Report from Engine Co. 22

[DannusMaximus]

Folks, I have been inspired by all the great stuff I've been reading in the fiction forum lately, so here's my two cents. This is my first short story. It's a pretty straightforward zombie yarn, and might be just terrible. Regardless, I had fun writing it, and if there's enough interest, I'll keep posting and see where it takes us. Onto the story...

PROLOGUE AND PRESENT

Years ago, in another part of town, while assigned to another engine company, Cass had watched a young mother burn to death. The fire was at a run-down duplex in a bad part of the city, and the landlords had installed burglar bars on the windows and doors of the building to prevent break-ins. This was several years before the city had started requiring such bars to have breakaway or quick-release mechanisms mounted on the interior of the windows, so the bars, made of steel and attached to the bricks with 4” lag bolts, had effectively turned the duplex into an escape proof maximum security prison.

By the time his unit had arrived, the front of the duplex was fully engulfed, and with her only exit blocked, the woman had retreated to a back bedroom with her infant son. Cass and another firefighter had heard her cries for help and raced to the back window she was frantically clawing at. Her hands had been cut to ribbons on the shattered glass of the window, spraying the firefighters with crimson as they began to work furiously with an axe and prybar to pull the bars away from the opening. Finally, as the smoke began to obscure the woman in the window, they managed to make a large enough opening for the woman to pass the child through to the outside.

His partner had grabbed the baby boy, and the woman had grabbed Cass, clenching onto him with hands that possessed some unearthly strength, even though the broken glass had stripped them of nearly all flesh. As the smoke banked down and flames began licking across the ceiling of the room, more firefighters arrived and began to attack the bars. Protected behind his SCBA face mask, his face mere inches from hers, Cass watched in horror as her hair and nightgown began to smolder, then burst into flames. He watched her skin begin to blister and melt, cracking and running like candle wax. The screams coming from the woman were sounds he hadn’t thought a human being capable of making. By then the heat was so intense he could feel his own skin blistering through his hood and coat, but still the woman had continued to shriek. Finally the superheated air destroyed her lungs and no sound came out, but she still clenched to him, still mouthed silent screams, until he was finally able to wrench free from her grasp and collapse back into the yard, and she became completely obscured by smoke and flames.

Several weeks later, the department had awarded Cass and the other firefighter Gold Merit awards for their actions in saving the infant. Neither man was in attendance at the award ceremony. Cass was in the burn unit of a local hospital receiving treatment for second degree burns to his face, arms, and chest, and his fellow rescuer had resigned the day after the fire, wordlessly dropping off his department issued gear on the steps of the fire department administration building. It was months before Cass stopped hearing those screams every night in his dreams, and these many years later he still awoke to them from time to time, soaked in sweat and sobbing.

The shrieks coming from the back bedroom reminded him of that awful night, and froze the blood in his veins.

[DannusMaximus]

ONE HOUR EARLIER

The firefighters and officers of Engine 22 and Rescue 17 were uncharacteristically quiet, each man intensely alert and focused on the situation evolving in front of them. Normally a collective bundle of nervous energy, they were currently frozen in place, leaning forward and holding their breath in anticipation. In a station where even the most horrific run was normally met with at least a few wisecracks, something had their undivided attention.

“…What is ‘No Country for Old Men?’ No, I’m sorry Jeffrey, that’s also the wrong answer. The correct answer was ‘Before Night Falls’, and that takes you down to $0, which means that Melissa is our new champion!”

“FUUUUUUCK!” Probationary Firefighter Levi Bowden, the most recent addition to Engine 22, buried his face in his hands and let out a plaintive howl. In addition to being the most recent addition to Engine 22, he had also been, until moments ago, the most recent title holder of the post dinner Jeopardy game that traditionally marked the beginning of the second part of their shift. His wail was met with cheers and hoots of laughter from the rescue squad members and groans of despair from his fellow engine members. Captain George Mesker, a 28-year veteran of Rescue 17 and acting Station Captain jumped out of a well- worn recliner and broke into a spectacular end-zone dance while Alex Trebek droned on in the background.

“FAIL, probie!” guffawed the wildly gyrating gorilla of a man who was working his way around the living room high-fiving everybody in sight. “Looks like you pump chumps are doing wash out tonight, and make sure you make mine a LARGE milkshake!”

“Shit, Bowden, forgot about the ice cream bet,” consoled Engineer Tim Robinson, the thin as a rail driver of Engine 22 and, with the exception of Captain Mesker, the longest serving firefighter assigned to their Fulton Park fire station. Robinson was also (thanks to his previous job as a middle school math teacher) the official scorekeeper for the after dinner Jeopardy game, and was busily scribbling the final score on the station duty chalkboard which hung in the hall in between the kitchen and the watch room.

“Final score is Reynolds $4800, Bowden $501. Ballsy, bet, probie, but never underestimate how devious these old guys can be. Reynolds only looks dumb. He’s actually pretty bright for a Squad guy…”

“Cute, Robinson,” grinned Tim Reynolds as he thumped a knuckle into his counterpart’s shoulder. Reynolds was the Engineer of Rescue 17, and was widely considered the smartest guys at the station. His multi-shift losing streak to the new guy had been the topic of many a good natured on-duty conversation, but the consensus was that it would only be a matter of time before he laid a righteous intellectual smack-down on the probie. That time had come, evidently, and he was basking in the glow of his newly reclaimed title. “No hard feelings, new boy, and make mine a large milkshake, too.”

“Roger that, Engineer Reynolds” sighed Bowden, automatically referring to the senior firefighter by his rank, just one of the many traditions to abide by until he had completed his probationary period. A prior service Marine, that particular tradition came easily to the new firefighter, and he knew that despite the constant mock threats of reassignment from the senior member of both trucks, he was quickly becoming a well-liked member of the crew. He had a ready laugh, was a hard worker, and was able to keep his head under pressure, all traits that had quickly endeared him to his seniors. Plus, he had a smoking hot girlfriend who seemed to never miss an opportunity to sashay into the station with fresh baked cookies or other goodies. A blatant attempt at sucking up, maybe, but one that was uniformly well-received.

