Authors: Missy Fleming
D
uncan waited for Frank outside Midtown General Hospital, travel coffee mug in hand. Coming here was the one positive thing he had going in his life, the single aspect he controlled. Despite being an unremarkable father, Duncan loved kids and whenever he lost a child in a fire it haunted him for weeks, thus the visits to the pediatric burn ward. The senselessness of death dogged his heels and he learned early on he needed a place to funnel the anger, other than drinking and beating the crap out of random guys at the bar.
All you have to do is call Olivia and grab another bright spot, a voice inside his head reprimanded, but he had messed that up already.
The scrap of paper she wrote her number on went with him everywhere, folded in his pocket and ripped right across the last two digits from when he’d crumpled it up. He sensed it now warm against his hip, a reminder of his quick trigger anger. It’d be easy to swallow his pride and see if Alex could get the number from his girlfriend, but he didn’t see a relationship between him and Olivia working. They came from two different worlds and spending time with her might be amazing for a while, but sooner or later he’d muck it up. He was an expert at that. Besides, if he did decide to give it a shot, he hadn’t exactly been charming the other night. He doubted she’d even take the call.
“I never understand why we have to do this so early on our day off,” Frank complained as he ambled over, a large sack slung over his shoulder and reminding Duncan of an Italian Kris Kringle—minus the beard.
“The burn ward is pretty strict on visiting hours,” Duncan reminded his buddy. “Did you get new bears, Santa?”
“Yep.” Frank’s face lit up, proving his grumbling was just for show. “And they’re much better than the last ones.”
He set the bag down and reached in, pulling out a seven inch tall FDNY teddy bear, complete with bunker pants, boots, and helmet. Duncan took the toy, pleased to find it plusher than the previous batch.
“Kids will love these.” He handed it back. “Let’s go.”
They entered the hospital, riding the elevator to the fourth floor, and began the long process of washing up, donning surgical masks, hospital gowns, and sterilized booties over their shoes. They left the bag at the nurse’s station, taking along a handful of bears. Duncan stepped through the doors and instinctively began breathing shallower. For newcomers, the scent of burnt flesh mixed with sanitizer could be overwhelming. In his line of work, he had unfortunately become immune.
The first patient they came across was Miley, a six-year-old girl who’d been the victim of her teenage babysitter’s neglect. Third degree burns covered seventy-five percent of her body and over the last two weeks Duncan hadn’t noticed much improvement.
Paula, her mother, met them at the door with a small, wavering smile. “You don’t have to keep visiting.”
They didn’t. Miley wasn’t even their save, but she could have been.
“We ain’t got nothing better to do than visit pretty ladies,” Frank said with his infectious grin.
“She already thinks you’re both heroes.”
“I told you last week, this is our way of giving back, remembering the ones we couldn’t save. Believe me, spending time with these kids is no hardship,” Duncan explained.
Paula stepped aside to let them in and bit her lip, enhancing the hard angles of her face. The woman was too skinny, greasy blond hair hung limp around her thin cheeks, and her skin looked as if it hadn’t seen sunlight in months. Duncan doubted the single mom had time for anything besides working and being here. The helplessness in her eyes reminded him of Leslie, his wife. During the worst patches of his behavior, before he had moved, she often looked as if she’d fought a war—and lost. Why did he have such an easy time helping strangers, yet balk when it came to his own family?
Adding some cheer to her tone, Paula skirted the end of her daughter’s bed, pulling Duncan from his haunting thoughts.
“Miley, sweetie, look who’s here.”
Miley’s pain-filled gaze landed on Duncan and Frank and she brightened, managing a weak smile. Blood and other liquid had seeped through the thick bandages obscuring the girl’s face, except for her lips and eyes, and no matter how used to the sight he’d become, it never failed to turn Duncan’s stomach.
“You have new bears today.” Her faint voice was no more than a wheeze.
Duncan approached the side of the bed, setting the stuffed animal in her bandage-free hand. She lifted it carefully and a tiny giggle escaped her mouth. “It looks like him.”
Her stare landed on Frank and Duncan couldn’t help his barking laugh. Frank may have been short and stout and just as hairy, but the comparison ended there. Underneath, lived the softest heart and sickest sense of humor ever.
Turning back to Miley, Duncan teased, “Don’t be fooled. He’s a baby. He cries at movies. It’s sad.”
Her grin stretched too wide, causing her to flinch in pain, but she recovered quickly. “I cried during the last Tinkerbell movie. The blue fairy is my favorite.”
