“Go ahead 53, this is base.”
“We have a downed power line on West 154thStreet off Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Requesting utilities to power down.”
“Copy that, will have utilities with you as soon as we can. Hold tight.”
“Nobody moves an inch until this line is dead. You hear me, Schmidt?”
“It’s not your call, Hammond. People need assistance. You’re wasting time!”
We’ve taken an oath to protect life. But a firefighter’s safety takes priority over all else. When and if hope of success is gone, or if conditions are so severe that entering means certain death to a crewmember, we step back. As cruel as it seems. We are expected to take calculated risks, yes, but this is one where the numbers don’t stack up in our favor.
Davey shifts on his feet, focus rapidly alternating between the trapped woman and his two commanding officers.
Don’t do it, Davey.
“I can do it!” he yells to Hammond. “I can make it there in time, before the line flicks back around.”
“Stand down!” Miles barks.
“Fucking let him try, Hammond.” Schmiddy is marching for Davey.
I’m moving before I know it, putting myself between Davey and Schmiddy.
“Hammond! Call back your rabid dog,” Schmiddy snarls.
I set my shoulders back and fold my arms over my chest.
Schmiddy scoffs. “You’re so fucked, Tennison. Now, move.”
“Yeah, nah. Eat shit, Schmiddy.”
His face twists with anger and, dare I say it, hatred.
The woman is sobbing, reaching out the window now as her manic pleas reach us on repeat, calling for help.
Yeah, love, it’s on the way. Hang tight.
A hand lands on my shoulder.
Davey.
I glance back. “You heard Cap. Don’t move.”
His hand falls from my shoulder.
A utility truck rounds the block, pulling up by the transformer box on the pole a few down.
Thank fuck.
A moment later, someone calls, “Clear!”
The line that’s been flipping over the asphalt like a fish out of water goes limp, the sparks it sent into the air around it dying out.
“Move! Probie!” Schmiddy screams in my face.
Go die in a hole. No really, off you go.
He would have had Davey electrocuted.
