But stopping would mean sure death for the both of us.
So, with every ounce of strength I can muster in my body, I heave myself into the flames once again, pushing against the door. Thankfully, the flames have weakened the wood enough that it easily gives way to the force of my bodyweight.
Another leap over the concrete stairs of the back porch, and I quickly distance myself and Jackson from the sudden onslaught of more flames that will be caused by completely opening the door.
I land hard somewhere on the backyard grassy area, directly on my iron oxygen tank. Pain shoots through my entire body. I’m heaving heavily, gasping for my next breath. The edges of my vision begin to blur and I’m certain passing out is inevitable. But just before I do, I feel hands reaching for me. One pair removes Jackson from under my jacket.
“He’s breathing but barely!” a deep voice calls out. Arnold. One of the best in our squad.
“Allende!” a different voice calls. Larry. Another good firefighter. “You stupid son of a bitch! We thought we lost you!” He’s angry, pissed off.
If I could, I would laugh and tell him that nothing can get to me. But I don’t have the energy. And just before I pass out I feel my brothers lifting me up to carry me to what I presume is the paramedic on the other side of the building.
****
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” Captain Rogers seethes a couple of hours later, in my hospital room. “Keep that fucking mask on!” he hollers just as I begin to pull the oxygen mask from my face.
It’s a different mask from the type we wear.This mask could never hold up in a fire, I think as I let my gaze peruse the plastic, rubbery material of this hospital mask.
“I hope you’re fucking happy, Allende. Real fucking happy! The head of the department is likely to be up my ass about this shit! Demanding to know why one of my men can’t take orders.”
I don’t even hide the roll of my eyes. Captain Rogers has always been more concerned with what the higher-ups think than actually doing his fucking job. At least, that’s been my experience.
“There was a boy inside,” I weakly retort, in spite of the burning in my lungs.
“And I told you to stand down. We had no confirmation of the boy inside. We got the mother and baby out, but you just had to go back in and save the day.”
“That’s what you—” I can’t even finish my comeback before I start violently coughing.
“Don’t talk. You’ve got smoke inhalation, second degree burns, and a bruised fucking pelvis. You’re in fucked up shape.”
It was all worth it if Jackson lives.
I can’t say that out loud because I’m in too much pain. It hurts to talk.
Captain Rogers merely looks at me, shaking his head, before he turns to exit the room.
A second later, Rich, Larry, and Arnold walk in. The concern in their eyes is evident but they won’t say as much.
“For fuck’s sake, Allende, we thought you were toasted and roasted in there.” Arnold is the first to speak, causing the other guys and even me to chuckle. We never claimed to be a classy bunch.
“N-not th-this time,” I manage to stammer out.
“Yeah, Arnie was just hoping because he wants your locker space,” Larry adds.
Another round of laughs.
It’s partly true. Arnold has been angling for my locker for months now. It’s in the corner and has the most room.
“Cap says you’re not hurt too badly. A few days of rest and you’ll be back at the station being the pain in the ass to him you always are,” Rich states.
I grunt, slightly disheartened to go back to Squad Two. I love my job and my teammates, but I feel stifled under Captain Rogers.
“Bullshit,” Arnold says. “We know what a save like this means.” He turns to me, tilting his head. “You’ll probably get the pick of the transfer you’ve been wanting for over a year now.”
I raise my brows.
“We all know you’d rather be where the action is.” Larry’s voice is heavy, as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I’d be leaving. After five years of working together, I understand.
