There is a potentially disturbing  scene in this part of the tale that makes reference to "Descent", written by JoAnn Stuart and located on the E! Station site. An Arc Through Fog Part V "The world is washing out its stains." Inspection Wilfred Owen Mike heard someone knocking at the door. He got up from the couch, where he had spent the greater part of the last two weeks, watching television, sleeping, and slowly getting his strength back.  And while he certainly felt better, he was nowhere near one hundred percent.  His stay-at-home convalescence had been extended to three weeks, after which he was to work at dispatch for two to three weeks or until he could be physically certified to return to full duty. During the last two weeks, he had not left his apartment once, relying instead on Martin Pearcy's neighborly benevolence to keep him stocked with food and other staples. He had not spoken to his former crewmates at 51's.  It was probably for the best, as he knew they would only fight the decision he had made about his future, but he couldn't help being hurt by the way they'd all kept their distance. He had, of course, heard from Chief Janlan - more than once.  Thus, his course was set to return to 68's after his convalescence was over.  Mike had called Captain Moore the very same day that he had left Station 51 in anger.  The phone call had been an act of debasement.  An apology that never should have been uttered.  A promise not to cause any more trouble.  A plea for another chance.  An appeal to Moore's sense of superiority. Moore had been surprisingly forgiving, bordering on apology himself.  To what end, though, Mike could not fathom.  Most likely, Moore was trying to smooth Mike into silence.  Moore did not know that the game was already up. But it was up, and now all Mike needed was a little courage, endurance, and fortitude in order to see this thing to its end.  Beyond that, he would not permit himself to contemplate.  After all, Janlan had not given him any promises. He went to the door and looked through the peephole. McCullough? What's he doing here? Mike opened the door. "Terrence?"  He could not mask his surprise. "Can I come in, Mike?" "Sure." McCullough came straight to the point.  "Captain Moore told me you plan on coming back to the station." Mike nodded.  "That's right." "Are you out of your mind?!" For a moment, Mike was too stunned to answer.  By the time he had gathered his wits about him, McCullough was already speaking again. "I couldn't believe it when Captain Moore told me," Terrence ranted.  "Why in hell do you want to stay there, Mike?!  This was your chance to get out!  What are you doing coming back?" "I have to go back," Mike replied. "No, you don't!"  Terrence protested anxiously.  "You can just walk away!  You can resign!  Captain Moore won't pursue any kind of action against you if you decide to resign!" "He said he wouldn't take action against me if I returned," Mike said.  "And I could never resign, Terrence.  Being a fireman is the only thing I want to do.  Besides, Captain Moore told me there would be no more trouble if I came back." "Do you believe that, Mike?" "I'm choosing to." McCullough threw his head back with a groan.  "You can't be that ignorant." "Listen, Terrence, whatever religious beliefs you guys practice at that station, that's none of my business.  I don't have to agree with it, but I'm willing to overlook it if it means holding on to my career," Mike explained. Terrence narrowed his eyes and studied Stoker's face.  "That's a bunch of crap, Mike," he said suddenly.  "You're going to tell me that you can overlook serving with a group of Satanists?" "I've been overlooking it for months, Terrence." "No, you haven't," McCullough disputed.  "You've tried, but you can't be neutral.  Just like we can't be neutral towards you.  And I refuse to believe that you'd compromise your integrity just to keep your job." "Then you don't know me as well as you think you do," Mike replied.  "Look, I don't care what you all do in that cellar room, as long as it doesn't affect me-" "But it does affect you!  You've seen it affect you!" McCullough bellowed.   "You've felt it affect you!  You've still got visible proof that it's affected you!" "But Captain Moore said that's going to stop-" "Stoker, would you wake up!  Listen to me!  It's too dangerous for you to go back there!" "Why are you doing this, Terrence?"  Mike asked.  "I figured you hated me just as much as the rest of them." "If that were true, I wouldn't have given you the opening to get away that night."  McCullough sighed and sunk down onto the couch.  "Look, Mike . . . I wasn't sure about you at first.  I was like the rest of the guys; I thought you were there to take something away from us.  Your presence was going to be an interference none of us wanted to deal with.  So, Captain Moore asked me to feel you out, see if you'd be a threat to us.   I'm still undecided as to whether or not you're a threat, but . . . I'm . . . I can't hate you the way they do," he admitted.  "I've been doing my best to protect you, because I respect you.  But if you come back . . . I won't set myself up in front of them.  You'll be on your own." Mike sat down on the arm of the chair across from McCullough.  "I've been on my own since day one in that place, Terrence." "That's what you think.  You don't know how many times I ran interference for you, how many times I stopped them from doing what they really wanted to you."  A pause.  "And that night at the viaduct . . . I knew you had seen it." Mike's entire body tensed, but he remained silent. "You saw the Ruling." Still, Stoker did not speak. "Captain Moore wasn't sure if you'd seen it, but I was.  I could tell from your face, the way you acted." "I don't know what a Ruling is," Mike replied calmly. "You've seen a Ruling, Mike," Terrence persisted.  "You've seen at least a dozen by now." "I don't know what you're talking about, Terrence." "I'm not going to implicate myself, Mike.  But I think you know what the purpose of our ritual is.  I know you've been down there to watch us more than just that one time I caught you.  Are you going to say you haven't figured any of it out yet?" Mike struggled with his own good sense.  He wanted to trust McCullough, but he knew better.  McCullough was one of them.  Despite his assistance in the past, McCullough was loyal to the cult.   "I could understand some of the words, but it never made any sense," was his hazy answer. "Oh, this is a waste of time!"  McCullough burst out, getting up off the couch.  "I came here to talk you out of coming back.  But if you're going to insist on it, then I want to make it clear that I'm not going to help you.  I gave you your chance.  I'm not going to risk my own skin in order to save yours." "Terrence . . . " "Look, if you have any sense-any sense at all!-you'd stay away from there.  Don't forget what they were going to do to you, Mike.  If Captain Moore hadn't stopped them . . . they would have done it.  It's their method of intimidation.  And Skora's been dying to get his hands on you since the day you walked in the door.  It's a sickness, Mike.  It's a sickness and it's spread through all of them."  He paused with his hand on the doorknob.   "It's not too late, Mike.  You can still get out of this.  Think about it.  That's all I'm asking.  Just think about it." "Terrence!" McCullough looked back over his shoulder. Mike took a few steps closer.  "Why do you stay with them?  If you really don't like them, why do you stay?" "Sometimes it's easier to stay than to run," he replied.  "I think you're well aware of that." **** Three weeks later.  Station 68. Mike stepped into the kitchen. "Look who's back." At this remark from Eggers, all eyes turned towards where Stoker stood in the doorway. "Feeling better?"  Pennington asked, not too unkindly. Mike could not find his voice.  He had spent the vast majority of his convalescence making a concerted effort not to think about the crewmates he'd be returning to.  But now, seeing them again - their faces and the cool, assessing gazes - Mike was struck with a sense of horror.  He recalled the expressions that had been on their faces the night when he had fled this place.  He could almost feel their hands on him again.  He wondered what in God's name he was doing back in here.  Had he gone completely mad?  Looking at these men and knowing what they had done to him, did he really think he could work side by side with them again? "You hungry, Mike?"  McCullough asked, after deciding that Stoker was not going to answer Pennington's inquiry after his health. Mike nodded once.  "Yes." "Come sit down."  McCullough motioned to an empty chair.  "Harris and I have the cooking this morning.  Hope you like scrambled eggs." Captain Moore appeared in the doorway where Stoker was still standing, having made no move to sit in the chair pointed out by McCullough. "Well!" Mike jumped at the sound of Moore's voice.  That was when he realized his heart was racing like a freight train. "Welcome back," Moore went on, overlooking Stoker's startled reaction.  "I hope you're feeling better." "Yes," Mike replied in an abrupt clip, unable to think of anything more to say. "Good, good.  Glad to have you back.  Sit down, sit down.  I think breakfast is just about ready." This time Mike made it to McCullough's proffered chair and sat. Directly across from him sat Skora. As Mike looked up, Skora looked down.  Yet, Mike didn't miss the certain degree of swagger.  Skora knew he had gotten the better of Stoker, and he also knew that it was only through Captain Moore's intervention that Stoker was safe.  In that respect, Skora had the upper hand; and he knew he could indulge his arrogance. Yet, breakfast passed in peace. Two morning runs presented no problems. While his crewmates were hardly warm or friendly, they were civil, professional and more prone to acknowledging Stoker's presence and his abilities than they had ever been before. An afternoon callout to a warehouse fire that found Skora and Stoker together on the hose went off without a hitch.  Skora had not bullied or harassed his partner.  His actions had been proper and in accordance with established techniques.  Whatever Captain Moore had said to the crew regarding their treatment of Stoker, they were taking it seriously and obeying him to the letter. Mike found himself wondering just how long it would take him to do the job he had been sent here to do.  If his crewmates were on their best behavior, it could take a long time. And Mike Stoker did not want to wait a long time. **** In the grand scheme of things, two months was not a long time. In Mike Stoker's world, it was an eternity. An eternity that brought him no closer to accomplishing his mission.  And he was sure that this failure, in turn, brought him no closer to salvaging his career.  If he did not turn up something soon, it stood to reason that he would be doomed to spend the rest of his days as a fireman at 68's.  He was the "in".  Even when his 18-month bar from testing for engineer was over, headquarters would not permit their ace-in-the-hole to move out of his strategic position until the case against 68's C-shift was closed.   Get some proof of 68's wrong-doings or stay there forever.  Neither choice appealed to him. Yet, his crewmates' behavior had been close to exemplary.  The nocturnal rendezvous in the cellar had not resumed since Mike's return.  No one had raised a finger against him.  There had been no more questionable deaths.   His crewmates were considerate and even hospitable.  It seemed that they were trying to win him over. Which would fit in very well with Mike's mission, if his crewmates' overtures of camaraderie were genuine.  More likely, they knew they were being looked at and were on their best behavior.  But if Mike could convince them that he wanted to maintain the peace and then move on,  perhaps they would be lulled into complaisance and decide that it was safe to resume their morbid activities. "I want you to trust me enough that you think I'm willing to overlook anything in order to keep my job.  I want you to start up with your rituals and Rulings again.  Give me something solid, so I can give headquarters what they want, and then I can get the hell out of here.  Come on, come on.  It's been two months!" **** "It's been two months, Terrence," Captain Moore said.  "What do you think?" "I'm not sure what to think, Captain," McCullough replied. "Things have been very peaceful," Moore noted. "That's because the men are being nice to him.  That doesn't mean he wants any part of what we are." "I understand that."  Moore rose and paced in front of his desk.  "But there are some things I don't understand." McCullough waited in silence for his captain to go on. "How likely is it that Stoker hasn't told anyone about what he's seen here?" McCullough considered.  "That's hard to say." "Your opinion?" "I think it's likely he's told someone at Station 51." "And . . . they just kept that information to themselves?" "Maybe." "Knowing how protective they are of their former crewmate, it seems to me that they would do everything in their power to keep him out of harm's way.    Stoker told Captain Stanley that we were the ones who beat him up.  Yet, Stanley doesn't pass that information onto headquarters?  Or if he does, headquarters ignores it?  Something doesn't add up." McCullough swallowed down a twinge of nervousness.   "What are you saying?" "The same thing I've been saying all along.  Stoker is a plant.  Only, we may never get rid of him.  And then what?" "We-we don't have to hold the rituals here," McCullough suggested.  "There's no reason why we can't meet on one of our days off.  We could use my house or Skora's or one of the other guy's." "And the Rulings?" "Stoker doesn't know about the Rulings," McCullough replied, although he was positive that the opposite were true.  "We'll just have to be careful." "We have been very remiss.  Our Ruler knows we do it to protect us in our worship of Him.  But this is the longest we have ever gone.  I fear that if we do not perform a Ruling soon, He will bring punishment to bear." Terrence was surprised to discover his legs were trembling.  "What if-what if we suspended the Rulings . . . at least until Stoker is gone?" "What?"  Moore's countenance was one of diabolical disbelief. "It's for our own safety-" "Be silent, Terrence." "But Captain-" "Silence, Terrence!!  You speak with the words of a blasphemer!" McCullough fell silent. "We shall recommence with the rituals and the Rulings.  And I think we shall use your home this Saturday," Moore announced. McCullough was utterly dejected.  "Yes, Captain." "And if I ever hear you suggest such a thing again, you will be excommunicated.  Am I clear?" "Yes, Captain."  **** Steve Junkers swirled the contents in his coffee cup.  Dregs.  Cold. His mind was fully engaged - so much so that he did not mind the taste of the stale concoction as he swallowed down the last few gulps. "Four months.  Stoker's been our willing stool pigeon for four months, and he's turned up nothing.  That's not all bad, though.  If he breaks this thing open, he becomes the conquering hero."  This was a disturbing thought.  A single bead of perspiration formed on Junkers' temple.  "But the longer he stays there, floundering around, the more likely it is that they're going to get wise to him."  A twisted grin played on his lips.   "We don't want that to happen.  No, we certainly don't want to jeopardize his position down there.  After all, where would he go if we had no further use of him?"  He stood up and pulled on his jacket. Time to pay another visit to 68's. **** "Stoker." Mike looked up from polishing the engine.  The sight of Steve Junkers had the effect of stiffening his spine.  "What are you doing here?" "Just another checking-up visit," Junkers replied, relishing the look of mortification on Stoker's face. Mike glanced quickly about him.  None of his crewmates were in sight.  "You shouldn't be here.  I don't have anything to say to you." "I didn't come down here for conversation.  You're still my project, you know.  I'm responsible for keeping tabs on you," Junkers said with a placating grin. Mike lowered his voice.  "It doesn't look good to have you come down here and talk to me-" "It's what I'm expected to do," Junkers cut him off.  "Listen, I know Chief Janlan has his own agenda in mind as far as your presence in this station goes-" Mike gave him an agitated glare.  "Keep your voice down." "-but I still have a job to do, which is to make sure you don't get into any more trouble.  So, while you're doing your job for Chief Janlan, I'll do my job for him." "Fine," Mike said.  "Now, would you go?" "You realize what's going to happen once this is over?" Mike turned away and resumed polishing the engine. "You will have outlived your usefulness." Mike ignored him. "You think that by giving Janlan what he needs to bust these guys, you'll be exonerated from all guilt.  You're expecting to be welcomed back with open arms."  Junkers leaned close.  "You're just a stooge, Mike.  A stooge and a fool.  That's all." And still, Stoker was silent. Captain Junkers straightened up.  "Well, my report to headquarters will be positive.  You seem to be doing just fine." Mike did not watch him leave.  He heard his footsteps clicking across the bay floor, then on the tile of the foyer.  Following the sound of the door opening and closing, Mike finally looked up to make sure no one was around.  He picked up the can of polish and moved around to the back of the engine. Here, he came face-to-face with Terrence McCullough. For a long moment, they stared at each other. At last, it was McCullough who broke the silence.  "He's right, Mike.  You are a fool."   He turned and headed up the stairs. **** "Brothers, we have been almost five months without a Ruling.  Five months without even a ritual or prayer session.  You all know this was necessary to deflect attention away from our activities; and in this, we have been successful."  Captain Moore slowly scanned over his assembled crewmen.  "While I can not say that I am any more trusting of Mike Stoker's motivations and intent, I feel comfortable that we have not given him any kindling with which to burn us.  And although the situation is still tenuous, I claim that is safe for us to resume our ceremonies and rituals outside station grounds."  A pause.  "Discussion." "How are we to carry out the Rulings with Stoker still around?"  Skora asked.  "He has to be watching." "We must exercises extreme caution and ensure that the Rulings appear to be the result of accidental injuries.  We may not always be able to take the first victim who fits the parameters.  There may be times when Stoker's presence will necessitate the passing over of one victim for the next," Captain Moore replied. "But isn't that-is that acceptable to Him?  We're taking the convenient sacrifice instead of the ordained sacrifice," Eggers pointed out. "Pray for His understanding," Moore replied.  "If we are caught, there will be no more sacrifices at all." "And our behavior towards Stoker?  How long do we have to keep this up?"  This was Eggers again. "Until Stoker leaves." "That's a long time," Pennington put in.  "He's got-what, seven? eight more months before he can retest for engineer.  And even then, there's no guarantee that he'll be out of here so quickly.  And what if the next guy is even worse?" "My Brothers, your concern is noted.  And it is admirable," Captain Moore said gently.  "We have carried out the Rulings for nearly six years, and we have done a creditable job of leaving no trails.  Then we became sloppy and let our hatred create an opening for Stoker to look into.  And so we have altered our practices while still maintaining the intent.  We shall continue on in this method, conducting the rituals and prayers outside the station.  And I shall continue to make the determination on the Rulings at the scene.  Is there further discussion?" Terrence McCullough had no questions.  To be sure, there were many things on his mind, but nothing he wanted to discuss with this group.  His concerns would be labeled blasphemy, faithlessness bordering on sacrilege. But he felt no guilt on behalf of his wavering conscience.  In truth, the wavering felt good, although dangerous.  He was doing his part by allowing the ritual to be held in his house.  More than this his captain and crewmates had no right to expect; except for the fact that McCullough had always been a leading force in the cult. In every respect except one.  McCullough, as the engineer, had never been in on the actual execution of the Rulings.  And he had never given much thought as to how the Rulings were carried out. Until now. How were the various victims brought to death?  Did they, at any point, realize that the men to whom they were looking for deliverance had other ideas in mind.  The injured man or woman-did they know they were being allowed or assisted to die? The more he thought about it, the more McCullough felt sick to his stomach.  He swallowed down his nausea as the chanting began. "Masculus.  Femina.  Masculus.  Femina." On and on it went until Captain Moore delivered his verdict, which was pronounced by Grimsby. "Male.  25.  35.  Clear." McCullough closed his eyes.  This Ruling would be accomplished quickly  It seemed that the vast majority of their responses involved males, 25 to 35 years old, white.  And as soon as this Ruling was completed, another Ruling would be announced.  The unending stream of death was beginning again. And Terrence McCullough wanted no part of it. The droning of the prayer went on.  Terrence repeated the words without thought.  When the phone rang suddenly, Terrence silently excused himself from the group and went upstairs into the kitchen.  Less than a minute later, he was back in the basement, tapping Captain Moore lightly on the shoulder with news that could not wait until the conclusion of the prayer session. "That was battalion.  They tried to reach you at home, and when they couldn't get you, they called me.  Brush fire.   Sounds like a big one.  They're calling us in." Captain Moore's slight smile could not be more despicable.  "What perfect timing-and perfect conditions for a Ruling."  He rose to his feet.  "Meet at the station in thirty minutes, gentlemen." **** Burn, burn, you wretched fields! Swallow up my comrade And leave me no memory Save that of a dying man in his glory. My Best Friend at his Dying John Miles As brushfires went, this was one of the worst Hank Stanley had ever seen.  And he knew hadn't seen anything yet. Station 51 had only lately been called out to assist.  The fire was four days old.  Captain Stanley had spent a good deal of time during those four days in front of the TV, watching the newscasts.  And he had made plenty of calls to battalion to keep abreast of new developments. And then this morning, less than ten minutes after shift change, the call had gone out, and Station 51 had been brought in along with several other units.  Even out-of-state assistance was being called in now.  As the engine approached the command post, Captain Stanley felt as if he were coming to the threshold of a battle zone.  The place was like a beehive on the first flowering day of Spring - men coming and going with no apparent rhyme or reason; a gathering of every sort of engine and squad under the sun; television crews; ambulances.  Organizers.  Strategists.  Coordinators.  Liaisons.  And beyond this hub of activity rose the murky brown pillars of smoke that marked the forward edge of the blaze. It was a monster. And Captain Stanley was expected to lead his men into it. The idea was daunting.  He would not try to deny that, but this was what they had trained for, and they were certainly not inexperienced. John Glover brought the engine to a stop next to a line of water buffaloes that had been brought in to provide potable water to the fire crews.  Captain Stanley jumped down from the cab.  "I'm going to report in.   Wait here." As Captain Stanley disappeared into the throng, the rest of his crew got out of their vehicles and gathered behind the engine. "Look at this place," Johnny said in awe.  He never failed to be amazed by the amount of machinery and manpower that could be brought to bear in the event of such a disaster.  "How many crews you think they've got fighting this thing?" Marco replied, "I heard they were pulling some of the older rigs out of mothballs." "I can believe it," Chet said with a fervent nod.  "This is incredible.  I've never seen one this bad." "They're predicting-look, there's Engine 68!"  This was Marco again. "I wonder if-there's Mike!" It was clear, as Engine 68's crew dismounted, that they were not newcomers to the scene.  Every one of them-even Captain Moore-was covered with dirt and soot.  Their movements were weary and slow, like soldiers at the end of a retreat. "Mike!"  Chet was the first to break into motion.   "Stoker!" Hearing his name, Mike looked around.  He saw Chet coming towards him, then he noticed the rest of his former crewmates only a few paces behind.  He met them halfway. "Wow, you look like you've been eating smoke from dawn to dusk," Chet observed. "From dusk to dawn," Mike replied.  "We got here-I think, four days ago?  No, three.  I don't know.  We were on for a straight eighteen hours.  Then we had a break, and now . . . I think this is our third time on.  We went back out yesterday evening, and we've been going nonstop ever since.  A-shift is supposed to relieve us in the next couple hours, I think.  I'm not sure.  I don't even know what day it is anymore.  This has been murder.  We've been staying here, put up in some tent-city thing they've got going . . . you probably saw it on the way in.  