What the hell is that all about?
“Guess that leaves me in charge, hey?” Schmidt says, slapping Tennison’s knee.
She jerks away instantly, giving him a look even hell would send back. “You make a habit of touching crewmembers without their permission, yeah?” she says, her tone low and firm. That accent of hers rolls off her tongue like the words are all too familiar to her.
Schmidt gives her a look of disgust like he’s the one offended. Good lord, this man is a walking red flag. And my nerve is up with him anywhere near this crew—that includes the probies—and we’re only on day one.
Tennison’s face is flushed with crimson, her jaw set.
The horn blares and the truck slows with an influx of traffic.
It snags Schmidt’s attention long enough for me to catch Tennison’s. My brows drop, and her face flickers with a similarsentiment, as if she understands my concern and I understand hers.
The brief moment is gone when the traffic shifts and the engine lurches forward.
“Hold on, folks. Getting close. This old rig is hanging a left.”
The engine swings left, the siren wailing and bouncing between the brownstones as we pick up pace. Sandy knows this city like the back of his hand.
We roll to a stop outside a house with its roof already ablaze moments later.
Wasting no time, we file from the engine, and each one of us, despite having two new crewmembers, fall into our roles easily. Each of us bar Schmidt, who spends the first five minutes overseeing shit Sandy, Owens, and I have done together for years.
“You always activate the reservoirs like you’re going to a funeral, Sanderson?” Schmidt leans on the side of the engine as Sandy works the panel.
“This ain’t no funeral. Not if we can help it.” Sandy continues his methodical process.
Schmidt rolls his eyes and slides his helmet on his head. The big shiny 53 badge glints in the sunlight. The bugles on it already feel tarnished by him wearing it. Hell is having to share a role, let alone a helmet, with this guy.
A small crowd has assembled on the footpath, watching as the home is devoured by flames, now licking their way up the exterior walls on one side. The top floor of the low-set brownstone is alight, but the windows haven’t blown out yet.
Schmidt should be talking to witnesses or an owner. Yet here he is eyeing every move we make.
“Shouldn’t you be surveying the scene?” I snap, my patience for this guy’s reckless, toxic shitty behavior almost out.
“It’s not a social occasion, Hammond. But yes, I’d much rather talk to anyone else but you.”
He swaggers off and starts talking to a small group of people. When one of them starts raising their voice and another sobs into her hand, I drop the hose and make my way over.
“What’s going on?” I ask the woman who’s repeating herself, getting in Schmidt’s face.
“My mother is home. I came back from grocery shopping to this! Isn’t someone going in to find her?” Her strained voice cracks.
“Tennison, Davies, you’re with me.”
Owens comes back from her perimeter sweep. “Heard someone calling out at the back, Cap,” she says, her focus on me.
“Oh my god! That’s my mother! She always locks the doors... I tell her to lock up whenever I’m gone... Oh my—” The woman collapses on the pavement, going down with a crunch.
I snap the radio off my shoulder. “53 requesting ambulance to our position.”
Ignoring Schmidt’s useless whining about making his call, I snatch out extinguishers and toss one at Davies before another goes to Tennison. Owens takes up the hose position I was working without me having to ask. Sandy is on the next one.
Davies pulls out three rebreathers and we slide them on, fixing them to the turnouts and packs before heading for the front door.
“Take rear, Davies.” I take point. My position to keep my team safe.
I test the door for heat.
