Me, Jake, and Sam hop into a taxi and bicker with the driver to get us as close as possible to the blaze. We don’t even need to use the Nextdoor app to figure out the address—dozens of emergency response vehicles are forming a parade directly to the site.
At 76thand Columbus Ave, we leap out of the taxi and run down the street in the direction of the park, where a massive event center is engulfed in flames. In fact, the disaster zone is so bad that I can tell the blaze has spread to at least two residential buildings right behind the structure.
Police have already blockaded the area, but there are hundreds of civilians crowding against the yellow tape and traffic barriers. People dressed in their finest, likely evacuated from the event itself. Random passersby who happened to be walking their dogs or heading to the bodega when they caught sight of the scene before them.
It’s too loud to speak, so I tug Jake and Sam toward the media pen—close enough to see, far enough to not get arrested.When I glance over my shoulder, I’m relieved to see the flashing red light on Jake’s camera that indicates he’s already recording.
After that, I can look at little else besides the horror in front of me.
Flames spit out of the shattered windows of the building’s lower floors, with what looks like the burning bones of a kitchen now scorched pure black and smoldering red like coals. Debris scatters the sidewalk—shattered glass, metal serving trays, and chunks of smoking plaster. Some people, most of them event staff who were likely the last to be evacuated, are coughing and clutching at each other, nodding numbly as paramedics hover around them.
Squinting through the chaos, my collar lifted over my face to prevent the chilly wind from blowing smoke into my lungs, I locate the Station 47 crew. Evan is the first I spot, along with purple-haired Rita, rushing over to lend assistance to the rest of the medical staff. It’s impossible to tell which of the tall, bulky figures in full gear running directly into hellfire is Hale or Noah, though. They’re too far away, made too murky by smoke and mayhem.
I force myself to breathe as evenly as I can manage.
They’re trained for this. They’re prepared for anything. They know how to do this. It’s more than likely they’ve dealt with worse.
“Gas leak,” I overhear one of the journalists nearby saying to another. “Caused an explosion in the kitchen, killed one of the staff and left two more badly burned. They’ve been transferred to the hospital. Looks like they’re getting ready to transport a few more victims.”
Sure enough, when I follow the journalist’s line of sight, a paramedic I don’t recognize is closing up the back doors of an ambulance, which then blares its siren and sails off into the night.
“Fuck, this is bad,” Sam murmurs on my left.
“Some kind of charity gala,” the same journalist is saying now.
“I’ve got sources saying there are still people stuck inside the building,” says another.
“Nobody can confirm yet if the gas leak is under control,” yet another adds to the cacophony. “Tried to have my assistant call Nat Grid, but…”
All the while, Jake continues filming. I slip closer to the police line, ignoring a sharp look that one officer tosses my way.
Another engine arrives on the scene, coming from the direction of Harlem. Just like the Station 47 crew, they spill out of the truck and run right into the building without an ounce of hesitation.
My stomach turns. How do they know what to—
BOOM.
The ground punches up through my shoes—my teeth click together.
A few dozen people, including myself, shriek in surprise as an explosion thunders from underground, shaking the foundation of the event center so dramatically that I swear I see the skeletal remnants of the most badly burned sections swaying ominously in the darkening night.
The police shout at us to get down and take cover, but there’s no need, because the many hundreds of us gathered out here have all crouched to the ground in perfect unison at the sound of the explosion. Some more debris scatters outwards, but we’re far enough back that it doesn’t reach us. Soon enough, the journalists and other civilians are rising back to their feet, with the police trying to coax us back a few more steps. Hardly anyone listens, too captivated by the tragedy unfolding before them.
I’m breathing fast, panting as if I ran all the way here from the station. Hale is in there. Noah is in there. How close were they to that second explosion? Can firefighting gear protect from something like that?
Moments later, a firefighter stumbles out of a cloud of smoke, nearly losing his footing on his way down the grand stone steps. He’s carrying a half-conscious man whose arm is dangling fromhis shoulder at a disturbing angle, reddened with blood. Nausea rolls through me at the sight.
EMS swarm the two of them instantly, and then another civilian darts out of the smoke. She collapses to her knees, coughing so hard that I can hear it clearly from across the distance. I think I might see Evan among the responders hurrying to aid her, but then my attention is dragged away from the scene by a nudge on my arm.
Thinking it’s Sam or Jake, I mutter without looking, “Not now.”
“Lila Hart?” an unfamiliar feminine voice asks.
I cringe, thinking that now is the most inconvenient moment for someone to have noticed that I don’t have a media pass. I purse my lips, considering ignoring the woman in hopes that she’ll drop it and focus on what’s astronomically more important in this moment.
As if the stranger can read my thoughts, she leans in close and says, “I’m not trying to get you kicked out of here. I’m actually an admirer of your work. I’ve been following Save A Hero closely.”
Finally, I turn to look at the stranger. She’s a few years old than me, with platinum blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Everything about her demeanor screamsno-nonsense, and even though she looks nothing like The Hawk, she reminds me of Branson.
