The Fireman I Loved to Hate

by Jenna Gunn

Mr. Jimmy sets his fork down. “Doesn’t seem like it to me.”

  “What?” I ask, stunned.

  He shrugs. “He asked you out. You’re sweet on him. Y’all have already sinned in the eyes of the Lord - ”

  “Oh Jimmy, hush.” Ms. Lynn smacks his wrist.

  Mr. Jimmy cracks a smile as he continues, “So I don’t see where the complication is.”

  I blink. “It is complicated,” I insist.

  “How so, hon?” Ms. Lynn asks. “I have to agree with Jimmy. You’re young. You like him. He likes you. How is it complicated?”

  I open my mouth to reply but think of nothing to say. They’re right. Why am I making this so complicated? “But my book heros,” I blurt out.

  Mr. Jimmy shakes his head; Ms. Lynn laughs and leans over the table, pointing her fork at me. “Honey, if you hold out lookin’ for a man out of a damn book, you’re gonna die an old maid. Ain’t nobody gonna check all the little boxes on that list of yours.”

  I blink at her, pressing my lips together, thinking.

  Ms. Lynn gazes fondly at me for a few moments before shaking her head with a smile. “Raina, you are very smart and talented; but you are also the dumbest woman I’ve ever met.” She leans in again. “Now give me all the dirty details of y’all getting involved.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  Chapter 20

  I glance over at Chief Moore. He’s asleep in his armchair, feet kicked up on the table, fingers interlaced over his stomach, mouth open. The occasional snore rumbles out. The remote control sits on the arm of his chair.

  I cast a furtive glance at Ben, who nods grimly; beside him, Michael does the same. I nod back.

  Looking back over at the chief to make sure he’s really asleep, I start leaning gently out of my chair and toward his, hand stretched out toward the remote, fingers grasping. He stirs and I freeze; but he just lets out a grunting snore as his head lolls to the other side, facing away from me.

  I’m stretched just about as far as I can go when my fingertips brush the remote. The chief doesn’t move. I hook my fingernails on the buttons and tug the whole thing into my palm. Success.

  I sit back in the chair and brandish the remote control over my head in silent victory; Ben, Michael, and Carlita all pump their fists. Across the room, Bridges shakes his head and scribbles on his crossword.

  I change the channel from the dreary old World War Two documentary the chief had been watching to that stupid teen drama we’ve all been obsessed with.

  Chief Moore snorts and sits up. “I was watching that,” he says indignantly.

  I groan; the entire crew echoes it.

  “C’mon, Chief!” sighs Carlita, as behind her, the radio crackles to life.

  “All units!” comes Terri’s voice, much more urgent than usual.

  I immediately press the mute button on the remote. The TV goes silent. All of us, including the chief, turn to the radio with rapt attention.

  If Terri is calling for all units, it must be a huge fire. And we’re not the only station being called.

  Getting prepped for a fire is always strange. You’d think there would be panic, adrenaline, yelling; but we’ve been training for this for years. In reality, we move like clockwork.

  We get into our suits. We file into the proper vehicles. I swing myself into the passenger seat of a fire engine, which Bridges cranks to life before switching on the ear-piercing sirens. We follow Ben’s truck out of the garage and onto the road.

  There isn’t much traffic; it’s a blessing. We don’t have to wait for anyone to pull out of our way as we rocket down the highway. Bridges and I sit in grim silence - if you can call the radio chatter and wailing siren silence.

  It’s a big fire. A warehouse. The chief’s voice floats out of the radio to inform us that we’ll be taking an offensive approach, meaning we’ll enter the building. He tells us that workers are still trapped inside.

  Though he’s not here to see, I nod. That’s what I’ll focus on.

  Surprisingly, we’re the first firefighters at the scene; a few police cars and ambulances are scattered about the warehouse grounds while the squat building blazes, its flames licking the walls. My brain goes into a sort of meditative, hyper-focused state as I slide out of the fire engine and get to work.

  My muscles move on their own, the memory of proper protocol imprinted on them from hours and hours of training. Bridges, Chief Moore, and the others begin preparing the fire hoses, while I dart toward the building itself, ready to plunge myself into the flames.