They're keeping all the crews handy."  He paused to catch his breath. "Bad?"  Roy asked. "The worst I've ever seen," Mike replied with a small head shake.  "Those valleys are so narrow, and the wind just kicks things up into a firestorm . . . the flames jump right over your head.  It's easy to become trapped.  They've already lost three men in there." "Anyone we know?"  Chet asked. "No . . . they were from upstate," Mike replied.  Several seconds followed when no one spoke, then Mike said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.  "It's good to see you guys again." "Yeah, yeah . . . you, too, Mike," Roy replied for all of them. Another silence. "Well, I'd better get back over there," Mike announced awkwardly. No one knew what to say to him. "You guys be careful," he said at last, turning and starting back towards Engine 68, where his crewmates-minus Captain Moore, who gone into the command post-stood watching him expectantly. He had not gone a half-dozen paces before Captain Stanley emerged from the command post.  The two men saw each other immediately. Mike hesitated a moment, but that moment was all Hank Stanley needed.  He matched Mike's stride and direction, intercepting him halfway to Engine 68. Seeing his former captain clearly intent on a meeting, Mike stopped and turned to face him, but he waited for Captain Stanley to offer the first words. After a strained moment of consideration, Captain Stanley came forth with his initial attempt. "Good to see you, Mike." "You, too, Cap." "You, uh, saw the guys?" "Yeah, I was just talking to them." Captain Stanley nodded.  "Looks like you've been here a while." "Since day one-" "Stoker!!  Let's go!"  It was McCullough's voice. Captain Moore had come out of the command post with his latest set of instructions.  Now, Engine 68 was ready to go. "Cap, I've got to run-" "Where are they sending you guys?"  Captain Stanley asked anxiously. "I don't know.  Hopefully, to bed," Mike replied. "I'll catch up with you later, okay?" Mike stopped suddenly.  "Where are they sending you guys?" "Spiney Back." Mike's face was grave.  "We just came from there.  That's a dangerous place.  The updraft from the-" "Stoker!  Now!"  McCullough again. "I got it, Mike.  Thanks for the warning," Captain Stanley said gratefully, even though he had already received a detailed situation briefing inside the command post. "Be careful, Cap.  Tell the guys to be careful!"  Mike shouted the last few words over his shoulder, as he trotted back to Engine 68. Captain Stanley drew in a deep breath.  "You, too, Mike," he said quietly. **** Spiney Vale ran the entire length of Spiney Back Ridge. Captain Stanley could see right away that all the warnings had not been without good reason.  A shallow but steep valley, no more than two hundred yards wide at the bottom, with a dry creek bed, drawn like a dividing line down the center, Spiney Vale was a firefighter's nightmare.  One strong gust of wind could carry the encroaching fire clear across the top of the valley, creating a second front. Near the mouth of the valley, where the road split in two, one dirt trail heading up onto the ridge, the other into the valley, Captain Stanley brought both the engine and squad to a halt.  Map in hand, he got out of the engine and headed back to the squad, where Gage and DeSoto were also getting out. He spread the map across the hood of the squad. "Just got a call from the command post," he said.  "Roy, John, there are three houses down in this vale.  The police say they evacuated the houses, but Copter 10 reports seeing people in the area.  I want you two to go down and check it out.  We'll try to hold it here as long as we can.  But don't plan on taking any more than ten minutes, tops.  The fire's moving a lot faster east of our position, and the road will be blocked before the flames reach the houses." "Got it, Cap." Less than a minute later, the squad had disappeared from sight, down into the vale below Spiney Back Ridge.  The road by which the engine had entered the area was roughly halfway up the steep incline of the ridge.  From where the engine crew now prepared to stand their ground, the view up the ridge was almost vertical.  There was no seeing over the top, no way of knowing how close the fire was, except for the reports from Copter 10, which grew more ominous with every pass.  Any moment, Captain Stanley expected to see the first tongues of flame licking over the top of the ridge, and then the race would begin. He looked at his watch.  Two minutes had passed since the squad had departed on its mission. Two minutes. "Come on, you two . . . make it fast." **** "I don't see anyone, Roy," Johnny announced as the squad pulled up in front of the first house.  "Not unless they're inside." "We'd better check it out-and fast," Roy replied.  The two paramedics got out of the squad. "I'll take this house.  You take the next one."  This was from Roy, spoken from halfway down the sidewalk. "Got it!" As Johnny approached the front door of the house, a feeling of discomfort enveloped him.   His senses became more acute, and everything around him stood out in vibrant detail. What was that smell competing with the acrid tinge of smoke? Kerosene? Johnny came to the door and knocked. No answer. He tried the door handle.  Locked. He could have headed straight for the third house at that point; but instead, something drove him to follow along the front of the house, until turning the corner, he came upon the source of the kerosene odor. A dirt bike was propped up against the side of the house; and just beyond it was an open window.   A looter? Most likely. Johnny took a few steps forward and placed his hand on the cylinder.  It was warm.  He continued on to the window and peered cautiously inside. There was no one immediately in sight, but that did not signify.  The looter could be anywhere in the house.  Johnny listened, but he detected no sounds coming from within. He took off across the fifty or so yards that separated this house from the next.  He found Roy in the back yard, trying the door. "Roy, I think we've got a looter."  Johnny had Roy's arm and was leading him towards the corner of the house.  "There, the engine on that dirt bike is still warm, and there's an open window." "We'd better call the police in and let them handle this one," Roy replied. "We can't just let this guy have free access to these people's stuff.  We can stay here until the police get here," Johnny replied.  "It's still our job to make sure everyone gets out of the area." Roy regarded Johnny with a doubtful frown.  "That's pushing it, Johnny.  This guy knows there's a fire coming, and he's chosen to be out here.  I don't think he's going to go so willingly-" "We could scare him into leaving.  If he knows we're here, maybe he'll take off," Johnny replied. "I thought you wanted him to be caught.  If he takes off, he may never be caught." "Roy!  Would you just-you're confusing me!  I think we should go in there after the guy!  I mean, there's two of us!" "You've been watching too many episodes of Adam-12.  This guy could have a weapon, and we've got better things to do than chase looters," Roy replied.  "Come on.  Let's go back to the squad and-" Roy cut off suddenly at the sound of a door opening. On the side of the house, which Roy had been checking, there was a screened in service porch.  The door from the porch into the house swung open and a man emerged carrying a burlap sack the size of a pillow case.  He was out the screen door and halfway down the steps before noticing the two paramedics standing at the corner of the house. He ran. And before Roy could react, Johnny ran after him. "Johnny!"  Roy called out, taking off in his own pursuit. To Roy's surprise, the man did not run towards the dirt bike.  Instead, he ran towards the front of the first house.  Johnny was not far behind, and Roy found himself hoping that his partner would be outdistanced.  The last thing he wanted right now was to see Johnny end up in a brawl. Roy had almost covered the distance between the houses when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked over at the dirt bike. Still.  Quiet.  No one there.  No movement. He hesitated a few seconds longer, then continued on in the direction Johnny and the looter had taken. He rounded the front of the house- And everything went black. **** "Roy?  Roy, can you hear me?" Roy opened his eyes. "Johnny?" "Yeah, it's me.  Just lie still." "What happened?" "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time," Johnny replied with a slight grin.  "Or the wrong place at the right time." "What?"  Roy started to sit up. "Just stay down," Johnny reprimanded.  "Let me make sure nothing's seriously broken here." From somewhere beyond his field of vision, Roy heard Captain Stanley's voice.  "Make it fast, John.  The fire's cresting the ridge.  We've got to get out of here-now." Thirty seconds later, Johnny's exam was complete.  "Can you stand up?  I'll take you back in the squad." "I-I think so," Roy replied, still no more enlightened on what had happened or how he had come to be lying on the ground with a splitting headache. "Cap, can you give me a hand getting him into the squad?" Captain Stanley was quick; and less than minute later, both the engine and the squad were on their way out of Spiney Back Vale. "Okay, so now can you tell me what happened?"  Roy asked, holding his head. "There were two looters," Johnny replied.  "One was the guy we saw coming out of the second house.  The other one was in the first house.  He had just come out the front door and was heading around the side when you came to the corner.  I called out, but you didn't hear me in time-" "Where were you?" "At the squad.  I chased that other guy, but he was going to get away-I could tell.  So I went to the squad to call for help.  That's when you showed up." "Geez, I don't even remember that," Roy groaned. "You didn't see it coming." "So, what about the looters?" "They both got away.  So, you sacrificed your nose for nothing." "It really hurts." "Well, it will take you off-duty-probably for the rest of the fire." "I can still work at the base station," Roy replied.  "They'll be able to patch this up in no time." Johnny was not convinced.  "We'll see." "We're headed back now?" "We are.  The engine's been sent to the new blocking line on the east." "Things still looking bad?" "Worse." Neither man spoke any more. **** As anticipated, Roy was out for the duration.  He had been taken to one of several hospitals that were receiving casualties from the fire. For the time-being, Johnny was partner-less.  He was instructed to remain at the base camp until a replacement for DeSoto arrived.  In the meantime, he could help out in the aid station and fill in as needed with other station crews. And so, Johnny pitched his unhappy tent in the aid station.  Over the next hour, he rinsed out more eyes than he ever cared to see again in his life.  Minor smoke inhalation, exhaustion, dehydration, and some minor burn cases.  He knew he was useful, but he could not shake the feeling that he wanted to be out there.  He wanted to be back with the engine crew, sharing the fears and the burdens. He went next door into the makeshift break room for a cup of coffee. The stuff was rancid, but he was going to drink it anyway. "Well, look who's here." Johnny looked up to find Paul Eggers standing in front of him with a disdainful sneer on his face. Next to Eggers, Matt Culver sniggered.  "And this month's centerfold is . . ." Johnny's eyes narrowed.  "You can cut the bull.  This isn't the time or the place, and if you don't think I'll call the heat down on you, then you're even dumber than I thought.  Not all of us are in a position to have to put up with your crap." "Big words," Eggers replied.    He eyed Johnny with contempt.  "But coming from you, they don't mean much." "Squad 68.  Squad 51.  Report to the command post," came the order over the bullhorn that was acting as the base camp's sound system. The order sounded bizarre. 51 and 68?  Who on God' Earth had thought of that horrendous and ill-conceived combination? Johnny threw his half-full paper cup into the garbage and headed towards the command post. Eggers and Culver followed him. Entering the building, Johnny approached the map table.  "I'm John Gage, Squad 51." Culver and Eggers made their own curt introductions. "Gentlemen.  Good, good."  This was from Chief Entweiler, who, at the moment, was the authority on deployment of forces.  "Here's the situation.  One of our National Guard pilots reported a private plane that was circling this area here, sightseeing, it would appear.  They must have gotten caught in an updraft or something - the Guard pilot reported they went down somewhere near here."  He pointed at a spot on the map spread out in front of him.   "The pilot reported no explosion, so there's a possibility that we have survivors out there."  He paused.  "Now, the fire's leading edge is back here, but the wind is picking up.  We're estimating roughly two hours before it reaches the place where the plane went down."  Another pause, this one accompanied by a glance at the three men.  "We may have a little help from God on our side, though.  There's a major storm front moving in from the northwest - here.  If the meteorologists are right, it should be hitting this area sometime in the next two to three hours.  We don't know for sure.  But until there's cloud-break . . . well, this thunderhead is pushing some mighty strong winds ahead of it." "So, we're looking at a rabbit, basically," Culver noted.  "Those winds will bring the fire down on us by leaps and bounds." "If the weather reports are correct," Chief Entweiler replied. "Then I suppose we'd better get a move on." "Gage, I want you to go out with 68's paramedics." Johnny nodded.  "Do we know how many people were in that plane?" "We can't even get an ID on the plane.  They were flying over restricted airspace.  No flight plan on file at any local airports.  I think they wanted to rubberneck from an eagle's view.  Got a little more than they bargained for." "How can people be so stupid," Johnny said, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, it's our job to rescue the stupid, so let's go," Eggers said, sounding disgusted.  "Come on, you can ride with us in the squad." **** The ride out to join Engine 68 was not as bad as Johnny had been anticipating.  Thirty minutes sitting in between Matt Culver and Paul Eggers was enough to make any man uncomfortable; but 68's two paramedics were surprisingly tame, and the journey passed without anything more harrowing to contend with than the roads upon which the squad was traveling.  In actuality, the roads were not the threat; it was the sheer drop-offs below them.  The gravel road, which was leading them into the heavily forested upper reaches of the area known as the Mantowah Refuge, was bordered on the left by a sheer face of blasted cliff.  To the right, the world fell away in a nearly vertical dive for fifty or sixty feet before meeting with the line of spruce and poplar below. Further on, the line of trees climbed up to meet the roadway, creating an arching tunnel of branches that went on intermittently for the next three miles.  The squad continued on, all three men noting the increasing amount of smoke in the woods and the odd patch of flame here and there.  They emerged, at the end of this stretch, into a relatively open area where a series of pylons supported a grouping of power lines on more hospitable terrain. And here, they saw Engine 68 parked near the edge of the road. Captain Moore was standing several yards beyond the engine, looking down the sloping path of the pylons to a flat spot, roughly twenty yards square, which disappeared in a single step over what appeared to be a precipitous drop.  On this flat spot, a single man stood manning the inch-and-a-half.  Johnny could already tell, from the man's stance, that it was Mike Stoker. Johnny got out of the squad and, together with Eggers and Culver, approached Captain Moore. "What can we do, Captain?"  Culver asked right away. "Go down and assist Skora.  You can leave your equipment up here for now.  It's treacherous down there-very steep, no strong footing.  If you need your equipment, we can send it down.  Stoker can show you where to go." The three paramedics started down the top part of the slope.  Not surprisingly, Johnny went immediately to where Mike was still manning the hose, putting out spot fires as they occurred.  "Where's the plane?"  Johnny asked. "We don't know," Mike replied.  "Captain Moore just sat up there until a few minutes ago, then he told me and Skora to go take a look.  That's what Skora's doing now.  He's down there in the forest somewhere.   But if the plane went down into the fire, it's not going to make a difference.  Look at that . . . we should be pulling back." "What about Copter 10?" "The smoke is getting too thick.  They can't see anything anymore." "I'm going down," Johnny said.  He looked to his left.  Eggers and Culver were already carefully picking their way down the incline.  