It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) (13 page)

Then she switched to channel six, and he couldn’t hear her anymore, and that was unacceptable. With every last speck of his energy, he lunged for the radio, ignoring the agonizing shaft of pain, and finally managed to grab hold of it. But in the process, he knocked against something and now a heavy object lay across his throat, pressing against his windpipe. He had to take quick, shallow breaths to fend off panic. He tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze. Looking downward as much as he could manage, he saw a galvanized pipe, like something from an old plumbing system. Fortunately, it wasn’t burning hot, as it must have been during the fire, but it still held some warmth in its metal curves.

He tried to move it off him, but he couldn’t get enough leverage to budge it. Man, if he couldn’t move a piece of galvanized pipe, he must have really lost some strength.

But he still had the radio in his hand. And that was huge. He held it close to the pipe and tapped it on the metal.

The IC was ordering a Rapid Intervention Company into the building. “Use extreme caution,” he was saying. “Any sign of instability, you pull out. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” came Vader’s voice. Mulligan’s heart filled with hope. Vader was a badass, and strong as a bull. He could probably hold up the roof with one hand, if the rest of it threatened to come down.

“Looks good so far,” said Fred. “We got lots of debris, but everything looks stable.”

So Lizzie’s brother was coming after him. It was only fair, since he’d pulled Fred out of a collapsed building after the Los Feliz earthquake in May. Fred had actually chosen him to be a groomsman at his wedding in January, which meant he’d be standing in the front of a church alongside Lizzie’s three soldier brothers.

Or he would be, if he got out of here.

Not
if
.

When.

He tapped out more words. “Under tree. Careful.” Then, in case Lizzie was still on the comm, “Love.”

But no one seemed to notice his tapping. He switched back to the tactical channel. All the chatter involved the rescue effort, which he couldn’t really complain about. Lizzie wasn’t speaking anymore. He missed her fresh voice. It gave him hope. Lizzie was everything fun and wonderful and hopeful, and without her voice to cling to, darkness crowded the edges of his vision.

He tried to shift the pipe again, but succeeded only in making it roll farther onto his windpipe. Gasping, he dragged in air, terrified that it would crush his trachea completely.

Keep cool, keep it together. Small breaths, little bits of air, like sipping through a straw. Lizzie. Lizzie, just think about Lizzie.

But it was no use. In a swift, merciless rush, darkness engulfed him.

He was gliding down a long, dark tunnel. He felt nothing as he cruised toward the winking light at the tunnel’s distant end. No fear, no regret, nothing. Something was moving him along at a steady pace, like a river current. The light grew bigger, more all-encompassing, about to swallow the world. Death. Death had finally reached him. Then a dark figure stepped in front of the light, blocking it with a familiar silhouette.

His relentless journey toward the light stopped. Puzzled, he squinted at the figure. “Mom? What are you doing here? I suppose you want to be the one to push me over the edge.”

“Always with the jokes, Dean-baby. Didn’t I always say you’d be laughin’ in the Grim Reaper’s face?”

She chuckled, shifting so that he could see her face. He hadn’t seen her in real life for three years, even though he called her regularly on the phone. She’d told him not to visit until she felt more solid in her soberness. His quickie assessment, in this unreal environment, told him her eyes were clear and her face lined with exhaustion. Still battling, but perhaps winning, for now.

“Sometimes making a joke is the only way to survive,” he told her.

“Survive. That’s your thing, ain’t it? I was a hell-on-wheels kinda mother, but I trained you up well when it came to surviving, didn’t I?”

“Can’t argue with that. But what are you doing here right now? I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t think you should be here.”

“You got it all wrong, Dean-baby. This is exactly where I need to be. You’re about to make a big mistake. This here’s my big chance to do something for you.”

He frowned at her and she moved farther into the light. She wore shiny gold leggings and an oversize T-shirt with the words Kiss My White Trash Ass in sparkly letters. Her bottlebrush hair, which she dyed with orange Kool-Aid, was held back by a pair of oversized sunglasses with ruby red frames. “Nice outfit. I guess there’s no dress code at death’s door.”

“I ain’t going through that door yet. I came close, and I’d probably be on the other side by now if it wasn’t for you.”

“You think?”

“I know it. It’s like Clarence’s been trying to tell you. I mean, Lizzie.”