  “How many are inside?” I ask the radio in my helmet.

  “Reports say six,” the chief replies matter-of-factly.

  “Roger.” Six. That’s huge. In the back of my head, I wonder how the fire even began, but that isn’t my job right now - I have to save human lives.

  The building itself is square, flat, low to the ground. It would be completely unassuming if it wasn’t engulfed in flames. The main entryway is compromised; I’ll have to find a window.

  I feel a bit like I’m a passenger in my own mind as my body takes me to the burning building and to a long, rectangular window. I don’t even decide when to talk or what to say; I hear my own voice informing the crew of my location as though I’m far away, drifting through a fog. My arms pull out my axe and swing it to smash the glass window panes.

  I feel myself clamber through the now-open window and land deftly on a flat concrete floor; immediately, I’m in hell. Smoke billows up into the steel rafters and drifts above scaffolding that rises high above my head. Whatever merchandise was stored here is completely ablaze; flames devour cardboard boxes and their contents before leaping up to find more fuel.

  “Anybody here?” I shout through my mask, looking for any sign of movement. High above the warehouse floor, on the east side of the building, there’s a metal staircase with a wooden handrail leading up to what I assume to be an office. I hurriedly call for ladders through my radio.

  But the answering yell isn’t from upstairs.

  An older man is curled up in a forklift. He’s wearing his hardhat and a flame-retardant vest, which is good, but he’s parked too close to the scaffolding; the pallet on the fork is completely ablaze and spreading, making it impossible for him to climb out himself. I rush to him, shouting to get his attention.

  He looks up and spots me. I climb up to him, through the flames, and pull him out of the seat, which could catch fire at any moment; he clings to me as I leap out of the forklift. Still carrying him, I run to the broken window.

  “There are still people in here!” he shouts desperately.

  “I know,” I tell him. “I’m working on it.”

  He nods gratefully; Bridges already stands on the other side of the window, reaching through to help the man climb through.

  “You got enough air?” Bridges asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I thump my mask as proof.

  Bridges nods and pulls the man onto the grass outside; behind him, I see more fire trucks. Backup from other stations scattered around the state. We’ll have the fire under control soon.

  But a human can’t survive for long without oxygen.

  I turn back and head deeper into the warehouse. One down, five to go, I think grimly. I find another worker trapped beneath some boxes that haven’t yet burned and get him out safely. Four, I think. Above me, I hear cracks and rumbling; the ceiling won’t hold for long. I increase my speed.

  By the time I’m down to two, chunks of debris are falling around me, smashing into the concrete floor in tiny explosions of embers and ash. Things that hadn’t yet ignited burst into flames as they’re struck. I’m not the only fireman inside now, but the fire is rapidly growing out of control even as we fight it.

  I spot someone cowering beneath some empty scaffolding and rush to them. They’re not burnt, but they’re coughing heavily as smoke swirls around them. It’s a woman, and she reaches for me desperately as I arrive.

  “Mr. Greene!” she gasps, pointing up t
o the office.

  I glance up. The smoke has gotten so thick that I can barely see, but I make out the staircase that I spotted earlier. “Is he in there?” I ask.

  “Yes!” she gasps.

  “Pull your collar over your nose,” I tell her. She can still walk, so I mostly just guide her to the exit window. Halfway there, I hear a crack from above and glance up; a huge chunk of ceiling dislodges itself and plummets toward us.

  Without thinking, I shove the woman out of the way. She stumbles and falls; she might have some scrapes and bruises from the floor, but she takes no part of the flaming debris that smacks directly into my head.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as embers explode against my mask, filling it with both blinding flashes and dark smoke; I grab nearby scaffolding for support as my balance begins to fail. It’s uncomfortably warm. My head aches from how heavy it was. Is my mask loose? I hope not; I’ve got to get Mr. Greene from the office.

  “Are you okay?” shrieks the woman.

