by Sean Grigsby
I shook my head.
“I couldn’t believe my ears,” Patrice said.
“What was his name again?”
She rubbed her bald head, remembering. “Shoop? No, Sharp. Duncan Sharp.”
I’d read somewhere that all villains think they’re the hero of their own story. Bullshit. They just don’t care one way or the other. Everybody has to stop and do some self-reflection to make sure they don’t trip up along the way and become an asshole. That’s the difference between villains and heroes. Heroes have the ability to stop and examine if what they’re doing is the right thing, even if it’ll make it harder to get what they want in the end.
I’m not claiming to be hero, and I sure as shit ain’t a villain, but I’d been doing some serious self discovery these last couple of months.
Patrice’s snorted a laugh. “We got his ass, though.”
“What did y’all do?”
“When we were leaving the scene, we passed by all of them out there in their dumbass turtlenecks. Right when that Sharp dude was really getting worked up on the microphone, my driver laid on the air horn.” Patrice clapped her hands, threw her head back, and laughed so loud I was sure Brannigan could hear it in the next room.
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing with her, tears coming to my eyes.
“And they start scattering everywhere,” she said, “covering their ears and searching for cover. My driver ain’t letting up, and all of us are cracking up in the Slayer. The only one of ’em left out there is Sharp, and he’s just glaring at us with hands up like this.”
Patrice turned her elbows toward the ceiling. Hands at each side of her head, she scrunched up her face, as if she was trying to be menacing, but was too uncomfortable to get the job done.
“Patrice.” Her captain appeared at the door. “We have to go.”
“Alright, Cappy.” Patrice stood and patted my knee before bouncing out into the hallway.
Her captain followed behind her, but slowed long enough to point to me and say, “Nice going today, Williams.”
I sighed and grabbed my holoreader. Duncan Sharp hovered there, frozen in a snarl, fist raised in the air. How people could take him and his ideas seriously was ludicrous. But it was happening. The Feed, instead of ignoring this xenophobic circle jerk, was giving it a larger platform.
I slapped away the hologram. “You’re the rat, motherfucker.”
When I looked up, the chief ’s office door was open with an arm-in-a-cast Kiesling and Brannigan standing there, eyes on me.
With a cocky grin, Brannigan said, “That mouth is going to get you in trouble, Williams. You weren’t talking about me, were you?”
CHAPTER 3
“Can I get you some coffee, water, or anything?” Brannigan asked, closing the door behind me.
I stood there with hands in my pockets. “I’m good.”
My uniform was coated in sweat and smelled like a fireplace someone had used for a urinal. I needed a shower.
The Feed projected from the chief ’s wall, but was muted. An advertisement for popup, dragon-proof tiny houses was on. I’d seen it more times than I cared to count. The guy in the ad danced some strange pachanga as he opened a large crate. All four sides fell down and revealed a thick, gray square. With a ridiculous smile, the man hit a button on a small remote. The square unfolded and built itself, finishing into a small home. After the man shook his booty into the front door, a phone number appeared on screen, claiming discounts for newly-arrived citizens of Parthenon City. Businesses were seeing opportunity with the influx of people moving in. For them, it was time to exploit and make bank.
Brannigan walked around to his chair behind the desk. He was wearing the orange shirt of a chief. Golden, crossed lances were pinned to his collars. His shield, secured above his left breast pocket, reflected the ceiling lights. It was still weird to see him dressed like this. It didn’t fit, like a businessman wearing b-boy clothes. I wondered if Brannigan was bored with his position, slaying paperwork instead of dragons. Maybe that’s why he was making all of us do unsatisfying work, too. Misery forces company.
He sat down and extended a hand to the chair in front of him. “Relax. I just want to know what’s up.”
I breathed deep through my nose and took the seat he offered. “Chief, I just want to say–”
“Get the hell out of here with that chief stuff,” Brannigan said with a laugh. “It’s Cole or Brannigan, or old ass – and you used to call me that a lot. I might be running shit, but that doesn’t mean I’m above you. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have made it through rookie school without you.”
