The following story is based on an actual event, the Hagersville (Ontario) tire fire of 1990. Though no lives were lost in that fire, it only left us wondering what could easily had happened.
"But, mom! Everyone else is going!"
"Yeah, but if everyone else jumps in the lake, would you follow?"
Christopher DeSoto was arguing with his mother again - one of those spats that seemed to flare up whenever Roy wasn't around. But since Chris celebrated his eighth birthday recently, those little arguments had become more frequent. Of course, Joanne had her reasons for not letting her son go.
"Chris, junkyards are dangerous places," she said. "Your father and Uncle Johnny had to treat a kid who got run over by a bulldozer at the Los Angeles Dump yesterday."
"Is he alright?" Chris' voice became less shrill and angry.
Joanne paused for a second. Then, she replied, "He's dead."
During her off-time, Joanne volunteered as a Brownie Scout leader with the 36th Carson Pack. Her second-in-command was the dead boy's mother, who she tried in vain to comfort after hearing news of his death at Rampart General Hospital. And Joanne spoke to her Brownies about the dangers of junkyards during the meeting a few days before the accident.
One of her Brownies was Christopher's sister Jennifer, who was now taking a few packages of Twinkies out of the cupboard. Joanne had to confiscate two of the packages: "Ah, ah! Not good for you, Jenny." Her voice sounded friendly, but firm.
Jennifer's babyish voice uttered, "Then, why do you have them around the house?"
"Because of your Uncle Johnny," said Joanne. "He eats this junk, and so does your father." Then, she checks her watch, a new Timex bracelet that Roy bought her for their anniversary - he could not afford the Rolexes and Piagets that he admired in the jewellery store window. "Oh, great! I'll be late for my volunteer job at the hospital."
"Can I come," asked Jennifer.
"Yeah," spoke Christopher.
"Sorry, but they don't let little kids in the hospital," their mother said. "But I'm dropping you off at the Stokers for the day."
It was the Saturday before Memorial Day, and the DeSoto kids were enjoying their long weekend. They planned to go to the fun fair after meeting the other kids at the Los Angeles Dump. But all Christopher DeSoto had was 50 cents, which only bought him admission to the Merry-Go-Round, a ride he didn't like. Jennifer managed to save the five dollars that her parents gave her after taking care of an injured kitten she found during one of her nature walks at the ravine. Roy and Jennifer splintered the kitten's broken leg, and the kitten fully recovered from his injuries after several weeks. The animal protection officers caught the woman who broke the kitten's leg and left it mewing helplessly in the woods.
"Whoever would do this to a poor, helpless little kitten needs to get his head examined," said the usually lighthearted Chet Kelly, who took the kitten into his custody. Joanne didn't like cats, but allowed the injured kitten into her house because leaving it in the woods would had meant his certain death. And Roy was allergic to them, but was sensitive enough to let one romp around the kitchen, the living room, and even his and Joanne's bedroom in the middle of the night.
Jennifer wanted to check up on the kitten, which had grown into a large and handsome brown tortie Maine Coon cat. But Joanne insisted that she stayed at the Stokers for the day. So, with a mixture of excitement and weariness, the DeSoto kids followed their mother out of their house and onto the driveway. A new Ford Pinto station wagon waited quietly on the asphalt.
"Why didn't dad buy that nice green Econovan at the Ford dealership," whined Christopher, who thought Pintos were tiny, ugly cars.
Jennifer added, "Three teenagers got killed after someone crashed into the back of a Pinto." She looked suspiciously at the car: "I don't want to go in there."
"Well, it's because we can't afford that LTD that you like," Joanne said, opening the front doors of her car. "That car costs $4,000."
Christopher dug into his jeans pocket. "Well, I have $4,000, mom," he said, pulling out his two quarters.
"$4,000?! That's 50 cents!" That was his sister's comment, after wearily sitting in the back seat and glancing at the change in the palm of his hand. "Nobody our age earns $4,000 - we're not even old enough to work or drive a car."
Joanne turned on the ignition. "Fasten your seatbelts, guys - it'll be a short, bumpy ride," she warned.
After she and the kids fastened their seatbelts, Joanne backed her car out of the driveway and onto their street. On the radio was the news, with the announcer warning his listeners about the hot, muggy weather and the smog that would hit Los Angeles County that weekend.
"I hate hot weather," complained Jennifer DeSoto, who played with her Mr. Peeples doll. "And this car doesn't have air conditioning."
"You can open the back window, stupid," cried her brother.
"Hey, hey! Christopher, I don't want you to call Jennifer stupid," snapped Joanne DeSoto, who drove slowly onto the Stokers' driveway. There, Hannah Stoker and her two daughters were standing in front of the single-car garage. Above it was a white baseboard with a basketball hoop - Susan and Lisa were avid basketball players who hoped to be the first women to join the NBA.
Christopher DeSoto frowned at the sight of two girls and no boys. "Mom, I hate girls," he cried loudly - but not loudly enough for the Stokers to hear him. "They always play those sissy Brownie games."
