The concrete rumbled a warning, but there wasn’t time to escape. The floor screamed as it fell out from under him. A roar shook the walls and boomed out into the night. The endless noise shot through him, making every nerve in his body stand at attention as it burned its way into his soul. Chet Kelly realized he now knew what the end of the world would sound like; its noise would fill his dreams forevermore. Yet, the silence following the collapse was deafening.

*****

Outside, the crew of Station 51 and the other firefighters at the scene watched in horror as the building imploded, with debris and rubble tumbling down on every means of entry or exit from the ground floor. Roy DeSoto was the first to realize that John Gage and Chet were still inside.

"Johnny!" Roy shouted, running for the pile of rubble that used to be the main entrance of the plant.

A strong hand gripped his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hang on, Roy," Captain Hank Stanley ordered, voice gentle in spite of the command.

Roy yanked his arm from the Captain’s grasp, but remained where he was, watching as rubble continued to fall.

*****

Chet lay in the darkness listening to his body with the smell of smoke, leather and dust filling his nostrils. He was face down on something yielding and rough. The surface beneath his face shifted. His face was buried in Gage’s turnout, he realized. Cautiously he lifted his head.

Dust shifted through the beam of Chet’s fallen flashlight and a thick layer of gray grit covered everything. In the gloom, the blanket of debris in front of his face moved, lifting upwards. Beneath the dust caked brim of his helmet appeared Johnny’s face. Blinking at the powder falling on his cheeks, Gage stared upwards into the darkness and studied the overlaying wreckage that was trapping them in the pit at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

"You OK?" asked Chet, rising carefully to his knees.

Johnny nodded.

"Gage, you’re a disaster magnet!" accused Kelly.

John was in the midst of cataloging the various aches and pains that came along with going through a floor and breaking Chet Kelly’s fall. When Chet’s statement registered, he took offense, "Me!?" he exclaimed, wincing when his left side protested, taking precedence over the other aches and pains.

In spite of their situation, Chet laughed, "Yes, you."

"You picked that hallway, not me," John protested, sitting up with his left hand protecting his ribs.

"You said you were okay," Chet frowned.

"Just bruised my ribs," John returned, "And since you landed on me instead of the other way around, I’ll consider myself lucky."

"There you go again," Chet muttered.

"There I go again - what?" John asked.

"Makin’ comments about my weight," Chet accused, "My weight is perfectly normal for my height and build. You’re the one with the weight problem," he ranted, "You’re the one that eats like horse and never gains an ounce. Not me."

Johnny held up both hands in surrender, "Okay, okay," he began, "But, as you pointed out, your normal height and build landed on skinny me."

Chet chuckled, "Okay, I get the point," he said, "You sure you’re okay?"

"Yeah, fine," John said, "What about you?"

"Sore, but nothing broken or severely bruised," Chet responded, "Which is lucky, since you’re not much to break a guy’s fall."

John laughed, then pulled the H.T. from the right pocket of his turnout coat, "Engine 51, this is John," he announced, pulling off his helmet.

"Copy, John," Cap’s voice responded, "Where are you and Chet?"

John looked up and around, "Looks like an old elevator shaft. We went through the floor."

"Any injuries?" Cap asked.

"Nothing more serious than a few bruises," John responded.

"Yeah, well the whole building’s coming down," Cap informed, "We’ve got crews working, but it’s gonna take a while."

"We’re not going anywhere," John returned, "We were in a hallway on the south side of the building, about fifty feet from the main entrance when the floor gave on us."

"Copy," Cap acknowledged, "We’ve got building plans en route. We’ll get to you as soon as we can."

"We’ll be waiting," John said, "I’m gonna shut off the H.T. to conserve power. We’ll check in."

"Affirmative, Engine 51, out," Cap acknowledged.

John shut off the H.T., then put it back in the pocket of his turnout coat. He carefully stood and began looking around, hoping to find a quick way out of the hole he and Chet had fallen into.

He retrieved the flashlight from the floor and measured the space, which was about ten feet by twelve feet. He checked every inch of the walls with his hands and the light, looking for an opening leading through the crumbling walls to the outside.

"Gage, if you start pacing now, you won’t have anything to do later," Chet said from his position against the far wall.

"I’m not pacing," John shot back, "I’m trying to find us a way out of here."

Chet looked around, "It’s an abandoned elevator shaft," he returned, "The only way out is up," he added, pointing toward the hole twenty-five feet above them that was now buried beneath several feet of rubble.

John shined the flashlight up, taking a deep breath and letting it out, "Maybe," he said finally, bringing the flashlight down along one of the walls.

The confined space was starting to get hot. John paused in his search for a way out to shed his turnout coat, which he carefully laid down against the far wall. Don’t

want to damage the H.T. It’s the only connection we have to the rest of the world.

"What’re you doing, Gage?" Chet asked, "We wear the turnout coats to protect us from debris."

"If we keep the coats on, we’ll both roast before they dig us outta here," John

returned, resuming his check of the upper walls of their prison.

Chet agreed with John, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he unbuckled his turnout coat, then shed it when the paramedic’s back was turned.

"I just figured it out," Chet announced after several minutes of silence.

"Figured what out?" John asked, eyes and flashlight still trained on the walls above them.

"Why you’re so skinny," Chet began, "You can’t sit still," he paused, "Except to eat and even then your hands and mouth are moving."

"Ha, ha," John deadpanned.

"You’re what my granny called a fidgeter," Chet informed, "You even fidget in your sleep."

"If you say so, Chet," John returned, Whatever he says, just agree with it. Maybe it’ll shut him up.

"I’ll bet you 5 bucks you can’t sit down and be still for five minutes," Chet challenged.

John finally turned his attention to the firefighter, "Only 5 bucks?" he asked, "Make it 20 and you’re on."

Chet chuckled, "A fool and his money," he said, rubbing his hands together, "Five minutes. And you can’t move a muscle."

"Your money," John returned, sitting down with his back against the opposite wall, legs stretched out in front of him, his left leg crossed over his right. He shut the flashlight off to conserve its battery, immersing them in a gray gloom.

John then crossed his hands over his stomach and prepared himself to take Chet’s 20 dollars. After barely a minute, his right leg started tingling. He uncrossed his legs and pulled the right one up.

"Hah!" Chet exclaimed, "I knew it!"

"Hey, that’s not fair," John argued, "I was trying to get comfortable."

"Trying to welch, huh, Gage?"

"No, trying to keep the circulation going in my leg," John returned, "I’ll tell you when I’m ready to start."

Chet shrugged, "We’ve got the time," he allowed, "You’re still gonna lose."

"That’s what you think," John returned, shifting positions several times. Finally, he found a comfortable one, "Okay, now start timing me."

John did his best, but after three minutes he couldn’t stand it any longer, Damn! He’s right. Chet being right was worse than sitting still, but he finally gave up and stood, "Fine! You win!" he exclaimed.

Chet chuckled, "Told ya so," he said smugly.

"Trust me, Chet, you’re not the first person to accuse me of being hyperactive," John returned.

"The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem," Chet returned, voice still smug. He lived for the times John opened his mouth and left himself open to being zinged. Which he did well and often.

"Shut up, Chet," John growled.

*****

The building plans arrived an hour and a half after John’s first radio contact with Stanley. During their wait for the plans, the crews working to excavate the two firefighters had been forced to evacuate twice due to the continued instability of the building. Each time they evacuated, they returned to find debris blocking the paths they’d cleared, using time Chet and John might not have.

Stoker was the first to see the Building Inspector’s truck pull into the staging area,

"Cap!" he called to Stanley, who was monitoring the progress of the crews inside from the entrance to the building.

Stanley turned, then waved, acknowledging Stoker’s call. He said something to someone inside, then jogged over to the City truck. Roy came out of the building and followed closely behind him.

"Hank Stanley, LA County Fire Department," Stanley introduced himself, "This is Roy DeSoto. His partner’s one of the men inside."

"Lenny Curtis," the building inspector responded, pulling a roll of drawings from the front seat of the truck, "I got here as soon as I could," he added, unrolling the drawings and laying them out on the hood of the truck, "How’s it goin’ in there?"

"Not good. We’ve had to evacuate the crews twice. And every time we get back in, we’re right back where we started," Stanley informed.

"I’m not surprised," Curtis returned, "We’ve been pushing the owners to tear the place down for almost two years. They’re waiting for a judge to decide it," he paused, "There are a couple of other ways we might be able to go in and get your guys out," he began, "Where are they?"

"Abandoned elevator shaft on the south side," Roy informed, "It’s beneath a hallway about fifty feet in from the main entrance."

"There are a lot worse places in there," Curtis muttered, tracing along the plans with his right index finger, "Okay, I’ve got ‘em," he announced, "It just might be their lucky day, too," he added, "When they abandoned the old elevator, they closed off the shaft ends and incorporated the space into the structure," he explained, "The lower shaft was used to store bulk packing material," he paused, tapping the drawing, "That, gentlemen, is an access shaft. The trucks used to pull up and dump the material down that into the storage space. The space was accessed through a door in the basement."

Stanley frowned, "That might work for one of my men," he began, "But the other one . . . well, he’s on the portly side."

"No problem," Curtis informed, "The shaft’s 9 feet wide at its narrowest point," he paused, "The only hitch is that the shaft was capped with a ten foot concrete slab about five years ago. We’ll have to get through that before we can get to your guys."

"What about the shaft they’re in?" Roy asked, "Is the building gonna come down on top of them before we can get through the cap?"

"According to the plans I’ve got, the lower shaft’s reinforcing walls weren’t touched when the shaft was abandoned," Curtis informed, "If that’s right, they couldn’t be in a better place right now."

*****

Chet and John spent their first three hours of confinement in virtual silence. Chet had tried in vain to start a few conversations. John preferred to remain silent.

I don’t want to spend my last hours on Earth bickering with Chet, Johnny watched the stocky firefighter, who appeared to be sleeping across from him, And all Chet and I ever do is bicker.

The ominous rumbling from the building above them didn’t help John’s black mood. Something large had sealed the hole they had fallen through. He wondered how long that would hold. And whether either of them would have any warning before the building fell down on them. He suddenly felt the need to connect with the person with whom he might be spending his last moments, "Chet, you awake?" he called out.

Chet grunted a response.

"Why do we pick on each other like we do, Chet?" John asked quietly.

"Uh-oh, don’t go gettin’ philosophical on me," Chet muttered.

"I’m serious, Chet," John began, "Okay, we all joke around. We tease Mike about being quiet. And Roy about being nice."

"John, it’s gallows humor," Chet explained, "It relieves the pressure."

"But with you and me, it’s not just a little good-natured teasing," John continued, "The Phantom is a good example."

"Do you really want to know?" Chet asked, "’Cause once I tell you, it might change everything and there’d be no going back."

"I don’t like the sound of that," John muttered, "Let me guess, Chet. You just don’t like me," he said, trying to beat Chet to the punch.

"Oh, I like you, Gage," Chet returned, "Although, at first, I didn’t," he paused, "Let me explain that," he added quickly, "The first day you walked into the station, you were everything I despised. You’re tall, you’ve got good hair, a tan. You’re reasonably good looking. I was always the short, fat kid everybody laughed at."

"Reasonably good looking?" John repeated.

Chet could hear the smile in his voice, "You repeat that to anyone and I’ll have to kill you."

John laughed, "Nobody’d believe me," he returned.

"Anyway, if I can continue," Chet said testily.

"Go ahead."

