Only in My Dreams

by

J. Hawk

Looking back, Roy DeSoto thought how unfair it had been to lose a life on such a beautiful, late summer. day.  As he saw it, death was never fair, especially when children were involved.  The debaters would argue the point, stating that at times death could be regarded as a blessing – perhaps after a wasting, pain-ridden illness… maybe.  But as far as DeSoto was concerned death was always the enemy.  Ironically, he and his counterparts risked their own lives to keep “it” at bay.  Sometimes the game wasn’t played straight and “it” cheated, sneaking unobtrusively to steal a life before they even had the opportunity to fight.  That was what had happened that day.  A routine rescue that turned tragic because of the way circumstances unfolded; a twisting of fate and time that resulted in a senseless death.  Unfortunately the sorrow and self-recriminations had long lasting effects to the extent that it was almost as if two lives had been lost that day instead of one.

The call came mid-afternoon on a lazy Saturday in September   It was the first run for Station 51 on A-shift that day – a rarity in itself.  The weather was perfect in every way, sunny, warm and breezy, with just a tang in the air of cooler days to come.  There was not a cloud to be seen in a sky so breathtakingly blue and bright, that it caused the naked eye to ache from its brilliance.  It was the first time that the normally oppressive, smoggy atmosphere of the L.A. basin had retreated in months.  It was a day to play kickball in the neighborhood streets or roll in the grass; a day to stare longingly outside if one had the misfortune to be relegated to an indoor job.  It was a day too beautiful to die; but then death didn’t lay in wait for sullen gray days to strike its unsuspecting victims.

Chapter One

“Johnny!  I’ll get the one in the water!”

Roy, with Marco’s assistance, pulled the semi-conscious teen further up on the sand, depositing the injured boy well out of the waves that crested against the rocks where the firemen knelt.  Brushing the stinging saltwater out of his eyes, DeSoto shivered as a stiff breeze plastered his sodden pants against his legs…

The klaxons had sounded shortly after 3 p.m.  Two teenagers had radioed the Coast Guard for assistance when the pin in their inboard motor sheared as it glanced off a submerged rock about a mile south of Lunada Bay.  Without appropriate power to steer the boat, they had been swept along the shoreline with the incoming tide and dashed against the rocks until the fiberglass hull had cracked and begun to take on water.  The Coast Guard had requested assistance from the L.A. County Fire Department when attempts to maneuver their cutter into the narrow confines where the foundering boat lay, failed.  Station 51 was dispatched.

The engine and squad were on scene within minutes.  From the firemen’s vantage, high up on the bluff, the vessel was perilously close to swamping.  One victim crouched low inside the boat, his hips and legs obscured by the frothy water rushing across the deck as he held fast to the railing.  Some distance away, a second victim clung desperately to the rocks along the shore.  The cliff upon which the firefighters stood dropped off sharply to the rugged coast below.  A narrow promontory of glistening rock extended beyond the coastline, jutting out into the Pacific.  The incoming tide and current was slowly dragging the stricken craft along the promontory and parallel to the shore.  The blue-green water was littered with jagged smokestacks of rock that jutted up from the ocean floor, the formations preventing the larger Coast Guard vessel access to the rescue scene.  It lay anchored about a half-mile out in deeper water, available for assistance if needed.

Firefighter/Paramedics Roy DeSoto and John Gage rapidly rappelled down the steep face of the cliff, followed closely by Firefighters Marco Lopez and Chet Kelly.  Captain Hank Stanley and Engineer Mike Stoker lowered the medical equipment that might be needed to treat the victims.  DeSoto and Lopez, harnesses disengaged, quickly paired off towards the victim on the rocks. 

In the brief period of time it took Gage and Kelly to pick their way along the rugged shore, the boat had moved approximately forty yards further along the narrow spit of land.  Another hundred yards and the boat, already riding dangerously low in the water, would be in peril of sweeping around the point and foundering as the rip tide that ran parallel to the shore pushed it into deeper depths.   

*****

“Hey, can you hear me?” Roy attempted to get a response from the first victim, as he ran his hands along the back of the teen’s head and neck checking for possible spinal injuries. 

The boy’s eyes flashed open and fastened on the paramedic, his gaze terror stricken.  “Where…where’s Ryan?”  He started to scramble up, only to be firmly pushed back by Roy as he bent down within the boy’s field of vision.

“Whoa there!  My partners are going after your boat.  They’ll help your friend.  I’m Roy DeSoto and this is Marco Lopez.  We’re with the Los Angeles County Fire Department.  Try to lie still while I check you out.”  DeSoto looked up at Lopez, shielding his eyes from the bright sun.  “Can you get our equipment?”

“Sure, Roy.”  The Hispanic carefully made his way back to the base of the cliff.

The teen grabbed DeSoto’s forearm with one icy hand that trembled violently.  “I’m—I’m okay.  Ryan’s the one—aaagh!”  His fingers tightened, clamping down with enough force to nearly pull Roy off balance.

“Sorry, looks like you might have a fracture of the left leg.”  Roy absently rubbed his arm where red marks were already surfacing.  He reached down to palpate the top of the boy’s foot to ensure that the pedal pulse was still intact.  “Did you lose consciousness?”

The boy’s blue-tinged lips compressed tightly and then relaxed as Roy drew away from his injured leg.  “N-no.  I lost my balance and fell in the water when I tried to make a jump for the rocks.  Then the boat pinned my leg.  Stupid move I guess.”  The teen stopped as his teeth began to chatter.  “You’ve g-got to get to Ryan.  He…he needs help and she’s t-taking on water.”  His frightened eyes pleaded as his freezing hand gripped Roy’s arm once again.

Roy squinted against the wind-borne spray and caught a glimpse of Gage hauling himself over the boat’s gunwale.  His partner landed awkwardly, headfirst onto the deck, as another wave sent the craft careening towards the rocks. 

“Don’t worry; they’re doing everything they can for your friend.”  Roy clasped the boy’s arm as he spoke reassuringly.  He squeezed it briefly and then broke contact to take his patient’s pulse.  “What’s your name?” 

“Eric… Eric Jeffers.  My friend’s Ryan Harding.  It’s his d-dad’s boat.  We were collecting specimens for b-biology class.”

Roy paused for a moment, moving the palm of his hand to the boy’s diaphragm to monitor his respiration.  “How old are you, Eric?”

“Fif-fifteen.  Ryan’s sixteen.  They just b-b-b…,” Eric shut his eyes until the shiver subsided.  “The boat’s brand new.”

Roy shadowed the boy’s face to check his pupillary reaction.  “How long were you in the water?”  DeSoto suspected a mild case of hypothermia. 

“N-not long.  I…I couldn’t help Ryan b-because of my leg.”  His last sentence ended in a rush.  Eric’s eyes glistened with tears as his throat worked convulsively.  He angrily ground the palms of his hands against his eyes to erase the traces of emotion.

“Eric, you need to relax.  Marco’s bringing some blankets to get you warmed up and we’re going to contact the hospital about your leg.”  Roy patted the distraught boy’s shoulder, knowing that the only thing that would console him at the moment would be the knowledge that his friend was safely back on land.  Glancing over his shoulder, Roy noted with relief that a safety line had been strung from the boat to where Chet was positioned along the shore.  By all appearances the rescue of the second victim was imminent. 

Marco deposited the Stokes and equipment next to Roy.  The firefighter broke open a blanket pack and tucked the protective sheeting around their shivering patient. 

“Thanks, Marco.  Can you establish a connection with Rampart while I get his BP?  Uh, Eric here is fifteen.  His friend, Ryan, is sixteen.”

Seconds later, Marco growled in frustration and snapped the lid to the biophone shut.  Pulling the handy-talkie from the pocket of his turnout, he extended the antenna.  “HT 51 to Engine 51.”

“Engine 51.”

“Cap, can you set up a relay to Rampart?  The biophone’s not transmitting.  We’re probably in a dead zone because of the cliff.  Both victims are minors; we’ll need permission to treat.  Do you copy?”

“10-4. Stand by.”

“HT 51.  Ambulance’s ETA is about ten minutes.  We have an officer on sight.  Both victims have been placed into temporary custody and medical treatment is now authorized.  We’ll need parents’ names and contact numbers when possible, so the Sheriff’s department can notify.  Copy?”

“10-4. Stand-by, Engine 51.”

Roy placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Eric, I need your and Ryan’s parents’ names and phone numbers.  We’re contacting the hospital to give you something to make you more comfortable, and then we’ll splint your leg and move you topside.”

“His dad’s gonna k-kill us.  We weren’t s-supposed to leave the inlet.”

Roy wasn’t sure if Eric’s barely audible moan that preceded his last statement came from pain or fear of what was yet to come.  He imagined it had something to do with notifying the parents.  A sympathetic smile tugged his lips as he jotted the next of kin information on the MICU pad for Marco to relay.  His family had never had the privilege of owning a boat when he was growing up, but he could well imagine his parents’ response if he had taken the family car out for a spin and totaled it.

DeSoto rocked back on his heels.  His patient was quiet, eyes closed.  He noted with satisfaction that most of the boy’s shivering had subsided.  Exhaustion was setting in as the adrenaline wore thin.  As Marco relayed the boy’s vitals, Roy scanned the rocky spit to check on his coworker’s progress.  His eyes swept past and then swung back to the blur of activity coming from the rocks.  Chet was furiously hauling on the safety line.  Kelly’s pace, far too jerky and rapid, spoke a thousand frightening words to Roy.  The rescue had somehow gone sour.  DeSoto shot to his feet, searching the shoreline for a sign of his partner and the victim.  The boat was partially submerged and void of its occupants.  Roy’s gaze swept the rough water for any sign of human life.  There was nothing but the undulating swells as they foamed and creamed against the jagged rocks. 

As his heart rate escalated, Roy glanced up to the top of the bluff.  A car screeched to a standstill near the rescue vehicles.  A woman ran from the passenger side to join the small crowd of people now lining the cliff’s edge.  A man caught up with her in time to grab her arm as she sank to the ground, her hands over her mouth to still a silent scream.  A choked sob alerted DeSoto that Eric was awake and watching, too.

“Damn, that’s Ryan’s parents.  They must have been monitoring our band and heard our distress call to the Coast Guard.”  The tears threatened again and this time Eric did nothing to keep them in check.

Marco wordlessly passed the MICU form back to Roy, his grim expression conveying his awareness of the turn of events. 

“Thanks, Marco.  Maybe you can give Chet and Johnny a hand?”  Roy’s professional mask, warm and compassionate eyes in an unreadable face, slipped back into place as he knelt to administer the medications that Rampart had ordered.  It was a credit to his skills and dedication that DeSoto remained focused on the task at hand   The professional side of him did not question his priority, which was that of his patient; however, the personal side screamed for release to render assistance where he felt it was critically needed.  It required every bit of will power he had to stay calmly at Eric’s side.  A covert glance topside told him that the remainder of 51’s crew had swung into action.  Mike was rappelling down the side of the cliff as the handy-talkie next to DeSoto squelched.  Cap’s transmission was terse as he requested a dive team and another squad and ambulance.  Roy wrenched the knob to the off position as the tones sounded from Dispatch.  There was nothing Roy could say, no platitudes he could offer to make it better. 

Tears continued to seep from beneath Eric’s closed lids, slowly trickling down his cheeks and dropping off his face.  Soon, the yellow blanket was speckled with the wet blotches.

Chapter Two

Johnny tightened his grip as another wave thrust him against the boat’s side.  Exhausted, he rode the wave out, then inhaling deeply, he dived once more beneath the damaged hull of the boat.  Things had gone very wrong within minutes of his less than graceful arrival on board the crippled craft…

When the four firefighters rappelled down the face of the cliff, there was no discussion as to who would enter the water to rescue the victim on the boat.  As the strongest swimmer at Station 51, Johnny instinctively headed towards the spit of rock where the vessel foundered, followed closely by Chet.  A splintering crash rented the air as the firefighters reached the shore and the paramedic lunged into the surf without hesitation.  Chet remained on shore to serve as spotter and to anchor the safety line that would guide Gage back with the victim. 

The penetrating chill from Gage’s initial immersion nearly took his breath away and he barely had time to inhale before a wave washed over his head.  The rude shock to his system felt like a flash of heat followed by a “pins and needles” sensation that prickled throughout each of his limbs.  Johnny estimated the water’s temperature to be about sixty degrees, a chilling reminder of the life threatening conditions that could be caused by hypothermia.  Without further delay, the paramedic struck out for the sinking boat, each stroke sure and strong as he swam.  Coming up short of the vessel, he treaded water for a moment as he followed the rise and fall of the boat from each oncoming wave.  When he felt he had the rhythm timed correctly, he latched onto the boat’s ladder and pulled himself up over the side.  