Surprising the holy hell out of Duncan, Frank launched into an epic discussion about fairies and pixie dust. He couldn’t help but admire Miley’s spirit as he listened. Her courage both warmed him and made him feel small. Adults didn’t possess the same resiliency. They gave into darker emotions, such as depression and hopelessness. Hell, he did it himself. It shamed him that a girl this tiny and riddled with pain had a better handle on life than he did. Twice, she’d coded as infections set in and took advantage of her weakened body. She had a rough road ahead of her. A lifetime of agony.
When finished with the burn unit, they moved up to the pediatric cancer ward and distributed the rest of the bears. Duncan could never decide which was worse; the burned kids facing a life of stares and pain or the thin, bald ones with no hope or future. It was a puzzle for stronger and smarter men than him.
Afterwards, he and Frank walked down the block to a bistro and sat on the restaurant’s patio. It was just past noon yet they both ordered beers.
“That shit kills me,” Frank muttered, his usual jovial expression tightened in sadness, but he wiped a hand over his face, smoothing it away. Humor was his way of hiding the pain, a healthy method Duncan admired, and envied. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
“In those rooms, I never doubt why we’re there. The kids have such great attitudes, it’s hard not to get caught up in it. Once we leave, it hits me.”
“I thought you were crazy the first time you told me what you were doing. Then, I had to come see for myself. Thanks, pal,” he drawled sarcastically.
“Don’t mention it. Had to do something to get you off your fat ass.” Duncan took a long swig from his beer. “In the past months, I’ve visited those kids more than my own.”
Saying it aloud cemented his guilt. He’d gone so far past bad dad behavior it seemed easier to let it go, to choose pills and booze over Adam and Amanda. He’d dug himself a hole and was content on the bottom, letting the self-hatred eat away at his insides. There had to be a way out, if he looked hard enough, which seemed like a lot of work. Redemption. The word fluttered into his mind but he kicked it aside. Ridiculous, unreachable illusion. He didn’t know where to even begin.
“Leslie still giving you grief about seeing them?” Frank asked after they ordered sandwiches and onion rings.
“Do you blame her?”
“Hell, I don’t understand why she married you in the first place.”
“You and me both.” He shook his head. He’d never forget the way she looked on their wedding day, long hair piled on her head and love in her eyes. “At this point, I’m not sure what I can do to repair the damage I’ve done. She has good reason not to trust me. I’ve hurt her more than anyone deserves, her and the kids.”
“Basically, you’re the Titanic, only you have the knowledge and the tools on hand to patch that damn hole. Yet, you’re content with smacking the giant ice cube and letting your amazing ship sink.”
Duncan smirked. “Been watching girlie movies again?”
“No, that movie pisses me off, and I’ll tell you why.” He jabbed his finger into the table to make his point. “Rose could have scooted over on the damn door and let Jack up, or they could have taken turns.”
“You’d let the woman you love spend a few agonizing minutes in freezing water, trading off with her on the single piece of floating wood, the one thing keeping her from dying, just so you didn’t freeze your balls off?”
“Hundred percent, yes, because the dumb broad had a lifeboat. She was safe and she chose to get off. All chivalry went out the window after that.”
Duncan let loose a booming laugh, more from the serious expression on his friend’s round face than his words. The guy wasn’t joking.
“That’s the reason you’re still single.”
“Hey, screw you, it’s not like you’re a burning beacon of marriage and relationships.” Frank paused as their meals were delivered, then took a huge bite of his Rueben. Around a mouthful of food, he said, “Speaking of which. Call Olivia yet?”
“Nope.” Duncan’s BLT soured on his tongue.
Frank watched him expectantly. As the silence dragged on, he sighed. “And why not?”
“You’ve met me, right?” He neglected to tell him the number was ripped and unreadable. Frank wouldn’t believe such a stupid story anyway, truth or not.
“Yeah, but I doubt the smell of your filthy man pits are what’s stoppin’ ya.”
“She’s a Van den Berg.”
“So? It’s not like she’s Richard Madoff’s daughter. Her family is one of the good ones.”
“But she comes from prep schools and trust funds and black ties, the Hamptons. I barely graduated high school, don’t have five dollars to my name and most of my clothes are t-shirts. Different worlds.”
“You’re thinking too much. Which are words I never thought I’d say to you.”