“Engine 22, get started on the floors, I’ll be out in a second to help.” That was Lieutenant Ken Cass or ‘K.C.’, the long serving officer in charge of the engine crew. He was bald as an egg, with a reddish-brown mustache that curled down past his chin and a weight- lifter’s physique that made him look like the world’s meanest biker. He was, in fact, one of the most skilled and compassionate paramedics that anybody at the station had ever served with, and had a long list of commendations earned in sweat and blood at fires throughout the city. A quieter man, but a man whose reputation and command presence seldom required him to raise his voice. Bowden and Robinson headed for the door to the apparatus room gathering buckets and squeegees along the way, followed closely by Firefighter /Paramedic Marcus Tasker, the fourth and final member of Engine 22.

Lt. Cass glanced up as his crew filed past, then returned to filling out the evening roll call in the watch room log book. That task accomplished, he flipped open another book and began finalizing an inventory of the medical supply cabinet used to restock the medic bags located on each truck. Both trucks had already made a ½ dozen runs that day, a routine mix of false alarms, dumpster fires, bullshit medical runs and investigations, but nights in this part of town were always hopping, and he wanted to make sure all the medic supplies were squared away and ready to go. He had skipped out on the normal post dinner game show and had been even quieter than normal for most of the shift, a fact that had not been lost on Captain Mesker.

“Everything alright, K.C.?”

Cass turned abruptly, startled.

“Shit, Cap, you nearly gave me a stroke!” he laughed.

“Hey, if you have a stroke, it’s because of that 3rd helping of lasagna you had, not because of me!” the big man chuckled. “Not that I blame you. New boy can cook, that’s for damn sure. If you can make a firefighter out of him I think we might have a new chef in this dump.”

“About damn time. If your boy Reynolds served up burned pork chops one more time I was going to put in for a transfer.”

The banter came easy between the two officers. They had worked together for 15 years and had developed a great deal of personal and professional respect for each other. Unlike many firefighters, they rarely associated with each other off-duty, but their mutual admiration was evident to everybody on both crews. They worked well together, and the quiet professionalism of the Lieutenant combined with the boisterous good cheer of the Captain helped make the station a happy home for the seven men assigned there.

“Everything’s fine though, Cap. Why?”

“No biggie, you’re just quieter than normal, thought something might be going on that I needed to know about.”

“No, I’m good,” Cass replied. “I’ve been working a ton of OT at St. Agnes, so I’m probably just tired. Whatever bug started going around last week has us really slammed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the ER and floors so full. I would give a nut for one good night’s sleep.”

“Not too damn likely, bubba, not on a Saturday, and sure as hell not in this area.” The neighborhoods surrounding the Fulton Park station were some of the poorest in the city, a mix of crumbling, abandoned industrial buildings, boarded up apartments, and once tidy blue collar homes that had fallen into disrepair. Not exactly a gangland free-fire zone, but the decent folks were rapidly being driven away. The mix of poverty, drugs, and street level violence ensured that Engine 22 and Rescue 17 were consistently two of the busiest trucks in the city, but also ensured that a good night’s sleep was mostly unheard of for members of both crews. If the 1st half of the shift was any indication, tonight was going to be no different.

As if on cue, a single loud beep from the station loudspeakers echoed through the hall, followed by a disembodied voice from the 911 dispatch center.

[DannusMaximus]

“Medic assist for Engine 22 at 1768 W. Maryland Street, Apartment 26. Caller says he’s been attacked by his roommate and is bleeding. Police units are enroute, time out is 1913.”

“And thus it begins,” laughed Captain Mesker. “You engine heroes go save the day, I’ll finish up the inventory.” He clapped the Lieutenant on the back and plopped down into the office chair. “Thanks, Cap. Find out what Dickinson wants from the DQ,” Cass said on the way out the door, referring to the 3rd member of the rescue squad, “and I’ll call you when we’re done and pick it up on the way back. Can’t have you squad bubbas dropping out for lack of ice cream when we get that big worker tonight!”

Cass hustled to the engine, which Robinson had already climbed in and started. The other members of the crew had likewise gotten on board and were pulling on latex gloves as Cass stepped into his bunker pants and jumped into the officer’s seat. He glanced into the back of the truck cab. “All aboard?” Both back seat boys gave a quick thumbs up, and Robinson lit up the truck and pulled out onto the street as Cass cleared the run with central. “Engine 22 enroute to 1768 W. Maryland”

Cass had a map book, but seldom had to use it. Robinson had been driving in this area for over two decades, and knew every street, alley, shortcut and curb. The apartment in question was a frequent stop for the men of Engine 22 anyway, a decaying seven-story building located several miles away from the station that looked as dirty and tired as the residents which lived or squatted there. Cass had literally lost count of the number of nuisance fires, alarms, and medic runs that he had made to the building over the past years. With his driver on autopilot, he was able to take in the street scene illuminated by the slowly setting late summer sun.