"Then I got to know you," Chet continued, "And your luck with the ladies isn’t any better than mine, or anybody else’s, in spite of your appearance," he shrugged, "So, I started to think you were all right."

"Gee, thanks, Chet," John said dryly, "So, that’s the Earth shattering secret?"

"Not all of it," Chet admitted, "You’re the youngest one on the shift," he announced.

"And your point would be . . .," John prompted.

"The youngest always gets the most shit," Chet informed, "It’s a universal truth, Gage. Live with it."

John laughed, "You know, Chet, I didn’t even feel the hook on that one."

"It’s not a gag," Chet insisted, "You’re the youngest one on the shift. Do the math."

John considered that, Mike, Marco, Chet and Roy are all about the same age. Then he grinned, And I’m a good 4 years younger than any of them.

Yes! He bought it, Chet smiled to himself, Like I’m gonna tell him he gets all the grief ‘cause he baits the hook himself.

*****

Their fifth hour in the shaft began with a revelation.

Fresh air, John stood and picked up the flash light. He switched it on and began trying to find the source, which could mean a way out.

"What’re you doing now, Johnny?" Chet asked.

"We’re getting a fresh air supply," John informed, "We’ve been down here five hours. If the place were sealed, we’d be on the verge of suffocating."

"Maybe it’s just that we’ve been sitting quietly, using up less air," Chet reasoned.

John shook his head, "No, it’s fresh air. Help me find it."

Chet started to argue, then stopped, Nothing better to do. He started on the end opposite John, checking the walls by touch, since John had the only flashlight.

He was about to give up, when his fingers encountered a metal surface rougher and heavier than the walls around them.

"Hey, Johnny, I found something," Chet called.

The light from the flashlight appeared on the wall.

"You sure did, Chester B.," John chuckled, stepping up next to Chet, "It’s an access door," he announced, "Help me get it open."

Both men knelt, since the door was at knee level, "The latch is on the outside," Chet informed, "Hold the flashlight. I think I can get it open from the inside."

"Don’t hurt yourself," John warned.

Chet struggled for several minutes, trying to move the center mechanism that would release both bars from their slots in the left and right frames of the door. When that failed, he began tugging at the top bar. That, too, failed and he sat back and exhaled an explosive breath, "They’re frozen," he announced.

"Here," John said, handing the flashlight to Chet, "Let me try," he said.

"If I couldn’t get it open, what makes you think you can?" Chet challenged.

"You gave up," John retorted, as he stood and retrieved his gloves from the pocket of his turnout coat. He then returned to the door and wrapped both hands around the top bar, which fit into a slot on the left side of the door.

After several minutes of tugging and grunting, the top bar slid from its slot. Grinning, John went to work on the bottom bar, again tugging and grunting until the bar slid free.

"Persistence, Chet," John said smugly, "Persistence."

"Just shut up and open the door, Gage," Chet growled.

"After you," John said, pushing on the door and expecting it to swing open. The door didn’t budge.

"Persistence, Gage," Chet muttered.

"It’s just stuck," John returned, "Get back," he ordered, stepping back when Chet rose and moved out of the way. He then kicked the door in the center, putting all of his weight behind it.

The door remained closed. Not deterred, John sat down, centered both feet on the door and kicked again, this time with both legs. When the door didn’t open, John angrily planted several more kicks in quick succession.

Chet put a hand on John’s shoulder, "Gage, get out of the way," he ordered, setting the flashlight down.

"What makes you think you can get it open?" John asked petulantly.

Chet motioned to his lower body, which was more substantial than the lanky paramedic’s, "Hmmm?"

John chuckled and scooted back, allowing Chet to take his place.

Like John, Chet kicked the door several times. The door refused to open.

"It’s no use," Chet said, moving away from the door and resuming his seat against the wall.

John rose, "Damn it!" he swore, kicking angrily at the door.

Chet stood, grabbed John’s shoulders and pulled him away, "Hey!" he shouted, "It’s not gonna do us any good if you break a leg."

"The latch is open. Why won’t the door open?"

Chet picked up the flashlight, then bent to examine the door. After a minute, he looked back at John, "C’mere, Johnny," he said gently.

"What?" John asked, bending to peer over Chet’s shoulder.

"It’s welded shut," Chet informed, running his right index finger along a line of molten solder between the frame and the door, "They probably sealed it when they abandoned the shaft."

"It can’t be," John argued, "There’s fresh air coming from somewhere. That’s the only place it could be coming from."

Chet ran the light over the center of the door. There were several vertical vents at the top and bottom, "Even you can’t fit through those," he teased.

"Nope, don’t suppose I can," John snorted, then turned and peered up at the walls, "Well, there goes that idea."

Chet took his place against the wall, sitting on top of his abandoned turnout coat, while John made his tenth survey of the four walls. Chet watched this for several minutes, then spoke, "What’s the matter, John? Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic."

"I’m not!" John declared, but the tone he used and the quick, guilty look over his shoulder told a different story.

"But you used to be," Chet prompted.

"Not really claustrophobic," John responded, concentrating on the wall in front of him, "My cousin locked me in the root cellar once. I was about seven. It was ten hours before my parents got home and looked for me," he paused, "I don’t have a problem with tight spaces. Just spending a long time in one."

The building above them rumbled almost on cue. The noise was followed by dust that filtered down as rubble fell on the floor above them. John and Chet immediately flattened themselves against the walls, both anxiously watching the unstable floor above their heads.

When it stopped, John released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, "Better check in," he muttered, kneeling and pulling the H.T. from his turnout coat pocket. He turned the radio on, "Engine 51, this is H.T. 51."

"Copy, John," Stoker’s voice answered, "You guys all right?"

"So far," John responded, "Any progress up there?" he asked.

"It’s slow, but steady," Stoker’s voice responded.

"Just checking," John returned, "H.T. 51 out for now," he concluded, shutting off the H.T.

"You know what scares the crap outta me?" Chet asked as John tiredly slid down the wall.

John considered the question, but was unable to come up with a suitable joke, "Nope," he said finally, "What scares the crap out of you?"

"Spiders," Chet informed, "Big ones. Little ones. It doesn’t matter. When I see one, I have the mother of all panic attacks. The only way to stop it is to leave the building."

John grinned, "Oh, really?" he asked, envisioning a rubber spider dangled inside a certain locker.

"And if I have a heart attack and die ‘cause I open my locker and find one," Chet began, "I’ll make sure the Cap knows who to turn over to the police."

John chuckled, "Don’t worry about it, Chet," he returned, "I won’t use anything you tell me, as long the Phantom doesn’t use anything I say."

"I have no control over the Phantom," Chet said innocently.

"Yeah, right, Chet," John snorted, "For me, it’s snakes. They’re unnatural."

Chet laughed, "I can’t argue with that," he said, "Hey, don’t you have a gecko problem around your apartment?"

"Yeah," John snorted, "I hate those, too. Lizards are just snakes with legs," he paused and chuckled, "I guess I have a problem with reptiles in general."

Chet laughed again, "Snakes with legs," he repeated.

John laughed, "A few weeks ago, I was helping Roy and the boys with yardwork," he began, "This green snake slithered out of the flower bed . . ."

"And you freaked?" Chet interrupted.

"I freaked. Roy freaked . . ."

"Roy!" Chet said in disbelief, "Aww, man, I want to see that. I thought nothing got to him."

"Snakes do," John informed, "But you didn’t hear that from me," he paused, "Anyway, Chris and Tommy start freaking out. Then the dog gets into it, barking at the thing. Then Roy’s yelling at the dog, telling him to get away from the snake."

Chet laughed, still picturing Roy yelling and panicking over a snake, "What’d you do?"

"All the yelling brought Joanne and Erin out of the house," John continued, "Erin strolls over to the flower bed and picks the damn thing up."

That did it for Chet. He dissolved in uncontrolled laughter as he pictured Roy’s eight year old daughter going where her father, brothers and Uncle Johnny didn’t dare, "What’d she do with it?" he asked when he could talk.

"She wanted to keep it, but Joanne wouldn’t let her," John informed, "She and the boys took it back into the hills behind the house and left it."

"Man, I would’ve paid to see that," Chet mused.

"She probably isn’t afraid of spiders, either," John returned.

"The snake, Gage."

*****

The shaking annoyed him until he remembered that he was in California. The land of fruits, nuts and earthquakes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s the Big One! Chet snapped awake and scrambled for cover.

"Whoa, Chet, take it easy," John said, having been knocked back onto his butt by Chet’s sudden movement.

Chet looked around him, not recognizing the shaft at first. When he did, he got angry, "Why the hell’d you wake me up, Gage?" he demanded, "I was having a nice dream where I wasn’t in here with you."

"It’s my turn," John returned, "We agreed to sleep in shifts."

"Oh, yeah," Chet responded, "Sorry," he added, rubbing his eyes and stretching to ease the kink in his back.

"No problem," John muttered, settling down on his turnout coat and stretching his legs as much as the confined space and debris allowed.

"How long’ve we been down here?" Chet asked.

"Eleven hours," John muttered, then yawned, "G’night, Chet."

"G’night, John-boy," Chet teased, picking up the H.T. and switching it on, "Yo, Mikey, you still there?"

"’Zat you, Chet?" Mike’s voice responded.

"Gage certainly isn’t that creative," Chet returned.

"Chet," John’s voice called.

Chet squinted, "Single finger salute, Gage. Real original," he said dryly, "So, Mikey, they gettin’ us out of here anytime soon?"

"The crews made it to the hallway," Mike’s voice advised.

"And?" Chet prompted, "Maybe you should put Marco on," he teased, "John and I want the whole story in one breath."

"Marco’s busy, so you’re stuck with me," the voice returned.

Chet ignored John’s chuckle, "Why aren’t you workin’ with the others, Mike?"

"I’m manning the engine. That’s why I’m an engineer," Mike’s voice laughed, "You got a problem with that?"

Chet laughed, "Not at all, Mikey," he returned, "H.T. 51 out."

He shut off the H.T. and looked over at John, who’d turned over onto his back, draping his right arm over his eyes, "The crews made it to the hall."

"I heard," John muttered.

"Sorry," Chet whispered, "Go to sleep," he added, crossing his ankles and looking up at the hole above them. They should be able to hear the crews working above them. Mikey wouldn’t lie. Would he?

After ten minutes of silence, Chet expelled a loud breath. John can’t sit still. I can’t shut up.

"Hey, Gage, you awake?" Chet asked quietly.

"I am now," John returned, sitting up and running his hands through his hair.

"How come you didn’t go to college?" Chet asked, "I heard you got good grades and you were some kind of track star. You could’a gone to college."

"Who told you that?" John asked, then the answer came to him, Thank you, Roy.

"Dwyer," Chet informed, "You used to work with him at 10s, right?"

"Oh, yeah," John responded, "Not that I don’t want to tell you," he began carefully, "But it’s a long story."

Chet snorted, "We’ve got time."

"True," John allowed, "Well, I got a scholarship to the University of Florida," he paused, "Didn’t have the money to get to Tallahassee. So I didn’t go," he shrugged nonchalantly, "Didn’t really want to go there, anyway."

Chet frowned, "A bus ticket couldn’t cost that much," he reasoned, "Couldn't you have hitched?" he asked. If I’d had the opportunity to go to college, especially on a scholarship, I would’ve done anything to take advantage of it. "My brother and I did that once. Read On the Road and decided that was the life for us." Of course, we only got as far as New Mexico before we changed our minds. Of course, I won’t mention that part to Johnny.