“Screw you. Honestly? Her pedigree intimidates the hell out of me and if you repeat that I will make you hurt in ways you can’t imagine.” He dropped the fry he’d been about to eat. “Besides, you said it a few seconds ago. I’m far from a burning whatever when it comes to relationships. I’m saving her the headache.”
“That’s the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve ever heard you say and I’ve known you for a long time.” Frank shrugged and popped an onion ring in his mouth. “Face it. You’re chicken.”
Irritation slithered along Duncan’s neck. “So I should ask her out? Complicate both our lives?”
“Abso-freaking-lutely. In your case, it’d be a welcome complication. You don’t know what will happen. You’re not psychic like David Copperpot. Maybe she’ll complicate your life in a good way.”
“It’s David Copperfield, you idiot.” He grinned. “And he doesn’t predict the future.”
“Whatever. Do yourself a favor and don’t be a pussy. Take a chance.”
He nodded absently. Maybe he would. Only, Olivia made it seem as if she had so much going on in her life right now. A couple days ago he’d read about her grandmother’s illness in the Sunday
Times
. Now wasn’t the best time to be hitting on a woman about to lose a family member. And what if she gave in and went to work at VDB Enterprises? He saw plenty of snooty corporate bitches walking around New York and knew it wasn’t what he wanted. Women like that dated CEOs or surgeons or politicians, not firemen with addiction issues. Besides, each day he didn’t call he turned into a bigger douche. His excuse, the destroyed numbers, sounded so lame. There was a fair chance she’d laugh at him.
Hell. Tomorrow. He’d cop to it and ask Alex. At least it’d get the guys off his back.
Resolution made, his mind wandered to the day me met Olivia.
September 11, 2001
“A
goddamned plane hit the World Trade Center!”
Duncan shook his head and chuckled under his breath. Frank was a sick bastard. He had the know-how to pull off the best pranks, delivering an epic line of bullshit without blinking an eye. Even now, he stood in the vehicle bay with pale skin, a sheen of sweat popping out across his plump cheeks and a bewildered stare. Frank should know better. After the bombing of the Trade Center in ’93, an attack wasn’t something anyone should joke about. Duncan opened his mouth, fully intending to tell Frank to grow up, but an alarm burst through the firehouse, killing the words on his tongue.
Taking a closer look at Frank’s dazed expression, Duncan dropped the oxygen mask he was servicing and rushed outside to peer down the street. Normally, they had a decent view of the Twin Towers between a couple buildings. Today, though, all he saw was a disaster unfolding. Smoke billowed from the top of the north tower, marring the otherwise perfect blue sky, and already, the cry of sirens assaulted his ears from every corner of the city.
“Shit.”
His blood turned to ice and dread wiggled its way into his typically steel resolve. It was going to be a hell of a fight to get up there. Each building was over a hundred stories tall with a maze of elevators, offices and storage. Running procedures in his head and compiling a mental list of the tools they’d need, determination replaced the ice, giving his body life. Fire … he lived for it.
“Dunc, get your ass in here!”
Paulie’s shout broke his trance and he ran inside to throw on his bunker gear, shoving his feet into his boots and ignoring the flutters in his chest. Piling into Engine 12 with the crew, tension hovered thick and hot in the air, a big change from the dirty locker room jokes and insults usually flying around.
“Was it really a plane?” the new guy, Alex, asked, horrified.
“That’s what I heard,” Paulie confirmed, his lean freckled face flushed with anxiety.
Duncan added his own question. “A private plane?”
“Passenger jet.”
Those two words kicked him in the gut and his head spun. How many people were on one of those? A hundred? Two? And the fuel. Were they full? Jet fuel burned at an incredibly high temperature and if the building’s chemical fire suppression systems were down, the department was going to need something stronger than water, like a miracle.
“On purpose?”
“Alex, don’t be an idiot. I bet it was banking for an emergency landing.” Doubt filled Frank’s tone.
They remained uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the trip to the World Trade Center as traffic crept to a standstill, doubling their normal ten minute ride from the firehouse in Midtown. The truck blazed down Church Street and, as it passed the complex, Duncan pressed his face against the window, squinting up into the blazing nightmare. At least ten stories were on fire, orange flames swirling from the gaping holes in the sides of the tower.