The neighborhoods they rolled through were familiar, but were strangely devoid of activity. The streets and sidewalks were always busy in this part of the city, at all hours of the day, the mix of activity changing with the time, day, and season. There were always the kids, of course, dirty kids in ill-fitting clothes with no parents in sight running barefoot along the sidewalk, waving to the guys in the big red truck. Daytime brought out the shopkeepers and commuters, hurrying thorough the ‘bad neighborhoods’ on their way to some office or workplace downtown, heads buried in their iPhones and Blackberry’s. Evening changed the scenery to the usual mix of street toughs hanging out on corners, folks hurrying to get home before dark, and the assorted derelicts and kooks that made up the ‘night people’ of any decaying urban area. This evening, though, the blaring siren and air horn bounced off the graffiti marked building walls and into empty streets. The shuttered windows and the reddish glow from the setting sun gave the vacant streets a haunted, washed out look. A hazy smoke seemed to hang low in the air. Dumpsters or car fires, probably, thought Cass. Not our problem right now

Finally, Cass noticed a single person as they passed an otherwise empty street. A tall man in a very nice suit was slowly walking towards a corner that had been formed by a dumpster butting up against the brick wall of a series of low shops that made up the street corridor. He was limping, but still holding his briefcase tightly. As the fire truck rumbled by, Cass saw the man walk directly into the wall, rebound slightly, then walk directly into the wall again. He appeared to be gearing up for another slow assault on the unyielding brick when Cass lost sight of him as the engine passed.

“What the fuck was that guy on?” chirped Tasker through his headphones. Cass suddenly noticed the normal banter from the back of the truck was absent - - the new guy and his veteran paramedic had obviously both noticed the lack of people and the tall man’s peculiar assault on the shop wall. Both were staring out the windows, quiet. If Robinson had noticed he either didn’t feel the need to say anything or was simply quietly delighted there was nobody on the normally busy streets trying to pull out in front of the fire truck or dart across the road at the last second.

Save for the Brooks Brothers guy, nobody else stirred in the streets, and Engine 22 arrived at the Maryland address several minutes quicker than usual. Cass would normally have had the truck stage several buildings away from the scene until local PD had cleared the area for him and his crew, but he could see at least one squad car already on-scene. “Pull up behind the black and white, Robinson, and hang tight a second. I’m going to make sure five-oh has everything squared away.” Cass announced their arrival and waited for Central to acknowledge the traffic, then ditched his headphones, grabbed his portable radio, and exited the truck.

[TacAir]

I'm in. Send moar!

T/A

[thebigstick]

nice I like

I'll be keeping an eye on this one.

[majorhavoc]

Outstanding writing, lovin' the details about life in the fire station (the Jeapoardy exchange? Pitch-perfect). You'd better be an emergency responder of some type or I'm eating my hat.

Beautiful narrative tempo you've established in these first three posts (I'm taking notes, DM). The prologue frankly grabs readers by the throat, shakes them around like a rag doll and tosses them into a corner. Adroitly handled let up in post two, backing off on the tension while establishing a very authentic setting/group of characters. By your third post, you're very effectively ratcheting the tension back up again with some nicely sketched details that ominously indicate that things on this emergency call are not quite right.

You set the hook, cast the line and brother, did I ever swallow the bait. Time to reel me in.

[DannusMaximus]

Thanks for the input, guys! Let's find out what's happening on this medic run, shall we...?

[DannusMaximus]

The apartment was a basic seven-floor walk-up, probably a gorgeous building when it was new 100 years ago. Decades of neglect had taken their toll, but the marble and granite facades were still impressive to anybody that cared to notice such things. The metal doors were propped open, and a set of chipped and cracked marble stairs led from the bottom landing to the floors above. A familiar face met Cass at the top of the first floor landing.

“What’s the word Sergeant Popp, people not playing well with others today? Something must be assed-up if they’ve got guys with stripes on their sleeves taking domestic runs tonight.” Cass had immediately recognized the older police officer, and half-turned to motion to his crew and give them the okay to come inside. Popp had worked these streets for decades, and if he was on-scene things were well on their way to being taken care of. He was a throwback breed of cop, no doubt destined for retirement in the near future, but still fit and full of attitude. Everybody respected Popp, even the young ‘bangers who seemed to have no respect for anybody. The fact that the veteran Sergeant looked both puzzled and a bit worried made Cass pause.

“Hey Ken, you don’t know the half of it. I don’t know what the fuck started to happen in the last few hours but this is shaping up to be a long night. All hands on deck for PD tonight, office jockeys and brass included. I’ve been taking runs since I came on shift. Probably should have retired yesterday…”

“’Bout time, old man. We need to get you dinosaurs relocated to Florida or Arizona so we can get some of these young bucks on the street that are still in good enough shape to chase down the bad guys.”

A grin spread over the older officer’s face. There wasn’t a bad guy around here that Popp couldn’t have chased down, hog-tied, then bench pressed for ½ hour without breaking a sweat, and everybody knew it. The ribbing seemed to have broken whatever tension he was feeling, though, and he was suddenly all business again.

“Alright, here’s what we’ve got, smartass. The dude inside holding his arm and bawling is Jesus something-or-other. He says his roommate…” Popp paused to glance at his notepad “…Martin Rustin has been sick for a couple of days, and when he went in to check on him he took a bite out of him.”

“No shit?”

“I wouldn’t shit my favorite bucket boy. Here’s the thing, though. The guy in the other room, Rustin, is deader than hell, and looks like he has been for at least 12 hours, but the bite marks on the caller are fresh, still bleeding when we got here.”

“What do you mean he’s dead? Did this Jesus guy kill him?” The other firefighters had by now reached the landing as well, and were loaded down with medical supplies, looking just as puzzled as their Lieutenant.

“Not according to him. He says he walked into the bedroom about 10 minutes ago to check on his roommate, his roommate tried to make an early evening snack out of him, then he slammed the door shut and called 911.”

“I thought you said the roommate had been down for awhile?” Tasker said.

“He has been.” Sgt. Popp replied. “Like I said, it looks like he’s been dead for at least a ½ day, maybe longer.”

Tasker again. “Did you check for a pulse and everything?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me to do that. Thank God you firefighters are here to remind me of this shit. OF COURSE I checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. I’ve seen plenty of dead people, fellas, and the roommate is d-e-a-d. And to further fuck with you guys heads, I assumed the Jesus guy had bitten himself or got in another fight with another person, but the roommate, the dead one, has fresh blood all over his mouth and teeth.”