We both knew that wasn’t true. Brannigan was a steamroller. When he set his mind on something, especially if you told him he couldn’t, he’d bust ass to accomplish anything.
I couldn’t tell if he was trying to put me at ease or was being genuine, but Brannigan was the kind of guy where what you saw was what you got. He had no filter and didn’t give a damn what anybody thought of him. I always wanted to be like him in that way, but sometimes I worried I was only trying not to care what anybody thought and that secretly, unknown even to myself, I was insecure as fuck.
“Cool, Brannigan.”
He eyed me for a second, like a concerned father, even bunching up his gray eyebrows as he did it. “So Afu tells me you think you might have lost your passion for the job.”
Goddamn it.
I huffed and rolled my eyes.
“Is it true?”
“I told him that in confidence.”
Brannigan nodded. “I guess he’s just worried about you.”
“No, he just wanted to get back at me for breaking up with his goofy ass. Probably thought it would make him look good.”
“You and Afu broke up?”
“Didn’t tell you that did he?” I leaned forward in my seat. “Anyway, I don’t feel like talking about this, Chief. I mean, Brannigan. Aren’t we here to debrief what went down with the smaug?”
Brannigan stuck his tongue behind his upper lip. I’d noticed him do this a few times since becoming chief. It was a tick that helped him retain some tact before he spoke. Otherwise, he would have just let loose with whatever he was thinking. He had to keep his cool. Act like somebody he wasn’t. That had to be frustrating.
“Yeah.” He leaned forward, too, resting his forearms on the desk. “We’re here to talk about what happened out there today, but I think this shit about you losing your passion is related. True or false?”
He had me there. But I shrugged a non-answer.
“What is it?” Brannigan asked. “Is it because I became chief? Are you wanting to focus on your DJing? Are you mad because I haven’t been able to come out to any of your gigs? I can’t take Bethany to a club. She’s seven. Although she’d probably be able to kick all of the bouncers’ asses.”
I’d intentionally not invited Brannigan to my DJ gigs, if only for the fact that I played music at the clubs while wearing my power suit. It was my gimmick, and I was both glad and surprised that it hadn’t gotten back to the department. There was no official rule against it, but I was sure it would be frowned upon.
“It has nothing to do with any of that.” My voice came out louder, angrier than I’d intended. But oh well. “I voted for you to be chief, DJing ain’t paying the bills just yet, and I understand you’re busy with your family and work. So, don’t make this about you. You really want to know what I think?”
He nodded and waved his fingers like a fighter saying, ‘Bring it on.’
Alright, I brought it. “I think this bullshit with keeping scalies alive is a mistake. Soon there’s going to be too many of them to fight and no amount of wraith walls or Sandman lasers is going to be enough. I didn’t get into this job to be high-end animal control.”
“Why did you get into this job?” Brannigan asked. “I wanted to help people.” Such a cliché answer. It’s what everybody says. Didn’t make it any less true. But besides this catchall statement, every smoke eater
has an additional reason, the real reason, and not because they were born to breathe dragon smoke.
Brannigan, as usual, caught my bullshit. “Give me a break, Williams. It’s me, for fuck’s sake. If you were only about helping people, you’d be fine with how things have changed. The dragon blood, ieiunium curate. That helps people. The enclosures help people. Be honest.”
“I want action.” I slapped Brannigan’s desk as I said it. The release of built-up tension felt good. I had to sit there and appreciate it.
A knowing smile spread across Brannigan’s face as he leaned back into his chair. “You sure got some action today, didn’t you?”
Well, my good feeling didn’t last long did it? Figures.
“I feel like shit that the Slayer got wrecked,” I said. “And that my crew got hurt.”
“Give me your version of what happened today.”
I did, although it was strictly the facts. I might have skipped the part where I taunted the dragon instead of shooting it. Brannigan listened. He never made a face, or gave any impression that he was pissed off. I wondered what he thought of the smaug bursting into flames.