"What about those dumb games you and the other boys play in Cub Scouts," shouted Jennifer. "I'm glad that I'm a girl."
"And I'm glad that I'm a boy."
"Okay, guys," smiled Joanne, embracing Christopher, then Jennifer. "Have fun. See you at six. I'll call if I'll be late." The DeSoto kids stepped out of the car before Joanne harriedly added, "And I don't want you taking the girls to that awful junkyard of yours, okay."
"Okay, mother," sighed Christopher. The Pinto backed out of the driveway, and glided along the road leading to Rampart General Hospital. It disappeared into the busy roadway.
Hannah Stoker placed her hands on Christopher's and Jennifer's shoulders. "Hi, guys," she smiled sweetly. "I have some milk and Oreos in the kitchen."
Jennifer cried, "Oreos? Alright!!!" She raced inside the house with Susan and Lisa. All Mrs. Stoker could do is cry "no running in the house" in vain.
"I don't much like Oreos," said Christopher, with boredom inflected in his eight-year-old voice. "Is it okay that I call Ricky, Jeremy and Scott over?"
Mrs. Stoker normally allowed Christopher to bring Ricky Lopez, Jeremy Kelly and Scott Brice inside her home. But that morning, her sunny face turned into a confused, nearly twisted frown at Christopher's suggestion. Then, she remarked, "I don't know. Scott Brice nearly tore the house down the last time you brought him over. And Jeremy Kelly? If that uncle of his is bad, he's worse."
Neither Craig Brice nor Chet Kelly had their own children, but they lived within walking distance of their nephews. Scott was the son of Craig's older brother Chuck, a Los Angeles County plainclothes officer who Pete Malloy called "the walking police rulebook." And Chuck Brice was as nitpicky and analytical as his paramedic brother, who had a reputation within the Los Angeles County Fire Department as a perfectionist and the original pain in the neck for whom even Roy DeSoto had little respect. The Brices' obsessive-compulsive tendencies rubbed off on little Scott who, at eight, was already on his way to becoming another Craig Brice: he found so many decorative imperfections in the Stokers' tiny bungalow that he did his own interior decorating during a sleepover. When Mike Stoker woke up early the next morning, he found his bathtowels missing and the colored toilet tissue hung the wrong way. It was impossible not to blame his picky uncle for little Scott's messmaking. His best friend Jeremy Kelly was no better. During day camp last year, he stuffed grass in Jennifer DeSoto's and the Stoker girls' panties and substituted their Hostess chocolate cupcakes with mudpies enveloped in Saran Wrap. Both Scott and Jeremy were literally chips off the old block in more than one way - Scott Brice even wore metal framed glasses atop his cold, analytical young features.
As Jennifer and the Stoker kids ran into the driveway to play another game of shinny basketball, Christopher DeSoto walked slowly into the living room. Taking Battleship off the wall shelf, he laid the box on the coffee table and, after setting it up, began playing the game with an imaginary friend. With too many girls around and no friends to play with, Chris often found time to improve his board game playing skills.
Just then, a light but audible tap on the living room window could be heard.
Chris found himself distracted. He had just sunk one of the smaller Battleships on his opponent's game board and was putting parts of the game back in the box. He turned towards the window, and saw a bespectacled freckle-faced girl in dark pigtails waving at him.
"Oh, great!" Chris raced to the window, where he pulled the drapes closed, darkening the living room and preventing the girl from looking at him. After all, she left a Valentine's Day card in his desk during recess - and Chris still thought girls belonged on another planet. Chris turned on the TV set, trying to drown out the ringing doorbell with Sylvester and Tweety.
Mrs. Stoker cried from the doorway, "Chris! Sally's here to see you!"
The niece of Roy's partner and friend, Sally Gage began living with her uncle after her single mother drank herself to death at the reservation where he grew up, during the fall of 1976. John Gage was initially all thumbs after Sally moved in with him - after all, he was single with no children and a one-bedroom apartment. But he turned out to be the father Sally never knew, and there were always surprises for her after he came home from work: trips to Disneyland and Sea World, appearances at her baseball games and school plays, and even help with her Brownie activies. Sally flourished in Los Angeles County, and was the smartest girl in her class. But she couldn't live down some classmates' cruel remarks about her half-breed heritage. Her father, a man of German-Scottish descent, was a no-account Vietnam War veteran who made John Gage's sister Betty pregnant during a drunken tryst in the fall of 1967.
"Why does that little squaw have to come here," Chris cried, as he slowly walked into the hallway.
"Christopher!" Mrs. Stoker was annoyed by her charge's bigotted remark. "Your father's taught you better than that."
"But she is a squaw - her mother's a drunken Indian."
Mrs. Stoker's face turned cold and disgusted. "I will not allow racist comments against anyone - Indians, blacks, Italians, Jews, anyone - in my house," she said. "If I hear them again, I will call your parents."
"Oh, alright," replied Christopher DeSoto, who stepped onto the front porch. "Hi, Sally."
