by Lisa Ladew
"Bronx Rosesson?"
"Yes sir."
The man let out a sigh and took off his glasses. He polished them absently with his uniform sleeve as his eyes cornered Bronx.
"Just what in the hell are you doing in front of me, Rosesson?"
Bronx recoiled, not sure what he was being asked.
The man sitting behind the desk put his glasses back on and leaned forward, his voice lowered. "What in the hell is a rich boy like you doing trying to work an honest job like this?"
The question so surprised Bronx he couldn't get his feet under him. Everything about the man's attitude told him he wasn't welcome here, and that was the last thing Bronx had expected.
The guy held up a hand. "Look, I don't even want to know. You need to know that I'll be watching you, and the first time you fuck up even once, I'll be shipping you straight back to daddy with your pink slip stapled to your forehead. Clear?"
Bronx just stared.
"We clear, or not?" the guy growled and Bronx finally managed to nod his head. "Yes, Sir."
"Good. I'm Chief Isaacs. I own all bodies in this battalion, which means I own you now too. When I say jump, you jump, when I say pull hose, you pull hose, and when I say shut up, you shut the fuck up, you got me?"
Bronx nodded again as his mind started rebelling, barely paying attention to the new direction the chief was taking. He didn't like being treated like a piece of dirt on someone's shoe, and he hadn't expected it at the job he'd pined for since he was a kid. Which proved he was double stupid.
Jokes started running through his thoughts, the jokes he'd relied on to get him through school back when his family had been lower-middle-class-pretending-to-be-wealthy and his grandparents had paid for their education in a snobby private school none of them had wanted to attend. He'd never cared about what the teachers had tried to cram in their heads, and he'd always learned just enough to stay on the football team.
Jokes had gotten him through school, making sure all the teachers liked him, or at least thought he was harmless even if he didn't get very good grades. They'd gotten him through family life with his absent mother and his heavy-handed father. And they'd gotten him through the last eight years when he'd wanted to be a firefighter but had been helping his brother build a business instead.
The jokes seemed to think he needed them and they started flying.
Those glasses are so thick when he looks at a map he can see people waving at him.
What did Chief Isaacs' wife do with her asshole this morning? Packed his lunch and sent him to work.
Normally, Bronx wasn't a fan of insults, but when the situation called for it, he could produce them.
A bit of calm flowed through him and he was able to focus again. He made sure not to let his inner grin show on his face though.
The chief was going on and on about duties and expectations and how no one took a shit at Station 66 without him knowing about it so Bronx better watch his Ps and Qs until Bronx's ears were trying to seal themselves off.
Finally, the chief seemed to run out of things to say. He fished a piece of paper out of his desk, wrote on it, then handed it to Bronx. "Here's your locker number. Go find everything on this paper to familiarize yourself with the station. Report back to me in forty-five minutes."
Bronx took the paper and shot to his feet, overjoyed to be excused. He left the room before the Chief could change his mind, walking swiftly across the hardwood floor towards the bunk beds. As he turned to the right and took in the layout of the sleeping area, he heard the chief close his office door.
Bronx leaned against the wall and rubbed his forehead. That guy was going to be a bitch to get used to.
Chapter 5
Eme
Eme half-remembered, half-felt the hand on her hair, hauling her down the corridor, in exactly the way you do in dreams. She struggled in her bed sheets, desperate to wake herself up, to not live through this a second time.
But the dream-scene kept progressing. They were at the tiny alcove, she was being shoved in the maintenance door, her hip scraping the molding as she was forced in. Then darkness. Her fingers scrabbled at the floor and she turned, trying to figure out exactly where she was. She'd hated the third floor of Dusan's family home and never gone up there if she could help it. The atmosphere always seemed to her like the walls and floor had recorded whatever evil had taken place there, and were reflecting it back to anyone who walked through.
Her husband had never shared stories of his childhood with her and she was glad. The few times she'd been up at the very top of the plantation house, it made her think of family members being locked away for decades, children being horribly punished for nothing, and worse that she had barred her mind against speculating about.
Eme held her breath in the dream, knowing only that she had been pushed into a door she'd never seen before. A tiny door in the very back of a closet in the very farthest room at the top of the house.
Dream-days stretched and time disappeared. She'd been in that hole less than a day the first time she'd been put in there. But the second time was over two days. Two days with no food, no water, no bathroom, nothing but her thoughts and her anger and her fear.
She knew she was reliving the second time, because her fear was so sharp, almost sharp enough to become a physical entity.
In her dream, the morning sun came over the mountain in exactly the right way to shine a bit of light through a knothole near the peak of the roof, letting her look around and somewhat see where she was.
Because of the way the eaves of the roof tilted and the layout of the massive house, this dead space existed, with no real use. The bones of the external walls were in plain sight, with no drywall to hide them. It was a small area, only about five feet long and three feet wide. She saw no sign of insects or small animals, or of any prior use, both of which made her breathe a sigh of relief.
