Page 2 of Wild Fire

“Something funny to you, asshole?” I gripe, looking back at Sam’s dumb-struck face. And that’s when the alarm sounds; shattering everything around us. All the laughter dies, and the energy in the room shifts as the switches inside each of us flip like a breaker. We don’t think; we just move. Like a well-oiled machine.

My blood rushes, my heartbeat racing as I follow Dark. Slammy is beside me, and the others are following on my tail. It doesn’t take any of us long to suit up, and I feel a strange sense of pride that Slammy is on the truck before me. I climb aboard after him, and not a moment too soon, as Dark takes off like a rocket. Slammy sits beside me, and I note the determination on his face. But even behind that quiet determination, I see his fear. He’s still green enough to have it, and part of me envies that.

After over a decade fighting fires, there isn’t much that terrifies me. Not anymore. There’s a lot that depresses me, but the only thing that quiets the unruly ache, the bitter voice inside of my head, is the rush of the fire.

And my serving my sub. When I have one, of course; but I haven’t in years, so fire…

Fire’s all I have.

Everything else around me fades away when I run into a burning building. My mind shuts out all the noise, focusing instead on extinguishing the fire in front of me and preventing more damage. My only goal is to make sure that everyone is safe and that there are no casualties.

I know what it’s like to be the victim. I know what it’s like to lose everything: your entire life in the blink of an eye.

It’s how I lost my dad.

It’s hard not to think about the fire that took him, especially when I sit in this truck, knowing he sat here, too. Sometimes I wonder if his heart raced like mine does, the closer he got to the flames. If the fire quieted the noise inside him, too, in some way. If he knew that fire was going to be his last.

I shove the thoughts aside, knowing they’ll do me no good. Not when it comes to this. I need to focus on the things I can change. The things I can control. I see the flames about a mile away. It’s impossible not to. I know that means it’s pretty bad already, but I can’t think about how bad it is, or how much worse it might get.

“Holy shit,” Slammy says, his voice shaking a bit.

“Fucking hell,” Dark utters, and my chest tightens. The sight is ominous, like something straight out of a horror movie as we speed towards what I can only describe as an inferno. Smoke fills the air, thick and black as the flames engulf the once beautiful pink Victorian house, and the heat from the rising flames is like a raging aura. The air smells acrid and sharp, like charred wood, mixed with burning paint and metal. Connie Barrett, its owner, passed away last week. The place hasn’t even been put on the market yet.

And it won’t be now. Judging from the height of those flames, this house will be lucky if it’s still standing by the time we’re done here.

When we pull up to the lot, I note that there are several neighbors out on their lawns, huddled together or sparsely spaced along the sidewalks, gawking at the sight. People are morbid creatures– enticed by life and death. I guess it makes sense to an extent, and seeing tragedy often makes people feel a little relief about their own lives, but still. Disasters are just that—disasters. People need to be smart, careful, or they could end up hurt, too.

Sam moves to corral everyone back, his voice loud and firm, and I have to say there’s a bit of pride in me at that. Because it wasn’t a thought for him; he just did it. Leapt into action and focused on making sure the civilians are safe and we’ve got a clear path to do what we need to.

Maybe there’s hope for this kid, after all.

There’s a rhythm and a cadence to fighting fires, especially after you’ve been doing it as long as I have. Even as fast as the fire moves, as quickly as everything can change, there is also a sort of slowness amid all the chaos.

The orders shouted never really change; the heavy footfalls of our boots on pavement are familiar, beyond muscle memory. The ominous sounds of a building unsettling are always haunting, no matter how big or small the place is, and the thunderous beat of my heart in my chest and the adrenaline coursing through my veins awakens me like a zombie from a long sleep. There is no time to think.

Everything is instinct.

There is nothing in the world that will ever compare to this feeling, this rush.

Nothing.

When the heat engulfs me, I push forward; my gaze searching and scanning through the ochre flames and the thick smoke for any sign of life. Just because the owner died recently doesn’t mean there might not be someone inside; like rambunctious teenagers or an animal that might’ve gotten trapped somehow.

That’s when I hear the faint sound of a cough, and see the long, slender form in the middle of a rug. I move swiftly with expert precision through the flames, towards the body and without fear or second thought.

“Can you move?” I ask.

The body shifts slowly and turns to face me—and I swear his face is the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen, even with all the sweat and soot sticking to his skin. He looks young—probably not much older than Sam. His eyes are a bright shade of bluish-green; framed by thick, dark lashes that stand out even in this smoke-filled, burning room. But they are red-rimmed and watery, too, likely from the smoke. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a heavy, deep cough that shakes his entire body.

I hear Phoenix’s voice shouting at me; a sharp “look out!” and then a loud crack echoes, rattling the entire room, maybe even the entire house. The heat thickens as sparks fly and the ground shakes beneath me, wood breaking from impact. I look over my shoulder, noting the large beam that has fallen. Right from where I came from, of course, which is now a bit of an obstacle in our path. Which means we have to move. Now. This place is in danger of collapsing soon, if not at any moment, and I’ll be damned if this guy—Mr. Bright Eyes—punches his ticket because of me.

I’ve already got enough death on my conscience, I don’t need anymore. I have to remain as calm as I can if I want to make it out of here with him alive.

“You got a name, or should I just call you Mr. Bright Eyes?” I say, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I know most people adapt a more firm tone or approach, which is understandable, but something tells me the firm approach won’t help. Call it a hunch.

I note the faintest tug at the corner of his lips, like he wants to smile or laugh, and I know I made the right call. But that spark dies too quickly as instinct kicks in and I grab him by his shoulders, shifting us both out of the way before another beam comes down in our path, nearly missing us. I pull him against my chest as he grabs onto me, like a life raft. His fingers grip my jacket as he holds on tight, fist shaking against me as he tries to get his bearings.

“N-Nate,” he says, in between heavy bouts of coughing. “B-Barr—ett…”