Emanuel's Heat

  Emanuel’s Heat

  Copyright © 2019 by TMP Publishing LLC/Tiffany Patterson

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A special thank you to Melissa Ringsted at There For You Editing (thereforyou.melissa@gmail.com) for editing.

  Prologue

  Emanuel

  There is a rhythm to fire.

  A heartbeat.

  A pace.

  I match my breathing to the cadence of the fire. One deep pull through my nose from the flowing air of my mask. Hold it for five seconds. Then slowly let it out. Repeat. All the while forcing my eyes to remain open, circling the darkened room, pushing my ears to listen for the most minute sounds. Feeling the wooden floors underneath my boots for any slight tremors. A tremble could be an indication of a trapped person banging on a door or floor calling for help, or worse, a signal that the fire has finally burned through the floor’s foundation and collapse is inevitable.

  I push the latter thought aside and continue my rhythmic breathing. In through my nose, hold for a count of five, and out slowly.

  “Allende, get the hell out of there!” booms through the radio that’s clipped to my jacket. It would’ve been jarring if I hadn’t expected the command from my captain. Yet again, I ignore it.

  There’s a fucking kid in here! My mind reels, reminding me why I opted to run back into this apartment fire after pulling out a mother with her newborn baby. Her five-year-old son was in bed with her according to the mother. But I didn’t see any indication of him in the master bedroom the first time around. He’s still in here.

  Breathe, I tell myself. I can’t save anyone if I allow the panic from being surrounded by the nearly nine-foot high flames as they roll across the ceiling, and the dark black smoke billowing ahead of the flames, to take over.

  I don’t think about the chances of my air tank running low or empty before I can make it out of here. All that matters is that a five-year-old boy is stuck in the center of hell. A helpless child. I can’t leave him.

  “Allende, that’s an order from your captain!” Captain Rogers continues as if I didn’t fucking hear him the last dozen times.

  Reaching my gloved hand for my radio, I turn the volume down.

  “Fire department!” I yell out, hoping to get a response. The second floor of the apartment is dark and hot.

  So fucking hot.

  Bullets of sweat are running down my face, neck, and back, soaking the cotton Williamsport Fire Department polo shirt all firefighters are assigned. But none of that matters. These are the moments I train for. The layers of protective gear I have on will protect me from the flames—for a while—and my tank allows me to breathe unpolluted air. But not five-year-old Jackson.

  “Jackson!” I shout, using the name his mother screamed as she frantically searched for her boy once she was safely deposited on the street outside of her burning home.

  “Jackson! Are you in here?” Opting to get down on my hands and knees, I decide to re-enter the boy’s bedroom, which is all of the way down the hall. I already checked his room and was certain no one had been in here. But I searched everywhere else in the home. Everywhere. This is the last place he could be.

  “Jackson!” I crawl on all fours into the room, barely able to see more than a few inches in front of me, due to the thick smoke blanketing everything.

  “Shit!” I yell when my hand lands on something wooden to my right side. A door. I hadn’t registered it earlier. I feel up the length of the door and it’s hot. No! No! No! my mind starts calling out.

  I find the small finger circle used to pull what I assume is the closet door open. Immediately, I reach inside and feel something hot. I can’t quite make out what it is due to the thick gloves covering my hands. But running my hands along the side and inching my body closer I make out strands of dark brown hair. My heart sinks at the sight of the charred skin.

  “Jackson!”

  A moan.

  It’s faint but I hear it. He’s still alive.

  Without much thought, I scoop the limp, nearly lifeless body of the boy into my arms and stand, crouching low to barrel my way through the flames. I push through the door I just entered and am met by a wall of flames. Through the fire is my only way out. There is no escape route behind me. The windows in Jackson’s bedroom have been barricaded with steel bars to prevent him from falling out.

  “Okay, Jackson,” I begin talking to him, not knowing if he can hear me or not, “we have to go through the fire.” I start unbuttoning my flame-retardant jacket to wrap around his fragile body. The jacket stretches just enough to enfold most of his body. I look up at the flames and take a deep breath, deeper than any breath I’d taken in the last two hours. When my lungs feel as if they are about to explode from holding on too long, I exhale and without thinking, run and jump through the flame.

  “Ugh!” I grunt as I come crashing down onto my backside but having successfully made it to the other side of the wall of fire. However, I don’t have time to rest. Flames are everywhere. My captain is still yelling into my radio along with my other teammates. I can hear the panic in their voices. They’re fearing the worst. And they should be. I’ve been incommunicado for some time now.

  “Fuck!” I curse as something explodes behind the wall I’m running past, causing a huge hole to open up and flames to come shooting out. It’s really time to go. Just as I prepare to pick up my pace, there’s another explosion from the far end of the second floor hallway. This explosion is so loud and rumbling it sends me to my knees, but I don’t stop. I pick myself and Jackson up and stumble to the staircase only to find that it’s gone. Completely engulfed in flames and collapsed.