The room smelled awful, since she'd been forced to take off her over-shirt and try to use it as a bathroom of sorts. She hoped she wasn't going to die in the tiny non-room but she wouldn't let herself think about that too much. She'd tried to get the half door open but it wouldn't budge no matter what she did. There was no other way out. The wood was all solid and there was no window.
Before the light shone through the tiny hole in the wood she'd spent the time trying to figure ways out of her marriage. Ways away from the demon she was tied to. Any time she tried that outside the little room, his favorite phrase rose up in her mind and stopped her from contemplating it farther.
There is nowhere you can go that I will not find you. And I will never stop looking.
But inside the room? The phrase held no power over her. Because nothing was worse than being in the room. No control tactic or beating she'd suffered had ever come close to equaling the horror of the tiny, inky-black room for her. The fear of being forgotten, left up here to die of thirst as the minutes ticked over into hours which flashed over into days.
But once the light shone in, she'd crawled over every inch of the tiny space, testing floorboards, tapping on the walls.
That was how she found it. The message that had gotten her father killed.
She'd found a floorboard that seemed loose and worked at it until she was finally able to pry it up with her fingernails. Inside, there was nothing, except a message written on the board beneath with a horrifyingly reddish-brown substance that flaked into dust when she touched it.
In her dream, she shuddered as her finger reached out to smudge the e in he.
he means to kill me - tonight I think I will disappear or have an accident bring him to justice Alizia Bulc 3/2/2000
Eme pried herself out of the dream state by clicking her teeth together on her tongue, hard. The pain woke her immediately and she wrenched herself into a sitting position, chest heaving to suck air into her lungs.
She could see the message as clear as if she were in the room still. The thought made her stomach clench and threaten to drive her to the bathroom.
She had not suffered the same fate as Alizia, her husband's first wife, who had indeed disappeared the day after that message had been recorded.
Eme lost her war with her stomach and had to run to the bathroom after all.
***
An hour later, after a calming walk in her garden, Eme was able to return inside and have a cup of tea. She had the day off and had thought sleeping in would be a good idea, especially since many of her nights were ruined by bad dreams. Now she wished she hadn't tried it.
She walked to her desk and flipped on her computer, knowing exactly why this dream had come to her. The same reason it had almost every night for the last six months. Because six months ago was when she had typed up the information and started sending it to every newspaper and TV station that operated in her home country.
Eme started up Google Chrome and began her daily slog through the news sites. She found nothing of interest and put a hand to her temple as a headache began to pound there.
How could he have such control over every news outlet in the country? How was it possible that no one had acted on her message. That no one was taking it seriously?
Of course she hadn't been able to put her name on it, or explain who she was. And her husband was one of the most powerful men in the tiny country located on the coast of South Africa, because he was a member of the house of representatives and an advisor to the President. That was what had prevented anyone from helping her when she was in his grip.
But surely no man could be completely untouchable, could he?
She pulled a piece of paper out of her desk drawer and ran her finger over the news story, trying to read between the lines for at least the hundredth time. Her childhood home had been broken into four months ago. Ransacked. Vandalized. Then burned to the ground.
Her mother had still been in Europe, thank goodness, though not in France anymore. Eme had begged her to never go back to their former home and to not even send for her most precious items. Eme had known the strain that would put on her mother, but that was better than her mother being found and ... Eme wouldn't think about that.
Her mother wanted to come to America, but Eme thought that would be too dangerous for both of them. Someday, she said. In another year, she insisted.
She ran her fingers over the printed story of the fire and knew in her heart it had been Dusan.
If only she knew if he had found anything that could lead him to either her or her mother.
Her biggest mistake in fleeing him was coming to America. He'd learned early in her marriage she had an affinity for the country.
But no matter how hard she thought, she couldn't remember if he had any reason to suspect that she would end up in San Francisco.
Unless he'd found her childhood diaries before he'd burned her old home to the ground.
Chapter 6
Bronx
Bronx rolled up the last hose and stored it in the rack, then checked the clock. 5:45. He wondered if Chief Isaacs was still around, and knew he'd have to find out. He was about to tromp up the stairs when one of the firefighters stuck his head out of the kitchen.
"Chief left. He said you start day after tomorrow. Be here at 7 a.m. sharp for briefing."
Bronx nodded, his chest feeling heavy. He hadn't done anything all day but bullshit work, testing hoses and moving stuff out of the shed in back, then back in. He didn't mind bullshit work, but he hated the hostility with which it had been handed to him.
He hadn't been introduced to any of his coworkers and he'd watched wistfully when the truck had gone out on several calls, but it had been obvious they didn't need or want him along.
"Thanks," Bronx said and dug his keys out of his pocket.
"You want to stay for dinner?" the man asked. "Mossberg always makes too much."
Bronx felt the knot in his insides loosen. "Sure, yeah, that would be great."
The guy walked forward and stuck out his hand. "I'm Captain Cesar Wade. You can just call me Wade unless you're in trouble or the chief is around, then you better tack Captain onto it."
Bronx shook it and smiled. "Nice to meet you Wade, I'm Bronx Ro—"
"Rosesson, yeah, I know. I got your file this morning."
"You're my captain?"