John took a deep breath, Hope I don't regret this. "I still wouldn't have had any money to live on. The tribe offered me help with the living expenses, but my dad didn't want to take charity," he began, "See, I grew up on the rez, but my dad was white. They treated him like an outsider," he paused, shrugging, "I guess he thought taking help would be proof that he couldn't take care of his family."

"Man, that sucks," Chet said quietly, "Is that why you left. . . where are you from, Gage? You’ve never said."

"Clewiston, Florida," John responded, "Close to Naples," he added in response to Chet’s blank look.

"So, that’s why you left Florida?" Chet asked, "You sure came a long way."

"Part of it," he allowed, "The other part was that I wasn’t going to college and I couldn’t find a job. I didn’t want to end up spending the rest of my life sleeping off drunks in some jail."

"You could’ve moved to Miami, or Tampa," Chet began, "I hear they’ve had electricity and running water there for the last ten years, or so."

John laughed, "I wanted out of Florida, too," he admitted, "As far away as I could get."

"So you moved to LA and made your life long dream of being a fireman come true," Chet prompted, "Why California?"

John chuckled quietly, "I spread out a map of the United States, closed my eyes and thwock, stuck a pin in LA." And my father hasn’t spoken to me since.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Chet said in astonishment, "You made a decision about the rest of your life by sticking a pin in a map?"

John held his right hand up, "Scout’s honor," he returned, "What about you?" he asked, "What brought you to sunny SoCal?"

The mark baits the hook, Chet thought, smiling to himself, "My brothers dared me." That’s much more interesting than my family moving here when I was in grade school.

"Bull," John said in disbelief.

"Sure," Chet continued, "They said I’d be stopped at the state line and sent back," he said sincerely, "Guess I showed them, huh?"

John chuckled, "Guess you did," he allowed.

"Besides that, I wanted to get away from the snow," Chet added, The best scams have a shade of truth behind them. "If I never see another snow shovel, it’ll be too soon."

"I think your dare beats my pin," John returned with a laugh.

"Nope, sticking a pin in a map is way dumber than taking a dare," Chet argued, "I knew . . ."

"Shhh!" John hissed, interrupting Chet, "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"You’re not getting me with that one, Gage," Chet warned, "Roy’s told me about your phantom noise in the squad."

"It’s not a phantom noise," John returned, "It’s a real noise. And I’ll find it."

Chet laughed, "Sure you will, John," he said tolerantly.

"It’s the K-12," John insisted, ignoring Chet’s sarcasm.

Chet frowned, his eyebrows knitting in concentration, "I don’t hear a thing," he said after a minute.

"Well, I do," John insisted, standing and turning to the wall behind his back, "It’s coming from up there."

"Maybe you should try and get some sleep, John," Chet advised.

"Hey! Anybody up there!" John shouted.

"If they’re running the K-12, they’re not gonna hear you," Chet said.

Shut up, Chet, John ignored him, "Hey!" he shouted.

"Gage," Chet began, then, "Achooo!" Damn dust!

Chet looked up. In the gloom, the hole above them wobbled, "Hey, Gage," he called, standing up, "There’s where the K-12 must be coming from," he informed, pointing as the object covering the hole began moving, allowing a faint ray of light to filter down to them.

"John!?! Chet!?!" Marco’s voice called down, then his face appeared as the cover moved.

"Yo! Marco!" Chet shouted, laughing, "It’s about time!"

John stood next to Chet, looking up at the hole with a wide grin plastered on his face, "Marco, buddy!" he called.

"Stand back," Marco advised, "We’re sending down rope and two belts," a rope and two belts flew down the hole. John and Chet barely had enough time to get out of the way.

John eagerly picked up one of the safety belts, quickly buckling it around his waist. He then retrieved his turnout coat and helmet from the floor. He put the coat on, leaving it open, then set the helmet on his head and tightened the chin strap.

Chet, unused to the routine, fumbled with his belt.

"Need a hand, Chester?" John asked smugly.

"I’ve got it," Chet returned, determined to do it himself, "You take care of the rope," he added, Then again, maybe letting John help wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

John picked up the now uncoiled rope and looped it through the hook. Next, he secured the end of the rope around his legs, "Ready down here, Marco!" he called.

Too late, Chet returned to his struggle with the safety belt.

Marco’s head reappeared, "You’re secure," he advised, "We’ll bring you up, then send the rope back down for Chet."

John looked over at Chet, who was still fumbling with the belt, "Maybe you should go first."

"Just go, Gage," Chet snapped, "Make sure the rope’s gonna hold," he added with a devilish grin.

John chuckled, "Bring me up!" he called.

Roy’s head appeared, "Just let us do all the work, Junior," he called.

John winked at Chet, "I plan on it," he called back.

*****

In the hallway above, Roy, Marco and two firefighters from Station 99 were the only rescuers left in the building. The four of them were the only personnel needed to pull the two firefighters up from the shaft. The building groaned and Roy looked up at the beam where they’d rigged the pulleys and hitch that would act as a brake if the line was dropped, or the men holding it lost control.

"We’re so close," Roy prayed silently, Just hang on for five minutes. Ten minutes, tops.

The building groaned, then it was silent again.

"Hang on a second," Roy ordered, "Marco, let’s find something to shore up that beam," he suggested, "Stand-by, Johnny," he called into the hole.

"Standing-by," John’s voice acknowledged.

Roy and Marco found two fallen beams, both long enough to wedge between the floor and the beam overhead. They were also heavy enough to hold the weight of the overhead beam. "Okay," Roy said, when they’d placed both beams. He resumed his position at the top of the hole, "Ready," he called back to the firefighters manning the other end of the rope, "Bring him up."

"One-two-three," Dave Hanigan counted, "Pull!"

Hanigan and Ed Reilly pulled as one, the pulley squeaking as it turned, feeding the rope.

"Easy, easy," Roy coaxed, watching the line and making sure it didn’t get hung up.

John’s face came into view, crooked grin in place, "Am I glad to see you," he called up.

"Same here, partner," Roy grinned back, reaching down toward John’s outstretched arm, which was just out of reach, "Another foot, then give me some slack on the line," he called back.

The instruction was drowned out by another groan, followed by an ominous rumbling that shook the floor beneath Roy.

"Damnit! It’s comin’ down!" Hanigan called, "Lopez, DeSoto, we’ve gotta get out!"

"Grab my arm, Johnny!" Roy shouted, dropping down onto his stomach.

John complied, the tips of their gloved fingers brushing. Then John suddenly dropped, disappearing into the gloom.

Hands grabbed Roy’s ankles and he thought it was Marco. He surged toward the hole, trying to reach his partner. Instead, the hands pulled him back.

"She’s coming down!" Hanigan shouted, pulling Roy to his feet and dragging him along through the rubble that had begun to rain down on them.

*****

Once they reached the relative safety outside the building, Hanigan made the mistake of immediately releasing his hold on Roy, then blocking the paramedic’s path back into the building. The usually sedate paramedic did something that surprised everyone. He curled his right hand into a fist and punched Hanigan in the jaw, knocking the muscular firefighter onto his back.

Marco and Reilly grabbed Roy, holding him back as he moved toward Hanigan, who was sitting up and rubbing his jaw in astonishment.

"What’s going on here!" Stanley shouted, "What the hell’re you doing, DeSoto?" he demanded.

"We almost had Johnny!" Roy shouted back, "That son of a bitch pulled me out when I almost had him!"

"The building was coming down, Cap," Reilly offered, "We had to get out."

"He’s right, Roy," Marco said, "It would’ve come down on top of us."

"Let go of me," Roy hissed.

"You heard the man. Let him go," Stanley ordered, stepping between Roy and Hanigan, who was now back on his feet.

"DeSoto, I’m sorry," Hanigan said sincerely, "But you know the rule . . ."

"Don’t spout the rules to me, Hanigan," Roy said through gritted teeth.

"Settle down, DeSoto," Stanley snapped, "That’s an order," he added, then turned to Hanigan, "Battalion sent in two fresh crews. 99’s out of service two hours."

"We’ll stick around, just in case," Hanigan offered.

Stanley nodded, "Thanks, Hanigan."

"I’m gonna go lend a hand with Curtis and his crew," Roy announced.

Stanley grabbed Roy’s arm, "Not so fast," he said quietly, "51’s out of service, too, pal," he informed, "We’ve been at it for almost 13 hours straight. There’s a lunch wagon behind the engine. Get yourself a sandwich and a cup of coffee."

"But, Cap," Roy began.

"Don’t `but, Cap,’ me," Stanley interrupted, "They’re almost through the cap and they’ve got enough hands," he informed, "Get something to eat and take a break."

Roy’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. Finally, he turned and stalked off toward the engine.

*****

John’s free fall stopped with a jerk that rattled his bones, "Roy?!" he called to the empty hole above him. His heart was pounding so hard, he could hear neither an answer, nor the rumbling that was now only a few feet away.

"Gage!" Chet shouted from below him.

Confused, John looked above, then below, "I’m all right," he said finally.

Chet stepped away from the wall, where he’d taken shelter when the building resumed its death throes, "We’ve gotta get you down from there," he announced.

Chet Kelly, Master of the Obvious. "You got any ideas?" John called.

"Well," Chet began, stopping when John dropped another five feet.

John grabbed the rope above his head, hanging on with one hand, while untying the line from his safety harness. He then went to work on the length of rope he’d secured around his legs. The flashlight illuminated his work from below.

"What’re you doing?" Chet called up.

"I’m gonna . . . try to . . . lower myself down . . . then drop," John managed, breathing heavily from the combination of the fear and exertion, "Just get back."

Chet stepped back to the wall, eyes trained on John as he tried to hang onto the rope with one hand and free it from around his legs with the other. As if the predicament John was in wasn’t bad enough, bricks from the building above began raining down on him through the now open hole.

God, give him a break, already, Chet watched as John continued his one handed struggle with the rope.

John ignored the bricks whizzing past, concentrating on releasing the rope. He didn’t see the fragment that struck his helmet and ricocheted into the far corner. For an instant, he saw stars, then everything went black.

Chet watched in horror as John’s left hand suddenly opened and he fell, his body turning until his torso and arms dangled several feet above the floor. Chet left the safety of the wall, oblivious to the falling bricks and debris fragments. His only concern was getting John out of the rope harness and down to the relative safety of the floor.

"Johnny?" Chet asked, reaching up, his fingers barely brushing John’s shoulders, "Just hang on," he instructed the unconscious paramedic.

Chet set the flashlight down, then searched for something to stand on, all the while cursing the fact that he wasn’t as tall as Mike, or Roy. He finally found the Trauma box that John had been carrying out of the building when they fell through the floor.

Standing on the black box, Chet was able to get a grip on John’s shoulders, lifting the thin man up and trying to maneuver his legs out of the securely tied harness. The screech and crack of wood splitting brought his attention up.

What the . . .? was all he had time for before John dropped, knocking Chet off his precarious perch and down to the floor, where both landed with a thud, raising a cloud of dust.

It was several minutes before Chet could comprehend where he was, or what he was doing there. He wasn’t unconscious, not exactly. Just stunned. The first thing he was aware of was that he’d broken John’s fall. Don’t worry, Gage, I’ll be sure to remind you that I repaid the favor.

Man, he’s pretty heavy for a skinny guy. Carefully, Chet lifted John’s torso and extricated himself from beneath the still unconscious man. He then cradled John’s head and neck as he lowered him back to the floor.

