by Cassie Cole
“Two blocks, then another right,” my Lieutenant said in the passenger seat. “Then the road runs straight into the neighborhood.”
“Got it,” I said, blaring the horn some more. The cars ahead of us parted like the red sea.
I loved driving. We alternated so everyone got their practice in, but I was the best in my unit. It gave me something on which to focus while racing to the scene of the call. Much better than sitting in the back and waiting, thinking about what might happen.
“No report of people inside,” Lieutenant Rogers said, more to himself than to me. “Called in by a neighbor down the street. Single family home, two stories. Wide gaps between the neighboring houses, so the risk of spreading is low. There—turn at that street.”
“Got it.”
The intensity in the minutes before arriving at a fire was excruciating. I’d never been in the military, but I imagine it was like marching off to battle. Arming yourself with gear and weapons and preparing to fight for your life. Except instead of men with guns trying to kill you, it was the implacable and unwavering flames. Fire was uncaring. All it desired was to consume.
As I did every time we were sent out, I prayed I wouldn’t be one of those consumed today.
The setting sun gave me a view of the run-down neighborhood, full of houses with chipped paint and old vehicles parked permanently on lawns. The fences were chain-link instead of wood. People opened doors and looked out windows as we passed, watching the enormous screaming monstrosity that was our truck.
They disappeared from my focus as I caught a glimpse of the smoke above the trees. The dread rose up the back of my throat like bile, a coppery, vile taste.
Through the neighborhood we wound, and then there it was.
The house was two stories and was a few notches nicer than the surrounding neighbors, with fresh blue paint and white shuttered windows. Smoke poured from the back, thick and voluminous. No visible flames that I could see.
It was an IDHL environment: Immediately Dangerous to Health or Life.
“Here we go,” Rogers said.
We were the first truck on the scene. Before I’d pulled to a stop in front of the little silver hydrant the other guys in our unit were already hopping out and getting to work. Running hoses and attaching clamps to the hydrant. Readying SCBA equipment and tools. It was a ballet of activity, everyone knowing their role.
“Two-in, two-out,” Rogers shouted.
I waited to see who he would call. Fear aside, every firefighter wanted to be entrusted with being the first inside a building. We were like baseball pitchers waiting to be put in the game. Give me the fucking ball, coach. I won’t let you down.
“Pederson and Vazquez.”
Fuck yes.
I was already wearing my turnout pants so all I needed was to shrug into my jacket, bulky with flame retardant material. Then I turned around and let Rogers help me into the SCBA gear, strapping the tank over my back and then the respirator over my face. I ran through my checks out loud with Rogers. Straps tight around my waist and neck? Check. Two deep breaths to confirm air was flowing? Check. Verify pressure gauge was valid. Check. Activate the Personal Alert Safety System, ensuring that it let out the high-pitched siren and strobe light. Check, check, check.
It was easy to forget something important in the literal heat of the moment. Checklists seemed silly, but they kept us from making a fatal mistake.
Vazquez ran the same checks on his unit while I did mine. The two-in, two-out rule meant a pair of firefighters went inside, while another pair remained outside, with at least one standing by the door prepared to assist if something happened to the first two. Rogers himself was gearing up, which meant he was going to be the one to watch us from the door. Vazquez handed me my ax, while taking a long pick for himself. This wasn’t our first entry together.
The smoke poured into the sky as we followed the paved walkway to the front door. Geared up we were slow and heavy, and sounded like Darth Vader. I could hear Vazquez’s breathing in the radio speaker in my helmet, mirroring my own.
“Steady and careful,” Rogers said, jumping on the same radio channel.
“Only way we know how,” I replied.
We stepped onto the porch and I tested the door handle. Locked. The next thing I checked were signs of a potential backdraft: air or smoke being sucked into the cracks in the door. There were no such signs, so I stepped back, raised my heavy boot, and planted it on the door right next to the deadbolt and kicked with all my weight. The frame tore away like it was paper and the door swung inward.
Smoke belched out at us, obscuring our view.
Though there were no signs of a backdraft, Vazquez and I stepped to the side and waited. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
He ducked into the house first, and I followed.
The smoke followed the ceiling, giving us solid visibility. I took a quick survey. We were in a hall with stairs climbing ahead of us. A dining room was to my left, and a sitting room to the right. Next to the stairs a hallway ran deeper into the house, which was where the smoke was coming from. The kitchen, based on the tile I could see around the corner ahead.
“Source first,” Vazquez said, leading the way down the hall.
In the vast majority of fires, the primary goal was to locate the source of the fire and put it out. A common refrain in training classes was that eliminating the fire eliminated 90 percent of the problem. So unless it was known that people were in immediate danger, that had to be done first.
I followed a few feet behind Vazquez. Our bulky turnout gear made the hallway seem unnaturally small; my arms brushed against the hanging picture frames, and his leg bumped into a side table, knocking over a clock. I stayed close to Vazquez because maintaining visual contact with your partner was key. Even though it was a small home instead of a larger building, and even though we had good visibility, things could get chaotic quickly.