Sgt. Popp appeared somewhat pleased that for once he had a bunch of firefighters speechless.

Lt. Cass broke the momentary silence. “Well, is it cool if we go in and check things out, or are we calling this a crime scene?”

“I’m not sure what we’re calling it yet, KC,” Popp said as he nodded towards the stairwell, “but feel free to head on up and see what you can do for the guy with the bite. Scene’s secure as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got another officer up there interviewing the bitten guy, and I’m going to run their names and information through our system and see if anything turns up. Let me or Officer Barnes know if you see anything that might help us figure out what the hell happened up there.”

With that, the Sergeant gave a brief touch of his patrol cap and turned to head back down the stairs towards his squad car. The firefighters glanced back towards the entrance, then up the stairs, then wordlessly shouldered their gear, and began to make their way to apartment 26.

[DannusMaximus]

The layout of all the apartments in this building were identical, and each floor was depressingly similar. A long hallway of chipped and stained marble, patched with cement and scattered with litter was flanked at each end with a staircase. The apartment doors opened into the main hallway, with a back exit via fire escape from each apartment. Most of the doors had numbers tacked or painted on their battered fronts, but finding apartment 26 was relatively easy. It was the only door already open, and sobbing rapid-fire Spanish was emitting from the interior.

The apartment was surprisingly tidy, albeit rather devoid of furniture. The front door opened into a small living area, which further led to a small kitchen and a hallway where the bathroom and a bedroom were located. The front room was obviously being used as a bedroom as well. A mattress was on the floor and another officer was kneeling next to it, softly speaking to a man who was cradling his arm and rocking back and forth. A blood soaked towel was wrapped around the man’s upper arm.

“Fire department,” announced Cass has he knocked on the door frame before entering the apartment.

The police officer pivoted on one knee to face the door. “Hey guys, glad you’re here. This is Jesus Moreno, he’s our guy that got bit on the arm. His roommate’s in the back bedroom, Sgt. Popp says he’s already checked out. I’m trying to figure out what happened, but he’s not making much sense. I’ve got some forms to start filling out if you guys want to take a look at his arm.”

“Sounds good. Tasker, Bowden, you work on Mr. Moreno, I’m going to check out our boy in the bedroom.” Cass started towards the rear of the apartment as Bowden began to unload their medic bags and Tasker began speaking to the injured man in Spanish. The man seemed relieved to not be talking to a cop, but was still understandably upset. A substantial blood trail led from the front room into the kitchen and back towards the rear of the dimly lit apartment. Cass stepped around a small TV and end table, then passed through the kitchen to enter the back bedroom. Robinson trailed him. The bedroom door was closed, but opened with a gentle push.

The bedroom was sparsely furnished, but also relatively clean. The lone window in the bedroom had a blanket tacked over it, and a small fan was running next to another mattress lying on the floor. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling fixture. The room smelled sour, much like the overcrowded halls of St. Agnes had started to smell recently as more and more sick people started filling the hospital. A young man, Rustin presumably, was sprawled on the floor, half on the mattress and half off. He was clothed only in a pair of boxers and the sheets were bundled at the bottom of the mattress, while at least five empty water bottles and a scattering of wet towels were in a jumble between the mattress and the wall. Cass’s overall impression was of a man who had been trying to find relief from some terrible fever.

Robinson was kneeling by the man and feeling for a pulse. He glanced back at his Lieutenant, and shook his head. Both men rolled the body over and noted a purplish discoloration on the man’s back and lower legs. This discoloration, or ‘lividity’ happened when blood ceased to circulate and began pooling at the body’s lowest points. It was a sure sign of death that those with medical training were taught to notice. It took no training, however, to feel how stiff the body was as they rolled it. The arms and legs were locked, the neck unmoving. Rigor mortis that any fan of CSI would immediately recognize.

“Looks like Popp was right on,” noted Robinson. “This dude’s been down at least 12 hours, maybe more. And check it out - - ” the engineer pointed to the slowly clotting smear covering the body’s lower jaw, mouth and teeth. “That blood is fresher than hell.”

Cass wordlessly examined the man’s face and mouth. “Well, nothing we can do for this guy,” he finally remarked. “I’m going to get on the horn with dispatch and tell them what we’ve got, you go help Tasker and the new guy with Mr. Moreno.” Robinson nodded and followed Cass out of the bedroom, both men stopping as they reentered the living room.

“Tasker, what’s the scoop? We need to arrange for transport for this guy?”

Moreno was still on the mattress, but looking considerably calmer. He had an oxygen mask on his face and was watching curiously as the medic finished wrapping his arm in gauze. “I think he probably needs checked out at the hospital, ell-tee. It’s a pretty nasty bite, and he lost quite a bit of blood. He’s at least going to need stiches and a round of antibiotics, maybe a tetanus shot. I was going to pop him with an IV and start some fluids unless you want me to hold off.”

“No, get it started. Has he said anything that makes any sense?”

“Not really. Same basic story he was telling the cops. Roomie’s been sick for a few days, he went into check on him, got attacked, ran out and called 911. What’s the word on the roommate?”

“No word to pass. He’s DRT. After you get that IV started go ahead and run a strip on the roommate. Might as well have official paperwork that the guy is dead. I know the detectives will believe the defib quicker than they’ll believe one of us.”

“Roger that.” Tasker and the other men began prepping for the IV as Cass left the apartment.

[Braxton]

Tag

[KYZHunters]

Great start Dannus...looks like we're in for the long haul on this one.

[Cascade Failure]

Looks like we've got some new talent!

DRT..hehe!

[Braxton]

Moar?

