Fear By Betty As I sit here in a dark dank basement of a warehouse with my partner, I have to wonder if we will be rescued before our air gives out and the noxious gases from the fire overcomes us, snuffing out our lives permanently. My partner and I have already attempted to escape, but failed, with the only exit blocked by a mound of debris. How much debris, I don't know. All I know is that we are trapped and there is no escape. I'm sure that our crew will be looking for us. They have to know we are missing by now. The room gets hotter with every passing minute. My uniform under my turnout is soaked as is my partner's, I'm sure. My mouth is dry and how I wish I could have a tall glass of ice water. Closing my eyes, I can almost taste the clear liquid as it runs down my parched throat. I can also imagine droplets of water dripping onto my uniform shirt. I don't care. It's just a relief to have something so refreshing to cool me off. Opening my eyes, I look over at my partner. I wonder if he is thinking of the same things. A cool glass of water -- a fresh dry uniform -- escape --fresh air, if you can call it that considering the smog in this city. For the first time I witness him sitting quietly, a rare moment indeed. You would have to know my partner to understand this. He's an active gent and talkative. Talkative is an understatement too. I think he could talk the ears off of the dead. I have to think of something humorous or this waiting--it could make the sanest of men go mad. Although my partner hasn't said as much, I know he's terrified. Hell, I'm terrified myself. Will I ever see my family again? This is not how I pictured my death. I thought I would grow old with my wife. Become a grandfather and spoil my grand kids. Heck, most people think these things. No one expects to die at a young age. That's exactly what I am--young--I mean 32 isn't old by no means. I want to go home after this shift is over--to see my children and my wife. My wife. It's her birthday next week. I don't want her to have to plan my funeral instead of celebrating her 32nd birthday. I want to take her out to dinner and maybe a movie. If--I mean-when--we get out of here, I'm going to make arrangements for my children to spend the night with my sister-in-law, so my wife and I can have the house to ourselves for the entire night. Something we haven't done since before our daughter was born. Once again my partner has gotten up to check the exit. I know he is hoping that maybe that something has shifted and maybe we can dig our way out of here. I want to help him out. I get up so I can do just that but when I see him slam his fist against the wall--I know we are still trapped. 'Please, Dear God. Guide our friends to us so we may be rescued.' I walk over to my partner, my best friend, I take his hand--the one he hit the wall with--I set myself into paramedic mode so I can see what damage he has caused to his hand. He pulls back and shakes his head no--I understand what he's thinking--what's the use, if we if our only way out is in a black bag. Nothing I could do to help would matter. Through our masks, our gazes meet, and I see his fear. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing my own refection, my own fear. I turn and begin to walk away. My partner reaches out and grabs my arm "Thanks." he says. I nod then return to my spot on the floor against the opposite wall. My partner begins to pace. His built up energy needs to escape. I don't blame him. As sedate as I am most of the time this waiting is driving me nuts, but I don't think pacing will do me any good. I finally reach into the back pocket of my pants and pull out my wallet. Inside I retrieve a couple of pictures, one of my wife and the other of my children. Their features are hard to make out in what little light the room has to offer. In my mind, I can picture my son's blond locks sticking out around his ball cap and wearing a baseball jersey two sizes too big, my daughter dark hair falling loose from her braids and dressed in her favorite yellow sundress, and then my wife, wearing an old straw hat with her jean cut off and a tank top.  I whisper 'I love you' to each of them. I'm not ready to say good-bye, not just yet. I will wait till--till I'm about to draw my last breath--if that moment arrives. I'm still hopeful. I'm aware my partner has noticed my actions. He glances away to give me some private time with my family, even though they only consist of a couple of photographs. Leaning my head back I close my eyes. All the thinking I've done, wondering if this time will be the end for us both; I suddenly realize I never discovered why my partner chose to be a firefighter. Finally, I have to ask. I need to know. "Why did you want to be a fireman?" He looks at me. I can tell he is pondering my question carefully. Eventually he speaks. "When I was only six, my neighbor's house burned. The fire department, neighbors, people from all around the community came when they heard about the fire. Everyone helped, either with dousing the flames with water or by trying to get some of the contents out before--Anyway, it was my first ever experience seeing the difference a group of people could make helping a family out during a tragedy. Not that my community didn't have other tragedies, but this one--well it's hard for me to explain. I just knew at that moment I wanted to be a fireman. To help others in much the same way as my neighbors and the firemen did for this family." "I see," I reply. "What about you?" he asks. "Me? I'm not really sure. Maybe it was my delight every time I saw that big red engine drive past my house. The station was only a couple blocks from where I lived. I can still remember the first time I ever toured the station. The rigs, they were so shiny and bright. The firemen were proud of their rigs and their jobs. They helped many people, including my neighbor one time, who broke through the roof of his house while he was fixing a couple of shingles. I guess I'm much like you. I wanted to help people and the fire department was a way for me to do just that." Suddenly, we heard a noise near the exit. Neither of us knew what it was, but in my heart, I felt it is our rescuers coming for us. My partner and I quickly move over to the blocked exit. We listen. Again we heard a noise. It sounds like someone pounding--trying to give us a signal. I pick up my helmet and begin to bang it on the broken bricks. I wait and we hear a repeat of the earlier noise. Again I bang on the broken brick. Again we get an answer. My partner and I laugh. Our freedom is just on the other side of the mess that lay before us. Several hours later, I wake in the treatment room at Rampart. At first my faculties aren't exactly with me. The last thing I can remember is hearing the noise of a jackhammer on the other side of the room where my partner and I were trapped. Instantly my thoughts are of him. The nurse must have sensed my distress because she reassured me that he was fine and in another treatment room. I breathe a sigh of relief. My throat hurts--It's scratchy and my lungs feel like I ate a ton of smoke. My oxygen is on high and an IV snakes into my arm via the set up. I'm dog-tired. I close my eyes and soon darkness claims me. When I re-open my eyes, I'm in a hospital room. My partner is in the bed next to me. He's asleep. His hand, the one he hit the wall with is splinted. We both still have oxygen on--nasal cannulas. I'm still tired and my chest still hurts, but my partner and I are both still alive. Our companionship throughout our entrapment kept us going, kept us sharp. We already held an understanding for each other, and revealing our reasons for choosing the careers we did, helped alleviate our fears. In spite of our ordeal, I wouldn't stop being a firefighter. I'm certain my partner feels the same.  Betty's comments: I want to thank Inkling for her help with beta reading this short piece for me. Her suggestions to help me enhance Roy's thoughts were gratefully appreciated. I also want to thank Janet for giving this short story a home. :-) return to main page