The temperature rose rapidly as we rounded the corner into the kitchen. I knew what I would see before I saw it: the walls around the stove were completely covered in flame, spreading up along the ceiling and burning fast. Most fires in residential homes began in the kitchen.
“Possibly a grease fire,” I said, pointing. “Need the foam.”
“Mixing it now,” Rogers said on the radio.
Water alone wasn’t ideal for a fire like this. We had special chemicals we mixed with the water in our hoses to create a Class B foam which would extinguish the fire without spreading hot grease even further. It would do a better job of choking the flame in these tight quarters, too. So long as it hadn’t spread.
A terrible groaning noise was our only warning. I pulled Vazquez back into the hall as one wall of cabinets tore free from the wall next to the stove, crashing into the floor and sending flaming wood in all directions. Motes of fire and ash swirled like a campfire that had been poked.
Vazquez didn’t thank me. He didn’t need to. “This wall looks structurally unsound,” he said. I followed his extended finger to where the cabinets had broken away, revealing the wall underneath. The insulation between the studs was burning fast and hot. Older houses like this often had the older insulation that wasn’t flame retardant.
“Pull out before we get…” Rogers trailed off. After a pause he said, “Neighbor out here claims there might be a woman inside.”
Vazquez suddenly whipped his head around. He stared at me from behind his mask and said, “You hear that?”
“What the neighbor said?”
He shook his head. “Thought I heard—”
He cut off, and this time I heard it too. A sound completely foreign in this hellish environment. A sound I’d never wanted to hear.
The high-pitch wail of a baby.
“Upstairs!”
“Lead the way,” he said.
We backtracked down the hall and rounded the corner at the base of the stairs. I wanted to take them two at a time but I made myself go slow and steady, the standard precautions which felt too
conservative while a baby cried somewhere ahead. The top of the stairs featured a little loft area looking down on the entry hall. Smoke drifted up through the wooden floor boards, tiny tendrils that made me think of death. The tentacles of a fire god, spreading its all-consuming reach far and wide.
There were four bedrooms and a bathroom. The baby sound was muffled and difficult to place, so I went to the left first. Vazquez followed behind; we couldn’t split up. One bedroom was open and empty. The one next to it was closed; I tested the handle and swung it open wide. A cat ran out (good for you, little guy) but it was also otherwise empty.
Bathroom, empty. Third bedroom, empty.
The fourth bedroom was closed and locked. I jiggled the handle and shouted, “Hello! Anyone there!” Of course, my voice was muffled through the mask.
“Stand back.”
I obeyed as Vazquez wedged his poker in between the door and the lock, then gave it a sharp yank. The leverage caused the door to pop open. Immediately the sound of the baby’s wails became louder.
I followed him inside and took quick stock. King sized bed to our left with a human shape under the sheets. Baby crib on far wall underneath a window, where water was spraying against the glass. The other team wetting down the exterior to keep the fire from spreading while Rogers readied the foam for the hoses.
Vazquez’s shape went straight for the baby crib, so I turned toward the bed. Under the covers was a fully dressed woman with dark hair. She wasn’t moving.
“Hello!” I shouted as I rolled her over. She moved when I shook her, but seemed groggy and disoriented. Surprising since there was little smoke in here before we opened the door.
Not wasting any more time, I leaned down and threw her over my shoulder and gripped her legs together with my right arm. Vazquez was returning from the crib with a little bundle of white cloth in his arms, cradled like it was the most precious thing in the world.
The woman was heavy, but we didn’t have to go very far.
Back out in the hall the smoke was thicker, and I saw licks of flame running up the wall of the far bedroom. Vazquez went down the stairs first, rushing to get the baby out. Suddenly the loft area groaned and fell away to my right, collapsing along with the entire wall of the kitchen we’d seen. Smoke swirled and flames flashed below as new oxygen rushed in, not quite a backdraft but still dangerous.
All I could do was make myself fall in the opposite direction, against the wall with the stairs, down on my knees while holding the woman on my shoulder and praying the wood underneath me held strong.
Though the loft had mostly collapsed, the part we were on remained intact. At least for the time being. I lifted the woman up on one foot, then the other, then steadily descended the stairs. The 14 steps took an eternity.
The air outside felt frigid by comparison. Rogers was right there waiting. He tried to take the woman from me but I waved him off and carried her all the way to the ambulance that had arrived while we were inside. The paramedics helped me lower her to the grass outside. Only when she was safe did I rip off my mask.
“She was unresponsive when I found her.”
“Smoke inhalation?” the EMT asked.
“There was practically none when I entered her room.”
With her taken care of I went to the open back of the ambulance next to Vazquez. The baby, who was bundled in the white blanket he’d grabbed and a Miami Marlins onesie, was red-faced and crying louder than ever, though it only seemed loud since I’d had my mask on before. The tiny respirator the EMT put over her face was the saddest thing in the world, but she stopped crying.
“She appears to be okay,” the EMT said.
Once the crying had stopped my own nerves seemed to calm, though I was still wired from adrenaline. Vazquez slapped me on the back as I walked back toward the front of the house. The crew from a second truck were already carrying the foam hose through the front door. The other guys in our unit were around the back spraying water on the roof and side. There wasn’t anything else for me and Vazquez to do but stand around.