[DannusMaximus]

The apartment building was old and run down, but it still had good bones. The building, along with most older buildings in the Fulton Park area, had been designed in an era before computer aided design and lightweight steel construction, so architects had hedged their bets against collapse by drastically overbuilding the frames and interiors. The thick layers of brick, heavy timbers and massive steel beams made it damn near impossible to get a good signal for a portable radio. Cass knew this from long experience, and walked down a flight of stairs to the front landing so he could transmit without any interruption. The streets were still empty save for Sgt. Popp and his squad car, although he could hear a number of sirens in the distance, cops and amublances traveling to some emergency or another.

Cass keyed up his portable radio. “Dispatch from Engine 22.”

Silence on the other end.

Cass waited another few moments. “Dispatch from Engine 22 portable, transmitting on FD dispatch.”

A crackle of static, then nothing. Cass felt like throwing his radio at somebody. The area was littered with radio ‘dead zones’ which each new city administration had promised to fix by adding new repeaters and software once they were elected. These mundane issues were rarely addressed, though, politicians opting instead for shiny new community centers and entertainment venues rather than the dull infrastructure projects needed by public safety. Cass didn’t recall every having any problems transmitting from this particular area, but that didn’t mean it could never happen.

Cass keyed up again. “Any unit operating on FD Dispatch, this is Engine 22, do you copy?”

A pause, then, finally, “Engine 22, this is central. Wait one.”

Cass propped one arm against the decorative railing across the landing and waited. A lone figure had come into view further down the street and was walking slowly towards the squad car. Cass squinted to make it out through the thickening smoke haze and the red overcast of the failing light. “Well no shit!” Cass said out loud. It was the guy in the suit they had passed on the way to this run, still limping, and still carrying his briefcase. His attempt to walk through the brick wall had evidently failed, Cass mused, and he was trying a more direct route to get wherever he was going. Cass was considering going to meet the man and see if he needed help when his reverie was interrupted by a burst of static from his portable.

“Engine 22 portable from central, are you still on-scene at Maryland?”

“That’s affirmative, central. I was calling to check on an ETA for a transport unit for this patient.”

Another pause. “Engine 22, is Medic 117 not on-scene with you?”

“Negative,” Cass replied.

“Clear, Engine 22. Wait one…”

The dispatcher evidently forgot to turn off her microphone transmitter, because Cass could very clearly hear dozens of phones ringing in the background of the call center, as well as the dispatcher typing furiously on her computer keyboard. Over the background noise, he could pick up snippets of conversation coming from other dispatchers.

“Ma’am, I need you to try and calm down, we’re sending a police unit to your location now. Can you describe the attackers for me?”

“What do you mean Jewish Hospital and St. Agnes aren’t taking anybody? Where the fuck are we supposed to route these trauma cases to?!”

“Sir, did you say the man bit you..?”

“Carly, see if you can get somebody from the Edwarton precinct on the phone, I can’t get anybody to answer up from there…”

The transmission suddenly stopped. Seconds later, the dispatcher keyed back up.

“Engine 22, Medic 117 was enroute to Barnard Hospital with a trauma case, and was supposed to go to your location afterwards. They should have been there by now. I can’t raise them on the air, so I’m going to have to reroute a transport unit from Wishard Medical. I don’t have an ETA for you.”

City dispatchers were known for their composure, and the fact that they never seemed rattled was a source of great pride among those he knew personally. Cass often remarked that he usually felt like he was talking to a robot on the other end of the radio. He didn’t recognize this particular dispatcher, but she sounded stressed and frustrated and, frankly, a bit scared. Wishard wasn’t even located in the same county as this one. If they were having to route an ambulance from that far away, what the hell was going on?

“Engine 22 is clear on the traffic, we’ll advise when a medic unit arrives.”

“Dispatch is clear. Engine 22, be advised we’re taking calls throughout the city on violent attacks happening to public safety personnel. If there is a police unit on-scene with you, recommend you stay with them until your patient is transported. I’ll try and contact…”

The transmission abruptly stopped, and didn’t resume.

[DannusMaximus]

Cass was turning to go back into the apartment building when Sgt. Popp exited his squad car and began walking towards him on the landing.

“Nothing in our system on either the dead guy or his dinner,” He said, “I was trying to get a detective down here to interview our boy before he went to the hospital, but our computer network just went down. We got an ambulance on the way?”

“Yeah, but no idea when it’s going to get here. Sounds like things are really blowing up across the city. Did your dispatchers let you know about people getting attacked recently?” Cass asked.

“Shit, they didn’t need to. That’s all the runs we’ve been taking for the last few hours. Not just the idiots attacking each other, either, seems like it’s open season on cops and firefighters too. A couple of guys from Ladder 52 just got attacked by a lady they were trying to cut out of a wrecked car just a few minutes ago up on 9th Avenue. Looks like one of them might not make it. ”

“Are you kidding me?” Cass knew the guys at Ladder 52, serious muscle heads with a wild streak. He simply couldn’t fathom that a lady, and an injured lady at that, would be able to so much as scratch one of those brutes, much less send them to the hospital.

“No, not about something like that. Listen, we don’t have the manpower to stay here and babysit this guy, and I don’t think it’s safe for you all to be out here without a police unit. If he’s stable, I’m gonna escort you guys back to the hose house and he can wait for the ambulance on his own. I know you’re not supposed to leave a patient until somebody else shows up, but this ain’t a normal evening, and I’ll go to bat for you if your Chief’s give you any shit over it. I need to get you guys back safe, and then Barnes and I need to get our asses on some of these calls that are holding. Now what the fuck is this guy doing?”

The tall man had made his way to within about 75 yards of the apartment, and appeared to be stuck between two parked cars he had tried to walk around. He was slowly pounding on the hood of one car with the briefcase he was holding. Even from this distance, Cass could see the dazed, vacant expression on the man’s face.