"Sounds like you got in big trouble in there for calling me a squaw," wisecracked Sally Gage, enclosing her arms in front of her slender, lithe body.
"So, why did you come here, Sally? You know I'll never marry you."
"That's not the reason why I'm here," said Sally, tossing the softball into the air before catching it in her hand. "Scott and Jeremy are waiting at the dump. Are you going to the fun fair or what?"
"With 50 cents? Are you crazy?"
Sally Gage pulled a 10 dollar bill out of her cutoff shorts pocket. "Call me rich or what," she beamed, showing the money to her classmate. "Uncle Johnny gave me this money for my birthday last week. Too bad you were such a party pooper - you didn't show up."
"Why would I go to a girl's birthday party, anyway," said Chris DeSoto. "I'll get in such trouble if I go to the dump without Mrs. Stoker's permission."
"Who cares? You could just tell her that you and those guys over there are going to Baskin-Robbins for hot fudge sundaes." Mrs. Stoker had long since disappeared into the kitchen, so Sally wasn't within her earshot.
"I don't know."
"Come on, Chris. It's Memorial Day weekend! You gotta have some fun."
"Oh, alright!"
Chris stepped back into the house. Jennifer and the Stoker girls stopped playing basketball and looked at Sally. "Whooo!!! Sally's in love with Chris," cried Susan Stoker, with a smile in her face.
"Hey, Sally! Did you kiss him?!" That was her sister's remark.
Jennifer, Susan and Lisa chanted the following verse:
Sally and Chris were sitting on a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love, then comes marriage,
then comes Sally with the baby carriage!
"You girls are dumb," replied Sally. "Uncle Johnny says you don't have to be married to have a baby."
"Yes, you do," cried Jennifer from the driveway. "Mom and dad were married when they had me and Chris."
"My mom wasn't, and I'm not a bastard."
"Yes, you are," shouted Lisa Stoker. "I learned that in Sunday school."
Before the argument turned into a fistfight, Christopher DeSoto raced out the Stokers' door. "Mrs. Stoker says it's okay to go to the fun fair," he said. "But we have to be back at five o'clock."
Jennifer, Susan and Lisa threw their basketball into the tool shed. They joined Chris and Sally on the sidewalk before walking away from the house.
But first, the trip to the Los Angeles Dump.
The Los Angeles Dump was a sprawling, foul-smelling lot where mountains of garbage - used soda cans, rusty lawn furniture, moulding food, soiled baby diapers, and decomposing animals that somehow snuck into Glad bags and trash cans - were being built. Even on a Saturday morning, bulldozers were busy pushing more garbage into the new mountains that were being built for them.
An army green dumptruck containing a full load of old tires slowed down, then stopped, at the checkpoint. A short, bulging man wearing a tattered plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans stepped out of the booth.
"Looks like those crazy politicians are wasting money again," he said. "They could be using your load to repave the Interstate - God, it's a mess!"
The dumptruck driver unrolled the window and replied, "Well, I was told to bring this load of old tires here from San Diego. I don't like politicians either, but like they say: we can't live with them, and we can't live without them."
The gate blocking the entrance to the Los Angeles Dump was raised, allowing the dumptruck to drive onto the premises. But before it did, the junkman shouted through the noise from the bulldozers, "Just watch those crazy brats. They think it's okay to build a clubhouse in the city dump - just like they do on Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids."
"Pretty stupid, huh," said the dumptruck driver. "They're gonna get killed with all the bulldozers driving around."
"And at least two of them are paramedics' kids. They should know better."
"They're kids. Kids are stupid."
The dumptruck drove into the junkyard, slowly passing a squat wooden shack plastered with handpainted graffiti. Atop a peeling old red door read a sign reading "FIREKIDS' HIDEOUT," and the door itself warned trespassers to keep out. A wooden flag that hung from the exterior wall bore a fairly decent version of the skull and crossbones symbol that you find in pirate movies, complete with a handwritten disclaimer: "DANGER." There were two wooden shutters, with one of them reading the handpainted message that "COOL ROY WAS HERE." The other shutter read "TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN." The shack itself looked like it should be condemned, and the rotting splintered grey wood didn't help its appearance.
Climbing up the one hill in the dump that wasn't touched by old lawn furniture or smelly diapers Chris, Sally, Jennifer and the Stokers were animatedly talking about all the rides they could check out at the fun fair, which was being held on the parking lot of a local shopping mall. Outside the clubhouse door, three boys stood.
"DeSoto, what was taking you so long," cried Ricky Lopez.
"Yeah," interjected Scott Brice. Jeremy Kelly was playing with his cap rocket, which popped on the clubhouse floor.
Chris stayed silent for a few moments before replying, "Mom dropped me and Jenny off at the Stokers. She knows I'd rather die first than be stuck all day with girls."
"I know you'll change your mind by the time you turn 12," cried Jeremy, who put the cap rocket in his pocket before pulling a magazine out of the clubhouse. He then huddled with the other boys, discreetly showing its contents to them, quietly saying, "I took it from my uncle's place."
"Your uncle lets you read that," exclaimed Chris. "That's a dirty magazine!"