They should have been using lines, with the angle of descent they were facing; but with time running out, even Johnny was not willing to waste a second. "Mike, maybe you can get some lines while we're down there.  It'll make it a lot easier to climb back up," he suggested as he padded over to follow the route Eggers and Culver had taken. He heard Mike's acknowledgment, and then he was on his way down.  He caught up with 68's two paramedics at the edge of the woods, where Skora was just emerging from the smoke-filled space between the trees. Skora, red-faced and breathing hard, had barely begun to speak before recognizing the third man with his own two assigned paramedics. "It's like a smokestack in there-well, hell!  I don't believe it!  It's the glamour boy-and you actually look like you've been fighting fires!  They let you out here on the front lines?" Johnny pushed past him into the woods. Skora reached out and grabbed his arm.  "I wouldn't go too far in there.  There's spotting everywhere.  Besides, they're dead." Johnny wrenched free.  "Where's the plane?" "It's in there-you can't see it from here," Skora replied.  "And you couldn't get to it now, anyway." "Just show me where," Johnny insisted. "The hell with that.  I'm getting out of here," Skora said, turning to leave.  As he did so, he caught Eggers' and Culver's eyes, in turn.  It was an odd moment, an understanding that needed no words. Male.  25.  35.  Clear. The message was passed. All three men watched as John Gage headed into the forest in search of the aircraft. "Let me get Stoker out of the way first," Skora said quietly, then continued up the hillside. Eggers and Culver followed Johnny into the woods. One thing, at least, was true.  Skora had not been lying about the amount of spotting in the woods.  If there were an aircraft somewhere in this forest, Johnny could not go around searching for it haphazardly. Two minutes had passed, then Johnny heard his name.  "Gage!  Gage, where are you?!" "Over here!"  Johnny shouted in reply. Eggers and Culver followed the sound of his voice. "Look, we'd better get out of here,"  Eggers said.  "The captain is calling us back.  And Skora already checked . . . they're dead-" "Yeah, well, Skora's not a paramedic," Johnny replied. "We're all going to be dead paramedics, if we don't get out of here," Culver said with a hateful glare.  "We're not going to get trapped down here because of you.  So, you can either come with us or stay down here and burn at the stake." Johnny glanced up in a brief instant of horror at Culver's choice of words.  Then he followed them out of the woods without another word.  Coming to the steep climb, he was dismayed to see that lines had not been dropped; and now Skora, instead of Stoker, stood watch at the top, the inch-and-a-half clutched in his possessive grip. He began the climb behind Culver and Eggers. It was hard work, but Johnny finally pulled himself up to the top where he rested on his knees for a few seconds.  When, at last, he got to his feet, he raised his head to see Skora flanked by Eggers and Culver.  They were all staring at him. Johnny almost took an instinctive step back, but there was nothing for him to step onto. Skora did not utter a single word.  He opened the nozzle on the hose, letting loose the powerful stream of water, catching Johnny full in the chest and knocking him back over the escarpment. Eggers moved to the edge and looked down.  Gage's body was just coming to rest at the end of its tumble at the base of the cliff, thirty yards below.  There was no movement. Skora turned to face the two paramedics.  "You two hang down here for a few minutes, long enough for us to get underway.  I'll make up a story.  If Stoker sees you two come up without-" he jerked his head in the direction of the cliff, "-he'll know something's going on.  He won't leave without his buddy." Skora started up towards the engine, pausing to throw back a single word over his shoulder. "Ruling." **** A man, caught by some great hour, will rise,   And, breathing long, with staring, sightless eyes, Hands out, head back, agape and silent,   Move sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing. And gathering power and godhead as he goes,   Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, and unknowing Borne by a will, not his own, that lifts, that grows,   Sweep into darkness, triumphing to his goal. The Night Journey Rupert Brook Mike helped Skora pile the hose into the back of the rig. "Shouldn't they be back up here by now?"  Mike asked, looking back down the hillside every few seconds in anticipation of seeing Eggers, Culver, but most of all, Gage, coming up from the valley floor. "They wanted to make a thorough check.  Damn, Stoker, they know what they're doing," Skora replied.  "Come on, this shit is loaded up.  Let's go!" Mike hung back.  "We shouldn't leave until we know they're safe-" "Stoker, get on board."  Captain Moore ended the discussion.  "Culver just radioed. They're on their way up right now." Still apprehensive, Mike climbed up into his seat.  The engine began to move. Mike craned his neck around the hose bed.  Two figures were coming up to the level of the road.  He watched a few seconds longer.  No third man materialized. Reaching over the seat, he took hold of McCullough's arm.  "Stop!  There's only two of them!" Captain Moore scowled.  "All three of them are there." "There are only two!" McCullough had not been going fast, but now he slowed down even more. "Terrence, keep going," Moore ordered. Before McCullough could speed up, Mike sprang to his feet and leapt down to the road.  He ran a few steps towards the squad, and now he was certain of it - John Gage was not with Eggers and Culver. He heard the engine come to a stop behind him, and in front of him, the squad was approaching.  A sudden panic jolted him into action, and he broke from the road, scrambling down the embankment to the first level of the escarpment. He came to the edge of the drop-off and looked over.  His eyes were immediately drawn to Gage's body at the base of the cliff. Even though he had been expecting some manner of wrongdoing, coming face-to-face with it again - after having been left so long in peace - was almost more than Stoker could bear.  How easy it would be to just turn and run, to leave the entire nightmare behind. Except that this was not his own peril.  Or for certain, it was; but more immediate was the fact that the life of one of his friends was in jeopardy. "Johnny!!"  he shouted. No response. He began his way down the cliff, only too aware of the sound of approaching voices and the pounding of footfalls on the soil.  The fear of being caught added speed and recklessness to his movements.  But he made it safely to the bottom, where Johnny was just beginning to stir. Mike looked up to see Skora, Culver and Eggers already on their way down.  Careless of any of Johnny's injuries, Mike hoisted him up over his shoulder and headed in the only direction that offered any hope of escape. The burning forest. **** John Gage was definitely aware of movement. He was being jostled about like a sack of potatoes; and damn it, it hurt! When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a blurry collage of browns and faded greens, interspersed with an occasional streak of dark blue. He recognized that blue.  Or at least, he thought he did. Wasn't that-didn't he wear that color blue as part of- The thought was never finished.  A particularly jarring movement shot pain through his chest like a million tiny arrows.  He made a sound of anguish, but what breath did he have to back it?  Another jolt and he found himself curling his fingers into an agonized fist around the folds of some coarse cloth that had the texture of a turnout coat. He could detect some hovering cloud of urgency. And terror. Yet, he knew he was not generating either feeling.  He did not even know what was going on.  So, where were these sensations coming from? Every time his thoughts began to pull together, another sudden jerk would shock his system and scatter his mind to the four winds.  This rattling of his brain had to stop.  That was the one certainty he could hold onto.  The movement had to stop.  It had to stop! "Stop."  The word was weak and disappointing.  He had wanted more power, more authority than what had just leaked from between his lips. The movement did not stop. Johnny protested again; and still, his words went unheeded. A third demand, only marginally stronger than the first two, seemed, by initial accounts, to be successful, until Gage realized that he was falling. It was a short fall, but it might as well have been a fall from the Gates of Heaven for the pain it produced. And then it began all over again. Only this time . . . whose face was that?  