Ablaze

The Firehouse dispatch called out his number. Twelve. As in Engine Company 23, Truck Company 12.

Harris didn’t need to listen to anything else after that, only suit up and run. That was it. That was his job. But he listened anyway, as he raced through the shop, shrugging into his heavy uniform jacket.

“Commercial and residential fire, 2404 East Kilbourne Street,” the dispatcher droned.

Harris grabbed the rail guards to swing into the pump truck, booted feet first, and the revelation hit him just as he landed. “Holy shit, did you hear the address? The Avantgarde is burning.”

Colin, always the driver, rumbled as deep as his diesel engine. “So what?”

“I had a date there the other week. Ah... It’s a fancy place.” Harris trailed off. Who cared if this hotel’s kitchen was his dad’s best kept secret in Wisconsin, or that it was the thirteenth blind date Dad set up for Harris through the dating apps? ’Fourteenth,’ Sarkisian Senior lied, since Harris was still a superstitious boy in his eyes, not a hard-bitten man.

Colin didn’t go for sentimental vibes, so he just harrumphed. “Only the best for Milwaukee’s finest, huh?”

“You betcha!” Harris caught the reflection of his automatic finger-guns’ salute in the side-mirror of the Truck 12 and winced. If Colin spotted it from the driver’s seat, next shift, the guys were bound to finger-gun him into extinction.

Fortunately, Colin’s gray head was bent over the dash. Unfortunately, Lt. Jung—that’s the truck’s officer, Lt. Jung—didn’t miss things.

“At least five guests are unaccounted for. Probably more,” Jung said, climbing into the truck with a disapproving crease between his bushy brows. “Buckle up, Sarkisian.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Jung’s brows furrowed tighter under the shiny dome of his bald head. The rush of adrenaline exaggerated how funny the brows’ movement was, and Harris choked down a chuckle. “I’m all strapped in, Sir. Scout’s honor.”

“You want stickers, enroll in kindergarten.”

Why didn’t he bite his tongue? Jung was never wrong, including the day when he had pulled Harris’ dead-beat mother out of the car first, so Dad ended up in the wheelchair. This was swift decision-making under pressure at its best, not at all connected to Lt. Jung banging Mom in secret.

Harris stared out of a sliver of the window between two rolled hoses, watching the emergency personnel swarm the engines and picking out his crew in the crowd. His fists clenched and unclenched as the seconds dragged for him.

Finally, Jung’s face smoothened as much as the deeply cut folds by his mouth allowed. Everyone was onboard, and Truck 12 launched out of the yard. Its sirens screamed over Milwaukee for five souls whose life was more effed-up than Harris Sarkisian’s for the moment. He would walk into the fire and fix it for them. No, it wasn’t easy, but it was simple, and it had more buzz than all the champagne in the world. “You want the pedal on the left, Colin. Yes, that one. The gas.”

Colin couldn’t hear his mutterings, but the other cars turned into pale streaks next to their red engine. Harris’ heart pounded when he saw them scramble out of the way until the last bloodcurdling honk.

Colin stomped on the brakes, and the mountain of red metal and shiny nickel nearly reared up like a buckling colt in front of the smoke-enveloped building. “We’re here. The Avantgarde.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” The blocky letters on the side of the four-story building spelled AVANTGARDE. If a guy missed this, a bronze cupola topped a one-of-a-kind hexagonal tower on the corner.

“So, that’s the place Sarkisian takes his dates to.” Colin whistled.

“Not when they’re on fire.”

“The dates or the hotels?”

“Both.” Although even with the windows glowing a savage, pulsating orange, and the smoke cloaked its facade, the Avantgarde looked striking.

“Keep your head in the game,” Jung barked, one ear pressed to his radio. “We’re cleared for entry, and it’s the stupid season out there.”

The gawkers pressed at the patrol lines from all sides, taking selfies. Even the cops darted glances at the burning hotel between shouting and pushing the crowd out of the way.

The local news crew was already there. The reporter waved her mic like a baton, and her cameraman filmed the Fire Chef rolling up. She should have focused on the EMS setting their triage shop, since despite Chief Villarreal’s soap-worthy name, his commands lacked drama.

“Hampton, Brady, Weiss. Sweep the ground to the third floor.” The Chief might have been ticking off items from his shopping list, not sending men into an inferno. “Jung, Sarkisian—do the fourth. Erdmann, Greysky, prepare to vent the roof.”

“The firefighters are cleared for entry!” the newscaster screamed into the microphone, so shrill, it carried over the sound of the mustering forces. “Stay tuned for more updates on the Avantgarde’s raging blaze from the News at Six!”

A collective gasp erupted from the crowd, but Harris was too busy for fulsome sighs, tapping the infrared device with his finger. Ever the diva, it refused to function, and Jung’s wide back loomed right next to the building already.

Jung was incredibly efficient — a real star! If Harris could expose him without making Dad’s life even more messed up, and —

Check.

“Thank God!” Harris slapped his helmet on, cringing at the familiar pressure on his skull. If only it squashed his scattering thoughts while he raced after his officer.

The door was stuck, so he yanked with all his frustrated might, nearly giving himself a black eye, and toppled inside. “Sir! Reporting —”

“Wedge the door, Sarkisian.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another right call for Jung, while he was flat-footed. Grinding his teeth, Harris glanced around for something handy.

The lights had guttered out, plunging the hotel’s interior into gloom, but a rogue sunbeam slashed through the gap in the curtains to hit a wall mirror. Its reflection landed on the empire-style chairs, perfect for dealing with the door. Mom would have gasped louder than the gawkers in the street if she saw him crush this artisanal piece.

