios was probably a firefighter too. He wouldn’t mess with the wiring, not when there were so many easier ways to screw up electronics. The things were built to last, tough and water resistant, but they’d fritz out in an inst
ant if they were dropped in a tub of water.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Jack said. “I didn’t believe it when the guys were complaining about their equipment. Maybe if I’d listened to them earlier—”

  “Guys in Atlantic City were always complaining about their equipment. I imagine that’s pretty universal.”

  “I still could have listened.” He smiled at their waitress, a teenage girl in a bright red shirt and a short black apron. Her earrings were shaped like red peppers. “Two steak burritos, guacamole and sour cream on the side.” He waited until the waitress was gone before stretching his legs out under the table, invading Diesel’s personal space until their feet knocked against each other. “It’s subtle. This guy didn’t want everyone looking for him, so he screwed with things that could go wrong anyway. That’ll make him harder to find.”

  “It’s got to be a firefighter,” Diesel said. Maybe they should have waited until after the food to talk because his stomach was churning. He took another sip of his water. “No one else has that kind of access.”

  “Shit.” Jack sighed. “After last time the brass is going to come down on us like a ton of bricks.”

  “Last time?” Diesel said.

  Jack reached up to tug at his salt and pepper hair. “We had some trouble last year,” he explained. “An arsonist. It turned out it was one of the firefighters in our house.”

  “Unlucky.”

  “Unlucky or bad management.” Jack shrugged. “The brass isn’t going to care either way. They already ran me over the coals once. It happens again? They’re not going to bother with coals. They’ll just ram red-hot pokers up my ass on their way to wrecking my retirement and reorganizing the entire unit.”

  Diesel had never been through a reorganization, but he’d heard about them. Firefighters getting split up and redeployed to different houses. Men who’d worked together for years, best friends and buddies, being instructed not to talk to each other. Even then, they didn’t always get the best reception at their new location.

  A regular transfer was bad enough. Diesel knew it’d take months before he really fit in with his new crew, but at least his new team had no reason not to trust him.