Johnny had hoisted one leg over the gunwale when the boat suddenly dropped sharply from under him.  The unexpected movement hurled him forward and he clumsily landed on the deck face-first as it rose up to meet him.  The side of his cheekbone and temple grazed the slick surface followed by his shoulder and side before he finally slid to a stop.  Scrambling to his feet, Johnny managed to grab the railing as the vessel plunged again.  The horizon tilted, and almost immediately a familiar lightheaded sensation descended upon him.  Choosing to ignore the seasick symptoms that he was prone to, Johnny’s gaze quickly assessed the condition of the boat.  The craft was in its death throes.  On the outside he figured it might last another ten minutes.  Not long enough for an air rescue…

“I’m John Gage with the L.A. County Fire Department.”  He ruefully rubbed the smarting flesh on the side of his face.  “Thought I’d just drop in to see if you needed any help.”

The teen grinned in spite of his fear and exhaustion.  “Ryan Harding.  I’m sorry you had to come get me.”

“Are you okay?  Hurt in any way?”  As he spoke, Johnny visually assessed his victim for physical or mental impairments that might hinder the rescue attempt.  He decided that Ryan’s pinched features were probably the result of exposure to the cold water.  Gage’s eyes traveled down the boy’s limbs, halting at the brace that covered the teen’s left leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf.  The probability of a rescue, free from problems, had just decreased by a square root. 

There was definite fear in Ryan’s eyes, but his voice was steady when he spoke.  “No, I’m okay.  Just cold…and scared.”

“Fear’s healthy, it keeps you in check.  Don’t worry; we’ll have you home in time for supper.”  Gage cast about with a critical eye as he surveyed the damage that tons of water had wrought.  “Where are your life preservers?  You should have about six on board.”

“Home in time for my dad to kill me, you mean.”  Ryan nodded to a battered footlocker partially wedged under a railing.  The lid was hanging by one hinge and Johnny didn’t have to look inside to know it was empty. 

“I usually wear one.  We… we took then off when we cleared the inlet.”  The downcast eyes expressed more than the comment did.

Johnny shrugged.  Reproach certainly wasn’t going to solve the problem.  He and Roy encountered this all the time on the job.  It was one of the reasons why they were always so busy.

“Ryan, how well can you swim?”

The boy nearly lost his footing as water swirled around his feet.  “Pretty good.  I—I don’t know if I can do it with my leg this way.”

Gage sized up his victim.  Ryan was nearly as tall as the paramedic and large boned.  Johnny figured the boy probably outweighed him by a good twenty pounds.  The kid seemed to have a level head on his shoulders, but, they weren’t in the water yet.

Johnny signaled Chet and the firefighter shot a coil of line that arced smoothly through the air and landed with a thud on the deck.  Gage neatly tied the rope off to one of the boat’s cleats and then swung back to Ryan with his hand held up and fingers splayed to get the boy’s attention.  “Okay, now listen carefully to me, Ryan.  You’re going to have to follow my directions – there’s no time for questions or debates.  You need to trust me.”

“What…what do you want me to do?”

“We’ll drop into the water together and together, we’re going to follow this line back to shore.”

“But I don’t know if I can swim like this!”

“And I know that you can – with my help.”

“Can’t we just tie a rope around our waists and he…,” Ryan gestured over his shoulder to Kelly who was tying the rope off to an outcropping of rock, “he can haul us in?”

“Too dangerous.  We can’t risk getting fouled in the line.”

Ryan shook his head.  “I can’t do this.”

Johnny’s grip on the boat’s railing tightened as another wave swamped the deck.  “Ryan, you have to.  We’re out of options and this boat’s gonna go at any minute.”  Precious seconds lapsed.  “Look, I’m trained in water rescues; there’s no alternative here.”

“I’m never going out in another boat again.”

The conciliatory comment implied the consent Johnny needed to act.  He grinned reassuringly.  “Maybe your dad will invest in another form of recreation,” he quipped.  “Don’t worry, Ryan, I’ll keep you safe.”

Before Johnny had the opportunity to instruct the teen on how the rescue would proceed, the boat collided with a submerged rock.  With a screeching crunch, the boat shuddered and then skewed sideways as the projection pierced the hull and held it fast.  The fluid seesaw motion from the waves abruptly ground to a halt.  Ryan slid helplessly across the wet deck, the boy’s arms flailing furiously in his attempt to regain balance.

Johnny’s feet flew completely out from under him.  He landed hard on his back, winded.  The flash of a mooring line loomed briefly – inches from Gage’s eyes – its yellow loop kicked up by Ryan’s tennis shoe as the boy skidded past the paramedic’s head.  The rope tightened momentarily as Ryan’s foot sailed from Johnny’s view and then the teen was gone.  Gage rolled onto all fours, struggling to breathe, as the boat’s mooring line snaked across the deck, its stack of coils disappearing quickly as the rope paid out. 

Johnny sprung into action as the last of the line strung out tautly tugging against the cleat it was tied off to.  Gage didn’t allow himself the luxury of a full breath of air.  With each second counting, he was over the side of the boat in a heartbeat.

*****

The relative clarity at the surface gave way to silt-laden murkiness a few feet down, compelling Johnny to rely heavily on touch to seek out Ryan.  The turbulent water swirled about him, buffeting his body in several directions at once.  For a few panicked seconds, Gage was unsure of his orientation to the surface, then his hip grazed harshly against the rocky bottom and his body was skipping along, propelled by the current.  Snagging a barnacle encrusted protrusion, Johnny slowed his forward momentum enough to flex his legs down and push off the ocean floor.  Breaking the surface, the paramedic was rewarded with a mouthful of water as another wave slammed into him.  Sputtering and coughing, Johnny quickly surveyed the immediate area.  There was no sign of Ryan.  Taking a deep breath, the paramedic submerged again. 

He hugged the underside of the boat, steering clear of the jutting rock that had breeched the hull.  Swimming along the length of the boat he groped for the boy as the power of each wave forced him against the hull and then sucked him away.  The teenager and mooring line remained elusive.  A burning in Gage’s chest signaled the need to surface, and he followed the contour of the hull up to the sharp, fresh air.  A cursory glance towards deeper water revealed nothing but white-caps among the gray-blue swells.  Curling waves crashed against the pinioned boat, shooting frothy water skyward while seagulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cawing insistent on attention.  The stinging water slapped repeatedly against Johnny’s face as he treaded.  Where in the hell is he?  Teeth chattering, Johnny was dimly aware of Chet on shore, trying to get his attention.  The water almost felt warm as it enveloped his head and shoulders when he pushed below the surface again.

Another dive proved fruitless, with Johnny’s frustration mounting over his inability to locate Ryan or the mooring line that in all probability held the teen captive.  The cleat to which the rope was tied off, located on the starboard side of the boat, was now completely submerged as the boat continued to take on water.  Johnny raked wet hair out of his eyes as he pondered the watery space that lay between the hull and the rocky bottom.  His eyes briefly narrowed as he wondered if that was where Ryan was trapped and the reason why he had been unable to locate him.  Working his way under the hull would be suicidal; the action of the waves would pulverize him into mincemeat.  ‘Don’t worry, Ryan.’  The useless words taunted Gage as he drew another breath and kicked below the surface again.

The reasonable time frame for a successful rescue was gone.  Although the odds of Ryan surviving were nil, Gage would not allow himself to give up.  A flurry of air bubbles and the buoyant bobbing of his body signaled the advent of another wave.  Johnny surfaced to comparative safety along what was left of the leeward side of the capsized hull.  Using it as a buffer between him and the waves, Gage caught his breath and scanned the water’s surface over to the shoreline.  Chet was thumbing the HT, his stance rigid, the breeched safety line in a heap at his feet.  Ignoring Kelly’s frantic hails, Gage dropped below the surface again. 

Following the last unproductive dive, Johnny sluggishly recognized that his energy reserves were seriously depleted.  He was shivering forcefully and his arms and legs felt like leaden weights.  He awkwardly pushed wet hair out of his eyes, inhaled raggedly and dove again.  Ignoring the cue of another oncoming wave, Gage pushed forward, willing the appearance of the boy.  The rush of water forced him into the rocks, the impact expelling his breath in an explosive whoosh of bubbles.  Johnny’s spontaneous response was to kick upwards, an action that drove him into the submerged hull, entrapping him for terrifying seconds.  The surge of water pushed his struggling frame into the narrow-like grotto created by the deck of the boat and the surrounding rocks it lay against.  Swimming sideways, Johnny became ensnared in the drifting mooring line, now no longer anchored to the crumbled cleat.  Resisting the urge to panic, Johnny fought to free himself from the loops of nylon cable, his pocketknife, within easy reach, forgotten.  Gage continued to flounder within the entangled line as his throat muscles contracted painfully from lack of air.  Finally working free, he clumsily grasped the line, using it as leverage to pull his body along the submerged deck.  Once clear of the boat, he shot to the surface, his stiff fingers still locked around the rope.  As Johnny greedily gulped air, the line pulled taut, threatening to pull him back underwater.  Gage was just about to release the line when it slackened of its own accord.  Ryan’s body popped up about fifty feet away.  Too weary to sense a bitter victory, Johnny mechanically encircled his arm about the line and woodenly swam towards the teen.

His chest heaving, Johnny pulled on the mooring line, to close the gap of water between him and Ryan.  The boy floated face-down, his limbs bobbing disjointedly in the rough water.  Johnny’s final tug on the rope caused the body to dip below the surface and then lazily roll over.  Ryan’s hazel eyes, fixed and dilated, stared sightlessly at the sunny sky.  Johnny dug his fingers into the cold skin at the boy’s neck, clumsily palpating for a carotid pulse.  His searching fingers, numbed from the water’s exposure, were unable to detect the slightest flutter.  Unable to trust his impaired judgment, the paramedic cradled the boy’s head within the crook of his arm, applied pressure to the slack jaw and blew into the blue-tinged nostrils.  Did he see a faint rise in the chest?  Impatiently brushing water from his face with the side of his arm, Johnny tilted Ryan’s head back further and blew again.  Gage just couldn’t confirm a chest rise because of the angle of the body.  A faint trail of foam dribbled from a corner of the boy’s mouth.  A wave washed over them, separating the two.  Coughing, Gage caught the trailing line and pulled the boy back against his chest.  Unwilling to concede to the inevitable and stubbornly aware of a growing sense of failure, Johnny continued rescue breathing as he weakly treaded water.

*****

Chet impatiently scanned the water’s surface.  Not much remained of the boat, just the underside of the hull that gleamed like a picked bone in the sunlight.  Johnny had been underwater this time far too long.  Ignoring protocols, he thumbed the HT, “Cap, I don’t like the way things are going here.”

“HT 51, Marco’s almost to your location and I’m sending Mike down to you, too.  Another engine and squad have been dispatched and…,” Stanley hesitated fractionally, “I’ve requested a dive team.”

Just then, Johnny surged to the surface, his face ashen as he gasped for air.  A flash of color further out confirmed to Kelly that Ryan had surfaced, too.  The body floated with no resistance, red shirt billowing loosely about its torso.

Chet knew the teen had to be dead.  His hails fell on deaf ears as Gage swam towards the body, his strokes slow and clumsy.

Dropping the transmitter, Kelly sloshed into the frigid water, gasping as a wave dislodged his foot and the icy flow washed over his head.  He had never particularly cared for swimming; it certainly was not one of his strengths.  But he could hold his own when it came to a water rescue.  By the time Chet reached Johnny, Ryan’s face was nearly below the waterline and Johnny, his movements stiff and uncoordinated, was barely making contact in his attempts to breathe life into the boy.

“Gage?”

The paramedic did not respond as he awkwardly bent towards the teen’s face again. 

Chet swam behind the two and pulled the paramedic back against his chest.

Johnny lashed out at the mooring line as Ryan floated free from his arms.  The paramedic’s fingers, insensate from cold, brushed uselessly against the rope’s fibers.  Unable to gain a proper hold, Gage’s hand trembled, and then slid into the water.

“I’ll get him, John.”  Chet reached around Gage and grabbed the drifting line.  The firefighter wrapped one arm protectively around the shivering paramedic’s chest and pulled back until Johnny rested against his shoulder.  “Let’s get the two of you into shore.”

Gage wordlessly leaned into the embrace, shuddering as he drew a deep breath.

Chet tightened his hold as he kicked towards shore, he and Johnny cresting with each wave while the body trailed behind them.  Marco met them halfway, taking charge of Ryan.

Roy splashed into the water as they neared the shore and assisted Marco in pulling the body up onto the rocks.  The mooring line had snagged on Ryan’s leg brace and was wrapped in a tangled mass around the boy’s feet.  Marco swiftly cut the waterlogged line away as Roy palpated for a pulse that he knew would not be there.  Silently he noted dripping hair that concealed a concave depression above the boy’s left ear.  Applying the defibrillator paddles to the teen’s unnaturally white chest confirmed the unspoken – the monitor reflected a flat line.  Squad 36’s siren heralded its arrival as DeSoto brushed his hand across the sightless eyes, closing them forever to the bright sunlight.