John stirred, then groaned as Chet carefully removed the helmet, which had somehow stayed on John’s head.

"Just take it easy, Gage," Chet advised, removing the rope and safety belt, which he tossed aside.

"Wha’ happ’nd?" John muttered, eyes still closed.

"Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into," Chet joked, imitating Oliver Hardy, right down to fluttering an imaginary tie.

"I din’t do it," John muttered, then tried to sit up, since arguing with Chet while lying on his back just wasn’t very dignified. He instantly regretted it when a white hot bolt of pain shot up from his right leg.

Chet saw John fall back and grabbed the flashlight. A quick sweep showed that John’s right leg was bent back below the knee and probably broken.

The amusement of teasing John evaporated when he realized that the paramedic was in serious trouble, "Take it easy, Gage," he said, gently patting John’s shoulder, then using the flashlight to search for the drug box that he’d been carrying hours earlier.

Chet found the box and unearthed it from the rubble.

"You still with me, Johnny?" Chet asked, sliding both boxes closer to the injured man. He then set the flashlight on its end, illuminating as much of the space as he could by aiming the beam of light at the floor above them.

"Yeah," John rasped.

"You hurt anywhere besides your leg?" Chet asked.

"’member those . . . bruised ribs?" John returned, "They’re . . . broken . . . now."

"Don’t try to talk," Chet advised, opening the boxes to find plenty of bandages, gauze and IV supplies, "No splints," he muttered.

"On the . . . squad," John informed.

"I told you not to talk," Chet returned, "Where’s the H.T.?" he asked.

"Right . . . pocket," John answered.

Chet reached over and pulled the Handi-Talkie from the right pocket of John’s turnout coat. He keyed the mike and prayed somebody up top was listening, "H.T. 51 to Engine 51," he announced.

"Engine 51," Captain Stanley’s voice responded, "That you, Kelly?" he asked.

"Affirmative, Cap," Chet responded, "What the hell’s going on?"

"The whole damn building’s come down," Cap advised, "Crews are excavating, but they’ve gotta shore as they go, so it might take a while," he paused, "We’ve got a

second crew cutting through a cap in an old access shaft. But they’ve got about five or six feet to go. Are either of you injured?"

Chet glanced over at John, who still lay on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, "Cap, it looks like Gage has a broken leg. How long is `a while’?"

The H.T. remained silent for a minute, then came to life, "Chet, it’s Roy," Roy’s voice announced.

Chet looked up at the top of the shaft, "Roy, Johnny needs a paramedic down here," he began, "His leg’s broken. It looks pretty bad."

"What about you?" Roy asked.

Chet frowned, "I’m okay. I’ll be sore for a coupl’a days," he paused and chuckled, "But it’s nothing a long, hot shower won’t help," wincing as he said it, I just can’t help myself sometimes.

"Chet, listen, I can’t get into the building, let alone get down to you and John," Roy advised, "You’re it."

Unable to argue with Roy, Chet closed his eyes, "Okay," he said, "Guess I’ve gotta use that first aid training the department made me take, huh?" he joked.

"Yep," Roy returned, "You relay the information to me, I’ll relay it to Rampart."

"Okay, stand-by," Chet responded, setting the H.T. down and moving closer to John, "I’ve got bad news for you, Gage," he began.

"What?" John answered, voice still raspy.

"Roy can’t get down here, so you’re stuck with me," Chet informed.

"You’ll do . . . fine," John whispered.

"Don’t get maudlin on me, Gage," Chet returned, pulling the stethoscope and BP cuff from the Trauma box, where John had stowed them earlier.

Chet carefully lifted John’s shoulders to remove the turnout coat, then wrapped the pressure cuff around John’s upper left arm. He adjusted the flashlight to illuminate the gauge, then inflated the cuff and placed the stethoscope on the inside of John’s elbow. At first, he couldn’t hear the pulse beats and had to re-inflate the cuff to get a reading.

Since he couldn’t move John, Chet next had to contort so that the flashlight would illuminate the dial of his watch, enabling him to measure John’s pulse. Next, Chet placed his hand on John’s chest and counted respirations. To his relief, John now seemed to be having less trouble breathing.

Chet picked up the H.T. and keyed the mike, "Roy, I’ve got the vitals," he began, "Pressure’s about 100/70. Pulse is 110. Respiration 20," he paused, "He’s in a lot of pain."

"Copy, Chet," Roy’s voice responded, "Stand-by," he informed.

"Standing-by," Chet answered.

*****

Roy immediately set the H.T. down, jotted down the vitals Chet had given him, then keyed the mike on the biophone, "Rampart, this is Squad 51, do you read?" he announced.

"We read you, 51," Mike Morton’s voice responded.

Roy froze for a minute, I can’t do this. He looked at the biophone, then toward Squad 45, which was empty. The two paramedics were standing by at the access shaft, I have to. There isn’t anyone else.

"We read, 51," Morton’s voice prompted, "Go ahead."

Roy took a deep breath and put aside his fears and concerns for his partner, "Rampart, we have a male victim, 28 years old, trapped at the bottom of an abandoned elevator shaft. Victim has suffered a fall and broken his leg. Vitals are BP 100/70, pulse 110, respiration 20. Victim is in extreme pain."

"10-4, 51," Morton’s voice acknowledged, "Has the fracture been splinted?"

"Negative, Rampart," Roy answered.

"51, start an IV with Ringer’s Lactate, administer 5 milligrams MS IV, then splint the fracture and transport immediately," Morton ordered.

"Rampart, there isn’t a certified paramedic with the victim," Roy informed, "We’ve been unable to extricate him."

"Okay, 51," Morton began, "Keep the victim immobile and monitor vitals every fifteen minutes," he ordered.

"Copy, Rampart," Roy acknowledged, setting down the handset on the biophone and picking up the H.T., "Chet, just keep John immobile and monitor his vitals. I’ll radio you when it’s time to update Rampart."

*****

Chet set the H.T. down after acknowledging Roy’s instructions. He then gently pulled John’s turnout coat around him in an effort to keep him warm.

"Cap’s working on getting us out of here," Chet informed.

"I heard," John responded, "I’ll probably regret this, but talk to me. Take my mind off my leg."

"Hey, I resent that," Chet said, "Besides, I’m the one who should keep you talking," he paused, "Which is not my fondest wish."

John laughed, then groaned, "Don’t."

"Roy figured out where he’s taking Joanne and the kids on vacation?" Chet asked.

"Ummm . . . not yet," John answered, "The boys want to go camping. Joanne wants to visit her cousins in Texas and Erin wants to go to Disneyland."

"They can camp in West Texas, pick up Joanne’s cousins, then go to Six Flags," Chet suggested.

John was silent for a minute, "Didn’t think of that," he muttered, "Make sure you tell him."

Chet smiled, "I’ll give you that one for free, Gage. You tell him," he said, "Erin still doesn’t like me, does she?"

"Nope. She likes me," he could hear the grin in Gage’s voice.

"If only you had that effect on women your own age, huh, Gage?" Chet shot back. Erin didn’t like Chet teasing her Uncle Johnny.

"Ha, ha," John returned flatly, "I told you not to make me laugh," he added, then groaned as the pain in his leg flared, although he had remained completely still.

"What’s wrong?" Chet asked anxiously, when John’s body tensed and he groaned again.

"Muscle . . . spasm," John said through clenched teeth, "Leg . . . needs to . . . be splinted."

"Hang on," Chet said, then keyed the mike on the H.T., "Roy, you still there?" he asked.

"Go ahead, Chet," Roy’s voice responded.

"John’s leg’s really bothering him," Chet informed, "It needs to be splinted. You’ve gotta get down here."

"We’re still working on it, Chet," Roy’s voice answered, "The leg can’t be moved without morphine. The reaction to the pain could kill him."

"The pain from not splinting it could kill him, too," Chet countered, "Stand-by for vitals," he said, setting the H.T. down, gently opening John’s turnout coat and inflating the BP cuff, "BP’s 90/70," he reported, "I may not know much, but isn’t that what you call shocky?"

"Is Johnny conscious?" Roy’s voice asked, "Rampart ordered an IV with Ringer’s Lactate. Can he start it himself?"

"Damn!" Chet exclaimed, "Why didn’t I think of that?" he asked, looking down at John, who was semi-conscious, "Stand-by," he said, setting the H.T. down and gently shaking John’s shoulder, "Yo, Johnny. Man, wake up," he ordered.

John groaned, his eyes fluttering open, then falling closed again.

This is a fine mess. The crews working on digging us out aren’t close, yet. I’m not certified to administer an IV, or pain medication. And John can’t do it himself. Without it, John might die before help can reach us.

And if we traded places, Johnny would risk his life, or his job to save me. That made the decision for him. Chet picked up the H.T., "Stand-by," he said, setting the H.T. down and opening the second black box, which held the squad’s IV equipment and drugs.

He’d watched John and Roy start hundreds of IVs. He’d even read the paramedic manuals demonstrating the procedure. That didn’t stop his hands from shaking as he inflated the cuff to get a vein in John’s left arm.

Chet took several deep breaths, positioning the flashlight to illuminate the spot he’d chosen. He then triple swabbed the spot and opened the sterile pack containing the needle. After several more deep breaths, he swabbed the spot a final time, then carefully inserted the needle. Once he saw the blood coming through the needle, he advanced it until the hub of the needle touched the skin. Chet hooked up the bag of Ringer’s, adjusted the flow and rigged a crude stand to hold the bag above John’s head.

Chet picked up the H.T., "Okay, IV’s started," he informed.

Roy’s sigh was audible, even over the H.T., "Okay, tell Johnny 5 milligrams MS, IV," he informed.

"Stand-by," Chet said, setting the H.T. down again and picking up an ampule of morphine. In for a penny, in for a pound, as my mother used to say.

He checked the ampule to make sure it was morphine in a dosage no bigger than 5 milligrams, then started to inject it into the IV, as he’d seen John and Roy do a hundred times. Instead, he stopped and checked the ampule again. And again.

"What’re you . . . doing?" John’s scratchy voice startled him. He slowly lifted his arm and looked at the IV tubing, "How?"

"Somebody had to do it," Chet informed, "Rampart ordered the IV and 5 milligrams of morphine. Roy says you’re gonna need it before I can splint your leg," he held the ampule out, illuminating it with the flashlight, "This it?’

John blinked several times, then squinted at the ampule, "Yeah," he responded after a minute.

Chet checked the ampule one last time, then injected it after swabbing the injection port, "You should be feeling better in a minute," he informed.

While he waited for the morphine to take effect, Chet searched for something he could use to splint John’s leg. After rejecting several boards and pieces of rebar because they were too long or too short, he found two pieces that would reach mid-thigh on John’s leg.

"How’re you doin’, Gage?" Chet asked.

"I’ve been better," John murmured, but his face looked a little more relaxed than it had when Chet first injected the morphine.

"You wanna change your mind about this?" Chet asked. "Once I start, I’m not

stopping," he added.

"Gotta do it," John drawled, "Jus’ give me a minute."

Chet picked up the H.T., "Stand-by, Roy," he informed, "I’m gonna splint his leg."

"Standing by," Roy’s voice acknowledged.

"Okay, Johnny," Chet began, "I’ve gotta get your scissors out of the pocket on your belt," he informed, "Don’t try to move, okay?"

"Not moving," Johnny murmured.

