Dana Mentink - Flashover

Antonio would have made his case by now. Ivy pressed her advantage. “In four more minutes he could be dead.” She couldn’t let that happen, especially if the man inside was possibly a friend of Moe.

The chief clenched her jaw muscles. “No, Beria.”

Ivy knew Strong had seen many fatalities in her career from traffic accidents to drownings, but being unable to save a victim from burning to death was unthinkable, for both of them. “It would just be a quick sweep, then we’re out of there.”

Strong looked from Ivy to Jeff and exhaled. “Okay. One sweep and you’re out.” She grabbed the sleeve of Jeff’s turnout coat as he pulled on his breathing apparatus. “If anything feels bad, you pull the plug. You got it?”

He nodded. They ran toward the acrid swirl of black.

Ivy could feel the chief’s anxious eyes following them. Strong would be confirming the crew outside who would stand ready to pull them out if they’d need it. The thought comforted her as they pushed their way onto the ground floor. The carpet was spongy underfoot, already saturated with water. They both instinctively bent over, staying closer to the clean air. Heat pushed through their heavy protective layers.

It took only a moment to weave their way around the junk piles on the ground floor. No victims. Jeff jerked a thumb upward. Ivy nodded. The upper floor was where they were most likely to find anyone, alive or dead.

They followed the hose line up the stairs and found the two firefighters struggling to keep up with the flames. Cardboard boxes and rolls of carpet provided an ample supply of fuel for the hungry fire. The man at the nozzle end was trying to aim for the base of the fire, which thundered from an open bedroom doorway.

She prayed for the boom of a ladder hitting the side of the house that would announce the guys on Engine Twenty-Five had made it to the roof to ventilate. The hole they cut would suck all the black smoke out like a vacuum and restore visibility in minutes. But there wasn’t time to sit around hoping. She and Jeff headed through a maze of debris toward the back bedrooms.

The heat was intense. Sweat poured down her face under the mask and soaked through the Nomex hood. She could feel the molten temperature through the thick gloves as she pushed her way by stacks of piled furniture.

Jeff was a few yards ahead. He’d found a locked door, and though the handle turned, it wouldn’t open. He tried to force it with the pry bar.

“It’s unlocked,” he yelled above the noise. “But I can’t budge it.”

Both of them threw their combined weight at the door and it finally opened.

Flames erupted through the opening, driving them back. The room was fully engulfed.

Jeff did a cutting motion across his throat. “We’re out of here, Ivy. It’s gonna go up any minute.” He grabbed the radio from his pocket and the battalion chief officially ordered them all to pull out. Ahead in the hallway she could see the two hosemen inching back down the stairs.

Jeff turned and followed them, his sturdy form disappearing after a few steps in the dark haze.

Ivy made to follow him when she noticed the door at the end of the hall. It had to open onto a bedroom. After a moment’s hesitation she got on her hands and knees and crawled toward it. The man might be inside, calling out, his voice too weak to be heard over the cacophony. The heat intensified with each foot of floor she crossed. Her helmet felt like a vise, pressing in around her face, squeezing the breath out of her. She should follow Jeff, get out before the place went up.

But what if there was a life on the other side of that door?

A life that she was meant to save?

She moved as fast as she could toward the threshold, following the narrow strip of space that wound through the junk. Inches away, she reached out a hand to push the door open. The fingers of her gloves barely grazed the painted wood when the towering pile shuddered crazily and collapsed on top of her.

Metal pipes and crates filled with something heavy crashed down. Mountains of boxes and furniture continued to rain on top of her. The crash was deafening as she was buried in the avalanche. Something struck her head, and a knifing pain shot through her temple.

She lay on her back struggling to turn over, but the heavy debris and the weight of her air tanks immobilized her. Her face shield was fogged with moisture and soot. A collage of dark smoke and gray shadows danced in her vision. She had to reach the radio in her pocket, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The room closed in around her as she fought against the panic. Her mind spun into the past. Glimmers of memory shot through her and she could see, painted in perfect detail, her sister’s face, trapped behind the glass.

She strained every muscle, every sinew to reach out and free her. Sadie, Sadie. Her own screams from long ago echoed in her ears. Help me, somebody help me get my sister. The flames rose around them in angry tongues, unforgiving, unrelenting.

Jerked back into the present, Ivy tried again to roll over. The space grew hotter with every passing second. She knew it, she could feel it, the junk all around her inching closer and closer to ignition.

It would be simultaneous.

And deadly.

Flashover.

Again she struggled to wriggle loose, to free herself from the enormous weight that smothered her. Pain coursed through her head and shoulder. Every minuscule movement caused the pile to shudder and close in around her, filling in the spaces like sand poured into a jar. It was no use. She didn’t have the strength. The burden was too much to bear.

Somewhere from the vicinity of her pocket, she heard a shrill alarm sound. The shriek cut through everything else, filling the space, making her ears pulse with pain. Then there was nothing but heat as she gave herself up to the blackness that enveloped her body and soul.

Nick nestled himself into the crowd. All eyes were turned to the brilliant orange flames. He didn’t mind the acrid tang of smoke. It reminded him of back home, burning leaves in the fall. A photographer jostled his way to the front, camera pointed at the blaze. Nick was careful to step out of the way, admiring the camera as he did so. The irony was not lost on him. The paper would feature the fire in glorious detail while the artist would remain invisible just behind the photographer’s left elbow.

He itched to take a picture, too, with the elite camera he’d seen in a magazine. A Horseman, two lenses sharing a single shutter at lightning speed. It was not digital, of course, but he preferred it that way, relishing the anticipation that came as he waited for the film to develop. Waiting was a skill, a talent so many people lacked.

Nick pondered the conversation he’d observed between the woman firefighter and the strange guy he knew to be Cyril’s friend. He’d heard that the fellow’s name was Moe. Did Moe know anything incriminating? Anything he might have passed along to the firefighter? It bore consideration, but for now, Nick allowed himself to enjoy the fiery spectacle unfolding before him.

“Did you hear that?” a cadaverous old woman next to him hissed. “They said there’s a firefighter trapped inside.”

She clutched his arm as a pane of glass shattered on the upper floor. He patted her bony fingers. “It’s incredible, all right.”

He watched a spark, brilliant as a comet, explode from the roof and paint a luminous arc across the smoky sky. Definitely front-page material, he thought with satisfaction.

Tim Carnelli fought to keep the truck’s speed under control.

Ivy.

Her name echoed in his mind and danced circles around his brain.

He knew before he heard the name. He knew when the battalion chief’s voice came over the radio, pitched high against adrenaline and the sound of a working fire. Firefighter down.