The rig lurched to a stop as close to the scene as possible, near the corner of Church and Liberty, in the shadow of Building Four of the World Trade Center complex. Duncan jumped out and rolled open the bins containing their equipment, distributing tools, oxygen tanks and rolls of hose, all the while snatching quick glances at the blackness billowing above and trying to envision the conditions. Smoke would have filled the hallways, drop ceilings had likely collapsed, blocking exits, and elevator cables sliced by the plane would have sent cars crashing to the ground floor, killing anyone inside instantly. His hands trembled and he shook the offending action from them.
Captain Blankard walked into the middle of their tight, focused group and spoke, “Command Center is set up in the lobby of the north tower, tower one. They’re getting calls from people trapped above and below the burning floors. All emergency services and fire systems are dead inside. We won’t have any help internally.”
So no additional fire suppression, just as he’d predicted. Wonderful. Duncan peered hard at the others, drawing comfort from their resolute expressions and catching Paulie’s eye. He’d known the guy since high school and had never seen him as unyielding as he was now. Not even the rookie, Alex, showed a trace of fear. It would come. Duncan might not admit it aloud, but today would be unprecedented, an event that would change their lives. He felt it in his bones.
“Concentrate on the fire. Distractions will kill you. Only chumps get burned while gawking at the scenery,” he lectured in his head, a mantra his father had instilled in him and one he passed on to each new rookie he met.
This was simply another job, that was the mentality they had to cling to. They didn’t have the luxury to dwell on the fact that tens of thousands of people came through these buildings every day. Tens of thousands of people with the potential to die. Duncan’s pulse sped up and he drew in deep breaths, forcing himself into that familiar place where everything faded, except for what was expected of him. It worked. The screams, sirens, and the roar of the fire sharpened his attention. He imagined it was how a soldier felt before going into battle; focused, scared, pumped up, and ready to kick some ass.
“Alright, let’s go. Keep your heads up as we get close. Got reports of all kinds of shit falling.”
The second the words exited the captain’s mouth, a low droning sound penetrated Duncan’s ears and he turned to stone. Another plane. The noise grew louder, drowning everything else, and over the roof of Building Four a flash of silver glinted in the sun.
“Get down!” he shouted, his body reacting before he finished.
Everyone ducked as a huge fireball burst from the north face of the south tower, almost directly above them, shooting flame and debris into the sky and scattering it onto the streets. Duncan couldn’t draw air into his tightened chest as the ugly truth of the situation sank in. It
had
to be an attack. They needed to get their asses in there.
Duncan watched hesitation cloud the captain’s eyes and his mouth went dry. The man normally had unflappable nerves—old school and hard as granite. Captain Blankard gazed around, stunned, but the indecision didn’t last long. He bent, groping for his helmet which had been knocked to the ground, and faced his crew.
“Okay, we’re still moving to tower one, to Command. I’m sure they’ll send us into two, but we need to report in anyway.”
Their superior led them around the front of Four, upriver against the panicked streams of people exiting both towers. Every face reflected terror, pain, and, most prevalent, vacant expressions of shock. The closer they drew to tower one, the worse the chaos grew. Thousands spilled onto the streets and the mezzanine, most too scared to stop and gawk. The second plane had upped the panic level and desperation polluted the air, thick as the smoke, embracing everyone.
Duncan kept his fear at bay by concentrating on the facts, on what he needed to do once he got up there and the logistics of carrying the wounded down sixty to eighty flights of stairs.
“Can they land choppers on the roof?” he asked the captain.
“No clue. Visibility is shit. They may be worried about structural damage, too.”
“Or another plane,” Alex muttered.
Readjusting the sixty pounds of gear slung over his shoulder, Duncan swallowed repeatedly, his tongue already covered in ash, but the more he witnessed, the harder it became to keep his professional mask in place.
He glanced to the right and did a double take. A body, missing an arm and leg and burned almost beyond recognition, nothing more than a chunk of blackened flesh, was still smoking. A little farther ahead lay a hand, just a hand in near perfect condition, fingers slightly bent and reaching towards the sky. Horrified, unable to look away from the gold wedding ring on the third finger, Duncan’s steps faltered. When he faced forward, he mentally catalogued the injured exiting the buildings, the burns marring their skin, how their clothes hung off their bodies and the smell of jet fuel wafting off them.
One elderly woman, clutching her bloody arm, crouched near a trash can, tears streaming down her face.
“Ma’am, you can’t stay here. It isn’t safe.” He pulled her to her feet and pointed across the street to a group of paramedics attending survivors. “They’ll tell you where to go.”