"Uncle Chet reads it for the articles."
"That's what they all say."
While the boys commented on the naked women they saw in the magazine, the girls looked on, frowning. "Hey, are we going to the fun fair or what," shouted Jennifer.
Sally Gage commented, "Looks like they'll be here all day, reading that dirty magazine."
Lisa Stoker added, "I'd rather be home watching Bowling for Dollars."
"I'm hot," said her sister. "Don't we have some cold lemonade?"
"It's in the clubhouse," answered the preoccupied Scott Brice, pointing to the opened door. The girls walked through the doorway to give themselves shelter from the hot sun. The boys soon followed, with Chris closing the door behind him.
About a mile west of the clubhouse, the dumptruck stopped in front of one of the artificial hills. "Should I dump the stuff here," cried the driver to a worker standing about 20 feet behind the truck.
"Sure," the worker cried, through the noise. "I'll move away from here. I don't want to get crushed by those tires."
The worker ran about 100 feet from the dumptruck. From it, about a ton of old tires fell on the ground, creating a new hill of garbage. The driver of the dumptruck smiled before lowering the chassis back on its place. He stepped out and lit his cigarette. "So, what are your plans for the long weekend," he mumbled.
"Me and Matilda, we're going to Sea World with the kids tomorrow," the dump worker said. "I tell you, I need a break like fish need water."
"Wish I could join you," said the dumptruck driver. "I'm working all day tomorrow and Monday. I got Tuesday and Wednesday off next week." He inhaled his Winston.
The dump worker took his carton of Kools out of his shirt pocket. "I should had kicked this dirty habit ages ago," he mused. "But I didn't, and I'll probably die with a cigarette in my mouth."
"Smoking is an addiction," said the dumptruck driver, who now pushed his lighter back into his shirt pocket. Growing tired of his cigarette, he tossed it into the tire heap before stepping into his truck. "Well, I must mosey back home," he said, before driving out of the dump.
What this dumptruck driver did not realize was that his heap of tires contained some sort of flammable liquid, likely kerosene or gas. So, after the dumptruck disappeared from the dirt road, the heap began smoldering with a small, almost transluscent smoke - a smoke that the dump worker didn't realize, since he walked away from the site to work on other things.
Meanwhile in the clubhouse Chris, Jennifer and their friends were standing around a small, rusty metal kitchen table they probably salvaged from the junkyard. Chris was counting the amount of money each of his friends brought to the fun fair - five dollars, 10 dollars, 20 dollars, three one-dollar bills, a quarter and two pennies. The grand total was $23.27.
"Well, $23.27's not bad," Chris DeSoto concluded. "It'll be good for a few cool rides, like the Wild Mouse and the Hurricane. I hate Merry-Go-Rounds."
"Who doesn't," cried Scotty. "Only babies go on those things."
Jennifer seemed preoccupied. She sniffed the rubbery, almost gasy air that suddenly seeped into their clubhouse before asking Jeremy, "Did you play with that stupid cap rocket where you shouldn't?"
"No," Jeremy responded.
"Well, something's burning around here, and nobody here even smokes."
"Well, it does smell funny here," said Jeremy, now taking a sniff of the stale air that took over the clubhouse. He ran to the clubhouse window and, after opening the shutters that enclosed it, he noticed a haze of thick black smoke billowing from a distance. Jeremy knew it came from one of the heaps of garbage. He was sure that something was burning. He turned to Chris: "DeSoto, come here!"
"Not now," his friend replied. "I'm busy here."
"I mean it, DeSoto! There's a fire over there. We'd better split before we get ourselves burned to death."
"Jeremy," said Chris, whose attention was focused on the impromptu meeting he was leading. "You and that uncle of yours were watching The Towering Inferno when your mother said you shouldn't."
"Well, it's not rated R."
"But my dad didn't let me watch it when it was on TV last month. He said it was too scary for kids. Now, come back to the meeting, okay."
Jeremy wearily walked back to the table. Deep down, he was worried about what would happen. Would his uncle be able to save him if the fire grew into an inferno that trapped him and his friends into the clubhouse, suffering from smoke inhalation or serious burns? Why wasn't Christopher DeSoto listening to him? "Lindsay and Angela Stanley should be here any minute, so we have to wait," he answered.
Just then, two tall, slender girls wearing long dark brown hair and freckles raced into the clubhouse.
Their faces appeared red and flushed.
Something was wrong.
"Station 51, station 18, truck 97, batallion 14. Structure fire, Los Angeles Dump. Canyon Road. Cross street Mullholland. Time out: 10:33."
The A-shift of Station 51 raced into their trucks. John Gage and Roy DeSoto ran into their squad truck, donning their black firehats while Captain Hank Stanley responded, "Station 51, KMG-365."
"My kids hang out at that place," cried Roy, turning the ignition. "I only hope that Chris and Jenny aren't there right now."
"The only thing that gets me about Sally is the way she tricks everyone into things," said John. "I hope she didn't get your kids into trouble again."