Huddled down within several blankets, Johnny ignored his teammates as they feverishly worked.  The dismal confirmation of an outcome already known only added to the guilt that was beginning to engulf him.  Gage’s coworker’s voices faded, as with detached indifference, Johnny regarded a seagull as it alighted on a nearby rock.  The bird quizzically tilted its head as it dispassionately surveyed the frenzied activity before it, activity that finally slowed to a defeated halt.  With the prospect of a free handout on the wane, the bird soared into the air, circled a few times, and then disappeared.

Johnny leaned back and rested his head against a rock that partially shielded him from the wind and spray.  His hair, spiked from the salt water, ruffled about his gray features in wild disarray.  He jolted as the click of the defibrillator case, signaled closure to the hoped-for rescue.  Beaten, he closed his eyes to the debacle before him.

Mike protectively tucked a stray fold from one of the blankets into place around the shivering paramedic.  He leaned down as Gage’s lips moved.

The murmur was barely audible above the crash of the surf.  “He couldn’t swim….  I promised.”

Chapter Three

The sleeper restlessly flopped onto his back, entangling one pale leg within the rumpled bed sheets.  A fine sheen of perspiration slicked his stubbled jaw.  Occasionally his relaxed features would crease fretfully before settling into composure once again.

His awareness hovered between wakefulness and oblivion, that transitional state where images flashed and swirled and disjointed thoughts when confronted the following morning seldom made sense, if they could be recalled at all.  At the mercy of his subconscious, he was ill-prepared to wrestle with the foes his mind conjured, and so he rested fitfully.  The sheet-bound foot twitched sporadically.  Unable to move freely, he moaned softly as he slept on…

…His world was shrouded in a thick, gray fog; the landscape’s features shadowed and indistinct.  Bewildered, he slowly turned round.   The terrain was unfamiliar and appeared to be devoid of life.  He tentatively stepped forward, peering intently in a vain attempt to see beyond the fog.  His outstretched hand encountered nothing but damp, cool air. 

The answer to “who” was easy, but the “what, when, where, why and how” parts of the equation remained stubbornly elusive despite his repeated attempts to recall the incident that led to his current state.  An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as the realization ground home; there simply was no point of reference with which to determine his whereabouts.  His voice, thick with concern, sounded unduly loud and not at all like him, “Hello?  Is anyone there?” 

As if in answer, the wind blew through the treetops, setting the moisture-laden branches into motion.  Fat drops rained to the earth, splashing on the decayed leaves and punctuating the stillness with their soft patter.  Tendrils of fog waxed and waned with the air currents, wrapping about his legs and pressing damply against his cool skin.  He shuddered.  In time, his voice grew hoarse.  “Can anyone hear me?”…

*****

Sighing, Roy eased down upon the Naugahyde sofa and earnestly prayed for a dull evening.  Less than an hour earlier, Station 51 had returned to the barn following a back to back response to a MVA and then a house fire.  Squad 51 did not respond to the fire, having been routed from Rampart following transport of the MVA victims to yet another MVA and then to a possible heart attack.  It had been an overly busy afternoon for all, but especially for Roy and Johnny, both having missed lunch earlier.  Roy stifled a burp and rubbed his chest.  The late supper of cold cuts and salad had hit the spot, but wolfing the food down out of fear of getting toned out before he’d had a chance to eat, had not.  Thankfully he had been able to finish the meal including a couple of anti-acid tablets to ward off the familiar heart burn that lately seemed to accompany anything eaten on the run.  Now seated next to Henry on the day room sofa, DeSoto seriously debated the wisdom of getting too comfortable.  The last thing he wanted to do was to doze off for a nap only to be jolted awake for another run – unfortunately an all too likely possibility. 

Mentally shrugging in resignation, Roy pulled the latest John Jakes novel that he was reading off the end table onto his lap.  By his calculations, he figured that he was good for at least a few pages before giving in to the numbing weariness that despite his best intentions, was slowly invading his body.

Sandwiched between the sofa back and Roy’s leg, Henry lay on his back, the Basset’s ears splayed and paws hanging limp as he reveled in the scratching sensation that Roy’s fingers were thoughtfully providing.

Station 51’s other occupants had quickly separated following dinner, intent on making the most of their down time.  Cap worked on a report in his office while Mike washed up the supper dishes.  Marco joined Roy in the day room, soon disappearing behind the sports section of the Los Angeles Times.  Only Johnny remained at the table, his mostly untouched plate of food before him.

Roy’s hand stilled upon the book’s dust cover, his attention momentarily diverted as Chet strode into the kitchen, whistling a jaunty tune.  Kelly’s gait slowed as the firefighter passed by Johnny’s chair.  The whistling hesitated for a beat and then resumed as Chet continued his mission to the cookie jar on the corner counter.

Roy frowned.  Whatever exchange occurred between the two men resulted in a sharp retort from Gage, who then shoved back from the table and stalked from the room.  Soapsuds flew as Mike lunged to upright Johnny’s chair as it teetered wildly on two legs before crashing to the floor.  Not in the least perturbed, Kelly crunched into a cookie as he expertly balanced several more of the treats while screwing the lid in place to the large jar.  The firefighter turned round to three pairs of eyes leveled accusingly upon him.  For once, Roy thought that Chet actually looked innocent.

Kelly shrugged unconcerned, his muffled, “all I said was the shower was free,” distorted by the cookie clenched between his teeth.

Roy’s desire for the peaceful refuge that the book offered dwindled.  He silently mouthed a sarcastic “thanks” to the unsuspecting Irishman’s back as Kelly turned to filch another cookie.  All things being equal, Roy felt that he could bet good money that Johnny would be in a snit for the remainder of the evening, or worse, that Gage would subject them all to chilled silence as he had earlier that day.  Roy gazed suspiciously at Kelly again.  Up until recently the defense would have rested with Johnny, but the tables were turning and no longer in his partner’s favor.  He reluctantly decided that more than likely Chet’s innocuous remark had been just that.

DeSoto sighed and once more considered sharing his growing concerns about Johnny with Cap.  But just what would he say?  Gage’s work ethics hadn’t changed.  His partner’s skills were exemplary as always. 

Okay, then what?

Well, today Johnny snapped at the member of a victim’s family – that’s what.

And aren’t we all tempted to do that on occasion?  There are times when I’ve had to bite my own tongue not to offer my two cents to someone who’s gotten under my skin.

Yeah, but then later he turned on me.

Turned on you?  Johnny? 

Well, I thought he did.  I don’t know, maybe it’s because I… whatever.  The point is this just isn’t like Johnny.

So, maybe he’s having a bad day.

Bad month is more like it.

And the point is?

The debate raged within DeSoto’s mind as he tried to review what had happened objectively.  Johnny’s comment, though a tad unprofessional, had not affected the victim’s treatment in any way, he reasoned.  But still, it was not in his partner’s character to react in the manner he had and that really was the crux of Roy’s concern.  Other similar instances had resulted in nuances in Gage’s personality and habits, that when reflected upon singularly seemed insignificant, but when examined as a whole were contrary to Johnny’s customary behavior. 

Henry nudged Roy’s hand with his wet nose, encouraging the caresses to begin anew, but the dog was forgotten as Roy replayed the day’s events to pinpoint what may have occurred to bring about his friend’s most recent erratic behavior…

“Station 51, child trapped; corner of East Elsmere Drive and Coslin Avenue.  Repeat, East Elsmere Drive and Coslin Avenue.  Time out, 07:54.”

“Station 51, KMG365.” Captain Stanley tore the call sheet from the pad and handed a copy to Roy.

With sirens screaming, the two rescue vehicles blended into the morning rush hour traffic.

Chapter Four

Turning onto Coslin Avenue, the squad and engine approached a school bus parked alongside the curb.  A LAPD cruiser was angled in front of the bus, its lights flashing, while several residents milled around the corner of the intersection, staring curiously.

“Station 51 at scene.”  Mike brought the engine to a standstill adjacent and slightly to the rear of the bus. 

“Stay with the engine till I see what we’ve got here,” Captain Stanley called out to the remainder of his crew as he jogged towards the paramedics.

Chet stretched and then leaned against the engine’s front bumper beside Marco as the firefighters awaited further orders.  “Man, Marco, looks like this is gonna be one of those days.  Haven’t even had roll call yet and we get toned—.”  

Two windows on the bus above the firefighters slid open.  “Hey, Mr. Fireman, can you turn on the siren?”

Chet looked up to several pairs of mischievous eyes.  He grinned, but shook his head in the negative.

“Puhleeez?  Just for a minute?”

Marco smiled apologetically, “Sorry.”

Bored, the bus’s occupant turned to his seat companion.  “Hey, Jimmy, watch this!”  Spit flew out the window and hit the pavement inches from Marco’s boot.

“Hey, cut that out!” Chet followed Marco around the side of the engine, well outside of spitting distance limits.  “Little brats.” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.  One of the students responded by sticking out his tongue at the firefighter’s back.

Annoying laughter echoed from the rear of the bus as Captain Stanley approached his paramedics and the bus driver.  “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

“I’m Mrs. Langlin, and this is Richie Anderson,” she said, nodding at the young, sullen-faced boy who shifted uneasily beside her.  “One of my passengers, Mark Antonello, is inside that storm drain.” Mrs. Langlin pointed to the curbside opening that led to the underground system for storm run-off.  “This is Richie and Mark’s bus stop and apparently while waiting for me to arrive, Richie offered Mark fifty cents if he’d agree to crawl into the drain.  I don’t think he’s hurt, but it looks like he’s slipped down too far to get back out on his own.”

The police officer exited his cruiser and joined the captain and paramedics.  “The boy’s parents were just notified.  They should be here shortly.  What can I do to help?”

Stanley spoke up.  “If you can keep the crowd back and traffic routed away from this intersection….”  A smile tugged at the corner of the captain’s mouth as Richie, round-eyed, stared up at the uniformed officials.  The boy’s attempts to sidle away were halted when Mrs. Langlin placed her hands firmly on the bully’s shoulders.

“Ow!  Mrs. La-a-angli-i-in, Joey hit me-e-e!”

“Excuse me.”  The din on the school bus escalated as the driver beat a hasty retreat towards her charges.

Free to go, the Anderson boy began to follow Mrs. Langlin, only to hesitate when a wail drifted up from the storm drain.  Settling against the stop sign post, the boy folded his arms, a slight smirk gracing his freckled face. 

Ignoring the bully, Roy crouched in the curbside gutter.  “Mark?  Mark, can your hear me?”  A sob arose from the opening to the drain.  “Mark, my name is Roy and my partner, Johnny, and I are here to help you.  Are your hurt anywhere/”

Mark’s frightened voice echoed from below.  “No, just get me out!  It’s dark in here and I want out now!”

Richie snorted and rolled his eyes in disgust.  “What a baby!”

Johnny glanced disapprovingly at Richie as he knelt next to Roy.  Leaning forward he peered into the opening.  “Okay, Mark, now calm down.  We’re coming to get you.  Just stay still and relax.”

Stanley hunkered down next to the paramedics.  He eyed the narrowed drain opening dubiously.  “You have the smallest build, John.  Take a look and see if you can get to him.”

“’kay, Cap.” Johnny discarded his turnout coat, lay on his stomach and wriggled into the opening.  He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior.  The musty odor of rotting leaves was heavy in the airless cavity.  The stifling atmosphere intensified the headache Gage had awakened with that morning following a restless night.  The paramedic coughed, and then sneezed as his movements stirred up additional dust.  Leaning on one arm, he reached behind him, groping impatiently with his free hand.  “Hand me a flashlight, will ya?”

Gage scooted forward using the flashlight as a tool to push the decaying debris out of his way.  Bracing his left arm against the outer wall for support, he maneuvered his upper torso over the opening that led below.  Directing the light, he sized up the space where the drain angled downward.  Just beyond the edge of the beam he caught a glimpse of the top of Mark’s head where the boy huddled at the bottom.  “It’s okay, Mark,” he soothed.  “We’re gonna get you out.”  A sniffling sound was the only response he received.  Squirming backwards, Johnny halted as his shirt caught on a branch.  “Hey, Roy, can you pull me back?”

A high-pitched series of screams reverberated within the narrow confines, startling Gage.  The flashlight bounced against the far wall as Johnny cracked his head against the concrete above him.  The beam of light spiraled down through the opening, and then doused as the lens shattered.  The ear-splitting screams intensified.  “Mark? Mark, what’s wrong?”  Panic welled up inside Johnny as he scooted back over the opening above the boy.

“There’s a rat in here!  I hear it!  Get me out!  Get me out!”