He squinted at the bony figure of his mother. “What do you know about Clarence? We never watched that movie.”

“Sure we did. I wasn’t always a fuck-up. Up until you were about five, I did pretty good. We watched Christmas movies just like everyone else. We even strung popcorn once. ’Course, the Jiffy Pop caught on fire and we had to call the fire department.”

“Must have blocked that out,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m here to unblock you, because I owe you. If you weren’t such a stubborn, pigheaded pain in my neck, checking in on me, sending me money, bugging me about rehab, I’d be right over there.” She waved her thin arm at the glowing light behind her. “And I’d never get a chance to turn things around.”

Mulligan raised his eyebrows at her. “Turn things around? I’ve heard that one before.”

“Yeah, you have. About a thousand times. But one of these times it’s going to stick. I been sober three years now. You should come see me.”

“You told me not to. And I just talked to you on the phone today. Or yesterday. Or whenever the hell that was. You sounded like you were using again.”

“Maybe I sounded that way. But I ain’t.” She ruffled her hair, adjusting the sunglasses on her head. “Maybe you just always think the worst. Like you think the worst of yourself.”

“No, I don’t. I think I’m badass.”

“You think you don’t deserve to be loved.”

He groaned, feeling his head pound. “You’re going to harp on that too? Did Lizzie put you up to this?”

“Dean, don’t be stupid. This is
all you
, baby boy. I’m
in your head
. You’re working some heavy shit out, and I guess I’m a big part of that. So let me just say this right now. I fucked up. Not just once, but over and over again. I picked the wrong boyfriends, I did the wrong drugs, I did everything wrong that I could think of, and then some. But you better not let my mistakes take you down, Dean-baby. If you do, I’ll follow you to the other side and whack you upside the head.”

“Nice, Mom. You have a real classy way of putting things.” Being trapped in a death tunnel with his mother made Under the Mistletoe look good.

“I know what I am, Dean. And I know what
you
are. You’re a fighter. You’d better not stop fightin’ now, not when you have something as beautiful as Lizzie Breen waitin’ on you.”

“You don’t know anything about Lizzie.”

“When will you get this through your thick skull? I’m in your head. I know everything
you
know. And Lizzie’s the real thing. The
best
thing. She’s what you need and what you deserve. You need to get back to Under the Mistletoe and fucking breathe like you’re supposed to. You hear me?”

“Mom! For Chrissake, get a hold of yourself.” But now his mother was receding, getting smaller and smaller . . . or was it him who was receding, zooming at lightning speed back down the dark tunnel? A buzz of distant voices echoed in his ears, growing louder by the moment. “I’ll come see you soon,” he called to his mother just before he slammed back into his body.

The crushing weight of the galvanized pipe still compressed his windpipe, but he managed to suck in air anyway, enough to clear his vision. The buzz of voices coalesced into Vader and Fred warning each other about the debris they were encountering.

“Here,” he tried to croak, then gave up the effort and lay still. He could help them, he remembered suddenly. He felt for his PASS device, lifted it, and shook it to reset it. Then he lay perfectly still. Twenty-five seconds later, it beeped. Still, he didn’t move until it began to sound again.
There
. Between that god-awful drone and the flashing strobe, there was no need for him to do anything but lie there. They’d have thermal imaging cameras, sledgehammers, rescue sleds, spare face masks, a special connector to give air to a down firefighter.

That was him. A down firefighter. Down, but not out.
Conserve energy, conserve breath. So close.
He heard footfalls, saw a spear of light from someone’s helmet lamp play across the interior of Under the Mistletoe.

He tapped on the metal pipe with as much force as he could summon, and saw the searching light veer his direction.

“There’s the tree,” Vader said. “Griffin said something about a tree.”

“Mulligan, are you under there?” Fred asked. “Tap if you hear me.”

Mulligan tapped on the pipe for all he was worth. He heard heavy footsteps come closer, following the beam of the flashlight, and then felt a hand on his shoulder. He managed to turn his head enough to see the silhouette of Vader looming over him. Fred must have knelt at his side, because in the next instant, the pipe was lifted off his throat. He coughed hard, his throat clenching, the sudden release sending a rush of oxygen to his brain.

“Thanks,” he managed when he stopped hacking. He took in Fred, Vader, and two other firefighters, who were examining the tree across his body. They looked like angels to him, their helmet lights glowing in the smoky air.