Sally lured Chris and Jennifer into the old, abandoned cemetery last Hallowe'en, despite warnings from John and Roy about all the scary things that went on there. The cemetery was scary alright - maybe there weren't any ghosts and goblins lurking behind tombstones that dated back to the Wild West, but there were enough foot-deep trenches and stones to make even a guided tour in the unlit site dangerous. Sally fell into one of the trenches, spraining her right ankle. Chris and Jennifer found enough sticks to splinter it before their father arrived to treat Sally - and ground both his kids for two weeks.
Neither John nor Roy had time to reflect on that incident, for the dispatcher made a later warning that there were people trapped in the junkyard. The squad truck sped along the highway, following the engine to the gate that enclosed the Los Angeles Dump from the rest of Canyon Road. The batallion chief was standing in front of his car.
"We've evacuated the area and dispatched two more alarms to the fire," he said, "but it doesn't look good in there." The batallion chief looked back, and the small fire was turning into a small inferno complete with thickening black smoke that eclipsed the sun.
Station 51 drove past the gate. Guiding his squad truck towards the fire, Roy could only say, "Jesus Christ."
"Worse than The Towering Inferno," interjected John.
"You better believe it."
John and Roy joined their non-paramedic team at the burning heap of tires. The garbage surrounding it was also engulfed in flames. So were at least five other tire hills in the area.
"You'll need to wear oxygen masks around here," cried Captain Stanley, mumbling behind his own oxygen mask. The paramedics could barely make out what he said, but they donned their oxygen masks and overcoats to be on the safe side.
Chet Kelly turned back to Stanley. "The fire's out of control," he cried, as he tried to hose down the fire that now spread to other parts of the dump. "I don't know what they put in the stuff, gasoline?"
Captain Stanley noticed a hissing sound coming from the heap of melting metal. "Kelly, Stoker," he cried, "get the hell back! The thing's about to blow!"
The two firefighters pulled back about 100 feet. But they fell to the hot, burning ground when a few old gasoline containers and paint cans expoded in the junk heap. Chet managed to keep his hand on the hose. The fire managed to spread to other parts of the junkyard. The west wing, which served as a graveyard for used car and bike tires, was now engulfed in flames. The black smoke climbed into the stratosphere, turning the bright sunny morning into premature, ominous night.
"We've got to evacuate more people from the area," Captain Stanley told the Batallion Chief. "Get the police to move people from the Mullholland and Elm street area."
While dousing the flames, Roy DeSoto became stunned. Mullholland and Elm was his neighborhood.
And Rampart General Hospital was located near its border.
In the staff room of Rampart General Hospital, Nurse Dixie McCall was seated on the sofa, in front of the TV set. She was watching Baggy Pants and the Nitwits when a set of graphics appeared on the screen: KNBC-TV NEWS BULLETIN.
"We interupt this program to bring you this special news bulletin," the announcer's ominious but authoritative voice boomed through the set, before a youthful-looking man wearing a full head of blond hair and a tan jacket with wide lapels and matching fat tie appeared behind his desk.
"L. A. County firefighters are at the scene of an inferno at the Los Angeles Dump," the anchorman said to this audience. "The fire has completely engulfed the west end of the dump, where about 100 tons of tires are stored."
Joanne DeSoto inserted 25 cents into the soda machine. She worked as a cub reporter for the Los Angeles Times before marrying Roy and giving up journalism. She remained interested in what was going on - not just around the world, but in her own community. Joanne ignored the orange pop that poured into the cup, so she could watch the bulletin on TV. She noticed a squad truck in an aerial shot of the fire: "Roy's at the fire!"
"I'm sure he'll be alright," said Dixie. She understood the anxieties that firefighters' wives went through whenever their husbands went on runs as dangerous as the one the anchor was quick to label "The Los Angeles County Tire Fire of '77."
"But it does look bad," said Joanne. "I couldn't help thinking that someday Roy would get hurt in one of them." She sipped into her soda. "Maybe get killed."
"Joanne." Dixie held her hand after standing up and facing her volunteer. "Roy knows what he's doing. He's a good fireman who cares a lot about you and your kids."
Joanne became silent for a moment. Then, she said, "I have a feeling that Chris and Jennifer went to that junkyard. I told them not to go, especially not after what happened to the McGregors' kid." She picked up the telephone lying on the table. "Mind if I use the phone?"
"That's what it's there for, Joanne."
Joanne dialed Mrs. Stoker, ignoring the anchorman's warning that Los Angeles County police were evacuating their neighborhood. But Mrs. Stoker was still home, and answered the phone. "Hello," she said.
"Is this Hannah Stoker," asked Joanne DeSoto.
"Yes, this is she. How are you, Joanne?"
"Are Chris and Jenny around?"
"No, they went to the fun fair at the mall," she said, before her eyes focused on the television screen. In another aerial shot of the junkyard, the kids' clubhouse was being covered by an overhead blanket of thickening black smoke. But Hannah still noticed someone opening its shutters, perhaps during a vain attempt to ventilate the stuffy little shack. "What in the name of God," she said.