“Mark? Mark, listen to me.  Mark!  There’s no rat.  You heard me moving above you, that’s all.”  Johnny reached above him to rub his smarting scalp and skinned his knuckles on the rough concrete overhead.  “Damn!”

Mark wailed below him.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  Please don’t be mad at me!”

“It’s okay, Mark.  No one’s angry with you.”  Johnny cleared his throat, resisting the urge to cough.  “That’s right, Mark.  Calm down.  See?  You’re okay.  It’s okay.”  The wailing gradually diminished to a whimper, broken by a few hiccups.  “Look, we’ll have you out in a jiffy.”  Johnny inched his way back from the opening and heaved a sigh of relief as he emerged back into the fresh air.

The younger paramedic sat up, grimacing as he brushed off a layer of leaves and dirt that revealed a few beetles clinging to his shirt.  He blew an errant strand of dark hair out of his eyes.  “Cap, there’s no way we’re gonna get down that way.  The opening’s too narrow.”

“I’ll get one of the guys to open up the manhole cover in the center of the intersection.”  Stanley jogged off towards the engine as another cry echoed from below.

“Mark, calm down!”  Johnny coughed again.  He shot a dark look at Richie as the boy hooted.  “Just what’s so funny?”

“He’s chicken!” the boy chortled.

Johnny’s eyes narrowed.  “And let me guess, you wouldn’t be?  Give him a break.  He’s scared.”

“Of  what?  There’s nothing down there but a bunch of leaves.  I’ve been down there lots.”

“Well, maybe you’d like to take another tour then, when we’re done here,” Johnny shot back.

“Johnny…,” Roy’s warning silenced further rejoinders.

“Probably just a little mouse.”  Smug at uttering the last word, Richie crossed his arms defiantly and turned his back to the rescue effort.  ‘Caldwell Student Government’ was emblazoned in bright yellow letters across the navy background of his jacket.

Ignoring the incredulous disgust that transformed Johnny’s countenance to one of glowering indignation, Roy stood up, extending a hand to Gage.  “Johnny, he’s just a kid.  Ignore him,” he whispered as he helped pull his partner up.

Johnny yanked his arm away, furiously rubbing the back of his neck.  He quickly lowered his hand to reveal a squirming beetle entrapped between his fingers.

Roy grinned.  “C’mon, Marco’s got the cover up.  Let’s go get Mark.”

Ten minutes later, a tearful, disheveled, uninjured Mark was handed into the arms of his anxious mother.

“Apologize to Mark,” Mrs. Langlin demanded as she nudged Richie towards the Antonello’s. 

“But I didn’t do anything to him.”  Richie ground the toe of his sneaker into the sidewalk.  “Besides, he got the stupid money,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Langlin cut the reunion short.  “We’re behind schedule.  Richie, you need to board the bus; we’ll talk more about this later.  Captain Stanley, we appreciate your prompt response.  Thank you.”

“Glad to be of assistance, ma’am.”  Stanley lifted his handy-talkie.  “L.A., Station 51, available from the scene.”  The captain’s words were nearly drowned by the hollering on board the bus as it reached a new crescendo.  The bus practically rocked back and forth in rhythm.

“Man, how do you stand this?”  Johnny asked Roy as he briskly rubbed his hands through his thick mane of hair.  His head ached and his scalp itched.  He was certain there were more beetles crawling on him, although further inspection had yielded none of the pests.  “Do your kids act like this when there’s a bunch of them together?”

Roy grinned.  “Nope, sometimes they’re worse,” he answered in his matter-of-fact way.  “Just tune them out, Johnny.”

Chet glanced towards the bus.  “Pack of little Indians.” he muttered as one of the students made a face at him.

“Not funny, Chet.”  There was distinct edge to Johnny’s voice.

“Sorry, Gage, no offense.”  Chet dropped the manhole cover back into place.  Eyeing the bus again he stared incredulously.  “Hey! Did you see that?  That kid just flipped me off!”  Two faces immediately plastered themselves against a bus window, their breath fogging the glass.

“Chet, Chet.  Those kids may be brats, but they’re in grade school.  They don’t know about stuff like that.  They were probably just waving good-bye.”  Johnny looked back and reciprocated by waving to the students, the overstated gesture implying “good riddance”.

Roy picked up the biophone.  “Don’t kid yourself, Junior.  Kids now days can run circles around you in that department.”

Johnny stopped, hand in mid-air.  “Hey, Roy, I think that kid, Richie, just shot a bird at me.”  Johnny shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare, squinting at the bus as it shifted into gear.

Chet snickered as he headed towards the engine.  “He’s just waving to you, Gage.”

“Come on, Junior.”  Roy turned his back on the bus.

“Hey!  He did it again!” Johnny growled as he started towards the retreating bus.

Roy grabbed Gage’s arm and steered him towards the squad.  “Let it go, Johnny.”

“But, Roy!”

“I said let it go.”

Distant laughter drifted their way.

*****

“I mean really, Roy, did you know about stuff like that when you were their age?  And even if you did, you wouldn’t have done what they did.  I can’t believe it!  Do you…”

Staring into the side view mirror, Roy backed the squad into one of the bays at Rampart.  He wearily glanced at his watch as he killed the engine.  Three solid hours of near-continuous responses, plus Gage, alternating between periods of cold silence and continuous rants, had left DeSoto frazzled and annoyed.  Roy suspiciously wondered how his partner could even be breathing.  If Johnny doesn’t stop and come up for air soon, it won’t matter ‘cause I’m gonna kill him anyhow.

Of course the students of Caldwell Elementary had been the topic du jour, especially Richie.  Johnny was usually a little more forgiving, but not today.  DeSoto thought he was going to have to stuff a sock in his partner’s mouth on their last run, which had conveniently been at a Laundromat.  Roy was trying to calm down the owner, who had hyperventilated, and there was Johnny trying to solicit the victim’s opinion on juvenile delinquency.  Roy had to bite his lip to keep from laughing when the woman snapped that she didn’t give a damn about anyone’s kids.  Shocked, Johnny had sucked in a big breath of air and fell back on his heels, silent.  Roy felt that the woman deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor.  Instead, he handed her a paper bag in case she hyperventilated again.

“…think they knew what it meant?  How do kids learn about stuff like that at their age?  And the noise!  That bus driver didn’t have them under control.  You know, I can understand why the owner of that…”

The pneumatic doors hissed shut as Roy gratefully entered the inner sanctum of Rampart’s ER.

“If that were my kid...  Roy?”  Johnny looked up from the logbook and scowled at the empty seat next to him.

“Hi, Roy,” Dixie looked up from a mound of paperwork at the base station counter.  “I must have missed your transmission.  Did you bring someone in?”

“Only Gage.”

Dixie peered expectantly around Roy.  “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“Not yet.”  Roy didn’t pause as one perfectly shaped eyebrow rose in bewilderment.  “Dix, do me a favor.  If he comes in, don’t talk about kids or school—What?”  Exasperated, Roy glanced down at Dixie’s pencil as it tapped his forearm.

The nurse pursed her lips as she silently pointed her pencil above Roy’s shoulder.

DeSoto spun around.  Johnny, his face resembling an ugly thunder cloud, strode purposefully down the corridor.  Roy turned back to Dixie, a hint of desperation in his voice.  “I need some coffee.  Do you have any made?”

Dixie nodded calmly in the direction of the coffeepot.

“Look, Dixie, I didn’t mean don’t talk at all.  Just don’t get Johnny going again.”

“Why can’t Dix talk to me?”

Roy looked like he’d just been personally plugged into an electrical outlet.

Dixie couldn’t help but grin.  She gave the senior paramedic’s arm a commiserating pat, before curling manicured fingers into a small wave as she left the base station. 

Johnny frowned.  “What’s wrong with her?”  Suddenly, the light went on and his eyes narrowed.  “And what was that?  Something about ‘don’t get Johnny started again?’”

“That’s not what I said.  I…uh, I just asked her not to talk about certain things.” 

“Like what?”

Roy sighed.  “Johnny, let’s get our supplies and a cup of coffee before we get toned out again, okay?”

“No, let’s talk about what I thought I heard you say.  Why would you ask Dixie not to talk to me about certain things?”

“Johnny, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Roy.”  Gage slapped his hand across his chest.  “For me it’s a big deal.”

“Yeah, it would be,” the barely concealed mutter was out before Roy knew it

Johnny blocked his partner’s path as DeSoto headed for the coffee maker.  “Just what is your problem today, Roy?”

“I don’t have a problem, Johnny, but I think you do.  You’ve been going on and on about those kids all morning and everything else that’s irritated you in between, including that man’s wife who didn’t want her husband’s shirt cut off.  If I recall correctly, you practically bit her head off.”

“That’s not true, Roy!  Mrs. Martin fully understood why we had to cut his shirt after I explained and as for those kids, I just find it hard to believe tha—.”

“See?  There you go again.  Johnny, did it ever occur to you that the explanation might have been a little more beneficial before you started to argue and as for the kids… well, kids are kids.  Just let it go.”  Roy sighed and then slid sideways between his partner and the counter.  Reaching the coffee maker, he poured a mug and as a gesture of conciliation held the steaming cup out to Gage.  After a few seconds, Roy withdrew the offer.  He shrugged slightly, sipping from the mug as he eyed Johnny.  “Did you take something for your headache?  I’ve seen the way you keep squinting and rubbing your temple.”

Gage sighed and looked up to the ceiling for guidance.  After a moment, he looked at DeSoto, his expression unreadable.  “Roy, tell you what; I’ll save you the aggravation of listening to me ‘go on and on’ as you put it.”

Speechless, Roy stared as his partner walked out on him.

“Squad 51, what is your status?”

Roy fumbled for the handy-talkie, thumbing the response key.  “Uh, Squad 51, available at Rampart.”

“Squad 51, stand by for response…”

Roy couldn’t believe the exchange he’d just had with Johnny.  What in the hell is wrong with him?

The remainder of the day went steadily downhill.  Few words were spoken between the two, aside from that required by the job.  By mid-afternoon, the silence was so thick it could have been carved with a knife.  Roy glanced at his partner as he exited Rampart’s emergency bay following another response.  Johnny gazed intently out the squad’s passenger window, his posture tense, as his hand repetitively drummed a tuneless beat on the seat.

“Hey, Johnny, how about stopping for a burger since we missed lunch?”

“Not hungry.”

Roy sighed.

Chapter Five

“Roy, I asked you a question.”

“Huh?” Roy stupidly responded as his reverie was broken and time switched back to the present.  He shifted upright and looked about, bewildered.  The welcomed warmth from Henry’s body alongside his thigh had cooled.  The dog had turned traitor, opting for the other end of the sofa, where he lay stretched out and snoring.  Roy groggily peered at his watch.  Only minutes had elapsed since he had sat down.  He guessed he had fallen asleep.  He half-heartedly rubbed one eye as he focused on Johnny.  “Were you talking to me?”

Johnny returned from the kitchen with a soft drink in his hand.  A hot shower, following dinner, had helped to restore his equilibrium and spirits.  The nagging headache that had been his constant companion for most of the day had abated to a dull ache behind his right eye.  His wet hair brushed against his collar, the dampness deepening the blue of his uniform, as Gage bent to switch on the television set.

The blaring volume nearly unseated DeSoto.  He glared at Gage as the reflexive spasm of his hand sent his book tumbling to the floor.

“Sorry.”  A ghost of a smile played across Johnny’s pale face.  “Roy, I asked if you had seen this shark special before.”  Gage pointed to the TV Guide.  “It says here that it’s a rerun.  Funny, but I don’t remember it on before.”  Johnny bumped against Roy’s legs propped up on the coffee table as he sprawled into the chair closest to the TV.  “Man, I hope it stays quiet this evening.  This starts in ten minutes.  How about some popcorn?” Johnny started to push up from the chair, hesitating at Roy’s expression.

DeSoto firmly planted both feet on the floor after brushing soda off his boot.  His opportunity for comment was interrupted by the ensuing commotion of Chet grabbing the TV Guide from Johnny’s hands.

“Now wait a minute, Life in L.A. is coming on and I was planning to watch it.”

Roy momentarily closed his eyes, his earlier concerns about Johnny forgotten.  He had hoped that Chet would have the good sense to leave Johnny alone, but apparently that was not to be.  There were times when Kelly just didn’t know when to let go or maybe chose not to.  Roy knew that as far as Chet was concerned, the upcoming debate over who got to watch what was not really the issue.  In spite of his irritation, Roy felt sorry for his partner in a way.  It was almost like watching a lamb being led to slaughter.  As usual, Johnny bleated a few times, and then docilely walked into the trap.  Roy mentally shook his head.  I should stop this before it gets out of hand.  But then again he’s capable of fighting his own battles, I think.

“Sorry, Chet.  Last shift you got to watch that stupid game show just so you could see Betty Big Boobs display all her prizes.”

“As I recall, Gage, you were kinda glued to the TV set, too.”