Chet leaned over John and tried to pull the scissors out without lifting him. When that failed, he carefully lifted John’s torso a fraction of an inch. Even that little bit of movement caused John to groan.

"Sorry," John said through gritted teeth. I know Chet’s not trying to hurt me.

"I’m sorry, Johnny," Chet said quietly. He pulled a roll of gauze from the Trauma box, then positioned the bars.

John bit back a yell when Chet began securing the make shift splint. The pain that had receded to an annoying throb, came back with a vengeance. I’d give my right arm to pass out right now. Forget it. You’re not that lucky.

Chet finished with the top of the splint and moved down to John’s knee. This time, John yelled with the barest touch near the site of the break. That’s the trouble with the medical field. Something that’s supposed to help hurts like hell.

"Sorry, man," Chet said quietly, securing the splint as quickly and gently as he could.

John was shaking and gasping for breath by the time Chet finished the second section.

"One more, Johnny. Just hang on," Chet promised, moving to the bottom of the splint. John’s only response was a weak moan as Chet wrapped the gauze around the bars, "Sorry I had to do that, man," he said quietly, gently patting the semi-conscious man’s shoulder.

The building above rumbled again, the vibration travelling down to the abandoned shaft and shaking more dust on the two firefighters. I can’t take this anymore. Chet stood, staring up at the hole, "That’s enough, Goddamnit!" he shouted at the building above them, "You hear me?!? Cut it out!!!"

The building answered him by dropping a brick on his head, opening up a cut above his left eye. Chet was unconscious before he hit the floor.

*****

Two hours later, the crew cutting through the cap had made slow but steady progress. The size of the shaft enabled two men to work inside, cutting the time it might have taken nearly in half.

For Roy, however, it was taking too long. For all we know, Johnny could be bleeding to death.

"Stop it!" he admonished himself silently, Chet’s monitoring his vitals and he’s hanging in there.

The arrival of another department vehicle set off a commotion among the crowd of reporters and camera crews being held back from the staging area by four harried LAPD officers. Roy’s attention was drawn briefly to the bright lights and muted voices questioning the arriving crew of Engine 110, who ignored them and entered the building to join the crews still working there.

Roy turned his attention back to the crew working on the east side of the building. Stanley had expressly ordered him to stay back. Going by to check their progress can’t hurt, though.

He walked over as another load of concrete chunks was delivered from the shaft.

"How’s it goin’?" Roy asked Curtis, who’d stayed to monitor the effort.

"We should be through in another half hour. Maybe an hour," Curtis informed, "We’re about a foot from the end of the cap. And she’s holding up. At least on the east side."

"As soon as you’re through, let me know," Roy ordered, "I want to get down there asap."

"Dwyer’s working 110s this shift," Stanley’s voice said from behind Roy.

How does he do that? Roy turned, unable to hide the guilty look on his face, "Cap," he protested.

"Don’t bother, Roy," Stanley advised, "B-Shift is just coming on and Dwyer hasn’t been out here for . . ." he paused, "Even I don’t know how long we’ve been out here," he put a hand on Roy’s shoulder, "I know you want to help your partner, Pal," he said gently, "And I’m sure Charlie’ll appreciate a hand once they bring Johnny and Chet up."

Roy nodded silently. He’s right. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. "I guess I’ll go back to the engine and twiddle my thumbs, then," he muttered sullenly, turning and walking away from Stanley and Curtis.

"You do that," Stanley called to Roy’s retreating back.

*****

"God, my leg," was John’s first thought as he slowly returned to consciousness. The last thing I remember is Chet taping that splint. Guess my luck is better than I thought.

Unable to return at will to the comforting darkness, John slowly pulled his eyes

open and stared up at the floor above him, which was spinning slowly.

"It’s about time," Chet scolded when he saw John’s eyes open, "You scared the crap out of me, Gage."

"Sorry," John whispered, his voice so weak he didn’t recognize it as his own at first. He tried to clear his throat, which led to a painful bout of coughing.

"Shit!" Chet spat, lifting John’s upper body and holding him up until the coughing subsided.

New pain in his chest joined the old pain in his leg, nearly sending him back into unconsciousness. Just relax and let go. Though he knew he shouldn’t.

"Don’t go out on me again, Gage," Chet’s voice brought him back. Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at his moustached companion.

Chet opened a bottle of sterile water used for treating burns and cleaning lacerations, "Here, just a small sip," he advised, again lifting John and placing the bottle to his lips.

John reached for the bottle in Chet’s hand, the first sip making him greedily want more.

"Ah-ah-ah," Chet said gently, taking the bottle away and gently laying John back down, "Surgery’s in your immediate future, buddy. No more for you."

"Where’d you get water?" John rasped, his throat only partially soothed.

"From the Trauma kit," Chet informed, "It’s sterile. I figure a little bit can’t hurt us."

John considered that, "Good idea," he said, "I was hoping . . . I’d be at . . . Rampart . . . by now," he joked.

"You and me, both," Chet said wholeheartedly, "I can hear them working in that shaft," he informed, "They should have us out in no time."

"Good," John closed his eyes briefly, then forced them open, "I never asked you about college."

Where’d that come from? "Huh," Chet said out loud.

"Did you go?" John asked, "Or did you join the fire service right out of high school?"

This time the truth. No set-ups. Chet shrugged, "I wasn’t exactly college material," he admitted, "Hey, look at how many times I’ve blown the engineer’s exam."

"If you wouldn’t . . . drive yourself . . . crazy," John offered, pausing to catch his breath, ". . . every time . . . you take it . . . you’d do better." Better stick to phrases from now on.

Chet smiled and let the comment go, "My grades were pretty bad, though. Hell, I was lucky to graduate on time," he paused and chuckled, "Junior year they gave us this test that was supposed to predict how we’d do in college and what majors we should pick."

"An aptitude test," John supplied.

"Yeah, that’s what they called it," Chet said, "When the results came back, everybody had to meet with the counselor. I went into the office, sweating bullets, ‘cause I was sure the school was gonna kick me out then and there," he paused and chuckled. "He had my scores and my transcript. When I sat down in the chair, he looked me right in the eye and said, `Trade school, Kelly. Trade school’."

"Not very encouraging," John commented.

"Nope," Chet agreed, "He was right, though. Firefighting’s a trade."

"You’ve gotta be . . . pretty smart to . . . be a firefighter," John reasoned, breaking the rule he’d set only minutes before.

"That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, John," Chet teased.

"I must be delirious," John shot back, then noticed the gauze pad on Chet’s forehead and frowned, "What happened?" he asked.

Chet blinked, not expecting the question, "You passed out after I splinted your leg," he answered, "I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna wake up," he admitted.

"No, there," John corrected, "Your head," he added when he was unable to lift either arm to point.

"Oh, that," Chet began, "Let me give you a bit of advice, boyo," he began, adopting a thick Irish brogue, "Don’t yell at the building. Just like a woman, she’ll get her own back."

John frowned, thoroughly confused.

"A brick got me," Chet explained, "It’s nothing."

"I’d better take a look at it," John said, struggling to sit up, "Bad idea," he thought as the pain in his leg and chest fought to outdo each other. Chet’s voice receded as his vision shrank in increments like a slow motion view of a camera shutter. Then the shutter closed with a snap.

Chet put his fingers to John’s carotid artery and picked up the H.T., "H.T. 51 to Squad 45, do you read?"

"Squad 110, H.T. 51," Charlie Dwyer’s voice announced, "We read you, Chet."

"Charlie?" Chet asked, Don’t worry about why he’s here, now. "Charlie, Johnny regained consciousness about a minute ago. He’s out again. His pulse is weak. I can barely feel it."

"Stand-by while I relay to Rampart," Charlie’s voice advised.

"Hurry," Chet thought in place of acknowledging the transmission.

"Chet," Charlie’s voice came back through the H.T., "Have Johnny start a second IV and hang another bag of Ringer’s when he comes around again."

"I just hung the second bag," Chet informed.

"Then use Normal Saline," Charlie’s voice advised.

"Copy, 110. Normal Saline," Chet responded.

"We’re almost there, Chet," Charlie’s voice informed, "You and Johnny just hang in there."

"Copy, 110," Chet acknowledged, then shut off the H.T.

Starting the second IV was as stressful to Chet as the first. His hands trembled as he pumped the BP cuff to raise a vein and didn’t stop until he saw the blood appear in

the needle. He grabbed a bag of Normal Saline, connected it, adjusted the flow and rigged a second stand. The true test will be John waking up again.

*****

John floated on his back in a warm ocean. "I could definitely get used to this," he thought as the waves gently lapped over his legs and torso. The sun warmed his face as he watched the clouds roll by in the blue sky overhead. Oh, yeah, I could definitely get used to this.

The peace and near stillness were so captivating that he wasn’t aware of the water turning warmer until the temperature was on the verge of scalding him. That should bother me. Instead, he ignored the minor discomfort.

The pleasant sensations faded as the sky above him darkened and the water turned cold. Soon, he was shivering, but unable to move his arms and legs to get out of the cooling water.

Consciousness returned with a jolt that made his whole body jump, awakening the pain in his leg and chest. He gritted his teeth as a response to the pain and to stop the chattering that threatened.

". . . something," Chet’s voice sounded miles away.

He felt something being laid over him and opened his eyes with a start.

". . . turnout coat," closer this time.

When he was finally able to focus, the first thing he saw was Chet’s worried face. His mouth moved, but words that made sense were a beat behind.

" . . . K-12 . . . through . . . minutes . . ."

John craned his neck, "Roy?" he rasped.

"He’s on his way," Chet promised, patting John’s left shoulder. He felt heat radiating from the injured man’s face and quickly placed the back of his hand to John’s forehead, "Damn!" he cursed, picking up the H.T., "Charlie."

"Squad 110," Charlie’s voice acknowledged, "They’re through the cap and we’re getting ready to send the Stokes down."

"You better get down here," Chet returned urgently, "John’s burning up."

"Copy, Chet," Charlie’s voice returned.

"C-cold," John rasped as Chet set the H.T. down.

"Just hang on, Johnny," Chet said quietly, "Dwyer’s on his way down."

Chet adjusted the second turnout coat, feeling as helpless as he’d felt ten months ago when John collapsed on a run and fell from a scaffold. His safety belt had saved him from falling. The fever from a viral infection had come close to making that a pointless victory. Too close.

"A little more slack," Charlie’s voice echoed from inside the access shaft. He appeared a second later, "Slack," he called up the shaft, repeating the word until his feet touched the floor. He quickly disengaged the rope and turned.

Two steps put him in the middle of the shaft where John and Chet had fallen hours earlier, "Could you get the Stokes and the second line, Chet?" he asked as he knelt on John’s right side.

"You bet," Chet responded, Finally, something to do besides watching John burn up from the inside out.

Charlie replaced the bag of Normal Saline with Ringer’s, which he’d carried down in the pocket of his turnout coat. He pulled a second bag of Ringer’s from his pocket and switched out the half-full bag. John’s eyes remained closed until he removed Chet’s turnout coat and opened the one John was still wearing.

"Roy?" John rasped.

"Sorry, Johnny," Charlie began, "It’s Charlie Dwyer."

"C-cold," John whispered.

"I’ve just gotta get your vitals, then I’ll wrap you back up," Charlie returned, inflating the pressure cuff. Chet was setting the Stokes next to John by the time he finished assessing BP, pulse and respiration.

Charlie pulled an H.T. from inside his turnout coat and keyed the mike, "Advise Rampart that BP is 85/40, pulse 110. Respirations are 22 and shallow."