"Hannah, are you still there," asked Joanne, over the phone.
Hannah's line went dead. In the Stokers' living room, Hannah was paying attention to the KNBC coverage of the Los Angeles County Tire Fire. Then, she heard a loud rap at her door.
"Los Angeles County Police Department. Evacuation notice."
Hannah had no way of contacting Mike at the fire department, for he was obviously on a run, and cell phones were yet to be invented. So, putting the receiver back on her ear, she told Joanne to call back later before hanging up. She raced to the door, where she was greeted by two police officers.
"You have to leave the area this minute," said one of the officers, a dark-haired woman with a kindly disposition behind her tough exterior. "Do you have any dependents here at your residence."
"Well, I have a husband who's fighting the fire at the dump, and two girls who are at the fun fair."
The officer looked at Hannah Stoker as though she didn't know what she was talking about. "The fun fair is closed today because it failed to meet safety standards this year," she said.
Hannah froze at the doorway. There was only one place that the DeSoto kids and her daughters could be: the burning dump.
It was now half past two, and the fire raged out of control in the Los Angeles Dump.
Only two hours earlier, the fire spread all over the west end of the junkyard. Now, its vast north end was considered unpassable, and the south end - where the gates and the clubhouse were located - was covered with smoke. In areas near the clubhouse, fire sprouted among the dirty rags and abandoned paint cans lying on the ground.
"We have to get out of here," said Scotty Brice, who doused warm water on the hand towels he brought from home. "I don't feel so good."
"How many towels did you bring from home," asked Ricky Lopez, Marco's baby brother. He was coughing because of the smoke that seeped into the opened windows of the clubhouse
"Oh, about three."
"THREE," exclaimed Christopher DeSoto. "You know we have ten people in the gang. Do you want us to choke to death." He pounded on the wall. "Shit!"
"Oh, you swore," said his sister, between coughs. "I'm gonna tell daddy on you. He's right over there."
"Go ahead, tell on him. He won't do anything, you suck."
"Retard!"
Lindsay Stanley pulled out her inhalator and inserted it in her mouth. She had been suffering from asthma since she was five, the year her father got transfered to Station 51. Her younger sister, Angela, looked on helplessly: "Do something, guys! Lindsay's got asthma! She's going to die!"
Chris opened the clubhouse door. The hill leading to the clubhouse was now completely blocked with flames, but there were a few peripheral safe areas from which the gang could run to safety. And before Chris knew it Scotty, Jeremy and Ricky darted out of the clubhouse and onto the one part of the hill that wasn't blocked by flames. But that part of the hill lead to the north end of the junkyard, which was. Chris and the girls looked on helplessly as the boys went on a labyrinth of flames before reaching lower ground. They weren't burned, but they were coughing almost uncontrollably.
"Get the paramedics, guys," shouted Chris. "Lindsay can't breathe!"
"You should had gotten us out of here before the fire got out of control," snapped Angela Stanley. "Do you want all of us to be killed? And what about Lindsay? Lindsay's got asthma! She can't breathe!"
Jennifer took the last wet cloth from the old table and put it on Lindsay's nose and mouth. "You'll be okay," said Jennifer, putting her arms around Lindsay's shoulders to comfort her. "I'll save you."
Lindsay nodded, as Jennifer lifted her to her feet. Chris had already ran out of the clubhouse, and ran down the hill. Sally and the Stoker sisters soon joined him. But as Jennifer and the Stanley sisters reached the door, the hill became completely engulfed in tiny flames, coming from the old oily rags that littered it. Jennifer looked up, and the roof of the clubhouse was burning - not a lot, but it was burning. She began crying. So did Angela, who stood helplessly at the doorway of the burning clubhouse.
"Come on," shouted Chris. "The place is on fire."
"I can't," sobbed Jennifer. "I'll get burned!"
"COME ON!!!"
The girls began running away from the clubhouse, which soon became covered with big, white-hot flames that tore down the roof, then the walls. But as the girls tried to escape, slivers of the burning clubhouse blew in their way, blocking the few tiny open spaces that remained on the hill. Jennifer remembered the stories her father told her about the brush fire that blocked part of a dirt road, so she figured she could make a breakthrough with Angela and Lindsay, who was now lapsing into semi-consciousness.
"Get dad and Uncle Johnny here," Chris cried to his friends, who ran towards the burning part of the junkyard. He continued looking helplessly while his sister ran on the burning ground, screaming ruefully in burning pain.
"Christopher," Jennifer sobbed painfully, "my feet hurt!"
"COME ON!!!"
"I can't!" Her pace was growing slower. So was Angela's, but despite tears flowing from her eyes, she continued running and holding onto her sister, who coughed weakly. She was barely able to lift her inhalor to her agape mouth, and her arms dangled limply towards the ground.
Angela told Lindsay, "You're going to be alright." Lindsay nodded once, but limply. Her head felt as heavy as a lead balloon. So did Angela's, which throbbed with a painful, blinding headache. Her eyes were blinded with thick black smoke and throbbing pain, and her tiny lungs became filled with the bad junkyard air.