Mike Stoker? "Mike?" There was no response, only a heaving motion, up and over.  But that one brief glimpse had been enough to pinpoint Stoker as the source of the fear and desperation that Johnny had been sensing through his own pain. What was happening? Would you stop long enough for me to put my head back together? But Johnny could not form the words, and Mike could not read minds. And even if Stoker had been able to read minds, he would not have stopped. Not when he knew that they were still behind him. They had not given up the chase. He had begun his burdened flight through the forest less than a minute ago, dodging around hot spots and blockages as quickly as his added load would allow.  He had one strength over his pursuers:  he knew if he were caught, he was dead.  And so was Gage. He came to a fairly downward slope and did not even stop to debate whether he should attempt it.  One step and he was on his way down, haphazard, much like a runaway train; until coming to the bottom, he took another tumble, and both he and Johnny ended up in twisted tangle. Mike pulled himself free and looked at Johnny's face, frowned at what he saw, then raised his head to look up the slope. After a few seconds Skora appeared, then Eggers and Culver.  To the right of them, fire was burning in the treetops.  This must have been enough to convince them to abandon their pursuit, for they lingered briefly, watching as Stoker gathered up his former crewmate; but as soon as Stoker began to move off again, they turned and headed back towards the engine. Mike did not stop, did not look back to see if they were following. He continued on, deeper into the forest, trying to outrun the fire that was leap-frogging and forming a parapet of flame on his left.   It seemed his flight through the forest was interminable.  Had he been running for minutes?  Hours?  Miles or yards?  Was it safe to stop?  Should he go on?  Were they still behind him?  He didn't see any fire anymore.  Had he outdistanced it, for the time being?  Or was it only a gust of wind away? Johnny wasn't moving.  Hadn't moved in a long time.  Mike had the sudden, horrible impression that he was toting a corpse on his back.  At this thought, his entire body rebelled and he dropped to his knees.  He did not even bother to check behind him for signs of pursuit before clumsily depositing Gage on the ground.  He turned and was stunned to find that Johnny was conscious. And clearly in pain. "John?" Johnny looked up. "Mike . . . I thought that was you," came the fuzzy response. "Where are you hurt?" Johnny did not answer right away.  Through sheer force of will, he was clearing his head, trying to bring it all into focus, now that the bouncing had stopped. Going out with the two paramedics from 68's.  Down the cliff.  A search that revealed nothing.  Up the cliff. "John, do you hear me?" That other crewman from 68's - Mike's partner on the hoses.  He had been waiting at the top of the cliff.  Waiting with the other two. "John!!" "I hear you," Johnny replied, at last.  "He turned the hose on me." Mike pushed aside this announcement. "You can tell me later.  Where are you hurt?" The fog inside Johnny's brain continued to dissipate. "My side . . . here.  Feels like some broken ribs."  A pause.  "My right ankle.  My head." "What can I do?" "Where are we?" "In the forest," Mike replied. "Do we have any equipment?" "Nothing." Johnny raised a hand to his pounding head.  "Let me think for a minute.  Let me think . . ." **** Captain Moore stared, unblinking, out the window. McCullough sat beside him, in his place in the driver's seat. Behind them, Skora was digging at the dirt beneath his fingernails. "Captain, if we wait much longer-"  McCullough began. "Shut up!!"  Captain Moore demanded.  "I don't want to hear either of your voices!" Terrence absentmindedly ran his hands over the wheel, half-tempted to jump out of the engine and go the way of Mike Stoker. Skora continued with his fingernails. More time went by. At last, Captain Moore raised the mic. "This is Engine 68.   We have two firemen missing at this location." Actually, it was no longer at this location.  The engine had moved out of the area of the plane crash into a safer zone, but Captain Moore had put off radioing the command post until he was sure that the fire had overrun the area into which Stoker and 51's paramedic had fled.  He wanted to take no chance that the two men might be rescued. Even still, he felt nothing remotely like certainty.  He had flamed Skora, Culver, and Eggers for not finishing the job they had begun.   Skora's reassurances that Stoker, toting an injured man, could not possibly outrun the fire, did little to inspire Moore's confidence.  It seemed that every time he expected to see Stoker beaten down and defeated, the man always had a way of rising from the dead. "Copy that, Engine 68.  What is the status at your location?" "The fire has overrun the area.  We can no longer conduct search efforts," Moore replied.  "The region immediately south is starting to spot.  My missing men may have headed in that direction, but it's inaccessible to the engine." "Engine 68, return to base.  We'll have Copter 10 sweep the area to your south." "The smoke is pretty dense.  I don't think they'll be able to see anything," Captain Moore replied. "Roger.  We'll send them up that way, and they can make a determination," came the response. "Engine 68, 10-4." McCullough waited for Captain Moore's go-ahead before moving out. As they were enroute, Moore spoke with an icy inflection.   "You will not say anything more than what we agreed upon." "Yes, Sir," both McCullough and Skora acknowledged together. "I needn't remind you how dangerous our situation is," Moore went on.  "If Stoker or that other one make it through this, it will be over for us." "Maybe-maybe we could request to go back out . . . into this same general area," McCullough suggested.  "If either of them are still alive, we might be the ones to find them.  That would solve our problem." "They're dead, I tell you," Skora replied.  "The fire was closing in on two sides.  There's no way they were going to get away from it." "I don't share your confidence, Jason," Moore said. **** Broken ribs.  Two, maybe three.  That was undoubted. A broken right ankle. The associated scrapes and bruises. And an ugly patch of crushed flesh on the right shoulder, visible through the torn blue jacket and uniform shirt. Mike had done what he could, following Johnny's instructions.  But of more immediate concern than emergency first-aid was the thickening smoke in the woods, which heralded the advancement of the fire. "I know it's not good to move you around too much, John;  but we can't stay here," Mike announced, using his belt to fix a makeshift bandage.  Mike stuffed his undershirt - filthy, but better than nothing - in place over the wound on Johnny's shoulder . Johnny looked past Mike's shoulder.  No flames were visible yet through the trees and smoke; but the sound of the fire was audible.  It was not far off.  "I'm with you on that," he said.   "Well . . . let's give it a try." Mike positioned himself under Johnny's left shoulder and looped a careful arm around his waist.  "Ready?" "Ready." Mike stood up, and Johnny, trying and failing to hide a grimace, came up with him. "Okay?"  Mike asked, peering down into Johnny's face. "As good as it's going to get, I think." "We can follow this valley along, but I'm not sure . . . I got disoriented when we were running from them.  I don't know where this comes out," Mike stated. "Well, we know if we go up the other side, we'll be moving away from the fire," Johnny replied. "Can you make it up that?" Mike asked, looking at the incline before them.  "It's pretty steep, John." "It's worth a shot," Johnny replied. They began the trek up. Mike was impressed at Johnny's determination and stamina.   The climb was not an easy one.  The undergrowth, dry and brittle, was threaded with thorny creepers and tangles of brambles and berry vine.  The ground was covered with a layer of needles and brown leaves that had formed into a compost-like substance that gave way often beneath Stoker's feet, dropping him - and consequently Gage - to their knees. By the time they came to the top, a good twenty-minute ordeal, the sweat was pouring from Johnny's face, and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps. "Stop-"  Johnny wheezed between breaths.  "Rest-minute." Mike helped him sit down on the eroded mass of roots from an upturned tree, then he raised his head to look back in the direction from which they had just come.  From his vantage point, still partly obscured by trees, he could see crowns of fire on the opposite side of the valley, less than a quarter-mile away. "Christ," Mike said under his breath, but still loud enough that Johnny, hearing him, looked up to take in the threatening sight. Yet, Johnny did not have the breath to put sound to his thoughts.  He leaned back against the twisted roots and closed his eyes, concentrating on taking slow breathes, as deep as his pain would allow him.  He needed to recover himself quickly.  The fire was not going to wait. Mike turned his attention forward.  The going looked relatively flat.  They might make good time.  For certain, if the fire leapt the valley, it would make good time. "Johnny?" "A few more seconds," Johnny said in a rush. "I can carry you-" "Few more seconds," Johnny insisted. And he was good to his word.  Fifteen seconds later, he opened his eyes, raised them to meet Mike's, and reached out his arm. "Let's go." And so they were underway once again.   This time it was much easier, the terrain being gentler, and Mike was able to support more of Johnny's weight as they moved through the forest. Coming to the far end of this stretch, they were faced with a downhill slope, leading to a wide valley bed.  And down they went.  At the bottom, Mike could see that Johnny was in need of another rest. After Mike had made sure Johnny was safely seated, he sat down across from him and leaned back against the trunk of a tree, relieved to have even a few scant moments to rest his own body.  He closed his eyes. A minute passed before Johnny's voice broke in on Mike's quiet, and Mike realized he had almost fallen asleep.  "How did you find me?" "When I didn't see you come back up with Culver and Eggers, I went to look for you," Mike replied.  "I found you lying at the bottom of the cliff.  They-they were just going to leave you there."  He hesitated.  "Did you fall?" Johnny stared at Mike with intensity for a moment before replying in a quiet voice, "No." Mike propped his elbows on his knees and leaned his head into his hands. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"  Johnny asked. When Mike did not answer, Johnny prompted gently, "Mike?" Mike did not look up.  "What happened?" "We never found the plane, and we were heading back up.  Your two crewmates went ahead of me up the cliff.  When I got to the top, the three of them were standing there.  They just . . . opened up on me with the hose, knocked me right back over the edge."  He paused, and his voice took on a penetrating edge.  "Why, Mike?  Why would they do that?" Mike grimaced, as if the conversation were causing him physical pain.  "You were probably a Ruling," he mumbled into his hands. "A what?" "I'm not sure I can explain it, John-" "Try." After a short silence, Mike raised his head. "How much did Captain Stanley tell you about why I went back to 68's?" Johnny looked perplexed.  "Nothing. He just said you'd decided to go back.  But we all wondered about it.  None of us could believe it." "My crewmates are devil worshippers." Johnny was speechless. "They have something called a Ruling, and I'm not sure on all the details . . . but they do these rituals, and I think the rituals are to determine who the next victim of a Ruling is going to be." Mike went on, after looking up at Johnny for only the briefest of seconds.  "And if you're the subject of a Ruling, you die.  I think they've been using our rescues to find convenient victims to meet the requirements of the sacrifice." Johnny was flabbergasted.  "What-Mike, this can't be true." "I told Captain Stanley about it, and he told headquarters.  When Chief Janlan came to see me that day at the station, he told me he'd been trying to crack open the case on 68's for a long time.  I agreed to help him.  Cap wasn't happy about it." "I don't believe it," Johnny said in a near-whisper.  "Have you-have you seen them actually . . . kill someone?" Mike shook his head.  "I almost did, once.  I think.  I couldn't be sure."  A pause.  "But I've seen them doing the rituals.  That was why they did me over that night.  They caught me spying on them." "And-and Janlan let you go back?  What if they had decided to give you more than just bruises the second time-"He cut off as a low rumbling filled the air.  "What's that?" he asked. Mike listened.  Another sound - like distant cannons.  "Thunder," he replied. "That's right.  Chief Entweiler said a storm was moving in."  Johnny looked skyward.  "I wonder how far off it is." "It can't be too far if we're hearing thunder," Mike said.  "I'm praying it breaks directly over us . . . we're going to need it, John.  I don't know which way to go anymore.  The smoke is coming from all directions now.  If I could just get up into a high, clear spot, I might be able to see where the fire is." "What about that ridge over there?"  Johnny asked, nodding through the trees towards the barely visible outline of  high ground that looked to be roughly a half-mile away. Mike replied.  "There's no way you can make it up that ridge." "I can make it to the bottom, and you can go up without me." "Not a chance," Mike replied.  "I don't want to risk getting separated."  He glanced at Johnny.  "Besides, you shouldn't be left alone." "It might have to come down to that, Mike." "Yeah," Mike replied, standing up to get a better look at the ridge.  "Would you leave me, if our situations were reversed?" Sometimes Johnny thought he had it all figured out; and then someone like Mike Stoker threw a wrench into the machinery, and Gage was forced to concede defeat. "No," he replied. "Exactly." "Look, Mike-" "Why should you expect that I'd leave you, if you know you wouldn't leave me?"  Mike challenged gently.  Johnny stared back at Stoker and shook his head in agreeable resignation.  "Damn, Mike, you need to be a captain." Mike gave a mild grin.  "I'd be happy just to be an engineer again." They rested several more minutes, then pushed on again.  They were just over halfway to the ridge when the wind began to pick up, whipping the trees back and forth.  The bank of smoke rolling in ahead of the storm front became so thick, it was overpowering, but neither man was willing to go to ground.  If they did and then the storm did not break over them, the fire would catch them. They had to keep moving. Their progress was reduced to a blind, stumbling forge through the woods with only a hope that they were headed in the right direction.  Mike kept up a steady banter of reassurance and support.  "Not much further.  Hang in there, John.  It can't be far now.  You're doing fine." But Johnny was not doing fine, and Mike knew it. Mike was all but carrying Johnny at this point; and Gage's pale face and wrenching breaths only confirmed what his silence hinted at - he was slipping.  If he was not already on the fringes of shock, he soon would be. And what would Mike do then?  Back to the over-the-shoulder routine and the risk of aggravating the injuries even further? "Come on, John, stay with me.  Don't go out on me," Mike insisted.  "I can't do this alone.  I need you to stay with me." Johnny's only response was a tightening of his fingers on Mike's shoulder. But this was good enough for Mike.  It meant that Johnny was, at least, hearing and understanding him. Another five minutes.  Four hundred yards - at the most. And then, abruptly, the smoke thinned out, and the temperature dropped.  Less than five seconds later, the black bulk of the cloud mass appeared overhead, and the heavens broke loose with a torrent of rain. The force of the downpour caught Mike by surprise.  It even brought Johnny's head up.    Mike stopped walking and looked up through the treetops.  The rain on his face released a flood of relief, and he almost collapsed to his knees, would have permitted himself to do so, had he not been supporting Gage. Instead, he turned his head to face Johnny, who had found the strength to direct his gaze skyward, and together, the two men broke into unaffected cries of joy at their deliverance.  Encroaching death had been beaten back by drops of water.  One element had defeated another. Mike slowly hunkered down and set Johnny on the ground, where the latter lay back in a combination of utter exhaustion and grateful giddiness.  Mike sat down beside him, took his own helmet off, and let the rain wash over him. He could not remember a better feeling. continue