“We’re here to help. Are you injured?” I holler.
“Please,” he begs, grabbing my gloved hand. “Don’t leave me. Don’t let me die.” He chokes and sputters, face reddish purple.
“Sir, tell me what’s going on,” I scream behind my SCBA.
He clutches his chest. “Hurts so bad …”
“Are you having chest pains?”
“Hurts. Everything hurts. My legs.” He grimaces, gritting out the words.
“Tell me your name and age.” My eyes glance at the wreckage, assessing the best means of reaching him.
“Steve. Sixty-two.”
“Any health conditions?”
“Diabetic,” he gasps. “God!” His haunting scream rises above the other sounds of chaos—sirens, horns, cries for help.
“Injuries?”
“My legs. They’re pinned under the dash,” he says, eyes glassy with panic.
“Ready with the spreader,” Donovan interjects, and I step back to help him.
“Trailer’s filled with fertilizer,” I scream.
“We may only have minutes,” Donovan replies, face going white as a sheet.
I clasp a hand on his shoulder, saying resolutely, “Then, we better make those minutes count.”
Our eyes simultaneously dart to the engine fire spiraling out of control. Billowing black clouds pour from the intensifying blaze as Kurt and his crew work to contain it.
Jamming the spreader between two crushed and contorted panels, Donovan and I work to gain entry to the cab as I mentally prepare to stabilize and rescue the driver. It’ll be grab-and-go with the way the fire continues to build.
Aiden and Waldon step in with the cutter, working carefully to peel back the door.
“We need the dam,” I scream.
Aiden and Waldon sprint for the tool. I point, indicating where to wedge it and watch as it pushes the dashboard forward, freeing the man’s legs.
“It’s going to blow!” someone screams.
“Move it! Move it!” Donovan orders.
Her wide, terrified eyes flash through my head. If I die here, I’ll prove her fears right. And I can’t let that be my legacy.
But I also can’t let a man burn alive. His legs look broken, though there are no life-threatening lacerations as far as I can tell, and he can move freely, relieving my concern about a broken neck.
“Ambrose! Get out now!”
“Come on, God, just one more damn second,” I mutter, making bargains I’m not sure I can keep.
Pulling the man free, I wedge myself beneath him, rising with him over my shoulder. I tear away from the pickup and trailer. Each second feels like days before an explosion rocks the roadway, and the flames transform into a hungry inferno.
Heat presses in on us, smoke choking. But I’ve got Steve over my shoulder, still moving and responding. My ears ring, and my vision darkens for a moment as I continue driving forward, pushing free of hell before I drop to my knees, carefully setting Steve down. We lie in the blockaded road, gasping for air and watching flames and smoke curl into the sky.
“Hollywood, are you okay?” Kurt kneels in front of me, but his voice sounds distant. Concern etches his features.