  I shake my head; ashes dislodge from my helmet and pour over my shoulders. I pat them out with my glove. “I’m fine,” I assure her, grabbing her elbow and walking her toward the window. A firefighter from another station is inside now; she reaches out and grabs the woman’s arms, nodding at me. I turn to head back inside.

  I’m tired. It’s hot. I push myself to head for the office anyway.

  I pass a cluster of firefighters standing at another window, and I feel that I’m in a dreamlike state as I pause and ask them for one of their ladders. They allow me to take one. I shoot off toward the office again.

  I don’t want to chance the staircase, whose wooden railing is now completely ablaze. A few of the ladder-givers follow me to the office. I set up the ladder and begin climbing, my muscles aching in protest. I’ve carried four people today.

  At the top of the ladder, I pull out my axe and smash the huge window of the office. Glass shards explode down into the room, showering the desk and computer. The east half of the room is consumed by flames. Filing cabinets, documents, all gone. In the corner, near the safe, is a small bald man desperately trying to open the metal door.

  “That’s hot!” I yell at him, but he’s trying to touch it anyway, continuing to pull his hands back as he’s burned. “You Mr. Greene?” I pull myself through the window.

  “I need the safe!” he gasps at me.

  “It’ll be no good to you if you die,” I shout. “The safe will survive the fire - you might not.”

  “I need it!” He breaks into a coughing fit. The smoke is heavy and dense in here. It looks like he shut himself in; he’s going to need the ambulance quickly. Who knows how much smoke he’s inhaled?

  I walk over to him and grab him, yanking him away from the safe. “No!” he protests, flailing, his balled fist coming into contact with my mask.

  I don’t know if he’s deceptively strong or if I didn’t fasten my mask correctly when I donned my suit, but I feel the seal break. Smoke floods in. I cough, my eyes watering, and tighten my grip on Mr. Greene’s wrist, pulling him over my shoulder into the classic fireman’s carry. He’s too weak to resist.

  My head swims as I struggle my way toward the window; one of the ladder-givers is there, reaching through, and I pass Mr. Greene to him like he’s a sack of flour. I’m not getting enough air. My mask is compromised. More chunks dislodge themselves from the ceiling and fall around me, striking my shoulders, my head. Stars pop into my vision.

  Keep moving, I think to myself, waiting for the firefighter ahead of me to descend with our flour-man, who’s still kicking and screaming about the safe. My knees wobble as I laboriously pull myself through the window. Below me, the firefighter safely descends to the warehouse floor and rushes away with Mr. Greene, the last person in the building. My job is done. I place my foot on the first rung of the ladder.

  I wake up coughing.

  I don’t know where I am. Voices are vague mumbles. Blurry shapes swim in and out of view. I go to sit up, but a firm hand presses against my chest, forcing me to remain prone.

  I blink; shapes become more solid, but the lights are still bright. I make out an EMT that I’m vaguely familiar with. I’ve seen him at scenes before.

  “Wh - ” I can’t even get a word out before I begin coughing.

  The man sighs and pats my shoulder. “Hey, man. Just be still, okay? Got an oxygen mask for you.”

  I flex my fingers. My gloves are gone, and so is my jacket; my suspenders have been slipped from my shoulders. I feel a rumbling beneath me.

  I’m in an ambulance.

  “It’s Whitmore, right?” The man fixes an oxygen mask to my face. “You passed out. Smoke inhalation. You also took a pretty bad tumble off a ladder.”

  I squint up at him from what I now know must be a gurney. “Me?” I ask. My voice comes out muffled through the mask.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, big guy. You. Your crew was freaking out.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “You inhaled a lot of smoke.” He sounds more serious now. “And you went unconscious. Neither of those are good things. We’re getting you to the hospital.”

  I groan and lean my head back, closing my eyes. “Doctors,” I mumble.

  “Patients,” the EMT sighs in reply.

  Chapter 21

  I’ve been poked and prodded all to hell. X-rays, blood tests, even a tube down my throat to determine the extent of the damage; and all this for my doctor to breeze in and tell me my smoke inhalation is “on the higher side of mild”, whatever that means.