“It just caught fire?” Brannigan asked.
“Yeah, for no reason. Never seen anything like it.”
“Maybe the ignis gland erupted when you cut its head off.”
“I thought about that, but if that’s what happened, I would have seen the fire start in the throat, and everything from the neck up was separated from the rest by a good three feet or so. The whole dragon ignited at once.” I snapped my fingers. “Hot as shit, too. I’d say even hotter than the usual dragon fire. I know that sounds crazy.”
“No,” Brannigan said. “Nobody believed me when I thought Mayor Rogola had something to do with the wraith fires. We need to get the propellerheads on this so it doesn’t bite us in the ass. After we’re done here, I’d like you to go out there with them.”
“The location is in the report. They don’t really need me, do they? What’s left of the smaug is near the overturned Slayer truck.” I dropped my head, shaking it in defeat. I’d gotten so caught up in talking about the combusting dragon I’d almost forgotten why I was sitting in front of Brannigan. “And if I’m suspended for what happened today, what’s the point?”
He cleared his throat. “When I was an engineer with the fire department, this was, like, almost twenty years ago. I was speeding in the engine, on the way to a fire, way over what our SOPs allowed. It had just rained and I should have disengaged our pump’s exhaust brake. I didn’t. Coming around a curve, we hydroplaned. I did my best to correct, but it was out of my hands at that point. We spun around twice, jumped the curb, and hit three parked cars. Five-inch hose spilled everywhere. Every vehicle involved was totaled, including the fire engine. The only reason we didn’t roll over was because we’d hit a fire hydrant too. It got stuck under the pump and helped prop us up.”
“Damn,” I said.
“It could have been worse. Those cars could have been occupied. Our engine could have rolled, and injured or killed everybody on board. Accidents happen, but I can look back and see what I did wrong that day.”
I sighed – more of a groan. “So what’s my punishment? One shift without pay? Three?”
Brannigan laughed. “Did my bad habits rub off on you or were you always so to-the-point? I can’t remember.”
I laughed, too – a small one. More like a sputter of the lips. I still felt like the world was crashing down on me. “I just hate the waiting. If something bad is going to happen, I’d rather just get it over with. What’s it going to be? If not a suspension then, what, a fine? Termination?”
“You really think I’d fire you?”
I shrugged. “Captain Kiesling said–”
“Kiesling is a ‘Yes’ man. And sometimes I think if I ever stopped walking abruptly, he’d fly right up my ass.”
I smiled.
“But I also have to look at what you failed to do on that dragon call. You wanted a dragon fight, and you made up your mind that you were going to get one no matter what the rules say or what your superior officer thought. Hearing both you and Kiesling’s accounts tells me there were plenty of times you could have hit that scaly with the Sandman and called it a day. I know you miss the adrenaline rush, Williams. Hell, you think I don’t?”
He didn’t give me time to respond.
“There’s no way I’d rather stay cooped up in an office all the time when I could be plunging my laser sword into one of those ugly bastard’s heads,” he said. “But I was given a shit ton of responsibility after Chief Donahue died. I didn’t even want it, but you and everybody else chose me.
“You know what separates firefighters and smoke eaters from regular people?”
“Imaginative use of four-letter words and a higher mortality rate?”
The side of Brannigan’s lips curled up. Real recognizes real, and smartass recognizes smartass.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Brannigan said. “But we can also adapt to sudden change much better. We have to. I want to treat what happened today as a learning experience. I want you to see that, even though we don’t get to do all the cool shit we used to, in the end it’s better for everybody. I don’t want anyone dying on my watch.
“You know, when we went to Canada, I thought all of those Canucks were crazy. Keeping dragons alive? Containing them? I thought it was a wasted effort with no benefit.”
“What changed?” I asked.