“When you get trapped, you really go all out, don’t you?” said Fred. “Firefighter Mulligan is alive, breathing, and conscious,” he informed the rest of the crew over the radio.

“Good job,” came the IC’s voice. “Now get him out. His condition?”

“Bruised windpipe for sure. Until we get this Christmas tree off him we can’t do much of an assessment.”

“I think . . . injured shoulder . . . broken ribs . . .” Mulligan gasped. If they weren’t broken, it would be a miracle.

“He’s very pale and his pulse is thready,” Fred continued, all business. “Mulligan, there’s a chance you have internal injuries as well as broken ribs. Any pain anywhere else?”

“Yeah.” Everywhere on his body. But it seemed to be centered on his left thigh. “Femur.”

“Any dizziness or fainting?”

“Yeah. And some crazy-ass hallucinations.”

“You’ve probably lost a lot of blood, and it may be putting pressure on your other organs.” Into the radio, he said, “Get an ambulance prepped. He needs to get to the ER stat. Internal bleeding, source unknown.” He clicked off. “I’m going to raise your legs while we get this tree off you. That should help with circulation.”

“I know . . . drill.” The ABC’s . . . airway, breathing, circulation. Now that Mulligan had his airway back, his breathing was okay, if still shallow.

“We have to use a rescue sled,” said Vader. “He can’t walk out of here.”

Mulligan wanted to protest, but he had a feeling the big guy was right.

“There’s too much debris. Let’s get rid of the tree and see where we are,” Fred answered.

“Chain saw?” asked the third RIC team member.

“Quicker to lift if off him,” suggested the other. “Between the four of us, we can do it.”

“I’ll take the heavy end,” Vader announced. “Superhero to the rescue. Mulligan, after this you’re going to stop ragging on me about my workouts, agreed?”

Mulligan shook his head firmly, which made the men laugh. Vader stepped to the thick base of the tree, out of Mulligan’s line of sight. “No wonder this thing is so heavy. It’s in a cast-iron base.”

“All these decorations must add some weight too.” Fred plucked off a few golden spheres, but Mulligan gave a squeak of protest.

“Leave it,” he whispered. “Christmas spirit.”

Fred gave him a long stare. “Did I just hear you say ‘Christmas spirit’? Vader, I think we have a serious problem. Mulligan’s been possessed by elves.”

Mulligan made a face at him. Fred crouched down and inserted his shoulders under the top of the tree. “Ready?” he called to Vader and the other two.

“Ready, Freddie. Let’s pivot this thing away from him. I’ll hold this end steady until we’re clear.”

“Ten-four. Here we go.” With a grunt, Fred rose to a standing position with the tree across his shoulders as if it was a barbell. Mulligan could barely see him through the thickly needled branches, but it didn’t matter because as soon as the weight lifted off Mulligan’s body, he had worries of his own. He groaned as the blood rushed into his numb limbs and pain flashed through him. Was it possible the tree was keeping his condition stable?

With his back to Mulligan, Fred took one step, then another. When the tree was clear of Mulligan’s body, the four firefighters carefully set it down, then extracted themselves from the prickly branches.

“Nice tree,” said Vader, slightly out of breath. “Wish I could bring it home for Cherie.”

“You could probably get a good deal on it,” said Fred, panting.

Really? They were going to stand there discussing Christmas trees while Mulligan bled out, or whatever was happening?

Mulligan croaked to get their attention. They hurried over to him. “Hurts,” he said, trying to indicate his worry without putting it into words.

“Hell. We need to get him out of here,” said Fred.

“Rescue sled?” asked one of the firefighters.

“Terrain’s too rough. Vader, you grab his shoulders, I’ll get his feet. We carry him out feet first. You guys clear the way.”

Vader didn’t argue. He crouched behind Mulligan’s head. He inserted his big hands under his shoulders to his armpits. Meanwhile, Fred stood between Mulligan’s knees, a hand under each one. As his two friends raised him off the floor, an intense rush of pain made him cry out.

“Sorry,” Fred muttered. “Hopefully that part was the worst.”

Mulligan gritted his teeth to hold back any more sounds. It had to be done. The only way out for him was by way of Vader and Fred, and if it hurt, he could take it. He had a very high pain tolerance.