"Can you hear me, Johnny?" Charlie asked because John’s eyes were closed again.

The eyes opened, but remained unfocused.

"Johnny, Chet and I are gonna move you to the Stokes. Then we’re gettin’ you out of here," Charlie informed, "All you have to do is relax, okay?"

"I . . . know . . . the drill," John rasped back, a hint of indignation in the weak voice.

Charlie chuckled, "Force of habit," he shot back, looking from John to Chet, "On three," he informed, moving to John’s feet.

Chet nodded, positioning himself at John’s head and placing his hands beneath John’s shoulder.

"One-two-three," the two men lifted John, keeping his spine straight. He groaned as they shifted him over the Stokes.

When they set him in the basket, John’s mouth opened and a hoarse, weak cry erupted. Then his body went limp. Charlie placed the blanket over John, strapped him in and handed Chet the discarded turnout coat. He then removed the two Ringer’s bags from their makeshift stands, placing them behind the top of John’s head, "Okay," he said, rising to a squat.

Chet did the same. In unison, they lifted the basket, stood and carried it to the shaft, where they gently set it down. Once Charlie finished attaching the line, they lifted the basket again and fed it into the shaft.

"Bring up the Stokes," Charlie said into his H.T., guiding the foot of the Stokes until it disappeared in the shaft. He then picked up his line and reattached it to his safety belt, "Good thing you’ve got your belt on," he commented, nodding toward the safety belt around Chet’s waist.

Chet looked down, I didn’t know that was there. He nodded, "Yeah, good thing," he agreed in a flat voice.

"You okay, Chet?" Charlie asked.

"Me? I’m fine and dandy, Charlie." Chet responded.

"What’s that on your head, then?" Charlie asked.

"Stokes is clear," the H.T. crackled before Chet could tell the paramedic to worry about John.

"You’d better get up top," Chet advised.

Charlie shrugged, "Bring me up," he called up the shaft.

*****

Consciousness returned slowly; one sense at a time. Voices in a foreign language. Suffocating heat. Metallic tang of oxygen. He opened his eyes and was rewarded by a gray-blue sky dotted with pin-prick stars.

"Stars," he croaked in wonder, dislodging something from his mouth.

"He’s awake," Charlie’s voice, finally speaking English.

"Roy?" John croaked.

Roy’s face wavered into view over him, "Right here, Johnny," he said, "You’re gonna be okay. Just relax."

"We’ve gotta get your temp," Roy informed, setting something under his tongue.

"Hot," John rasped, dislodging the thing, "Chet?" his head was held in place, preventing him from looking for Chet.

"He’s okay, Johnny," Charlie informed, "The new guy, Brice, is checking him out. Now, you relax and let us check you out," the tone was gentle and a hand patted his shoulder.

The thing was in his mouth again, Thermometer, his addled brain supplied.

He tried to turn his head again. C-collar. That and a hand on his forehead kept him from finding Chet. The thermometer was removed. A mask was placed over his nose and mouth. He stared up at the stars.

"101.1," Roy’s voice.

John recognized the tone. He’s really worried about something.

"How’s his BP?" Roy’s voice asked.

"Holding. 85/40," Charlie’s voice replied, "Brice, what’ve you got? We’ve gotta transport."

He liked looking at the stars. He wanted to keep looking up at them, but his eyelids felt weighted.

"Superficial laceration. Pupils equal and reactive," an unfamiliar voice, switching languages again.

The stars winked out as his eyes slid shut.

*****

When he was able to open his eyes again, the stars and sky had been replaced by the ceiling of an ambulance. The wail of a siren competed with the ringing in his ears. Fingers held his right eye open and bright light stabbed through it. The fingers moved to his left eye and he tried to pull his head away.

An indistinct buzz joined the siren and ringing, "Chet?" John murmured, straining to lift his head.

A hand held his head and the buzzing began to form words, ". . . here, John," loud voice, rising over the wail of the siren, "You’ve got a c-collar on, so don’t try to move your head."

"Where the hell is Chet?" the thought followed him back down into the darkness.

*****

Chet watched Charlie inflate the BP cuff around John’s left arm as the paramedic faded away again. Held his breath as Charlie released the air and listened to the pulse on the inside of John’s elbow.

"Pressure’s holding," Charlie announced, "We’ll be at Rampart in three minutes. That’s the best care anywhere."

"That’s the 4077 in Korea," Chet returned flatly.

"What about you? Any dizziness? Headache? Blurred vision?" Charlie asked.

"No," Chet answered, "I told that guy Brice I was fine. It’s just a bump on the head."

"You spent seventeen hours without food, or water," Charlie began, "Not to mention taking a brick to the head."

"I’m fine," Chet insisted, tone exasperated.

"And you got your medical degree, when?" Charlie returned.

"Mind your own damn business, Dwyer," Chet snapped back.

Charlie was a little surprised by the usually jovial firefighter’s sudden change in temperament. He let it go, chalking it up to the experience Chet had been through. Can’t expect the guy to crack jokes after something like that. He’s not made of stone.

Chet watched John, blocking Charlie out. John’s left leg twitched, followed by his left arm, which moved beneath the turnout coat.

"He’s coming around again," Chet commented, "He’s moving his left leg and arm."

Charlie watched the movement, then turned to Chet, "Those are muscle spasms," he informed, "It happens with dehydration."

Insane laughter bubbled in the stocky firefighter’s chest and he clamped his mouth tightly shut to keep it in. He even fidgets when he’s unconscious.

Charlie heard what sounded like a stifled giggle and looked over at Chet., "Kelly?" he asked. The firefighter was red faced, his shoulders and upper body shaking.

"Want to let me in on the joke?" Charlie asked.

"He can’t . . . stay still," Chet gasped, laughter breaking free.

As quickly as it started, the laughter stopped and Chet’s body went limp, his eyes rolling back. Charlie caught him as the sway of the ambulance pitched him forward toward the stretcher.

Holding Chet’s shoulders, Charlie stood, stooping beneath the low roof to lower Chet to the bench seat across from John. When he’d set the firefighter’s feet and legs on the seat, he knelt and took Chet’s pulse.

The ambulance stopped and reversed as Charlie was inflating the BP cuff. He was releasing the air in the cuff as the doors opened.

"Looks like you’ve had your hands full," Morton commented, "Get another gurney!" he called through the still open doors leading into the Emergency Room.

"He started laughing and went out about thirty seconds ago," Charlie informed, "Johnny’s BP’s holding. His temp isn’t. It went up to 101.8 on the way in."

Morton pulled the stretcher bearing John out of the ambulance, "Dr. Early’s set up for Kelly in Treatment 4," he informed, "John’ll be in Treatment 1."

"Got’cha," Charlie responded.

Dixie McCall and an orderly appeared with a second gurney, "X-ray’s sending down a portable," she informed, "Ortho and Anesthesia are on the way down, too."

"Thanks, Dix," Morton began as the gurney’s passed, "Dwyer’s bringing in Chet Kelly. He’s unconscious."

Dixie’s response was lost as John’s gurney reached the ER doors and passed through.

"Carole, we’re going to need a full screen," Morton ordered as the gurney entered the ER, "Type and cross match, CBC, SMA-7 and 12, ABG, PT, PTT."

"The lab’s on stand-by," Carole responded, following the gurney, "John goes to the head of the line."

*****

Ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights whizzed by above him, making his stomach lurch. John closed his eyes, which made things worse instead of improving them. He dared to open them once the movement stopped.

A blurry face appeared above him, "John, can you hear me?"

John tried to nod and found he couldn’t move his head, "Yeah."

"We’re going to move you from the gurney," he recognized Morton’s voice, "It’ll hurt, but try to relax."

Before John could respond, he felt hands on his shoulders and waist. He yelped and squeezed his eyes shut when a hand touched his right foot.

"One-two-three," with that, he was lifted and moved to the hard, narrow exam bed. The pain in his leg made him yelp again.

"I’m going to check your pupils now," Morton’s voice informed, pulling his left eye open.

Bright light stabbed through his head, then was removed and brought back. Reflexively, he tried to pull his head away.

"One more," Morton’s voice informed, repeating the procedure on his right eye, "Pupils equal and sluggish," he called out, "When X-ray gets here, get full skull, C-spine, chest and films of that right leg."

"John, I’m getting ready to draw blood," a woman’s voice informed. He felt a prick on the inside of his left elbow.

"John, do you know where you are?" Morton’s voice again, rising above the din of voices and sounds John was trying to process.

"Do you know where you are?" Morton’s voice repeated.

"Rampart," John managed.

"Good," Morton’s voice returned, "Do you know what happened?"

"Fell through floor," he mumbled.

"How long ago?" still Morton.

"Sorry," John whispered.

"Did you break your leg when you fell through the floor?" Morton’s voice asked.

"No. After," John whispered, "Fell . . . again," he felt a sudden wave of panic, "Chet . . . where’s Chet?"

"Only one patient at a time, John," Morton’s voice responded, "Did you hit your head when you fell the first time?"

Why’s my left leg so cold? Did I break that one, too? He felt scissors on his right leg, then everything went gray.

*****

A beeping had joined the din surrounding him. I’m cold. My alarm clock doesn’t beep. Nevertheless, it was annoying enough that he reached out to stop the offending noise. A hand grabbed his arm. Uh-oh.

"Johnny, it’s Dix," Dixie’s voice began, "Can you hear me?"

Uh-oh. He pulled his eyes open, finding himself in one of the treatment rooms at Rampart, "Yeah," he croaked, finding he could finally turn his head.

Hands on his right leg and he yelped, "Don’t," he moaned, straining to lift his head and see who the hands belonged to.

"Shhh, shhh," Dixie’s voice soothed, a hand gently stroking his hair, "Try to relax." The hands moved from his ankle to his shin. John moaned and closed his eyes. "Shhh," Dixie’s voice, still stroking his hair. Concentrate on that.

The hands reached his knee and John moaned again. A tickle started in his throat, followed by a painful cough. My chest. Can’t breathe.

"Heart rate’s up to 117," a voice called out.

"We just got his heart rate down," an unfamiliar male voice, "Let’s go ahead and intubate. 40 milligrams succinylcholine, IV. push."

"Got it," another unfamiliar voice.

"John, I’m Dr. Reynolds," the first male voice, "I’m gonna be taking care of your leg. But first, we’ve got to get your temp down."

John acknowledged with a moan.

"BP’s up, 90/60," Morton’s voice.

"For the wrong reason," Reynold’s voice.

A cold line entered his wrist, travelling up his arm and getting lost at the elbow. He felt a hand on his chin, tilting his head back and opening his mouth. He felt the bottom of the laryngoscope on his tongue.

Passing out now would be good. He closed his eyes, hoping that would do it. The tube passed down his throat.

The sound of the door opening, "What’ve we got?" Brackett’s voice, "My God! What the hell is that?"

"Splint," Reynold’s voice, "It ain’t purty, but it worked."

"How’re his temp. and blood pressure?" Brackett’s voice.

"Temp’s down to 100.8," Dixie’s voice, "BP’s 90/60, pulse is 118."

"Lab results?" Brackett’s voice.

"ABG’s 85% on O2. CBC is low. BUN and Creatinine are elevated," Morton’s voice.

"Definitely a tib/fib fracture," Reynold’s voice, "Pulses are intact, but the capillary refill is delayed."