“Listen, Ken, let me take care of this dipshit and I’ll meet you guys inside. We’ll pack up all our trash and roll. That’s an order, I’m not asking.”

“No, I get it Popp. I’ll let my guys know what’s happening and meet you back out here.”

“Good. See you inside. Hey, asshole! What are you doing?! Stop beating that car and get the fuck over here!”

As soon as Sgt. Popp began yelling at the man in the suit, the man seemed to recover from his daze. He backed away from the parked cars and began shuffling towards the squad car. Popp rolled his eyes at Cass and leaned against his car, patrol cap tipped back on his balding head, the very picture of the long-suffering flatfoot. A few other people were visible on the street now, some of them running, some of them moving in the same slow, awkward manner as the suit, all of them too far away to make out any details. Cass took a last glance at Sgt. Popp before he bounded back up the stairs, back to apartment 26.

[majorhavoc]

Why is it that I think Sgt. Popp might not be long for this world?

This is outstanding storytelling, DM. The suspense, the foreboding, the sense of impending doom is palpable.

Looks like Cass and the rest of Engine Co. 22 are in for a helluva long night. Glad I'm along for the ride.

[DannusMaximus]

Why is it that I think Sgt. Popp might not be long for this world?

As much as I hate it, you might be onto something there, MH...

Thanks for the kind words, all. I'll keep writing if you all keep reading!

Now, I wonder what's happening back at the apartment...?

[DannusMaximus]

Cass stepped back into the apartment to find that Tasker, Bowden, and Robinson had the patient packaged up and ready to go, and were finishing gathering up supplies and repacking the medic bags. Tasker handed Cass the defibrillator and EKG strips that he had run on the now deceased roommate.

“Here’s the strip for your report, ell-tee. No real mystery, flatlined from start to finish, BP 0/0, no pulse, no respirations.”

“Well, we’ll let the detectives sort this mess out. How’s our boy doing?” He nodded to the bandaged man on the mattress.

“He’s fine for now, but we need to get him to the hospital. I hit him with a shot of morphine to take the edge off that wound and calm him down a little. I think he’s afraid his roommate is going to attack him again. He’s stable, though, and I’ve got the arm cinched up good and tight. Doesn’t look like any arterial damage.”

“Not much danger of another attack,” Cass noted, glancing back at the EKG readout. “Where’s Officer Barnes?”

“She’s in the back bedroom trying to find information on a next of kin for the dead guy. She’s cute, ell-tee! I caught her checking out new boy’s ass when he was setting up our O2 tank, but I think I have her convinced he’s gay. You got a first name for her?”

“Her first name is OFFICER, there, Romeo, and I think her and Sergeant Popp are going to be making sure we don’t get our fine asses handed to us on the way back to the fire station, so save the sweet talk for later. We’re going to say adios to Mr. Moreno here and we’re leaving. The ambulance is on the way, PD wants us out of here. I don’t know what the fuck’s happening around this city, but we’re going back to the station to bunker down for awhile until things get settled.”

Robinson looked puzzled. “We’re gonna roll out before another medic unit is here? That’s kind of a non-starter, isn’t it boss?”

“Normally, yeah, it is. But this isn’t a normal night, and it’s my call as the OIC. I’ll take the heat for it if anything drops on us from above. Tasker, tell Mr. Moreno what’s getting ready to happen. I’m going to go get Barnes.”

That was good enough for the crew, and they returned to the tasks at hand. It was oddly still in the apartment, more so in the hallway. Usually a run like this would have resulted in a parade of onlookers, rubberneckers, and helpful drunks filing by to get a look at what all the commotion was. This evening there was nobody in the hallways, though, no loud music pounding from any of the other apartments, no sounds of couples yelling at each other in a dozen different languages. It was quiet save for the rustling of equipment and medical bags and the muted conversation of Tasker and Mr. Moreno. The relative silence was unsettling to Cass, but he hoped it wasn’t showing.

He shrugged off the creepy feeling and had started towards the hallway, when the quiet was suddenly pierced by a horrified, agonized scream from the back bedroom.

[Braxton]

Let me pull up a chair ,

[DannusMaximus]

For a split second, nobody moved. Then, as the shrieks grew louder, Cass and Robinson ran through the kitchen and into the hall, stopping in front of the open bedroom door.

Neither could quite comprehend what they were seeing. Officer Barnes appeared to be carrying the dead man piggyback style, wildly flailing her arms and bouncing off the walls of the small room as she screamed. A huge jet of blood was pouring from her neck, the arterial spray splashing the walls, ceiling and floor like a macabre Pollack painting. Both men stood gaping, finally realizing that Barnes was not carrying the dead man, she was being attacked by him. The former Mr. Martin Rustin had climbed onto Barnes back, possibly when she was leaning over and going through the scant personal items he had left behind, and torn a gaping hole in her neck with his teeth. They could still see him chewing and stripping the flesh from her neck as she struggled to get him off of her.

Tasker and Bowden suddenly bumped into the other two men from behind. They had come running when they heard the screams as well, a few steps behind Cass and Robinson. The forward momentum from the impact seemed to startle Cass and Robinson into action and they rushed towards the two grappling figures. Barnes was down on her knees now, clawing at her attacker with one hand, and grabbing at her right side with the other. Cass realized at the last second that Barnes was trying to get to her gun, and he skidded to a halt a few feet from the melee. Robinson, however, either didn’t see what was happening or was already mentally fully committed to the fight. He latched onto Rustin’s back and began pulling him off of the bleeding officer at precisely the same moment her gun cleared its holster and she blindly fired four shots over her left shoulder at her attacker.

Two of the shots hit the ceiling of the apartment.

One punched a hole through Rustin’s upper chest, exited his lower back, and buried itself in the plaster of the back bedroom wall.