“Yeah, well, the TV is not yours exclusively.”  Johnny flipped the channel selector to the station broadcasting the shark program.

Chet reached across and changed the channel back.  “Face it, Gage.  There’s no sense in getting wrapped up in watching that special.  You know you’ll get toned out before the first commercial.”

“Maybe so, but there’s always the chance that we won’t.  Based on the kind of day I’ve already had, I’ll bet my luck is about to take a turn for the better.”  Johnny was smug as he flipped the channel forward.

Roy’s eyebrows rose.  The kind of day you’ve had, Junior?

“But you don’t even like sharks.”  Kelly’s whine emphasized each syllable.

“Chet, think of this as an educational experience.  Besides, Life in L.A. is nothing but pure smut.”

“Since when did smut become an obstacle?”  Chet flipped the channel back to its previous setting.  “Look, one of the segments on tonight may be of interest to you, Gage.  It’s about sign language and effectively expressing your emotions.”

Johnny growled and grabbed for the channel knob.  His opponent’s outstretched hand checked the movement.

“Honestly, there is a segment about body piercing.  That’s kind of educational and who knows what body parts they might show?”  Kelly’s eyes twinkled.  “Let’s just watch it for a minute.”

Johnny stared hard at Chet.  “A minute?  You know as well as I do that what you want to see will not be on in a minute or over in a minute.  If I give in, I may as well just let you have the TV!”

“That’s the plan, my boy.”

Johnny flipped the channel back.  “This is not up for further discussion.  Watch your show next week,” he snarled through clenched teeth as he blocked Chet’s outstretched hand.  “Don’t touch it again.”

“Touch me again, Gage, and I’ll break your fingers.”

Roy quickly spoke up.  “Hey, guys, why don’t you flip for it?”  He fished a quarter from his pocket.  “Call it, Mike?  Marco?”

“Not me.”  Mike got up and left the room

Marco, who had been watching the squabble between Chet and Johnny like a Ping-Pong match, hesitated.  “Well…okay…uh…heads and Chet wins.”

The coin flashed through the air and landed with a resounding slap against Roy’s arm.  Lifting his hand, he revealed the results.  “It’s all yours, Chet.”  Roy shrugged as Johnny’s glare zeroed in on him.

“Watch and weep, Gage,” Chet chuckled as he flipped the channel back and rubbed his hands together.

Johnny sprang to his feet.  “Just where do you get off?  You had the TV all to yourself last shift.  It’s someone else’s turn.”  Gage wrenched again at the knob.

“Look, we tossed fair and square.  Be a gracious loser.”  Chet pushed behind Johnny and settled into Gage’s chair.

“I don’t recall agreeing to a coin toss.” Johnny’s voice raised an octave.

“I don’t recall saying I cared.”

The argument ended abruptly when Cap stuck his head in the day room with a pointed look in their direction.

The TV Guide whistled past Roy’s head landing at the end of the sofa.  “Go ahead, watch your program, but don’t expect me to forget this!” Johnny shouted as he stormed from the day room.

Chet scooted forward, changing the channel back to his program.  His eyes grew wide as the TV’s knob fell off into his hand .

The rest of A-shift breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Roy guiltily relaxed back against the sofa.  He stroked Henry’s foot, the soothing caress intended more for his benefit than for the dog’s.  His hand slowly stilled and his breathing evened out as his head nodded forward.  DeSoto’s eyes had drooped to mere slits when he was jolted awake.  Startled, he dully watched Chet as the firefighter laced his fingers and stretched his arms out with an exaggerated sigh.

“Wha…?  What the hell is this?  That’s it, Kelly!  Do you hear me?  That’s it!” echoed from the walls of the dorm.

Leaning back into locked hands that cradled his curly head like a pillow, Kelly’s smug grin of satisfaction fairly dripped from beneath his mustache. 

Johnny bounded off the wet pillow like a pole-vaulter, a strange odor assaulting his nostrils.  One of these days….  He hurled the pillow across the room, and lying down, flung his arm over his eyes.

*****

…He found the hushed stillness of the fog disconcerting, the moist air cloying and oppressive.  Perspiration beaded between his shoulder blades and trickled down his back.  His calf muscles ached from the strain of the half-crouched stance he had assumed.  Unmitigated fear wormed its way into his belly and seeped through his body like poison. 

A soft current of air fingered the mist and it parted revealing a worn footpath that wound ahead through a copse of trees.

He slowly straightened, his feet tingling as circulation to his lower limbs was once more restored.  Even as uncertainty waged an inner conflict with the need to act, his feet, seemingly of their own volition, reluctantly propelled him forward.  The path gradually shifted uphill, the terrain becoming steep enough that he had to grasp small tree trunks or branches to aid in his ascent; the fog lending a surreal quality to the landscape.  The path narrowed; the trees pressed in on both sides, encroaching upon the periphery of his vision.  The claustrophobic atmosphere only added to his mounting anxiety.  He resisted the urge to look back.  Like a hunted animal, he sensed that he was not alone…

*****

“Shouldn’t you prop up her feet?  Our first aid instructor said that fainting victims should have their feet raised above the level of their hearts.” Mrs. Kennedy hovered anxiously around the paramedics and her companion, Lydia Applegate, who, unfortunately, was the victim.

“Ma’am, this is not a simple case of fainting,” Johnny stated smoothly as he completed a cursory examination of the victim.  He glanced up at the woman who had let them in the door.  John Gage, the paramedic, knew that Mrs. Kennedy was the distraught friend of the very sick woman they were attending.  A multitude of similar responses had instinctively taught him that she would need just as much reassurance, perhaps more, than their patient would need.  John Gage, with the raging headache from hell, however, saw a well-meaning, but intensely annoying personality that reminded him of an aged Edith Bunker.  All that’s missing is the apron, he thought uncharitably as he snapped open the biophone case.

Johnny screwed the antenna into place.  “Rampart, this is Rescue 51.  How do you read?”

“Loud and clear.  Go ahead, 51.”  Dr. Early’s disembodied voice resonated through the small room.

“Rampart, we have the victim of a possible stroke, female, approximately 80 years—.”

“Lydia is only 76!”  Mrs. Kennedy was indignant.  The members of her bridge club had all agreed that Lydia didn’t look a day over 70.

“Correction, Rampart, 76 years old.  She is stuporous and diaphor—.” 

“Stupid?”

“Rampart, victim is stuporous and diaphoretic with pronounced weakness to the extremities on the left side.  We have her on six liters of oxygen.  Stand by for vitals.”  Johnny cupped his palm over the biophone receiver.  “Mrs. Bun—Ma’am, it’s a word that describes her state of mental acuity… her alertness…”

Mrs. Kennedy’s horn-rimmed bifocals lowered in Johnny’s direction as her blue myopic eyes peered uncomprehendingly.

Gage’s sigh of impatience was plainly audible.  “Look, never mind.  Could you wait outside?”

“And leave Lydia alone with you two men?”  Mrs. Kennedy regarded the paramedic with consternation, which quickly changed to disapproval as Johnny rolled his eyes.

Roy looked up from the blood pressure gauge.  “Mrs. Kennedy, maybe you could show the ambulance attendants the way in?  We’ll take good care of Mrs. Applegate,” he assured her.

Mrs. Kennedy wiped her sweating hands across the folds of her dress.  “Ambulance?  Where are you taking her?”

“To Rampart General, ma’am.  Johnny, pulse is 70 and weak, respiration 16, BP is 140/80.”

“Rampart?  But Lydia always goes to San Vicente.  That’s where her doctor is.  She doesn’t like Rampart ever sin—.”

Johnny impatiently brushed his hand across his forehead.  He pointed to the biophone with his pen.  “Ma’am that voice you hear is the attending doctor.  He’s at Rampart and that’s where she’s going.  Right now, you’re interfering with our ability to get her stabilized.”

Roy glanced sharply at Johnny.  Take it easy, partner!

“Her name is Lydia Applegate, Mrs. Applegate to you, young man, and I don’t care for the tone of your voice.”  Dismissing Johnny, the elderly woman glanced at her semi-conscious friend.  “My late husband had a stroke.  Lydia doesn’t look at all like he did.  I thought she fainted because she didn’t eat her lunch.”  Mrs. Kennedy watched with concern as Roy opened a blanket pack and tucked it around her sick friend.  “She hasn’t been feeling well for some time now…”  Her uncertain voice trailed off.

“IV, D5W, TKO.  Monitor vitals and cardiac en route.”  Johnny repeated Dr. Early’s instructions.  “If she hasn’t been feeling well, why hasn’t she seen her doctor?” he challenged as he reached across the victim for an administration kit.

Ignoring Gage, Mrs. Kennedy brushed past him and knelt next to Lydia, pulling one unresponsive hand onto her lap.  She softly stroked the blue-veined skin, mottled with age.  The gnarled fingers, swollen and misshapen from arthritis, moved gently with the motion, but not of their own accord.  “Lydia, don’t worry, you’re going to get well.”  She nervously watched Roy as he pumped the blood pressure cuff and prepped the IV site.  “Do you know what you’re doing?  I didn’t know firemen were trained as doctors.  We have an appointment tomorrow, a luncheon at the Garden Club,” she babbled.

“Ma’am…Mrs. Kennedy!”  Johnny was brusque.  “Your friend’s not going anywhere for some time to come, and certainly not to a lunch at the club tomorrow.  Now, please move aside so that we can get her to the hospital.”

Mrs. Kennedy remained unmoving next to her friend, tears brimming in her eyes.  One trickled down her lined face and dropped onto Lydia’s wrinkled arm.

Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He immediately regretted the outburst, but the damage was done.  “Ma’am…”

Roy spoke up.  “Hey, Johnny, I’ve got it here.  Why don’t you show the attendants the way in?”  As the senior paramedic, his directive spoke volumes.

“Uh, yeah…sure, Roy.”

*****

Rampart’s ER was a madhouse when Johnny arrived.  He met Roy outside of Treatment Room 3.

“How is she?” he mumbled, avoiding Roy’s eyes.

“Too soon to tell.  Dr. Early said she’s in for a long recovery, and that’s if she makes it.”  Roy hesitated.  “Johnny, Mrs. Kennedy was talking about filing a complaint about you.”

“Me?”  Johnny was incredulous.  He knew he had been abrupt, but a complaint seemed out of line.  “So what’s Florence Nightingale’s problem?”

Roy was momentarily taken aback by Johnny’s insensitivity.  “Johnny, do you hear what you’re saying?  You upset her when you told her she was interfering and your comment about Mrs. Applegate’s recovery certainly didn’t help matters any,” he finished quietly.

“Roy, you know how severe that stroke was.” Johnny sputtered.  “Besides, did you see how she kept hanging over us and critiquing our every move?  She takes a first aid course at the Senior Center and suddenly she’s the expert.”  Gage’s stance was unyielding and defiant.

“Johnny, what gives?  You know that we can’t offer our personal opinion on a patient’s prognosis.  Mrs. Kennedy wasn’t any different than a hundred other family members we’ve dealt with.  I’m surprised you let her get to you like that.”

“She did not get to me and I’m surprised that we’re having this conversation, Roy.”

“Johnny, what’s with you lately?”  Roy’s eyes flashed with anger. 

“Look, you’ve been criticizing me all day.  Get off my back!” Johnny spun on his heel and left the ER without a backward glance.

Chapter Six

“So, Gage, had any advice from the elementary level of academia lately?  Caldwell, specifically?”

“Shut up, Chet.”  Johnny pushed past the firefighter and strode towards the locker room.  Undaunted, Kelly followed, hot on Gage’s heels.

Chet’s mustache fairly bristled with excitement.  He had sized up the situation immediately when the squad backed in from its last run.  As soon as Roy and Johnny had exited the vehicle, they split up and headed in different directions, all without a word to each other.  Gage was irritable and jittery.  Roy, unusually pensive, had disappeared in the direction of the parking lot at the back of the station.  Not for the first time, Chet wished he were a fly that had managed to thumb a ride on the squad.  It appears the pigeon has his little beak out of joint…

Johnny stopped abruptly before his locker, his hand almost touching the handle.  He glanced over his shoulder at Kelly, who was standing practically on top of him.  “Do you mind?”  Gage impatiently brushed towards Chet, trying to get him to move out of his personal space.

“Oh, sorry.”  Chet backed up a few inches.  He didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

Johnny eyed the firefighter suspiciously.  “Why’d you follow me in here?  Don’t you have anything to do?”

Guileless blue eyes met his in return.  “I read the paper while I was eating lunch.  Thought you’d like to know that Caldwell Elementary has scheduled sex education classes for their sixth graders.  Maybe you should sign up, huh, Gage?”

Johnny growled in irritation.  He rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation.  “Look, I have a headache, Kelly, and the comments about Caldwell are wearing a little thin after a couple of weeks even for you, don’t you think?  Save the jokes for another time, okay?”  He reached for his locker and stopped, eyes narrowed.