From a distance, a familiar voice could be heard through the noise of fire trucks and the rustle of water coming not just from the firehoses, but the waterdrop that came from an overhead helicopter that flew above the junkyard.
"Somebody's over there," shouted John Gage, who raced towards the burning hill.
"Dwyer, Belliveau! Take care of those kids over there. They're suffering from smoke inhalation!" That came from Roy DeSoto, who joined his partner with the drug box and dispatch unit.
The two paramedics joined the kids standing on the base of the hill. To their dismay, they looked familiar.
"Sally Gage," shouted John, "I told you never to come here!"
"Sorry, Uncle Johnny," said Sally, trying to justify herself. "I just wanted to be like the other kids."
"A kid your age got killed here last week! Do you want the same thing to happen to you?! Do you?!"
Sally looked onto the ground, letting her tears drip onto the smoking ground. John turned to Captain Stanley and said, "Could you get my niece and those other girls out of here?"
But Captain Stanley looked at the hill, where Jennifer and Angela were helping Lindsay down. They were obviously in pain. "Gage, DeSoto," he shouted. "My girls! They're up there!"
Roy looked towards the hill, and noticed his daughter crying loudly in the middle of the smoke and flames. Shocked, he ran towards the girls, who were now limping in pain and about to collapse.
"Johnny," he shouted, "we have three girls needing treatment. We'll need two ambulances at the scene."
John Gage called the dispatcher, requesting an additional ambulance to the scene. Captain Stanley took Chris and Sally to Squad 18, where they were also treated for smoke inhalation. But as much as Roy was emotionally attached to his son, his mind was focused on treating Jennifer, Angela and Lindsay. He took off their shoes and socks, and discovered deep red welts covered with blisters.
"Third-degree burns," he said, before putting burn packs on their feet.
Angela's young voice inflected urgency as she spoke, "My sister's got asthma. Could you help her, please? I know she's going to die."
"Not if we can help it," said John, before dispatching Rampart General Hospital: "Rampart, this is Squad 51. Could you read me?"
At Rampart, Kelly Brackett was drinking coffee near the dispatch board - a minor infraction of hospital rules which prohibited beverages from being consumed near equipment. But he wasn't too busy to respond to John's distant voice: "Read you loud and clear, 51."
"Rampart, we have three victims," began John. "The first one is female, nine years old, four feet six inches tall and weighing 50 pounds. She is suffering from asthma, smoke inhalation and third-degree burns to her feet and ankles. Pupils are diulated, but responsive to light. She is semi-conscious. Pulse is 90, VP is 130 over 70, respiration is 20 and weak. The second victim is female, seven years old. She is also suffering from smoke inhalation and second-degree burns to her feet and ankles. Pupils are normal and she is conscious. Pulse is 70, VP is 120 over 80, respiration is 30 and labored. The third victim is female, approximately six years old -"
"She'll be seven tomorrow," cried Captain Stanley, who helped Sally and Chris into the waiting ambulance.
"Rampart, the third victim is seven years old. She is also suffering from smoke inhalation and second-degree burns to her feet and ankles. Pupils are normal and the victim is conscious. Please stand by for vitals."
Roy, who was treating Angela, responded, "VP is 120 over 80. Respiration is 30 and labored. Pulse is 60." John repeated his partner's findings over the phone, asking, "What is the ETA?"
"ETA is 10 minutes, 51," responded Dr. Brackett. "Did you give the girls burn packs to cool down the burns?"
"Affirmative, Rampart."
"Give all victims an IV with D5W, TKO. Transport asthma victim immediately. The other victims, transport as soon as possible."
"The ambulance is at the scene for one of the victims," said John, who summoned the ambulance attendants to lift Lindsay onto the stretcher after Roy inserted a needle containing IV with D5W into her arm. Dwyer awaited her at the ambulance, which left the burning junkyard quickly.
That left Squad 51 with the two remaining girls. John Gage turned to Hank Stanley, asking him whether it was okay to administer further treatment on Angela.
"What can she lose," he replied. "If it wasn't for you and Jennifer, Lindsay would had died in there." He saw the tinder that was once the clubhouse fall onto the ground. The red-white fire behind it became less intense, but the black smoke continued billowing into the sky.
John smiled. He took Stanley's reply as a yes. So did Roy, who inserted the needle into Angela's arm.
"This is a needle that has something that'll make you feel a little better," Roy said in a fatherly, sensitive manner. "Does it hurt, Angela?"
"It pinches a little, but it doesn't hurt."
"Good." Then, Roy turned to Captain Stanley and said, "We're going to be taking your daughter to Rampart General Hospital. They'll be taking good care of her."
"I know they will," nodded Captain Stanley, who became too emotionally involved to direct Station 51's efforts to contain the fire. Mike Stoker had to take over, despite the fact that his two daughters were being treated for smoke inhalation and taken to Rampart, where a nearby university was being converted into an evacuation center for residents of the Mullholland and Elm Street area.