The fourth shot hit Robinson in his left temple, exiting through the back of his head and tearing an enormous flap of skin and skull loose with it. His head snapped back at a grotesque angle and he dropped instantly, falling forward and taking Rustin to the floor with him.

Cass and the others were stunned by the flash and noise of the pistol discharging in the small room, and stunned at what they were seeing. Barnes had completely collapsed and was lying face down in a growing pool of blood. Bright red fluid continued to pump weakly from her horribly wounded neck. Robinson was lying atop Rustin on the mattress, also not moving. Rustin, however, was moving, trying to roll Robinson off of him and stand back up. The gunshot wound to his upper chest was slowly leaking a thick, black liquid, but seemed to otherwise have no effect on the man. “It’s not bleeding because his blood is clotted…” some part of Cass’s analytical mind offered. It was the first coherent thought he could remember having during the entire episode.

Cass shook his ringing head and tried to refocus. Rustin had succeeded in pushing the engineer off of him, and had staggered back to his feet. His mouth was opening and closing, but no sounds were coming out. Sheets of blood were splattered across his face and the front of his body. He began slowly walking towards Cass, grasping for him, while Cass simultaneously began backing towards the door of the bedroom. The other two firefighters had retreated into the hallway when the gunshots began, and now began moving back into the room. Cass suddenly stumbled over something lying by the door, and glanced down. It was a flat headed axe and halligan bar, bundled together with a nylon strap and carrying handle. Collectively, such a tool bundle was called a set of ‘irons’, and they were used to force open doors and windows. It was SOP for Robinson to grab the irons when they made medic runs to this building, since it was not uncommon to have to break into a locked apartment or locked bedroom before they could help the person inside. Robinson had obviously been carrying the irons when the screams had begun, and had dropped them by the door when he ran forward to help the officer.

Cass reached down and grabbed the halligan bar, a sturdy steel bar about three feet long with a two-pronged metal fork on one end and an adz and pick on the other end, oriented 90 degrees from each other. Both ends were useful for prying open doors, twisting off padlocks, or punching through a lock cylinder. When combined with the flathead axe, Robinson had liked to joke that he carried “the keys to the city.” Opening a door was the farthest thing from Cass’ mind right now, however. He grabbed the bar like a baseball bat and swung it as hard as he could at the outstretched arms of Mr. Martin Rustin.

[majorhavoc]

That's gonna leave a mark.

[DannusMaximus]

Cass was a powerful man, a dedicated iron pumper who rarely missed a workout while on duty. He put every ounce of that strength into the swing, and the adz end of the halligan caught Rustin’s upper left arm just below the shoulder joint. Cass heard and felt the man’s humerus snap, and the blow knocked Rustin off balance. He staggered, slipped in the pool of blood around the motionless Barnes, then regained his footing and began walking towards Cass again. Now Cass could see the damage he had done to the man - - the bone was obviously shattered, dangling uselessly from his shoulder. If the pain or shock had any effect on Rustin, though, it didn’t show. He continued to slowly move towards the Lieutenant. Cass swung again, this time hitting Rustin on the torso, and again he both felt and heard ribs and cartilage snapping and tissues tearing. As before, Rustin staggered, then began moving forward again showing no reaction to the horrific injury he had just suffered. Cass was winding up for a third swing, when Tasker stepped up from behind him and buried the flathead axe into Rustin’s skull.

Rustin dropped without a sound, and the axe, sunk to the shaft in his head, was wrenched out of Tasker’s grasp. Unbalanced by the forward swing, Tasker overcorrected and fell backwards, catching himself against the bedroom wall and sliding down it, all the color drained from his face and tears streaming from his eyes. Bowden stood still in the hallway, in shock. For a few moments, nothing moved in the small apartment.

Slowly, Cass walked over to where Robinson lay on the mattress. Hands shaking, he rolled his engineer on to his side and looked for any sign of life. Nothing. The man had died instantly from the massive head wound, brains and blood matted in his curly black hair. Cass gently laid Robinson on his back so the wound didn’t show, then crawled over to Barnes. Her face was ghost white and the wound from her neck had stopped bleeding. Her bulletproof vest had protected her upper shoulder, chest, and back, but her exposed neck had been nearly stripped to the bone by Rustin’s attack, exposing severed arteries, veins, muscle and ligaments. Her green eyes were lifeless. She really was pretty, Cass thought absentmindedly.

Seconds passed.

“Sir?”

More seconds.

“Sir?”

Cass looked towards the sound. Bowden was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking shaken.

“Sir, is Engineer Robinson dead?”

Cass nodded yes.

“And the police officer?”

Another nod. More seconds of silence.

“Sir, what do you want us to do?”

That simple question spoken by Probationary Firefighter Levi Bowden, snapped Cass’ world back into focus. Something horrible had happened, but he was still in charge, and he still had men to lead and department protocol to follow. He stood up, still clutching the halligan bar.

“Is anybody hurt?” Tasker and Bowden both shook their heads, the paramedic slowly rising to his feet and wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Are you okay, ell-tee? You’re covered with blood.”

“Yeah, Tasker, I think I’m okay. It’s not my blood.” The words sounded surreal, even to Cass.

Cass took one more deep breath. “Gents, we are leaving this apartment. We’re going down to get Sgt. Popp, and I’m going to have him radio for more police units. This is a murder scene now. We have to leave all three of these guys where they’re at. Even Robinson. I’ll radio Chief Larkins when we get outside and tell him what happened. We’ve got procedures to follow, and we’re going to follow them. Let’s take a few seconds to gather up all our gear and get our heads and asses wired back together, then we’ll head downstairs. Sound good?”