“The Canadians were doing it for their reasons. We’re doing it for ours. I fully give you permission to shoot me dead if I ever try to start up a dragon sacrifice program, but, Tamerica, we’ve discovered a miracle in scaly blood. I know you hate the new protocol, but wouldn’t you feel worse if some kid died when they could have been saved with a simple shot of the blue shit. It’s more important than getting our jollies slicing and dicing.”
“Becoming a dad has changed you.” I didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly.
“It’s given me better perspective.” He pulled out his holoreader and poked through pages floating in the air. “Kiesling has asked me to remove you from his crew.”
I didn’t like working with Kiesling, but it was a hit to my ego that he’d made it mutual.
“So what now?” I asked. “Am I going to trade spots with another smoke eater?”
Brannigan looked up from his holoreader. “No. We’re giving Kiesling one of the new rookies.”
Huffing, I said, “So I’m going to be stuck doing office work?”
The only thing worse than playing Sleepy Time Scaly was being cooped up in headquarters, typing my life away.
“Just give me a damn minute,” Brannigan said. “I have to make it official on our roster.”
“Make what official?”
Brannigan gestured for me to zip my mouth. I waited until he was done using a single finger to type. The old bastard was going to take forever while my career hung in the balance. I’d probably be cleaning toilets for the next six months. I was mentally kicking myself. Had knocking off that smaug really been worth it?
Yes. Yes it was. Worth every damn minute. “Okay,” said Brannigan. “It took a little maneuvering, but everyone should get a Feed message and it’ll go into effect tomorrow at shift change.”
“What’ll go into effect?” This old white man had lost his mind.
Brannigan stood and held out his hand for a shake, grinning like the pachanga-dancing tiny house guy. “Congratulations…”
Standing, I shook his hand, not knowing why.
“…Captain Tamerica Williams.”
“What the fuck?”
“Look over the Feed message I sent,” Brannigan said. “It lists your crew and your apparatus assignment. You’ve been moved to tomorrow’s shift. I’d hate to make you work forty-eight hours in a row, and your old Slayer truck is out of service anyway, so take the rest of the shift off. Might as well sleep here tonight, yeah?”
My head nodded in agreement.
“I really hope this will reignite your passion,” Brannigan said, “but I understand if you come back in here some day to say goodbye. After you clean up, get with the propellerheads about what you saw happen to the smaug. Then, tomorrow at 0700, you’ll be calling the shots on your own rig.”
I stared at Brannigan, my mouth hung open. This was worse than getting fired or pushing holographic paperwork. He was punishing me under the guise of a promotion. Wasn’t this some sneaky ass shit?
“Brannigan, I don’t–”
Before I could go into my tirade about how Brannigan was torturing me with this new position, the Feed hovering off the wall caught my attention. It showed a smoldering house. Fire droids and firefighters were extinguishing the remaining embers. The words across the bottom read, ‘Recent Fires, Suspected Suicide Arson.’
Brannigan turned on the volume before I had to ask. “First assumed to be unrelated,” the news lady’s voice said, “fire marshals are now suspecting that no fewer than three recent fatal house fires were caused by suicide arsonists.”
Photos of three different families appeared on screen. An elderly couple, two women holding a toddler and an infant, the last was a Latino family of five. My stomach sank before the news lady confirmed what I already knew.
“Each of these families died in their homes, unable to escape the blaze. Fire crews responded efficiently to each incident, but were unfortunately too late.”
Three more pictures appeared: one of a middleaged white man with a goatee, a young Asian woman with long hair, and a black man who looked like a bald-version of my Uncle Teddy.
“Now, investigators are revealing that, in each case, an individual seemingly unknown to the family was found inside. Strangers with no connections to the victims. Most startling of all, evidence indicates that these strangers were the cause of the fires.”
“Fuck…”
“…me.” I finished.
The fire chief appeared on screen. An unseen reporter asked, “Why have you waited until now to reveal your findings?”
“We wanted to make sure this was, in fact, what we suspected. It appears that these three individuals entered the victims’ homes, two of them in the middle of the night, and, using an accelerant of some kind, lit themselves on fire.