  I look around before making an instant decision. I have to jump. I don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice, I think as I glance down at the young, moaning boy in my grasp. Another deep inhale and a leap of faith later, I am landing ass first on the first floor. Thank god it hadn’t collapsed yet. But the fact that the stairs are gone tells me, the first floor is likely to go out soon. I reorient myself to figure out where the closest exit is to where I am. The front door is just around the wall behind me, but the back door is directly ahead, if I remember correctly. My team had set up a perimeter in the backyard of the apartment building.

  Stumbling to my feet, ignoring the pain shooting down my hips and legs, I make my way to the back door, stepping on or over large beams of charred wood and debris. I encounter more flames in the kitchen, which is where the backdoor is located, but I don’t stop to think. The door is our only way out, and it’s aflame. The explosions I heard earlier were the glass from the windows breaking around the apartment; the inflow of oxygen has spurred the fire even more. The flames are getting hotter by the moment as they reach outside of the backdoor’s now busted out window.

  But stopping would mean sure death for the both of us.

  So, with every ounce of strength I can muster in my body, I heave myself into the flames once again, pushing against the door. Thankfully, the flames have weakened the wood enough that it easily gives way to the force of my bodyweight.

  Another leap over the concrete stairs of the back porch, and I quickly distance myself and Jackson from the sudden onslaught of more flames that will be caused by completely opening the door.

  I land hard somewhere on the backyard grassy area, directly on my iron oxygen tank. Pain shoots through my entire body. I’m heaving heavily, gasping for my next breath. The edges of my vision begin to blur and I’m certain passing out is inevitable. But just b
efore I do, I feel hands reaching for me. One pair removes Jackson from under my jacket.

  “He’s breathing but barely!” a deep voice calls out. Arnold. One of the best in our squad.

  “Allende!” a different voice calls. Larry. Another good firefighter. “You stupid son of a bitch! We thought we lost you!” He’s angry, pissed off.

  If I could, I would laugh and tell him that nothing can get to me. But I don’t have the energy. And just before I pass out I feel my brothers lifting me up to carry me to what I presume is the paramedic on the other side of the building.

  ****

  “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” Captain Rogers seethes a couple of hours later, in my hospital room. “Keep that fucking mask on!” he hollers just as I begin to pull the oxygen mask from my face.

  It’s a different mask from the type we wear. This mask could never hold up in a fire, I think as I let my gaze peruse the plastic, rubbery material of this hospital mask.

  “I hope you’re fucking happy, Allende. Real fucking happy! The head of the department is likely to be up my ass about this shit! Demanding to know why one of my men can’t take orders.”

  I don’t even hide the roll of my eyes. Captain Rogers has always been more concerned with what the higher-ups think than actually doing his fucking job. At least, that’s been my experience.

  “There was a boy inside,” I weakly retort, in spite of the burning in my lungs.

  “And I told you to stand down. We had no confirmation of the boy inside. We got the mother and baby out, but you just had to go back in and save the day.”

  “That’s what you—” I can’t even finish my comeback before I start violently coughing.

  “Don’t talk. You’ve got smoke inhalation, second degree burns, and a bruised fucking pelvis. You’re in fucked up shape.”

  It was all worth it if Jackson lives.

  I can’t say that out loud because I’m in too much pain. It hurts to talk.

  Captain Rogers merely looks at me, shaking his head, before he turns to exit the room.

  A second later, Rich, Larry, and Arnold walk in. The concern in their eyes is evident but they won’t say as much.

  “For fuck’s sake, Allende, we thought you were toasted and roasted in there.” Arnold is the first to speak, causing the other guys and even me to chuckle. We never claimed to be a classy bunch.

  “N-not th-this time,” I manage to stammer out.

  “Yeah, Arnie was just hoping because he wants your locker space,” Larry adds.

  Another round of laughs.

  It’s partly true. Arnold has been angling for my locker for months now. It’s in the corner and has the most room.

  “Cap says you’re not hurt too badly. A few days of rest and you’ll be back at the station being the pain in the ass to him you always are,” Rich states.

  I grunt, slightly disheartened to go back to Squad Two. I love my job and my teammates, but I feel stifled under Captain Rogers.

  “Bullshit,” Arnold says. “We know what a save like this means.” He turns to me, tilting his head. “You’ll probably get the pick of the transfer you’ve been wanting for over a year now.”

  I raise my brows.

  “We all know you’d rather be where the action is.” Larry’s voice is heavy, as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I’d be leaving. After five years of working together, I understand.

  But they’re right. Squad Two is great but we rarely get calls like the one we were on tonight. Ever since the district did some realigning, our calls have become the more docile, run of the mill, saving people from downed power lines and retrieving frightened kittens from trees types of calls. Not a bad gig for family men like Larry and Rich, who want to make it home to their wives and kids at the end of the day, but boring as shit for a guy like me.

  “Not only will you likely get the Tom Webster for this, but I’m betting as soon as there’s an open spot over at Rescue Four it’ll have your name written all over it.”

  My heartbeat quickens at the thought of getting transferred to Rescue Four. Known around the department unofficially as the elite squad. That’s exactly where I want to be. I couldn’t give a shit about the Tom Webster or any other medals. No one runs into fires, risking life and limb for a fucking medal.