Watching her stumble off, a reverberating boom echoed not five feet away, shaking the concrete under his feet and he jumped forward, pivoting as he scanned the area. A bloody mass that once was a body painted the ground in brilliant reds. Innocent bystanders stood frozen to the side, covered in gore, disbelief clouding their faces. He’d seen a human body broken down into ash, into charred fragments solidified in intense heat. Never had he witnessed one reduced to a soupy puddle. Vomit tickled the back of his mouth, begging to be let out. Jesus, they weren’t prepared for this, not on this scale. Nobody was. Closing his eyes, Duncan counted to five, concentrating on not losing his breakfast. Marginally better, he glanced around and Alex shot him a pale, questioning look. Duncan explained it with one word.
“Jumpers.”
The statement had a deep effect on the other firefighters. Shoulders tensed, feet danced in place itching to hurry up there and stop the people trapped from taking a desperate plunge. Alex remained rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the splatter. Duncan noticed a slight tremor in the young man’s hand as more bombs dropped from the sky.
He stepped close and, low enough no one could hear, said, “Take a long look and get it out of your system. We’ll run into a lot worse before this is over. Lock it down. Save it for later.”
The kid responded after a second and ducked his head, jaw clenching, gathering his wits before readjusting the hose slung over his arm. Looking back up, his eyes were clear.
Once inside, near the bottom of the escalators, Duncan kept track of their captain as he joined the other top officers and set his gear on the floor to give his shoulders a break. Several men pointed insistently to a diagram of the towers, a crude drawing someone had put on a whiteboard, concentrating their jabs at the upper floors. Others argued with red faces and traces of panic slipping through. The scope of the task was etched in the somber expression of each hardened vet. Anxious, Duncan shifted from foot to foot, keeping his breathing steady and calm.
Captain Blankard returned after six agonizingly long minutes. “Alright, you guys are going to tower two. Got reports of people trapped on sixty-seven and seventy-one. Elevators are a no-go, so prepare for a hell of a hike.”
“Why didn’t they evacuate it before?”
The captain shot Alex an impatient glare. “It’s only been half an hour, dipshit. Do you see the size of these buildings?”
“We’ll get them now,” Duncan told the rookie, giving him a hearty thump on the shoulder and lifting his tools and equipment again.
“Let’s quit yapping and get to work,” Paulie said as he led them out of the lobby.
Back in the fading daylight, the sun choked by growing clouds of smoke, they skirted what Duncan assumed to be a large chunk of the plane on fire, nothing more than a pile of twisted and melted metal. He thought of his kids, as he often did before running into a burning building, and sent up a quick prayer that he’d return home safely. His family was the most important thing in the world to him and Leslie’s pretty face floated before him, smiling and teasing. He recalled the way she looked early this morning before he left, mussed from sleep, so damn sexy he’d been tempted to show up late. Maybe he should have, at least if he died, he’d die with the scent of her still on his skin.
Don’t be so morbid, dickhead, he berated himself. Wrong mindset for today.
Finding the staircase was easy. All they had to do was follow the horde of firefighters lined up waiting their turn to go in. There had to be at least a couple hundred and who knew how many were already inside both towers. Duncan had never seen anything like this before, probably never would again, and he’d been on the job a little over ten years, nearly a lifetime.
Carl, Engine 12’s oldest member and certified health nut, honed in on those near him and said, “Take it easy going up. There’s a shit load of stairs. Don’t push it. We’ll stop and break every five floors because we need to save enough strength to fight the fires once we get up there. Cramping muscles are a concern, so speak up before it gets bad. We’ll have to find a way to stay hydrated.”
“Whatever you say, Richard Simmons,” Frank muttered and Duncan ducked his head, smirking. If he had Frank’s gut, he’d be a little more worried about the climb than cracking a joke.
Entering the stairwell, things moved at a steady pace. People coming down stayed to one side, crying and weeping in shock or offering encouragement to the firemen trudging upwards. Some passed out bottles of water from broken vending machines. Others simply whispered, ‘thank you’ in between sobs. The higher they climbed, the worse the injuries Duncan saw; skin burned and falling off, gashes, head trauma, a little of everything. And still, he knew it was only a sliver of the horrors waiting for them. His level of adrenalin increased, along with his heart rate, causing his blood to hum. A voice in his head kept saying he just needed to get up there, he just needed to get up there.
“You’re doing great. Keep it up,” Frank encouraged the survivors trekking down. “Paramedics and safety personnel are waiting at the bottom.”