Wade nodded, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. Bronx wondered how old he was. He didn't look over thirty-five. Young for a captain, unless maybe he'd been in since he was eighteen.
"Yep, this is your shift. You met anybody yet?" Wade started back towards the kitchen and Bronx followed.
"Not really," Bronx said as they entered the room and the scent of garlic took over. Bronx inhaled deeply. He loved garlic.
"That's Mossberg," Wade said, motioning to the guy at the stove. Bronx could tell it was the same guy who had been cleaning up earlier. The man grunted and raised a spatula but didn't look around. "His name is Grant Moss but we call him Mossberg cuz he's such a hardass."
Bronx filed away that tidbit, noting Mossberg didn't react at all.
"We have one woman on our crew. Jeanette Read. She'll be in soon. Our fourth guy is Pat Curry. And you make number five, if you stick around."
"If I stick around?"
"If you get along with everyone. And if you can handle Isaacs and don't request a transfer."
"You can get a transfer just because you don't like the Chief or you don't get along with someone?"
Wade grunted. "You can try anyway. But it can mark you as a troublemaker and get you on Isaacs shit-list, so it's not a great idea. The man has connections."
Wade sat down at the long dark-stained table and motioned for Bronx to sit across from him. Bronx flopped into the chair and kept his mouth shut.
Two people came in the kitchen, talking and laughing. Bronx turned towards them. It was the redhead, Jeanette, and a guy he hadn't seen yet. A shorter, bulky man with thick forearms and a head of unruly black hair. He hadn't noticed Bronx yet. His focus was on Mossberg. "Where's my dinner you slow fuck?" he belted out in a deep baritone voice.
"Get bent," Mossberg growled from the stove.
"Why don't you come try to bend me over, you gay bastard," came the response and Bronx stiffened, unable to read the two men.
Wade shook his head disgustedly and looked apologetically at Bronx. "Ignore them," he said to Bronx, then raised his voice and looked at the two men who were verbally sparring. "Children! Are you trying to be offensive? Why don't you put down your boxing gloves and put on your welcome hats. Or have you not noticed our new probie?"
Mossberg turned around and eyed Bronx, spatula in hand. "What's offensive? Is he gay?"
Wade pressed his lips together and eyed Mossberg. "Does that matter?" he said tightly, suggesting the answer had better be no.
Jeanette walked around the table and slid into the chair next to Wade. "He's not gay," she said, smiling wickedly at Bronx. "He's a playboy."
Bronx blinked. A playboy? He wouldn't have called himself that at all. He liked women, sure, and he'd had his picture taken at local functions with plenty of different ones on his arm, but he was no lothario.
"Figures," Mossberg muttered and turned back around. Bronx heard him say one more thing under his breath when his back was turned, and Bronx bit the inside of his lip when it sounded way too much like rich boy.
Bronx leaned back in his chair and his mouth opened, ready and able to start spilling the jokes, but before he could, the shorter, thick man sat down next to him and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down.
"Nice to meet you, guy, I'm Pat Curry. And you're Bronx Rosesson. We've been talking about you for days, ever since we learned you were filling Janxe's spot. He quit to move to Australia. Don't mind Moss, he's got a stick up his ass. It got planted there when he was five or so and he hasn't been right i
n the head since. But he can cook like an angel so we keep him around. Otherwise we'd all be wasting away."
Bronx shook the man's hand then pulled out of his grip, smiling. At least this guy seemed friendly enough. Curry leaned across the table and pointed at the redhead. "This here's Jeanette Read. Always Jeanette, never Jean or Jeany, you got me? She may look short and spindly but she's thrown bigger men than you over her shoulder and hauled their asses out of danger, so don't fuck with her, got me?"
Bronx leaned across the table and offered his hand to Jeanette, who blushed like what Curry had said was an awesome compliment. She took his hand in both of hers and gave him that wicked smile again, like she was imagining him naked.
Bronx smiled back, thinking he must be misreading her. His mouth opened and out fell a joke. "What's the difference between a redhead and a pit-bull?"
Jeanette dropped his hand and eyed him calmly. "The pantsuit. Or in my case, the uniform."
Curry clapped him hard on the shoulder and bellowed a laugh. "I told you don't fuck with her, newbie. You gonna learn!"
Bronx leaned back in his chair again and grinned. "Whoops."
Mossberg came to the table, steaming bowls of something that smelled heavenly in his hand. He dropped one in front of Wade and one in front of Jeanette, then inclined his head towards Bronx but addressed his question to Wade. "Is rich boy eating?"
"Yeah, if we got enough."
Mossberg grunted like this pissed him off and he returned to the stove, bringing back two more bowls and putting one in front of Bronx and one in front of Curry. "What about King?" he said, his voice still hard and clipped.
"Nah," Wade said. "He's sleeping already. Said he's tired from his double shift." Wade looked at Bronx and explained. "He's our OT guy since we've been short but he's not a regular on this shift."
Bronx picked up his spoon, tapped it to his mouth, and dug into what looked like stew. Savory garlic and a light, meaty onion flavor exploded on his tongue. The guy really could cook.