Convinced the flame hasn’t reached the foyer, I slam the butt of the extinguisher into the door, and it flings open. Flames have engulfed the room to the left. Tennison breaks left,extinguishing the first half in a set pattern as Davies turns right, doing his sweep.
“Clear to the right.”
A moment later Tennison calls, “Clear to the left.”
“Back room, she said. Heads up, the second floor is lit.” I point a finger up and walk on.
“Yes sir” comes in unison from both of my probies.
Something cracks overhead. I hold up a fist. We halt.
A beam, ravaged with flames, crashes to the floor in front of us.
I put it out, stepping over it. Every minute we take, the lady at the back of the house is in danger of asphyxiation from smoke inhalation, or worse—burning if she can’t move out of the fire’s path.
The space narrows to a hallway. I pick up the pace.
We finally make the back of the house, and I see the woman. Confined to a wheelchair, she’s crying out, hand outstretched, coughing erratically.
She’s taking in too much smoke.
The room is shrouded in the dark curls creeping across the ceiling as they lower.
On closer inspection, I discover an oxygen tank attached to her chair.
Christ.
“Sir?” Tennison nods.
“I see it, Tennison.”
Quick, this probie.
“Davies, flame retardant. Clear us a path out of this under load.”
“Yes sir.”
I squat by the old woman’s wheelchair, patting her hand. Her other one closes over my glove. “Please, get me out of—” She coughs, hard. Blood and spittle splatter her hand, and my glove.
“How long can you go without your oxygen, ma’am?”
She shakes her head.
Dammit.
“Detach the tank from the chair, probie.”
Tennison sets down her extinguisher and starts working on removing the tank from the chair.
“Dammit. Thing is stuck.”
“Tools, Tennison.”
“Shit, sorry.”
The old woman looks between us, concern wrapping her face. “Is she new?”
I chuckle. “First shift.”