An old Honda Civic drove up and screeched to a stop on the other side of the street. The man that sprinted out was screaming and waving his hands. If I hadn’t stopped him he would have run straight through the front door.
“My wife!” he screamed at me. He looked like superman’s alter ego: black-rimmed glasses, perfectly combed hair and a strong face. “My daughter… They’re inside! They’re in the house!”
“They’re safe,” I said. “They’re over there. They’re safe. Look.”
He almost collapsed with relief when he saw them. I gave Vazquez the look of a job well done and helped lead the man over to his family.
*
With the coordinated efforts of two trucks, the fire was out within minutes. Vazquez and I helped check the perimeter after, ensuring nothing else nearby caught fire or spread. You’d be surprised how often people neglected to notice a shrub or pile of leaves smoldering.
The side of the house with the kitchen wall had completely collapsed, giving us a dollhouse view inside from the back. The Class B foam was everywhere, like grey spiderwebs in a haunted house. Vazquez and I picked our way through the rubble to the kitchen to find a frying pan still sitting on the stove. The bottom was completely black. We’d seen that a million times: someone puts oil in a pan, turns the stove on, and walks away and forgets about it.
“I’ve never seen a wall go up so fast,” Vazquez said.
“Cheap insulation. It’s like tinder.”
He shook his sweat-coated head. “This house wasn’t that old. They should’ve had the fire-retardant stuff.”
“Should’ve,” I mumbled. This wasn’t the first time we’d come across a house where the builder had taken shortcuts with the insulation or wiring. Why spend the time and effort when nobody would find out about it until decades later?
Back by the front of the house the husband was speaking to the police. “She was feeling under the weather,” he explained. “I guess she took some NyQuil. I work nights, which is why I’d left. She seemed fine…”
“What time did you leave for work?”
“I have to be at work at 8:00, so I left around 7:30. She seemed fine!”
“Nobody is blaming you, Mr. Carter.”
He gazed up at the house with the same thousand-yard-stare I’d seen before. Transfixed by the sight of his home in ruin. It wasn’t an easy thing to watch. I put a hand on his back.
“You okay?’
He shook out of it. “Yeah, yeah. Just… That was our whole life.”
“Buddy,” Vazquez said, “we carried your whole life out of there. It could be a lot worse.”
The man closed his eyes, then nodded. “You’re right. You’re so right.” He picked up the baby—who no longer needed the sad little respirator—and held her close to his chest. “You’re all I need. You and mom. We can start over somewhere nicer. It’s okay.”
I savored their happiness until Rogers called for us to get back in the truck.
Amy
People reacted differently to a disaster. For most, the moment they confirmed their family was safe they immediately began worrying about their home and financials. Whether their insurance was good, if it covered fire damage, if they would be bankrupted by this. Where they would live in the mean time. A home was a special place, and having it burn down was a life-changing experience. For many people it forever destroyed their sense of safety.
Lieutenant Rogers drove us back to the station and I sat on the outside next to the ladder, feeling the cool smoke-free air on my face.
It wasn’t easy on us, either. Hearing the station alarm go off, throwing on our turnout gear and racing to the scene, then walking into a burning building. A firefighter always had to accept that it might be the last doorway they might walk through. Even after three years I was still terrified every time I went inside. It affected me after. Made it tough to sleep. Sometimes gave me awful nightmares that left me panting in bed and covered in s
weat.
But for now, I enjoyed the ride back to the station.
There were good days and bad days. Fuck the house, we’d saved two lives today. That woman and her little girl who had been upstairs while the house smoldered around them? They were more important than wood and wallpaper.
A house could be rebuilt.
We stopped at Wal Mart to buy a few cases of beer on the way back to the station. The fire was at the end of our shift, so we could afford some drinks. Hell, we needed them. It was important to share a few beers and celebrate a call that ended without anyone injured or dead. It was far better than drinking and mourning.
Ours was one of the largest fire stations in the Miami area. We had seven pumpers—fire engines—and three trucks, 100 firefighters in various shifts, and two full medic teams. The place was always full, and tonight was no exception.
Rogers got to work making dinner for everyone while the rest of us sat around and drank.
“He went straight for the baby,” I said. We were all three beers in and having a good time. “Leaving me to carry the unconscious woman!”
“Are you kidding?” Vazquez said when the other stopped laughing. “Your squat max is higher than mine!”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said as if I’d forgotten, even though the weight lifting records were written on the white board in the gym. I leaned in and feigned concern. “In that case, are you alright after carrying that heavy baby?”
“A healthy baby is probably near his curling max…” Dominguez teased.
I reached over and lifted Vazquez’s beer bottle for him. “Here, let me help you with that. Wouldn’t want you straining something!”
Everyone roared with laughter, Vazquez included. He rolled up the sleeve of his uniform and flexed a bicep. “Next time I’ll carry the heavier person.”
“Or heaven forbid, two babies!” I said.
Dominguez laughed so hard beer dribbled down his chin. Vazquez jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back in the process. “Someone give me a basket of babies right now and I’ll lift the entire thing!”