Arms crossed, Chet leaned against the bank of lockers and patiently waited.

“All right, since you seem so interested, you open it.”  Johnny stepped back and gestured towards his locker door.

Chet’s expression implied patience and understanding – the kind reserved for requests made by idiots.  “Gage, it’s not my locker.”  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Kelly slowly sauntered from the room, whistling off-key.

With furrowed eyebrow, Johnny turned back to his locker.  Gingerly, he touched the handle as if it would bite him.  Reassured that it was not booby-trapped, he grasped it more firmly and cracked the locker door open just a bit.  Nothing happened.  Taking a deep breath, Johnny suddenly swung the door open wide and ducked at the same time.  Thwang!  Bouncing off the adjoining locker, the rebounding door cracked Gage on the side of the head.  The contents of his locker leered at him undisturbed. 

Gritting his teeth, Johnny rubbed the affected area.  Great, the headache now becomes a freakin’ migraine.  The paramedic groped around the jumbled contents at the bottom of his locker, a moue of distaste registering as his hand came in contact with a damp sock, a leftover from a water rescue last shift.

The image of a tennis shoe, decorated with the bright yellow braid of a nylon rope, flashed past the periphery of his vision.  In reflex, Gage struck out with his hand, smacking it sharply against the edge of his locker door.  The cement floor tilted beneath him, not unlike the rocking, fluid motion of a deck wet with spray.  Johnny staggered back against the locker room bench and sank heavily down upon it.  Bright sunlight, reflecting off rolling waves, slowly coalesced into the dull gleam of fluorescent lights illuminating the block walls of 51’s locker room.  Johnny swallowed heavily.  Slowly he lowered arms that had protectively encircled his head.  The sock was crushed within his fist so tightly that tendons had popped up on the underside of his wrist.  For a moment, the distinct odor of salt water permeated the air; granules of sand ground into his palm…

Disgusted, Johnny balled up the sock and threw it back into the corner of his locker.  The opened palm of his hand revealed a tiny row of red welts from the bite of his nails.  Gage resisted the impulse to brush his hand against his slacks.  There was no sand; the sock couldn’t smell like saltwater.  If anything, the stinking fabric might have been redolent of mildew and chlorine, because the rescue last shift, for Christ’s sake, had been in a municipal pool.  And the victim hadn’t died, although he would probably never walk again because of foolishly diving into shallow water.

Johnny’s head pounded in rhythm to his heart and he shivered as sweat broke out on his forehead.  Leaning forward, he sought the relative coolness of the metal door, pressing it against his clammy cheek.  The musty odor of the sock clung to his hand, assaulting senses already sensitive owing to a growing nausea in the pit of his stomach.  He sat there for a while until the roiling subsided.   

Bending forward, he rummaged in the bottom of his locker, avoiding the offending sock.  I know there’s aspirin around here somewhere.  With relief, he grabbed the bottle, prying the lid open with his teeth.  Mission accomplished, the cotton ball sailed to the bottom of the locker, followed by the bottle, and Johnny was headed for the kitchen.

“Hey, Johnny, we saved some dinner for you and Roy.” Marco looked up from the cards that Chet was dealing

Johnny grimaced.  “Thanks, not really hungry.  Just want some cold water.”  Gage opened the cupboard, reaching for a glass.  The shelf was empty with the exception of a bright yellow glob, positioned dead center.  Modeling clay had been molded into the shape of a fist, its middle finger bent upright in a jaunty salute.

“Very funny, guys.”  Johnny slammed the door shut.  Placing both hands on the counter he leaned against them and lowered his head.  He slowly took a deep breath.  “Where are the glasses?” he asked softly.

“Chet moved them over with the plates.”  Marco studied the cards in his hand intently as he sorted them by suit.  Why do I indulge you, Kelly?

Johnny moved to the next cupboard and opened the door.  The water bomb plastered him square in the face. 

“John, can I see you in my office for a minute?”  Hank stood in the doorway that led from the apparatus bay.  Silently, he took in the motionless, dripping figure.  At the table, Chet and Marco innocently played cards, apparently unconcerned. 

“Yeah, sure, Cap.”  Johnny brushed a little too hard past Stanley and stalked into his office.

The captain’s face registered surprise over the blatant show of anger.  “Looks like the phantom could use a little latrine duty.”  Hank paused.  Johnny’s face was drawn with lips compressed into a tight line.  A muscle in Gage’s jaw twitched repeatedly.  “You okay, John?”

“Yes, sir.”  Johnny dropped into the chair that Hank gestured to.  He winced as he massaged his right temple.

“Do you want to take a minute to change your shirt?”

Johnny smiled wanly as he pushed wet hair out of his eyes.  “Nah, it can wait.”

Stanley hiked one leg over the corner of his desk.  Resting his arms against his thigh, he regarded the youngest member of his crew for a moment.

Gage leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed.  He continued to slowly massage his right temple.  He was not intentionally disrespectful, just mentally preparing for what he knew was coming.

“John, a Mrs. Kennedy called a few minutes ago.  Mrs. Applegate lives with her.” 

Johnny sighed.  “I know who she is.  What did she want?”  He opened his eyes and shifted to an upright position.  Staring at the remembered aspirin in the palm of his left hand was suddenly easier than looking his captain in the face.

“Mrs. Kennedy filled me in on the details of your response to her home this afternoon.”  Stanley waited a moment, but there was no comment from his paramedic.  “She said that the purpose of her call was not to complain.  As a matter of fact, she complimented you and Roy on your skills and knowledge.”

The measured ticking of Stanley’s desk clock was plainly audible in the silence that followed.

The captain patiently waited.  Gage’s head was bent; tufts of damp hair shadowed his face obscuring Stanley’s ability to get a read on the paramedic’s thoughts.  The rigidity of Johnny’s posture, however, indicated that he was listening intently to every word the captain spoke.  “She asked me to leave a message with you.  She said that compassion doesn’t cost anything, nor does it require training.  It comes from the heart.  As an ignorant old woman, she felt that your patience and understanding would have helped her cope far more effectively with the realization that her very close friend of forty-plus years was gravely ill.  Those were her words, John, not mine.”

Gage didn’t comment.  At the moment, he wasn’t able to.  A slow blush crept up his neck as he nudged at the aspirin with one finger, dislodging the tablets.  One dropped into his lap; the other fell to the floor and rolled under Stanley’s desk.  Johnny rubbed the white residue left on his hand against his slacks, and then slowly met his captain’s eyes, chagrin coloring his face.

Hank’s expression softened.  “Look, John, we both know that the family and friends of victims are often emotional and overwrought.  We also know that they can misinterpret the actions that are necessary to sustain life in the field.  In a sense, they’re victims, too.  I don’t need to tell you that that is one of the primary reasons why they deserve our utmost professional courtesy and understanding at all times.”

“You’re right, Cap, and no you don’t need to tell me.  I shouldn’t have let her get to me,” he said in a low voice. 

“John, I checked the vacation roster.  I’d like you to consider moving your scheduled time off from November to within the next week or so.  A change of pace and some rest would, no doubt, be helpful.  As you know, you and Roy have been hitting it pretty hard this year.” 

“I—I’ll think about it.  We do rotate off for a few days after this shift...”  Johnny stood up.  “Cap, it won’t happen again.” 

“I hope not, John.  I wouldn’t want to have a repeat on this conversation.”  Stanley’s expectations were crystal clear.

Johnny knew that if there were another conversation it would not be informal.  “Thanks, Cap,” he whispered.

*****

Avoiding the kitchen, Johnny retreated to the dorm to lick his self-inflicted wounds.  Laid on the table, the facts were simple enough.  He had screwed up.  He thought of Mrs. Kennedy, remembering that during their response to her home he had derived a certain amount of perverse pleasure in challenging her idiotic remarks.  Humiliation heated his face, staining his ears red, as he recalled his unprofessional conduct.  Maybe Roy deserved the compliment she had bestowed, but he certainly hadn’t.  Christ, what’s wrong with me?

Johnny flopped down on his bunk, but almost immediately swung his feet down to the floor, intent upon seeking out his partner.  The recent memory of the chilly look DeSoto had shot him, during their last response, and his blatant show of anger at Rampart stopped him cold.  If Roy was upset with him, and Johnny knew full well that he was, it was only because he, John, deserved it.

Dejected, he slouched on the edge of his bunk and scrubbed his face.  The past months blended together and Johnny couldn’t really pinpoint when the merry-go-round had started.  Shamefully, he had to admit to himself that his job was no longer providing the satisfaction that it had.  Some days it was a trial just to get through his shift.  Endless months of enduring the same grind loomed bleakly before him.  He shivered, uncomfortable with the thought.

But I love my job… least I used to. 

Once again, Gage found himself questioning his effectiveness.  The “Gage charm” his coworkers teased him about seemed to have worn off and all Johnny could dwell on lately was the string of failed rescues that had dominated the past year.  The clinical side of him knew that a combination of events factored the outcome of nearly all of their rescues – and sometimes circumstances well beyond their control interfered.  It was not just bad luck.  Then why do I feel so responsible?  And the answer was painfully evident, as it always was – Because I care and because sometimes human intervention is just not enough. 

Unbidden, thoughts of Ryan Harding’s senseless death pricked tears in his eyes.  He couldn’t understand why memories of that rescue continually re-surfaced.  Maybe it was because it grimly reminded him of all of the attempted “saves” that had gone sour.  Or it might have been because of another rescue in the spring that had been eerily similar – one that had put Roy on medical leave for weeks and had involved an inquest into the unexpected death of one of the victims.  The department’s Board of Inquiry had absolved Johnny of any negligence, the autopsy providing irrefutable evidence, but somehow, a measure of doubt had still reflected on the faces of the surviving family.  As with Ryan, Gage had risked his life for the sake of the victim, but the Herculean efforts required had only yielded the recovery of a body.

Johnny pushed up from his bunk, burying thoughts of past events that he was powerless to change.  Cap’s right, I need a change of pace.  Thinking of the next few days off that A-shift’s rotation had earned, Johnny decided that his chores at home and laundry would have to wait – he was heading to the San Gabriel Wilderness for solitude and rest.  Momentary panic welled up as he wondered what his plan of action would be if camping didn’t help.  This isn’t the first tough time I’ve had in my life.  I will get through this.

Gage returned to his locker for more aspirin, when the klaxons sounded again.

*****

…Chest heaving, he hunched forward with palms braced against his knees, until the ragged gasps subsided.  Straightening, he impatiently raked the side of his face against his upper arm to halt the maddening trickles of perspiration that continually seeped from his hairline.  The sour stench of sweat-soaked clothing permeated the air.  He paused, eyes narrowed, to scrutinize his new surroundings.  The winding path had eventually leveled out, the trees falling back to reveal a small grassy plateau.  The open expanse consisted of several hundred yards of level ground fringed by the dense woods on all sides.  The grass, not overly long, was unkempt with intermittent scabby patches of bare earth poking through.  The fog clung persistently to the trees, writhing about the trunks and branches.  Low, white clouds, seemingly within reach, drifted with the air currents.  In his beleaguered state, the continuous lull of the dripping water leant a soothing, calming, almost hypnotic quality…

He snapped to, instantly vigilant.  The preternatural silence had been broken by a whisper of sound, so faint as to be hardly noticeable above the pattering rain.   He focused intently, ears straining to pinpoint the location.  The wind picked up and he suffered through the interminable sway of branches and the resulting clattering they made until they stilled once again. The sound reverberated again, off to his left and from the path below – a deep, prolonged howl.  A frown creased his forehead.  The keening was reminiscent of a hound bringing its quarry to bay.  Hairs prickled at the back of his neck as the plaintive cry sounded again, but louder…

Chapter Seven

The klaxons sounded harshly. Wakened abruptly, Johnny felt as if an electric current had just coursed through his body.  Falling off the bunk, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the squad. 

“…Time out 20:36.”  Gage had been out of it less than forty-five minutes and his mind was in a fog.  Hesitating, he reached for his pen.  “What have we got?”  His voice sounded scratchy and unfamiliar.

“Structure fire, 346 Bonita Street.  Guess you didn’t get much of a nap.”  Roy yawned as he started up the squad.

“Yeah, guess that’s the breaks.”  Johnny’s head ached dully.  He wished he’d been awake enough to grab some aspirin as he passed by his locker.

The ‘structure fire’ had consisted of a fully involved two-story, warehouse, the extent severe enough that by the time Station 51 arrived, the only thing they could do was to assist in keeping the conflagration contained.  The building would undoubtedly be a total loss.  The battalion chief had learned from Dispatch that the distress call to the fire department had been anonymous and placed from a pay phone a block away.  Given that, and because the blaze was just too hot and too evenly distributed for a fire originating from natural or accidental causes, the chief requested Arson Investigation and a second-alarm assignment.  The fire would be fought from the outside, primarily to prevent it from spreading and to preserve whatever evidence might be salvageable.  Piles of debris and storage materials on the first floor of the structure made the job of extinguishing the blaze frustrating and tedious. 