  “We’ll let you get some rest,” Arnold says after a few moments of silence.

  I nod in their direction. However, right before they get to the door, I pull the mask from my face and call out, “The kid?” My voice is weak, but they hear me.

  It’s evident by the way all three of their backs stiffen.

  There’s a pause.

  The quiet speaks for itself.

  Larry slowly pivots to face me again, his head hanging low, and there’s a glossy sheen in his dark brown eyes. He’d be the most emotional seeing as how his son is the same age as Jackson.

  “He didn’t make it, man.”

  His words become the heavy, solid weight that settles onto my chest, stealing my next breath. Even with the oxygen mask it becomes difficult to breathe, and it’s not due to the smoke inhalation.

  “Emanuel,” Arnold begins, moving closer to my hospital bed, “you busted your ass out there. You saved that woman and her newborn baby. And …” He hesitates, looking back. “That woman got to hold her boy’s hand as he took his last breath because of you. You did your job better than anyone out there tonight, man. Don’t forget that.”

  I can’t process Arnold’s words at the moment. All I know is that a five-year-old little boy is dead. A boy that I missed on my first sweep through of the apartment. If that shit isn’t my fault, whose is it?

  ****

  Janine

  Meanwhile, on the other side of town ...

  Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, I remind myself yet again as my hands tighten around the stem of the rose and hydrangea bouquet I hold in my hand. I lift my head to glance up to the center of the pulpit where my close friend, Angela Moore, is pledging to love, honor, and obey, her husband, Eric Kim. Angela looks beautiful in the creme, satin gown she’s wearing. The color stands out against her pecan-brown skin. I smile at the curly ringlets in her hair and the purple streak that remains evident. I’ve always admired Angela’s ability to be whoever she wants to be. In spite of my own childish jealousy, I am happy for my friend. I remember just a few years ago how devastated she was when both of her parents were killed in a plane crash. They truly were her best friends. Yet another thing I admire about her. The bond she has with her family, who now includes not only her brother and nephew, but Eric. She’ll surely make a great wife and mother someday.

  Sighing, I shove my own thoughts aside to focus on the nuptials taking place right in front of me. I will be happy for Angela—she deserves the wedding and the man of her dreams, and she’s getting both. I smile wide and clap along with the rest of the bridal party and guests when Angela and Eric seal their vows with a kiss. I proceed toward the center aisle of the church, and wrap my hand around the arm of one of the groomsmen. I look up to see his dark eyes sparkling down at me as he grins followed by a wink right before we start to follow the rest of the wedding party.

  “Weddings make you emotional?” he questions.

  I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion, and he tilts his head toward my face. Touching my cheek with my free hand, I realize a lone tear has escaped.

  “Don’t worry, beautiful. I have just the cure for whatever ails you,” he states smoothly.

  I roll my eyes, but a smirk plays at my full lips. “No thanks, Don.” He’s one of Eric’s teammates at the fire station. Angela warned me that he was a serious flirt. However, she failed to mention how damn fine he is. Hell, from what I’ve seen, all of the men at Rescue Four are drop dead gorgeous. Almost as if it’s a prerequisite to work at the fire station. Number one, be able to put out fires. Number two, can pull people from a burning building. And last but certainly not least, be over six-feet tall, muscular, jaw chiseled to perfection, and look good enough to set
women’s hearts on fire wherever you go. Or perhaps, that’s just how the requirements go in my head.

  At the exit, all of the guests throw rice at the bride and groom, who then leave to take pictures at a local park. Don moves to step in front of me.

  “So what do you say we ditch this reception and go make some memories of our own?” His dark eyes narrow mischievously.

  I lift my hand to smooth back the chignon I’d put my permed hair into for the wedding. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”

  Don’s lips form into a pout, and for a split second he actually achieves the innocent look he’s going for. But too soon, his eyes fill with that mirth I’d begun to realize was natural for him. “Oh yeah? Why not?” He lifts a dark eyebrow.

  I raise mine as well. “I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that very much,” I retort, saucily, placing a hand on my hip.

  “Boyfriend?” he quips and looks around as if searching for someone. “Where is he? I’ll have a talk with him.”

  I burst out laughing, before throwing my hand over my mouth. I shake my head. “You probably would try, too.”

  “For you?” He eyes me up and down, his gaze growing heated. “Absolutely.”

  I don’t even try to come back with a response. To be honest, it feels good to have a man openly express his attraction to me. I can’t say even if Matt weren’t in the picture I’d take Don up on his offer, but it is a confidence booster to have this handsome man flirt with me.

  “Donnie, leave the woman alone. Can’t you see she’s not interested? Besides, we all know Janine’s been waiting on me.”

  I turn to see yet another drop dead gorgeous Rescue Four member approach us. It really must be something in the water over there, I muse. Where Don’s skin is an olive complexion, Corey’s is only a few shades lighter than my own dark brown coloring. He appears to be about an inch or so taller than Don’s just over six-foot height. Both men wear identical tuxedos that hang in a way that you know they were specifically tailored for their individual bodies.