Both firefighters nodded, and began slowly walking back to the living room. Cass followed them, dropping the halligan with a clang onto the bedroom floor. It was evidence now, and simply looking at the tool reminded him of Robinson. He didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

[DannusMaximus]

“Moreno’s gone, ell-tee!” Tasker said as he stepped from the hallway into the living room. The front room was empty, and an IV bag and tubing lay on the floor by the mattress. The IV fluids were slowly draining from the bag, mixing with the blood on the floor and forming a watery pink smear which was spreading across the small room.

“Well, I don’t really blame him,” remarked Cass. “He probably got scared and ran outside to find Sgt. Popp, or is hiding somewhere else in the building. We’ll worry about him in a minute. Let’s get outside and see what…”

His words were interrupted by a rapid series of gunshots coming from directly outside the apartment building entrance.

“Sonofabitch! Tasker, Bowden, wait here!” Cass ran outside and down the landing, shoving his way past a slowly moving person who was shuffling down the 2nd floor hallway. He ran down the stairs and stopped, slowly making his way to the building entrance and looking outside, using the doorframe as cover. Only one fluorescent light in the main entrance foyer was working, but it still took a second for his eyes to adjust until he could clearly see what was happening outside.

Even then, Cass couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing. The tall man in the suit was lying on his back in the road, approximately 15 feet away from and facing Sgt. Popp, who was also lying on his back. As Cass watched, the tall man regained his feet, and began a slow shuffle towards the fallen officer. Popp was moving now as well, scooting away from the man but continuing to face him. The officer was pushing himself along with one arm, the other arm clamped against the side of his head, and Cass could see blood, nearly black in the fading sunlight, gushing from whatever wound the Sergeant was covering up with his hand. Even with the slow pace of the tall man, he was rapidly closing the distance to the officer. Sgt. Popp stopped scooting, squared up with the man, and began firing.

The tall man staggered briefly, but never stopped his slow forward movement. Cass could actually see the rounds hitting the man, each bullet exiting his back in a puff of blood and fabric but, as with Rustin upstairs, if he felt the impacts he showed no response. The noise of the gunfire was deafening. The tall man was nearly upon the officer when Cass charged him, determined not to stand by and let another friend get killed.

In the short time it took him to cover the distance, the officer’s pistol had slide-locked to the rear, empty, and the man had fallen on top of him. Cass had been aiming for a football style tackle on the man in the suit, but when he fell on top of the police officer he had been moving too fast to adjust his angle of attack. Cass tried desperately to stop and change direction, but skidded in the smear of blood that Popp had been trailing and instead slammed into the side of the police cruiser parked a few feet off the curb.

Lt. Cass felt something in his shoulder pop, and a blaze of pain shot down his side as his shoulder forcibly dislocated. He fairly bounced off the door of the cruiser, and sat down hard in the street, momentarily stunned by the impact. Popp, meanwhile, had shoved a forearm into the face of the man in the suit, and was grabbing with one hand at something attached to his right leg just above his boot. Cass could see the tall man gnashing on the big cop’s forearm, peeling huge strips of flesh away from his arm. Before Cass could react, the older officer had produced a small revolver from a holster on his leg, pressed the short barrel against the side of the tall man’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The report of the revolver was muffled, but the result was immediate. The man in the suit dropped, motionless on top of the wounded officer. Cass crawled over to the big sergeant and shoved the tall man off of him, and was shocked when Popp stuck the revolver in his face, wild-eyed.

[DannusMaximus]

“Sgt. Popp, it’s me, Cass!” The warm muzzle of the pistol was stuck in his check, pressing hard against his jaw. Both me stared at each other for long seconds. Cass could now clearly see the ghastly wounds the tall man had inflicted on the sergeant. An enormous flap of tissue had been torn off of Popp’s face, and was hanging loosely from his lower jaw, thick streams of blood and mucous running from the avulsion. One of the officer’s eyes had been reduced to a torn bloody socket, and Cass could actually see where his teeth and jawbone had been exposed by the attack. His arm was pouring blood as well, his forearm and lower biceps torn to the bone, blood pumping from the severed brachial artery.

“KC?”, Popp managed, then his eye rolled back in his head and he passed out, the revolver clattering to the pavement. The lieutenant shook the officer, but there was no response. He quickly pulled off his belt, cinching it tightly just below the sergeants shoulder, forming a crude tourniquet and squeezing off the blood flow to the ruined arm. He was looking around for something to staunch the bleeding from the gruesome facial wounds when he noticed he was no longer the only person interested in the activity near the cruiser. Several other men and women were slowly walking towards the two first responders, vacant stares fixated on them. Most of the people had some type of injury, all of them appeared unaware of that fact. Cass stared in horror at one shirtless teenager in baggy shorts walking silently, seemingly unconcerned by the gaping wounds on his chest and stomach or the ropy strands of entrails dragging along behind him between his legs.

Shocked into activity once again, Cass lifted the big officer into a fireman’s carry and moved back towards the apartment building. His damaged shoulder screamed in agony as he moved up the stairs back to the second floor. Another slowly moving figure (the man he had passed in the hallway earlier?) was at the top of the second floor landing, and lurched towards the two men as Cass rounded the stairwell. Unaware of the steps, or perhaps simply unable to navigate them in his stupor, the man lost his balance and fell awkwardly down the marble stairs. Cass jumped aside as the man tumbled by, the sound of breaking bones loud in the otherwise quiet stairwell. The door to Apartment 26 was closed. He kicked it furiously. “Tasker, Bowden, open the fucking door!”

Cass was winding up for another kick when Tasker pulled open the door. The officer barreled through, dropping to a knee and nearly dropping Sgt. Popp. Before he could say another word, Tasker and Bowden were steadying him, pulling the greviously injured patrolman off of their Lieutenant and laying him on the bloody floor. Cass stood back up, turned, and slammed the apartment door shut, locking it and throwing the deadbolt before collapsing back to the floor.