Captain Stanley’s directions to his men were brief and concise.  “Kelly, you and DeSoto take a two and a half to the north side.  Gage, back up Lopez on the western exposure with 14’s.  37’s on the east and 8’s covering the south.  Second assignment’s ETA is six minutes.  Arson’s responding.  Make sure to exercise proper protocols when we begin overhaul.  We’re going to be here awhile.  Let’s get to it.”  Stanley clapped his gloved hands together for emphasis as his crew dispersed to their respective assignments.

Johnny was thankful when a portion of the roof collapsed into the structure about an hour into the fight.  The opening acted as a natural vent and provided access for 14’s ladder truck.  The thick, black smoke now roiled upwards, blotting out the stars in the sky.  The blaze’s searing orange colors stood out in stark relief to the dark backdrop of the surrounding buildings.  Timbers popped and crackled as they succumbed to the flames, the sound overriding that of hissing water as it instantly turned to steam.  Occasionally, Johnny could hear the distant cacophony of Dispatch on the various radios of the fire department’s vehicles.  It was curiously reassuring, serving as a reminder that he was not alone in the battle.  Gage’s new leather gloves chafed against the back of his hands as he supported the heavy hose behind Marco.  The heat was brutal.  It always was.  Sweat slid down his backside, molding his boxers to his hips.  He fought the urge to pick at the offending material.  The wind picked up and Johnny shivered as a cool current of air came in contact with his sweaty body.  The relief lasted only seconds.  A sudden down draft sent oily smoke billowing their way, followed by a blast of super-heated air.  He followed Marco’s lead and went down on one knee, seeking the relatively clean air below the noxious fumes.  Tears streamed from his eyes.  The steamy air was hard to breathe and Johnny fleetingly considered tapping Marco to pull back, so that they could man their SCBA’s.  The smoke retreated just as quickly as it had assaulted.  Adrenaline surged through Johnny and his headache and anxiety were forgotten for a time.  He loved a good fire.

He hated overhaul and recovery.  The adrenaline kick was gone.  The natural instinct to fight was replaced with the drudgery of seeking hot-spots while preserving the integrity of a potential crime scene.  Wielding his pike pole, Johnny slid beneath rafters haphazardly canted against one of the walls of what had been an office in the warehouse.  Portable generators cast pools of artificial light upon the scene.  Smoke drifted from what was left of the structure.  Water ran in a steady stream from each doorway and vented wall.  Johnny cast the bright beam of his flashlight about as he searched for hidden pockets of fire behind walls and in piles of rubble.  He cautiously slogged through water covered with a light skin of oily ash.  The wet, heavy smell of burnt wood and insulation added to the building nausea that he had suppressed most of the day.  His head pounded in time to each beat of his heart.

The glint of metal, reflecting off light, caught his attention.  Gage redirected the flashlight’s beam across the area again.  This time, there was no return.  Curiosity outweighed fatigue, and he slowly picked his way to the center of the room.  He shone the light into the dark recesses of the same area and caught the glimmer again.  Trudging through the sludge, he made his way over to an alcove.  The bright orb of his flashlight revealed the burnt remains of an animal.  Johnny bent for a closer look, breathing through his mouth in an attempt to avoid the repulsive stench of burnt flesh.  Little remained of the lower half of the animal.  A rafter had knocked a metal filing cabinet sideways forming a partial shield over the animal.  Careful not to disturb anything, Johnny squatted and directed his light under the fallen cabinet.  The collar and upper body were fairly intact.  Johnny surmised that the tag dangling from the collar was what had caused the reflection.  The dog’s head was extended towards what had been a storage room.  Attached to the collar and leading in the same direction was a chain, the heavy links melded together from the intense heat.  Gage’s stomach churned with the realization of what had happened.  The poor dog had been desperately trying to pull away from the chain that had held it prisoner.  Curiously, the animal closely resembled one of his long forgotten childhood pets, a dog he had named Talon.   The metallic taste in Johnny’s mouth was suddenly replaced by the sour surge of bile as it rose into his throat.  Johnny swallowed convulsively in an attempt to quell the rising nausea.  Unable to maintain control any longer, he leaned forward and vomited the remnants of his dinner into the dirty water.

*****

“Johnny?  Here, let me help you.”

In spite of his retching, Gage felt the reassuring pressure of Marco’s gloved hand on his shoulder.  Johnny rocked back on his haunches and brushed the back of one hand across his mouth, gagging at the sight of his emesis floating in the dirty water.  “M’okay.  Just need to get out of here,” he said breathlessly.

Marco shone his light on the dog.  He gazed at it silently, his hand on Johnny’s shoulder squeezing tightly for a moment.  Lopez raised the HT to his lips.  “HT 51 to Engine 51.”

“Go ahead HT 51.”

“Cap, you may want to send someone over to look at what Johnny found.  We’re in the southwest corner of the first floor in an office.  Do you copy?”

“HT 51, they’re on their way.  Engine 51, out.”

Placing a hand under the crook of Johnny’s elbow, Marco helped guide Gage to his feet.  Lopez’s flashlight slid sideways, the brief beam of light revealing the paramedic’s flushed face, shiny with perspiration.  “You’ll feel better after you get out in the fresh air, Johnny.”

“I know.  Thanks for helping me, man,” Gage was embarrassed over his display of weakness.

Cap met Marco as he led Johnny from the smoldering ruins.  “What’d ya find?”

Thoughts of the dog’s decimated remains rose quickly to the paramedic’s mind.  The imprinted odor of the canine’s burnt flesh was so strong, Johnny could almost taste it.  Before he knew it, Gage was retching again, narrowly missing his captain’s boots.

“Steady, John.”  Hank glanced across the paramedic’s hunched back to Marco.  “Human remains?”

“A dog – it wasn’t pretty.”

“John, we’re wrapping up here.  Roy is taking Manizetti from 37’s in the squad to Rampart.  He needs some stitches in his hand.  Ride along and ask one of the docs to check you out if you’re not feeling any better when you get there.”

“’kay, Cap.”  He didn’t have the strength to argue.

Johnny was relieved that he was the last man in the squad, and therefore sitting on the outside.  Halfway to Rampart, he abruptly motioned to Roy to pull over.  The squad had barely brushed against the curb before he sprung from the vehicle.  There was nothing left to vomit.  He brought up a little bile between a lot of dry heaves. 

*****

Dr. Kelly Brackett pulled the stethoscope from his ears and motioned for the paramedic to put his tee shirt on.  “I don’t know.  You may be coming down with a virus or it could be a minor case of smoke inhalation.  Tell me about the fire.  Were you working with your SCBA?”

Johnny rested on an exam bed in Treatment Room 2.  His headache had returned with a vengeance.  His right hand clutched an emesis basin as if it were a lifeline.  “No, fought it from the outside.  Too involved to get close.”

“Were there any hazardous materials present?”

“No, just a structure fire, Doc.  Ate a little smoke, that’s all.”

“Well, your vitals and temperature are normal and your lungs sound clear.  I’ll order an injection of Compazine to help with the nausea.”  Brackett placed a small bottle in Johnny’s hand.  “Tylenol.  Take two every three to four hours, as needed.  Drink lots of water to prevent dehydration.  I want you back in here if your symptoms extend into this afternoon.”

Johnny slid off the bed as he buttoned his shirt.  “Thanks, Doc.”

*****

Roy leaned against the base station counter and sipped on a coffee as he waited for Johnny.  He abandoned the cup and approached Brackett as the doctor came down the hall.  “Is he okay?”

“Vitals are normal.  Carol is giving him an anti-emetic to control the vomiting; I want to see him again if it persists.  Keep him out of trouble, Roy.”  Brackett tapped the paramedic on the shoulder with Johnny’s metal chart case as he passed by.

Roy patiently waited in the hall until Johnny joined him a few minutes later.  Gage looked like hell.  The fluorescent lighting accentuated his haggard appearance.  Soot from the fire streaked his face and lined the crevices in his neck.  Blood shot eyes, tear tracks and the plastic-like sheen of dried mucus on Johnny’s upper lip all attested to the effects of the fire they had just fought.  Gage’s uniform stank of dried sweat and the heavy, oily smell of smoke.  Not exactly the public’s image of the fireman who rescues the kitty from the tree, Roy thought wryly.  Junior looked like one of a thousand other firemen who had fought a two-alarm blaze for hours. 

“How are you feeling?” Roy asked solicitously.

Johnny rubbed the injection site on his hip and grimaced.  “Just tired, let’s head back…”  Gage gazed past his partner to the end of the hallway.  “Roy, that was Mrs. Kennedy getting off the elevator.  How’s—.”

Roy rubbed his eyes tiredly.  “Johnny, she died about an hour ago.”

Gage leaned heavily against the tile-blocked hallway.  “Shit.”

*****

Johnny jerked to consciousness with a start.  Disoriented, he rubbed his eyes.  The dorm was dark and still.  Diffused light from the parking lot filtered through the blinds, revealing the sleeping mounds of his coworkers.  To Johnny’s left, Roy breathed softly and on the other side of the room, Mike murmured in his sleep.  Johnny lay still for several minutes listening to the muted traffic on the 405 in the distance.  The paramedic tried to remember what had caused him to awaken so abruptly, but his sleep-shrouded mind refused to recall the details.  Johnny closed his eyes and drifted off again.

The lights flicked on abruptly as the klaxons sounded: “Squad 51, childbirth in progress…”

Johnny stumbled out of his bunk closely followed by Roy.

*****

Gage leaned over the sink in the men’s room at Rampart and placed two of the tablets that Brackett had given him in his mouth.  He cupped water to drink and then splashed his face several times.  He grimaced as one of the tablets lodged in the back of his throat and slowly dissolved.  Gage ran his wet hands through his unruly hair.  Propping his elbows on the sink, he slowly lowered his aching head to rest against his arms.  He thought fleetingly of turning off the running tap.  The faint smell of smoke clung to his skin despite a shower earlier in the night.  As the memory of the warehouse fire returned, Johnny’s stomach heaved in rebellion.  Gage’s breaths were rapid and shallow as he concentrated on pleasant things, anything to stave off the prospect of vomiting.  His eyes watered as he fought the urge.  Finally, the spasms abated.  Gray tinged saliva, a vestige of the smoke from the fire, mixed with the tap water and washed down the drain.   

The recent joy of delivering an eight pound baby girl, the first in three generations to the Notopolous family, was quickly replaced by apathy as the death of Mrs. Applegate continued to weigh heavily on the paramedic’s mind.  Johnny had been on hundreds of routine runs involving elderly heart or stroke victims.  Some died en route or shortly following admission; others recovered and lived on.  But Mrs. Applegate’s run differed because of his actions.  The outcome would have been the same, regardless.  The ordered treatment had been executed with skill and efficiency.  The patience and compassion, however, had been sadly lacking on his part.  If I could just go back – done it different.  How can I say I’m sorry when it’s just too damn late?

“Johnny?  You in here?”  Roy shoved the men’s room door open.  “We have another run.”

Gage’s red-rimmed eyes met the reflection of Roy’s tired, steady gaze in the mirror in front of him.  “Just the same headache,” he murmured in response to the unasked question.  He really needed to get off that soapbox that was labeled “Gage’s Miseries”.

“We gotta go.”

Johnny sighed as he pushed away from the sink and hurried to the squad.  God, will this shift never end?

*****

Station 51 was preparing for shift change when the squad backed into the apparatus bay shortly before seven a.m.  Roy briefly rested his head against the steering wheel and listened to the ticking engine as it cooled.  He was tired beyond belief.  Only seventeen runs – didn’t even break the record.  How come it feels more like fifty?  His partner didn’t answer his thoughts.  Junior was oblivious to the world, his head canted at a neck-wrenching angle as he snored softly.

Roy’s eyes drifted shut as he relaxed further.  A sharp crack on the side of his head brought him to his senses immediately.

With lightning swiftness, Johnny’s hand flailed out again, barely missing Roy’s face.  A sharp intake of breath and Gage was awake.

Roy momentarily forgot his sore head as he watched the range of emotions that flashed across his partner’s face.  Sheer terror was quickly replaced by the puzzlement of disorientation, followed more slowly by the recognition of the familiar surroundings of Station 51 as they came into focus.  Johnny abruptly bolted for the latrine.

Roy rubbed his arms as a chill ran up his back.

*****

Gage grabbed Kelly by the collar and shoved him forcibly against the bank of lockers.  The Art of Effectively Conversing in Sign Language thudded to the floor between them.  Johnny’s face, white with anger, was only inches from Chet’s.  “I told you to lay off and I meant it.”  The intensity of each soft-spoken word struck a note of discordant finality.