"He may have picked up an infection. Possibly pneumonitis," Morton’s voice, "The Fire Department wasn’t able to extricate him immediately after the injury. We’ve started him on cefazolin."

"You’re the Ortho. It’s your call," Brackett’s voice.

"I don’t like that bruise, or the swelling," Reynold’s voice, "Surgery’s a risk . . ."

Hey! Do I get a choice? I can’t move! They’re talking about me like I’m not here. I hate that. Especially when it’s bad.

He heard Dixie clear her throat, "Heart rate’s 120. He can hear us."

"Sorry, Johnny," Brackett’s voice and a hand squeezed his left shin.

"John, we’re gonna give you something to help you relax," Reynold’s voice.

"5 milligrams Valium," Reynold’s voice.

"5 milligrams Valium," the unfamiliar voice repeated. Again he felt the cold line enter his wrist, losing it at the elbow, "Pick a nice dream and go to sleep."

The voices receded and John did just that.

*****

Dixie continued stroking John’s hair, watching as his features relaxed. The trouble you get into, John Gage. Your right leg is gray and as cold as ice. And if you were anybody else, I’d write that leg off. You’ve got one hell of a guardian angel. Or

She looked up to find Brackett watching her with raised eyebrows and a smug smile on his face. He’s thinking this is something I don’t do for any patient unless that patient’s a child. He just can’t wait to remind me of it, too. "Johnny and Roy saved my life, Kel," she began, "Can I help it if that makes them my two favorite paramedics?" There, that’ll fix him.

Brackett chuckled, "I didn’t say anything."

"You were thinking it," Dixie returned, "Don’t you have some anxious firefighters to update? Not to mention a certain concerned paramedic."

"Yes, ma’am," Brackett returned, saluting Dixie, then stepping out of the treatment room.

Frank Reynolds looked over at Pedro Ruiz, the anesthesiologist, "Ever get the feeling you walked into the middle of a movie?" he asked innocently.

"Do NOT start with me, Dr. Reynolds," Dixie growled playfully, "You’ll lose."

Reynolds held up his hands in surrender, "Not starting, Miss McCall."

*****

Stanley, Marco, Mike and Roy stood as Brackett approached them in the waiting room.

"How’s Johnny?" Roy asked anxiously.

"They’re stabilizing him now, then they’ll take him up to surgery to reduce the fracture and clean up some internal bleeding in his leg," Brackett informed.

Have Roy translate that later. "What about Chet?" Stanley asked.

"He’s still in with Dr. Early," Brackett answered, "I’m sure Joe will update you when he’s finished."

"Dr. Brackett to Base Station," the intercom interrupted any further questioning.

"Excuse me," Brackett began, "Duty calls."

*****

Chet woke to the site of a magnified eye only inches from his own. Unconsciously, he flinched and turned his head away.

"Take it easy, Chet," Joe Early said with a chuckle, "I’m going to check your left eye. Just try to relax."

"If you knew what that looks like, you couldn’t relax," Chet muttered, "It’s worse than any horror movie."

Early chuckled and pulled away, "I agree. I’ve seen it."

"What the hell happened?" Chet asked, looking around the treatment room, "Last thing I knew, I was in the ambulance with Dwyer and Gage. How’s Gage?"

"I don’t know," Early admitted, "You don’t remember what happened?"

"No," Chet returned, then reddened, "Yes. I’m never gonna hear the end of it from Dwyer."

"As much as we want it to be, embarrassment is never fatal," Early informed, "Do you know what day it is?"

"It should be Thursday," Chet guessed, "Time’s sort of fuzzy right now."

"Not too fuzzy. You’re right," Early returned, "How’d you get the laceration on your forehead?"

"A brick attacked me," Chet returned, "Sorry, Doc," apologizing for the inappropriate response, "I just can’t stop the jokes sometimes."

"Pretty accurate description, if you ask me," Early began, "Did you lose consciousness?"

"Yeah. I’m not sure how long," Chet admitted, "Can I get out of here, now?"

"I’m afraid not," Early answered, "I want to admit you overnight for observation."

"I’m fine, Doc," Chet insisted, "I’ve had a concussion and I know what it feels like. I haven’t been dizzy, or sick, or even had much of a headache."

"You did spend several hours without food, or water," Early informed, "We’ll want to make sure your kidneys haven’t been damaged by that."

Kidney failure isn’t something I’d recognize. "Okay," Chet acquiesced, "Guess I’m stuck with this, too, huh?" he asked, lifting his right arm, which had an IV attached to a bag of fluid.

"For a few hours," Early informed, "We’ll get you something to eat and drink," he paused, "The nurses on the floor will have to watch your intake and output."

Passing out in front of Dwyer while giggling like an idiot wasn’t bad enough. I have to have a nurse watch me take a leak, too. "Is that really necessary? I feel fine."

"I’m afraid it is," Early returned, "A nurse won’t be watching you," he informed, "There’s a bottle."

"Yeah, like that makes it better," Chet muttered, not apologizing this time because Early laughed at the statement.

Early picked up a chart from the tray, "I’ll go out and let Roy and the guys know you’re okay and that we’re admitting you. Is there anybody you want them to call?"

Chet shook his head, "I’ll call my family when everything settles down," he responded, "My mom gets a call from the Cap, she’ll stroke out before he can get a word in."

"All right, you just sit tight. An orderly will be in to take you upstairs," Early responded.

"What about Gage?" Chet asked.

Early smiled, "How about this? I’ll send in one of the guys," he offered.

"On what condition?" Chet asked suspiciously.

"You will be a model patient for the length of your stay," Early bargained.

Chet considered it, then nodded, "I can live with that," he decided.

Early chuckled and opened the door, "Anyone in particular?"

Gage. "Marco," Chet answered, "I won’t have to pull teeth to get the scoop out of him."

Early nodded, "Will do," he concluded, stepping out of the room and allowing the door to swing shut.

*****

"John? John Gage?" an insistent voice at his ear, "Show me two fingers on your right hand, John."

Brain’s foggy. Right hand? He took a guess, lifting the middle and ring fingers of his right hand.

"Good. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Don’t think so. Eyelids are too heavy.

"Come on, give it a try," the voice demanded.

Fingers pinched him and he pulled away from them. That hurt! His eyes pulled open, but refused to focus.

"I’ll take that," the voice chuckled, "The surgery’s finished. Your leg’s patched up. You’re going to go to Recovery, then S.I.C.U.."

"Why, Pete, I don’t think he cares," another voice chuckled.

"Be careful of that right leg," the second voice, "I just spent five hours of my life working on it."

"You heading home?" the first voice sounded farther away.

John closed his eyes, letting the voices fade back into the fog.

*****

Brackett met Reynolds in the hall outside the O.R., "How’s John?"

Reynolds smiled, "I did some of my best work, if I do say so myself," he said confidently, "He’ll be off his feet for about six to eight weeks."

"What about physical therapy?" Brackett asked, "And permanent disability?"

"The fractures weren’t too bad," Reynolds responded, "A small fragment of bone chipped a vein."

"That explains the bleeding," Brackett nodded.

"If he takes care of the cast and follows my orders, he’ll be good as new," Reynolds began, "Maybe a few sessions to rebuild the muscle tone," he paused, "There’s one hitch."

"What’s that?" Brackett asked.

"If they bring Chester back to Gunsmoke, he won’t be able to get the part," Reynolds grinned.

Don’t encourage him. Brackett kept a straight face, "Your sense of humor hasn’t improved, I see," he commented.

"It’s your sense of humor that’s lacking," Reynolds said smugly, "I’d better get over to the waiting room. I had one of the nurses giving those firemen updates. She said one of them was wearing a hole in the floor."

Brackett put a hand on Reynold’s shoulder, "You’d better let me," he said, "You do the Chester joke and you’ll be a customer on your own table."

"No sense of humor?" Reynolds asked.

"The man in that shaft with John is named Chet. Short for Chester," Brackett informed, "Thanks, Frank."

"Anytime, Kel," Reynolds responded, "Hey, there’s a golf tournament at the Club this weekend. Break out your clubs and join me."

Brackett laughed, "Sorry, Frank. Some of us have to work for a living," he shot, "Besides, you cheat."

Reynolds’ laughter echoed after Brackett as he made his way to the waiting room. Five pairs of anxious eyes greeted him.

"John made it through surgery," Brackett informed, "He’s on his way to recovery, then S.I.C.U.."

"What about his leg?" Roy asked, not hiding the worry in his voice.

"He’ll be in a cast for six to eight weeks," Brackett repeated, then smiled, "But I’m sure he’ll be up and hobbling after the nurses in no time."

The joke got four relieved laughs. "Relax, Roy," Bracket began, "Gentlemen, you’ve all had a long day. John’s going to be in recovery for at least a couple of hours. He’ll probably sleep through the rest of today. You should all go home and do the same," he suggested.

"You’ll have Ms. McCall let us know if there’s any change?" Stanley asked.

"I’ll call each of you myself," Brackett promised.

"I’d better go down and let Chet know," Marco said, "I’ll meet you in the parking lot," then headed out of the waiting room.

"Don’t tell me your rig’s been out there all this time," Brackett said in amazement.

"Nope. We had to take it back to the station. We’re in the wife’s car," Stanley returned, pulling the keys out of his pocket, "I’m beat, Mike. Ever driven an Edsel?"

"Why would I want to?" Mike returned, ducking as Stanley swiped playfully at his head, "Always a first time," he amended, taking the proffered keys.

"Ya twit," Stanley growled.

"I’m gonna stick around," Roy said quietly.

"Roy, as long as John’s in S.I.C.U., all you’ll be able to do is sit in the waiting room," Brackett advised, "Visiting hours won’t start until 8. And then it’s only ten minutes every hour."

"Come on, Doc, I’m a trained paramedic," Roy argued, "What am I gonna do?"

"That isn’t the point," Brackett returned, "Go home and get some rest, Roy."

"Listen to the doctor, Pal," Stanley advised.

"Is that an order, Cap?" Roy asked petulantly.

"A suggestion," Stanley responded.

"With all due respect, sir, I’ll pass," Roy returned.

"What about JoAnne?" Stanley asked, "And the kids? The collapse was all over the news. They might want to actually see that you’re okay."

"I talked to JoAnne," Roy reasoned, "They know I wasn’t in that shaft."

Stanley shrugged, "All right, Pal," he began, "Mike and I’ll head down to the parking lot. You know where the car is, if you change your mind."

Brackett crossed his arms over his chest. Stanley might’ve given up, but I’m not about to. "Give me one good reason not to throw you out of here and keep you out until you’ve gotten some rest," he challenged.

Roy took a deep breath, "It stays between us?" he asked.

Brackett nodded.

"When Johnny first got out of the hospital after that virus," Roy began, "He had trouble sleeping for a couple of weeks ‘cause he had nightmares."

"I can certainly understand that," Brackett agreed. I had the same problem.

Roy shook his head, "Some of ‘em were about the virus," he continued, "Some of ‘em were about when he was comatose. He said he could hear things going on around him. He could feel what the doctors and nurses did. But he was trapped. He couldn’t talk, or move."

Like what happened in the treatment room. We were talking about him and he heard us.

"He said what bothered him was that nobody seemed to care," Roy continued, "He couldn’t have visitors until he was out of isolation and by that time, he was awake," he paused, smiling nervously, "You know Johnny, Doc. He lets stuff get to him, then goes off the deep end."