  “We’re gonna keep you overnight,” the doctor says absently, scribbling things on my chart. “You need oxygen treatments. And we need to monitor your head injuries.” He jams his pen into his pocket and looks at me with a bland smile. “We’re still checking for any signs of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Sure,” I reply. My voice scrapes painfully in my throat and comes out hoarse and fuzzy.

  “All right, see ya, then!” He drops my chart unceremoniously into the metal holder on the end of my bed with a jovial clunk and leaves, whistling.

  I shift uncomfortably in my bed to lean toward my phone. Bridges called my sister, and she’s sent me about five thousand text messages since last night. I know he meant well. I’m irritated all the same.

  I flip through the TV channels and play a puzzle game on my phone for a while, bored out of my mind. Alyssa says she’s coming to visit; I’ve only been in the hospital for twelve hours, maybe less.

  There’s a knock at my door. I glance up and feel my face go beet red.

  A smartly-dressed woman with immaculate curls in her brown hair steps into the room, followed by a man shouldering a huge camera with the local news station’s logo emblazoned on the side. I’ve seen this woman on the news before.

  “Mr. Whitmore?” she asks, hovering in the doorway. “I’m Amanda Fairway with - ”

  “Yeah, I know.” I sigh and rub my eyes.

  “We were just wondering if we could ask a few questions,” Amanda Fairway continues brightly.

  I glance around the room; no one’s here to rescue me. “Yeah, sure. That’s...fine.” What am I supposed to say?

  “Excellent! Tony, find a good angle. Here, do you think?” She walks quickly to the side of my bed; I try to sit up further, but she smiles and sets a manicured hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about that. Our viewers won’t mind.”

  Yeah, but I will, I think grumpily, following her directions anyway. I watch her get set up. She checks her hair and makeup in a compact mirror, tugs her microphone toward her, taps it experimentally. Tony the cameraman gives her a thumbs up.

  “This isn’t live, Mr. Whitmore,” Amanda Fairway tells me pleasantly. “But this will probably end up on tonight’s news.”

  “Great.” I glance at the clock on the wall; it’s not even noon.

  She positions herself next to my bed in such a way that the camera can capture both of our faces and starts her intro - “I’m Amanda Fairway, here with Al
exander Whitmore, hero of the recent warehouse fire.”

  I feel my face heat up even more.

  She turns to me and smiles. “Mr. Whitmore, when you arrived at the scene, what was the fire like?”

  Amanda tips the microphone toward me; I tell her all the facts. She nods and smiles politely. This obviously isn’t the question she cares about.

  “And would you consider yourself a hero?” she asks, interrupting my obviously boring firefighter jargon.

  “I - ” I clamp my mouth shut and shake my head, irritated by the plastic oxygen apparatus they’ve shoved into my nose. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “And why not?” she asks.

  “I’m just - it’s my job,” I stammer, flustered. “That doesn’t make me a hero.”

  “In the interview with your crew last night, every single one of them identified you as the reason everyone escaped the fire alive.”

  That stops me short. I press my lips together for a moment, working my jaw back and forth. “They said that?” I ask quietly.

  Amanda smiles, a genuine one this time. “They absolutely did. Knowing that, do you still not consider yourself a hero?”

  “Any one of us would have done it,” I reply.

  “Chief Moore informed us that you’re usually the one who goes into burning buildings.” She pulls a notepad out of her jacket pocket. “The quote is, ‘Whitmore’s the one who goes in. He’s passionate about saving people.’ Would you consider that to be true?”

  “I - I suppose. I mean, you can’t be a firefighter and not want to save people,” I admit.

  “Even though it’s dangerous?” she prods. “Even though doing so lands you in the hospital?”

  I crack a smile. “Well, that’s just an occupational hazard.” I spread my hands. “What can you do, y’know?”

  “One of the survivors - a Mr. Derek Greene - identifies himself as the reason you sustained injuries. He says that in his panic, he knocked your mask off.”

  “No, that probably wasn’t his fault. A mask shouldn’t be able to get bumped away so easily. It was probably an equipment malfunction. Or operator error,” I add with a grin.