Chet’s lighthearted joke had backfired badly.  The firefighter had concealed the pseudo-lettered paperback, along with a rigged mousetrap ensnaring a mutilated finger, again in an upright salute, on the top shelf of Johnny’s locker.  As planned, Gage’s groping fingers encountered the “joke” instead of his intended car keys at shift’s end.

Chet had expected Johnny to ignore him or good-naturedly threaten retaliation as he usually did.  Instead the handle of a locker bit into Kelly’s back as Gage pushed him against it repeatedly to emphasize each word the paramedic uttered.

Not quite ready to admit his poor judgment, Kelly quietly cracked his gum as he coolly regarded his aggressor.  “Do us all a favor, Gage.  Lighten up.”  Chet pried Johnny’s fingers loose and straightened his shirt.  Without a backward glance, the firefighter strode from the locker room, violently shoving the door that led to the apparatus bay against the wall.

The mousetrap skittered across the room and hit the far wall.  The trap sprung and the shapeless lump of clay rolled across the floor.  Henry ran to investigate as Johnny sank his head into his hands and slumped onto the bench next to his locker.

*****

Johnny was so numb with exhaustion he could barely function.  A car horn rudely blared, and with a start, Gage realized that he had braked at a green light.  Adrenaline started pumping at the thought of what could have happened if he had done just the opposite.  He accelerated into the intersection just as the light turned yellow, the irate driver’s profanity behind him falling on deaf ears.  Johnny shifted the Land Rover into third and honed in on his ranch.

The anticipation of camping, so strong the afternoon before, dimmed as the desperate need for uninterrupted sleep took precedence.  Arriving home, Johnny stumbled through the living room.  Shoes were kicked off into a jumble near the sofa; the car keys missed the coffee table altogether.  Following a brief stop in the bathroom, Gage staggered into his bedroom and fell across the bed, still in clothes and jacket.  He was in another world before his head came in contact with the pillow.

Chapter Eight

As Johnny stirred, the familiar layout of his darkened bedroom slowly registered within his consciousness.  He closed his eyes and drifted off again for a moment, but the insistent pressure of his bladder signaled the return to awareness.  Rolling to his side, Gage peered at the bedside clock.  2:15… 2:15 a.m.?  I’ve been asleep fifteen, no, almost sixteen hours? 

Johnny knew that he had been beat, but couldn’t believe he had slept through the entire day and half of the night.  A few hours on his first morning off were usually the limit unless he was sick.  Switching on the bedside lamp, Gage frowned at the rumpled condition of the bedspread and pillows.  Although he had fallen asleep on top of the spread, he had somehow managed to curl up inside it during the night.  His pillow was damp with sweat and a corner of the fitted sheet had been pulled from the mattress.  It had obviously been a restless night.  With a pang of regret, Johnny recalled his tentative plans to meet a buddy from Station 59 for a beer and to shoot pool the previous evening.  He had intended to cancel because of camping, but hadn’t made the phone call.  I wonder how long he waited for me to show?

He padded off to the bathroom.  The drawn face that greeted him in the mirror was not all that encouraging.  With hair standing on end and a two-day growth on his face, he looked like he could successfully roam the back streets of the worst sections of L.A.  He couldn’t say that he felt rested, but at least the headache was gone, replaced by a persistent fuzziness that he knew came from too much sleep after going too long without.  The nausea was gone, too, and as his stomach growled, he realized that it had been over twenty-four hours since he had last eaten – longer if he didn’t count the dinner that he’d lost at the fire.

Johnny quickly stripped, and after shaving, stepped into the shower.  The hot water coursing over his body helped immensely.  He leaned against the shower wall, soaking up the soothing warmth until the water ran tepid.  Dressing in jeans and tee shirt, topped with a flannel shirt, he laced his hiking boots, and then raked his fingers through his still-wet hair.  Putting coffee on to brew, Gage packed the Rover with his camping gear.  The dew was heavy on the grass, and it was silent in the pre-dawn darkness.  Returning to the kitchen, he prepared a thermos and poured a mug of coffee for the road.  After stopping at an all-night diner for a large breakfast, Johnny began his ascent into the mountains via the Los Angeles Crest Highway.

Forty-five minutes later, Gage left the Rover at the car park at Three Points Junction.  He struck out on the Waterman Trail just as the rising sun cast its first rays on the surrounding peaks.  A misty plume of breath accompanied his sigh of contentment as he hiked.

*****

Johnny’s destination was the combined summits of east and west Twin Peaks, a distance of seven miles and an elevation of nearly 8,000 feet to sea level.  Gage had hiked the Wilderness Area numerous times and chose that particular trailhead because of the challenge it afforded.  It was strenuous, but safe enough to hike alone if one was experienced.  Situated in one of the most remote sections of the San Gabriel Wilderness, the rarely used trail was barely discernable in most locations.  The isolation provided the solitude Johnny craved and hopefully the sighting of Bighorn sheep that were known to populate the area.  The view from the summits was one of the best in the San Gabriel Mountain range.

At Twin Peaks Saddle, Johnny stopped for lunch.  After eating, he stretched out on top of a large boulder, enjoying the warm sunshine and soft pine scented breeze.  Autumn was marching down the slopes and the burnished copper and yellow hues of shrubbery could be seen among the ponderosa pines and stands of incense cedar.

After a brief rest, Gage hiked the steep northern slope of East Twin Peaks.  The view was well worth the effort.  The mid-afternoon sun carved a dark shadow in Devil’s Canyon and cast a golden glow upon the southern expanse of Mt. Waterman.  Johnny followed the sound of loose shale striking rock and was rewarded when two Bighorn sheep appeared a hundred yards below his location.  The paramedic quietly sat for nearly an hour, watching the sheep at play as they nimbly scaled the steep terrain.  The stiffening breeze and low angle of the sun finally convinced Johnny that he needed to soon set up camp for the night.  Before moving on, he signed the summit register housed within a simple wooden hut, noting with satisfaction that the last entry had been made five days earlier.

Traversing the western side of the mountain, Johnny descended down to the ridge that connected the two peaks.  The campsite he chose had a few well-placed boulders that provided protection from the wind.  Following a simple supper of pork and beans and coffee, Gage pondered on the events that led to his decision to camp out.  With the quiet solace of the woods pressing around him, the problems that had seemed so insurmountable the day before now gained a better perspective.  The fresh air and exertion had worn him out, lulling him into a drowsy state as he contentedly watched sparks spiral upwards from the wood as it crackled in the campfire.  Waiting until the blaze burnt down, Johnny sifted dirt on the remaining hot embers, and then crawled into his down sleeping bag.  Secure in the knowledge that rest and stress-free time alone was all that had been needed, Gage was asleep in minutes.

*****

…It seemed as though the eerie keening had ceased hours ago.  But then, he thought sardonically, time had little meaning where he was, especially since the sun had yet to put in an appearance and his wrist just happened to be suspiciously free of the watch he customarily wore.  He began to wonder if he had ever really heard anything to begin with, wondered if he were imagining the entire predicament he was in, had begun to question his sanity, just as somewhere, off to his left, a branch snapped.  He swung round, riveting his gaze to the woods.  Sweat broke out on his brow as a shadow stealthily crept behind a deadfall, the mass of brush and broken remnants of trees effectively screening the intruder from his view.  The sour taste of fear was heavy in his mouth as saliva pooled under his tongue.

The clinking of metal pieces as they rubbed together sounded hollowly across the clearing, followed by a deep-throated growl.  A large dog leaped atop the tangled stand of timber, its movements lithe and catlike.  A heavy chain encircled its muscled neck, the linked length disappearing into the brush.  The dog whined as it crouched low… waiting.  Imperceptibly, the chain pulled and tightened. 

The fog drifted around him, the thick current of air bleeding what little light remained.  The gloom settled upon him in suffocating silence.  His heart fluttered erratically as the brush ahead of him rustled.  A breeze soughed through the branches above him and abruptly the fog lifted.

Ryan Harding, his dripping hair matted to his forehead, lurched towards him on unsteady feet.  The boy’s sightless eyes mirrored Gage’s frozen scream.  A flick of one pale hand drew the chain taut and brought the dog to its feet as the fog rolled in…

*****

John Gage’s screams echoed across the ridge where he camped, but there was no one to come to his rescue.  Tangled in his sleeping bag, he kicked repeatedly until the seam along the zipper ripped.  Gage frantically pushed backwards across the tent floor, trailing the bag behind him.  In his half-awake state, his crazed mind actually believed that something or someone was grabbing his legs.  One of the support stakes snapped as he rammed into it and the partial collapse of one tent wall across his side exacerbated his fear as he struggled to gain freedom.  Johnny finally broke free of the tent’s confines and reeling backwards, smacked his shoulder hard against a boulder.  The sting of the rough stone abrading through the thin cotton of his tee shirt helped ground him to reality.  Gage sagged against the rock, wheezing as he desperately tried to calm down.  His heart was beating so hard, that irrational as it was, he actually thought it might break through his chest cavity.

“It’s just a dream…just a dream…Christ, I have to calm down.”  He patted his chest as if he were soothing an upset child.  It was a desperate attempt to gain rationality and slow the rapid beating of his heart.  “It’s okay…it’s okay…just calm down.”  His voice was husky and cracking with emotion.  It wasn’t until later, as overwhelming exhaustion set in, that Gage realized that he had talked himself down, using many of the same techniques that he employed with his overwrought victims in the field. 

It was a long time before Johnny was able to think somewhat objectively.  The dreams – hell, nightmares – were back and getting worse.  The paramedic shivered as a coyote howled in the distance.  The wind shifting through the trees sounded ominously like a body pushing through the undergrowth.  For one senseless moment, Gage considered abandoning the campsite and heading for the Rover.  He reasoned that he could always return for the tent when it was daylight.  Common sense intervened as he realized that his foolish efforts would likely earn him a broken ankle or worse in attempting the trailhead in the dead of night.  Just have to tough it out until daylight.  Should have stayed home…

As dawn broke, high cirrus clouds pushed in from the west and cast a gray pall over the surroundings.  To make matters worse, the Santa Ana winds that had blown throughout the night had pushed the smog from the L.A. Valley up into the surrounding mountains.  A weather phenomenon known as inversion, it generally occurred during the summer months and rarely in October.  Johnny was not surprised.  The unusual weather was just the icing on one of many cryptic cupcakes that had been served during a year that had been anything but normal. 

As soon as it became light enough to see, Gage packed up his belongings.  He skipped breakfast in the interest of returning to the car park as soon as possible.  Visibility was poor as he set out.  Once familiar trees and landmarks became surreal images in the heavy mist and the bright autumn colors of yesterday were dull and muddy in the gloomy light.  The lack of human company was no longer a blessing.  Johnny craved the chance meeting of another hiker just to reinforce his current state of awareness.  This is becoming too damn much like that dream… Try as he could, Gage was unable to rid himself of anxiety that grew stronger by the minute.  Unnerved, he constantly glanced behind him.  The slightest sound had him on edge, half-expecting a huge dog or worse to lunge out of the mist at any moment.

Coming to an abrupt standstill, Johnny gazed in despair at the wall of rock before him.  It disappeared into swirling gray tendrils to the left and right of where he stood.  Sweat pooled along his flanks as the paramedic nervously realized that he was no longer on the trail and didn’t have a clue how far he had strayed. 

Johnny carefully reversed the direction he had traveled, bitterly chastising himself for not being more observant in his haste to get off the mountain.  The trail was nowhere to be seen.  Shrugging out of his backpack, Gage dropped it at his feet as he took stock of his predicament.  The choices weren’t encouraging – wait out the smog, which could last several days as inversions often did – or try to locate the trail.

Reaching for the zippered pocket on his pack, Johnny hesitated as dread seeped through his gut.  Ruefully he recalled his compass, which lay on his bedroom dresser at home.  He had loaned it to Chris DeSoto for a Boy Scout outing last month and although it had been returned in a timely manner, Johnny had not placed it back with his camping gear.  He couldn’t believe that a stupid mistake of procrastination might possibly cost him in ways that he didn’t even want to consider.  Realistically he knew that his predicament was not life threatening.  Gage had backpacked frequently in the San Gabriel Wilderness and had the knowledge and skills necessary to survive the remote area.  What really caused the bitter taste of panic in his mouth was the prospect of spending another night in surroundings that were all too similar to those of his dream.  Time was his enemy. 

For two hours Johnny trudged an ever increasing arc from the rock wall, marking landmarks with each successive circuit.  Eventually he came across what appeared to be the path.  After following it for some distance, Johnny realized that it was indeed the trail and not just another false start.  Choosing the upward slope, Gage continued in the direction of East Twin Peaks.

By mid-morning the temperature had increased into the low-seventies.  The excessive humidity, combined with Johnny’s apprehension, produced beads of sweat on his