Brackett nodded, "He’s not comatose and nothing about his condition suggests that he might be," then held up a hand when Roy’s face fell, "He will be `out of it’ as they say for about 24 hours," he paused, "Having a voice he recognizes might not be such a bad idea. Even Mike, Joe and I forget our bedside manners when we don’t think the patient’s listening," he allowed, "All right," he began, "But, the minute John wakes up and is oriented, you’re banned for 24 hours."

"Banned?" Roy repeated, astonished, "Why?"

"You look like a man about to collapse yourself," Brackett informed, "You won’t do John any good if you’re unconscious from lack of sleep," he added, "It’s not open to negotiation, Roy," he said gently.

"I’ll take it," Roy returned.

*****

Thump-hiss. Thump-hiss. Beep-beep-beep. Thump-hiss. Thump-hiss. Beep-beep-beep.

The sounds faded briefly. Thump-hiss. Beep-beep-beep. The thump-hiss became a cymbal. The beep a soft guitar. A radio. Much better. A quiet voice in the background. Then the cymbal was joined by a drum. The guitar grew louder. Wait. I know this song. I’d recognize it if I could hear the words. Trumpets joined the drum and guitar.

"Welcome to my nightmare. I think you’re gonna like it. I think you’re gonna feel you belong," guitar music, "We sweat and laugh and scream here. ‘Cause life is just a dreeaam. Here. You know inside you feel right at home. Here. Welcome to my nightmare," Alice Cooper’s voice screeched.

"Welcome to my break. Down." The song stopped with the sound of an explosion. Thank you.

Better. Well, better than Alice Cooper. Although, it could be worse. Like the Twilight Zone theme. Talk about creepy. Or that one from the Exorcist. Just thinking of it makes me shiver.

*****

John slowly opened his eyes and found a dark sky with stars twinkling overhead. These aren’t LA stars. You don’t even see these in the mountains. The city lights are too close. The only place I’ve ever seen stars this bright was Florida. I haven’t been home in years.

He was lying on something rough. Is that smoke? White tendrils drifted up and over him. That’s smoke. I can’t move! Heat radiated from below, searing his back. What’s going on? Flames rose around his legs. He recognized the rough surface he was lying on. It’s a funeral bier. They’ve broken my things. Now they’re burning them with my body! They’re not supposed to burn my body!

Heat engulfed him, drying his skin, then charring it until it fell away. I’m not dead!

"I’M NOT DEAD!" he tried to scream, but his vocal cords had shriveled. I’m still alive. I’m still alive. Please, somebody hear me. I’m still alive.

"Okay, Johnny. You’ve got the nurse at your beck and call. Now, open your eyes and flash that crooked grin at her."

A hand on his shoulder.

"Her name’s Kristy. She’s very pretty," Roy’s voice, "Come on, Johnny. At least open your eyes for her. If you don’t, she’ll think she came all the way in here for nothing."

The bier and flames disappeared.

"John, I’m Kristy Bell. You’re at Rampart," a woman’s voice, "You broke your leg in that fall, remember? You’re in the I.C.U. at Rampart."

*****

John’s features relaxed. It’s working. Roy signaled to Kristy to keep talking.

"You need to rest now, John. Don’t to try to talk," Kristy ordered.

"Thanks," Roy smiled.

"You’re welcome," Kristy responded, "That was . . . interesting."

"That’s one way of describing Johnny," Roy said with a grin.

"So I’ve heard," Kristy returned the grin, "I’ll get something for that fever."

*****

Stanley returned to Rampart the next afternoon, prepared to order Roy to go home. I’m still exhausted and I got eight hours sleep. He’s probably dead on his feet.

He found his wayward paramedic in the Emergency waiting area.

"Morning, Cap," Roy said, standing.

"Morning," Stanley responded, "Have you been out here all this time?"

"JoAnne’s picking me up," Roy informed, "Johnny woke up about an hour ago. He’s still on the vent, but he was awake long enough to answer a few yes and no questions."

"That’s great," Stanley smiled broadly, "How’s he doing?"

"He spiked a fever for a few hours this morning," Roy informed, "It broke about ten. He’s pretty wiped out," he paused, "Dr. Early sent Chet home at noon," he informed, "He’s fine. In fact, all in all, today’s a big improvement over yesterday."

"No kidding," Stanley returned.

"Daddy!" Erin DeSoto’s voice called from the entry. She immediately let go of her mother’s hand and ran to her father.

"Hey, little girl," Roy smiled, picking Erin up and hugging her, flashing raised eyebrows at his wife over the little girl’s head.

"I missed you last night, Daddy," Erin cooed, then wrinkled her nose, "You smell like dirt and smoke," she informed.

"And you smell like honey and flowers," Roy returned, nuzzling Erin’s cheek, then setting her down.

"You weren’t here all night with this numbskull, were you, Hank?" JoAnne asked, putting an arm around Roy’s waist and quickly squeezing.

"No, ma’am," Stanley responded, "The numbskull was here all by himself."

"Hi, Cap," Erin said, quickly hugging Stanley.

"How are John and Chet?" JoAnne asked.

"Chet’s home and John’s sleeping," Roy informed, "He woke up about an hour ago," he paused and looked down at Erin, "What’re you doing home from school?" he asked casually.

"Mom said I didn’t have to go," Erin offered with a shrug.

Stanley caught the look Roy flashed JoAnne. Don’t say anything until I get the kid out of earshot. "Erin, how about you and I go to the cafeteria and get a glass of juice?" he suggested.

"May I, Mom?" Erin asked.

"Roy?" JoAnne asked.

"Sure," Roy agreed.

"Is something wrong, Cap?" Erin asked as she took Stanley’s hand.

"No. I think your mom and dad just need some privacy to have a discussion," Stanley responded.

"You mean, they’re gonna argue," Erin corrected.

"They’re not gonna argue, Sweetie," Stanley responded.

"Erin," JoAnne called.

"What?" Erin asked.

Stanley laughed, "My fault, JoAnne," he said, "I walked right into that one," he looked down at Erin, "Come on, Erin. Before your mom changes her mind."

"You let Erin stay home from school?" Roy asked when they were gone.

JoAnne smiled, "It’s fourth grade, Roy. She’s not missing Brain Surgery 101," she joked, "And the boys were so jealous."

Roy’s resolve cracked. He laughed and he put his arms around her, holding her tight.

"She didn’t sleep well," JoAnne said quietly, "She was worried about Johnny. Worried about you. Worried about the guys," she paused, "I brought her into bed about 2 this morning and she tossed and turned all night. I didn’t have the heart to send her to school."

"And she’s not missing Brain Surgery 101," Roy repeated, kissing the top of JoAnne’s head, "Well, let’s get down to the cafeteria before Erin and the Cap get into a discussion."

*****

John was moved to a private room on Saturday, although he wasn’t awake long enough to notice. In fact, he slept through Saturday and Sunday.

A quiet knock sounded on the door.

John grinned, "Come in," he called, pulling the blanket and sheet up.

The door opened slowly and Chet’s head peered in.

"Hey! Chet!" John called, "Come on in."

"You sure?" Chet asked, uncharacteristically timid, "I can come back."

"No, no, it’s okay," John called.

Chet stepped into the room, "So, how’s it goin’?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Better than a few days ago," John responded, "I’ll probably be out of here in a couple more days."

"How long’re you stuck with that?" Chet asked, nodding toward the cast.

John frowned, "Six weeks. Maybe eight."

"Bummer," Chet returned.

"What about you?" John asked, "I heard Dr. Early admitted you for observation."

Chet rolled his eyes, "Something about going without food and water," he shrugged, "They turned me loose the next afternoon."

Kicked . . . don’t say it. "That could’a been serious."

"It wasn’t," Chet said simply.

"Who’d they send out to replace me?" John asked.

"Charlie," Chet informed, "The new guy, Brice, took Charlie’s shift."

"Brice," John repeated the name, "Never heard of him."

"He’s okay," Chet shrugged.

An uncomfortable silence fell. I never thought it’d happen. He’s not starting anything with me. And I’m not starting anything with him.

"John, there’s something I’ve got to tell you," Chet offered.

Maybe not. "What’s that, Chet?" he asked innocently.

"When you busted your leg," Chet began, "I . . . ah . . . I started the IV," he confessed, "I know I screwed up. And I’m gonna tell Dr. Brackett and the Captain . . ."

"What?" John asked.

"Well, I had to do something, John," Chet continued, "You were in pretty bad shape and you couldn’t do it."

"That’s not what I meant," John corrected, "I meant tellin’ Brackett and the Cap," he paused, "I remember the IV and I know I didn’t start it."

"I gave you morphine, too," Chet confessed, "And a second IV."

"Well, Chet, you saved my life," John concluded, "I don’t have a problem with that."

"It’s against the law," Chet reasoned.

"So? No harm, no foul," John argued, "Don’t screw up your life, Chet."

"You were really sick," Chet began.

"From the dust, Chet," John informed. "I’ll tell ‘em you’re lying," he threatened.

Chet smiled, "Thanks, John."

"You’re welcome, Chet," John grinned.

Both men were silent again. We’re running out of small talk. John frowned.

"You okay, John?" Chet asked, tone worried, "Want me to call a nurse?"

John shook his head, "I’m fine," he said, "Look, Chet, when we were down in that shaft, I was surprised we didn’t end up killing each other," he began, "Then again, maybe I didn’t fall. Maybe you pulled me down. I don’t remember," he joked, then frowned at the hurt look on Chet’s face, "Come on, Chet, where’s that Kelly sense of humor?"

"I can’t make fun of you, now, Gage," Chet began sullenly, "Not after what we went through."

"What about gallows humor?" John challenged.

"You’re the one that thought we picked on each other too much," Chet reminded.

"I was being morbid," John replied, "We were trapped in an elevator shaft with a building falling down on top of us. We didn’t die. We got out. Life goes on," he paused again, "The station’s gonna be pretty boring without the Phantom. I wouldn’t miss him, but Roy and Cap would. So would Marco and Mike."

Chet nodded, "You’ve got a point there," he allowed, then grinned, "Ha! I had you going," a twinkle flashed in the blue eyes.

That was not a scam. You were serious. John rolled his eyes, "You sure did, Chet," he said, then grinned.

Chet laughed, "You’re such an easy mark, Gage," he commented, "I’d better go. God knows you need your beauty rest."

"Been awake for a week, huh, Chet?" John shot back, still grinning.

"Oh, that wounded me," Chet muttered sarcastically, walking to the door.

"Hey, Chester B.," John called as the firefighter pulled the door open.

"What, Gage?" Chet asked, pausing in the door and turning back.

"That stuff about me getting all the crap ‘cause I’m the youngest," John began.

"What about it?" Chet asked.

"It’s a scam, too, right?"

Chet shrugged, "You’re the smart one, Gage. Figure it out," with that he walked out of the room.

"I already have," John called.

Chet stuck his head in the door, "And?" he prompted.

"You think I don’t plan to say something stupid to give you the chance to make a joke?" John said, then frowned, "Wait, that didn’t come out right."

Chet grinned, "Later, Gage," he said, pulling his head out and letting the door close.

"Hey! Chet!" John called, "Come back! That didn’t come out right!" He waited for the door to open, "Chet!"

March 30, 1999 - April 17, 1999

Author’s Note: Thanks to my beta readers Pat, Caelie and Linda (a/k/a Tigger). Without their advice and encouragement, John and Chet would still be trapped in that elevator shaft. At least until after the Challenge deadline. A special thanks to Pat for the extra help with the medical details.