As Angela Stanley was being wheeled into the waiting ambulance, it was Jennifer DeSoto's turn to receive her shot of D5W. Roy knew that little Jenny was afraid of needles, and cried every time he took her to their family doctor for her regular immunization shots. But it was either an IV with D5W or living with acute pain from here to the hospital.
"Jenny," said John Gage, "this is not going to hurt you one bit."
Jennifer had already been crying in pain because of her burned feet. But the sight of an IV needle was enough to drive her to hysterics: "NO!!!"
"Jenny, Uncle Johnny's only trying to help you," Roy said, as his child buried her sobbing head into his chest. He embraced her as he whispered, "Sweetheart, daddy's going to give you some candy if you let Uncle Johnny put that thing in your arm. It'll make your feet not hurt anymore. Please don't cry."
"Daddy, I hate needles," sobbed Jennifer. "They scare me."
Roy brushed Jennifer's dark brown tresses off her delicate, pale face. "You know, needles scared me when I was a little boy," he said. "It's okay to be scared of needles, Jenny. But they help you."
As Jenny's tears became less audible, John gently inserted an IV needle into her arm. Jenny didn't cry, much less screech, when she felt it. She even closed her eyes and slept comfortable as two attendants wheeled her into a waiting ambulance.
Roy accompanied his daughter to Rampart. John stepped into the squad truck, and followed the ambulance along the abandoned dirt road. From a distance, the tire fire was under control, but fire still bursted from numerous parts of the junkyard, and a thinning layer of black smoke could be seen from a distance. But John smiled at the scene, with the good feeling that no one had been killed. But, of course, things could had been much worse - especially for the kids who snuck into the junkyard without their parents' permission.
Joanne DeSoto could not be mad at Hannah Stoker for letting Chris and Jennifer out of her sight. Instead, she stopped by the Rampart hospital cafeteria after her volunteer work shift to find out more from her about the tire fire.
"The entire neighborhood's been evacuated," said Hannah, sipping into her coffee. "I'll be spending time at UCLA until we can go home again."
"I just spoke to Roy at admissions." Joanne sat on a chair in front of her friend. "They're going to be keeping Jenny here for a few days for observation. Chris, Sally and those boys they hang around with - they've been treated for smoke inhalation and released."
Hannah sipped into more of the hospital's overly strong coffee. "Both my girls will be kept overnight for observation," she said, "and Angela Stanley will be, too."
"Hank and Emily have Lindsay, too. Will she be alright?"
"They don't know yet," replied Hannah, sipping more coffee. "Lindsay's a very sick girl. She's had asthma since she was little."
Joe Early walked to Joanne's and Hannah's table and sat on a vacant seat between them. His benevolent face showed optimism and kindness.
"Joanne," he said, "Jenny's going to be just fine. She'll be here for a few days, but I don't want her to be sunbathing or playing sports for at least two weeks."
"Can I see her?"
"You most certainly can."
Joanne stood up. After wishing Hannah the best for her daughters, she walked into the elevator. Dr. Early accompanied her into the children's ward, which was located on the second floor of Rampart. One of the semi-private rooms belonged to Jennifer, who had no roommates and no TV. But she had three visitors - one of them, Chris, was playing Battleship on the meals table.
"Hey, Chris, you sunk my battleship," protested Jennifer.
"Well, you sunk mine last time," said her older brother.
"Okay, okay," cheerfully cried John Gage, who stood between the DeSoto kids. "At least, you guys didn't cheat - and that's the main thing. Right, Jenny?"
"Right, Uncle Johnny." She embraced her dark-haired "uncle," saying with sincerity, "I love you."
"I love you too, Jenny."
Roy DeSoto looked out the door. He announced, "Hey, Jenny! You've got a special visitor here!"
"Dr. Early's here already. And mom!" She embraced her mom, before she gave her Mr. Peeples, the doll she forgot at the Stokers.
Vera McGregor, Joanne's assistant Brownie Scout leader and the mother of the boy who died in the junkyard accident, stepped into the hospital room. She may had been dressed in the black suit she wore to her son's funeral, but her manner was upbeat. Life must go on - at least, around her Brownie.
"Jenny," Mrs. McGregor began, "I just spoke to Nurse Dixie and Dr. Brackett. Your friend Lindsay will be okay."
"That's good," Joanne and Jennifer said together.
Mrs. McGregor reached into her large purse to pull out an item. "We at the 36th Carson Brownie Scouts have decided to give you an award that is given to a Brownie who risked her own life to save others. This is the Valor Award, and we want you to wear this pin with pride for as long as you are in Girl Scouts."
The pin was inserted into Jennifer's pajama. Jennifer's face beamed at everyone in the room - including her brother, who she hugged from her bed.
"You did great, sis," Chris told her. "I was the bum-bum head for not getting you guys out sooner."
All Jennifer could do is look at the Valor Award pin on her pajama. The shining gilt was enough to bring a smile to her face, which still bore the pain of living with two burned feet.
"Dangerous Hangout" ©1999 Irene Markoja. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
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