He stomped the chair until it broke with a sorrowful crack, then shoved the thickest, straightest piece into the hinge. “Done, Sir!”

Jung led their way up the marble staircase to the mezzanine in silence. Eyes up, ears peeled, head on the swivel.

The doomed beauty of the interiors disappeared when they squeezed into a stairway to the guest floors. This was all about off-white, non-slip and durable.

Brady’s and Weiss’ voices called out in his headset four times during their climb. Four out of five MIAs, located. Rescued. Then…

“Cleared,” said Brady.

Blood rushed into Harris’ ears, pounding so loudly, he strained to hear Weiss’ confirmation. “Cleared.”

Yes, one soul remained lost somewhere up here, where smoke thickened into a soup of gray.

He lurched forward and almost stepped on Jung’s heel. One soul waited for him to rescue them. One thing to get right today. One.

Jung clicked the radio. “The stairway cleared, Chief. Starting the fourth.”

The first tongues of flames already licked the wall. Burning flakes rained from the ceiling. It was hard to say when exactly the structure would become unsafe, but it wouldn’t be long.

“You work your way back from the tower suite, Sarkisian.” From under the helmet’s rim, Jung squinted at the buildup of fluffy ash built in that corner. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

“Rodger that, ro—” The trickle from the oxygen tank tickled Harris’ throat, bringing on a cough. “Rodger.”

With a resounding crash, Jung kicked in the nearest door. “Fire department! Call out!”

Harris stumbled into the pitch-black darkness at the end of the hallway, ignoring the groans of burning stone, wood and plastic. They weren’t human screams, and he had to get into the suite before the MIA screamed, and the smell of charred flesh mixed with the stench of smoldering plastic. “Anyone in? Call out! It’s the Milwaukee Fire Department!”

Not a peep in response.

“Clear! Stand back!” Harris swung his foot and kicked the lock. The wood should have splintered under his boot like the damn chair Mom would have loved, but the door swung inward on greased hinges, unlocked.

With this give, Harris tumbled in, dropping into a crouch to break his fall. “Jesus H. Christ!”

Jung’s voice chased him like a wasp. “Sarkisian, report.”

“I entered the suite, Sir.” He squinted at the smoky space as he pushed back to standing.

A woman sprawled on the edge of a king-sized bed, the princess in the tower, his for the rescuing. If the princesses ever slept naked, save for a strip of black lace over their butts. Not a princess then, just a girl, but her hair blazed red at him in the low light, stretched in a long plume to her side.

“One female in.” The static covered the tremor in his voice. Everything would be okay, because he got here in time, right? Right?

Harris went to the bed, yanking his heavy glove off for triage. Her airway was clear. Her pulse… Fuck, where was her pulse? His calloused fingers searched her almost translucent throat.

There. Weak, and it would have to do.

“Alive, but unresponsive,” he described the girl for Jung’s benefit as his own pulse sped up. Something was off about how absurdly pretty she lay, as if staged after she had passed out.

Maybe the girl and an unknown person engaged in an innocuous role-play before the fire spooked them, but then they would have locked the suite’s door. Unless her playmate had fled, leaving her helpless. Or maybe they went for help, and he was crazy.

“Jung,” Harris called out into the radio. “Finding anyone else in the hall?”

“No.”

“She wasn’t alone.”

“Rodger, I’ll be on the lookout. Check the suite,” came another right call from Lt. Jung. Harris even nodded before yelling, “Call out!” on top of his lungs. “Come out.”

Nothing.

Harris stepped away from the bed and rotated in one place, pointing with his infrared. Where would her playmate be if they didn’t run for their life? Kids climbed under their beds and died like that. Harris knelt and peered under the frame. “Milwaukee Fire Department! Anyone here?”

Empty.

He climbed back up, breathing like bellows. There was more than one door in the suite, so more rooms.

The first opened into a walk-in closet stuffed with fancy clothes. Harris shoved the frocks aside with his elbow, but there were too many. He jerked them off the hangers and tossed them on the floor.

Empty.

Next door led into a giant bathroom.

“Hello! Anyone here?” Harris’ steel-toed soles scraped on the tiles. “Call out!”

A fit of cough cut his voice off, rattling him until his chest… his chest caught onto a tight cord. “What the fuck?”

Something popped to his left, about as loud as a champagne’s cork. The doors of the wall cabinet swung outward like it’s a cuckoo clock.

He stared at it while it moved — such an idiot! — so the mini-blast blinded him.

As Harris blinked away spots from his vision and staggered back, the cabinet burst into flames.

“Fuck.” He slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and leaned on it for a good measure, wheezing for breath. Sweat dripped into his eyes. “Jung, come in. I’ve just... I’ve nicked a tripwire. Some psycho rigged the bathroom.”

“So, we have an arsonist.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sweat dripped into his eyes. “I think the booby-trap was a message for us.”

“Don’t think.”

That was harder than it sounded. To prevent the girl from escaping, the arsonist only needed to rig the door, and with no sophisticated clockwork. The bathroom trap felt more screwy, skilful, and personal than practical. “Sir, permission to abandon the search?”

Static cracked in his headset, Jung’s not responding for what seemed like an eternity.

Harris banged the back of his head against the door a little. “Jung, come in. Can you hear me?”

Jung clicked twice to confirm he was receiving. “Clear out, Sarkisian.”

The clipped tone sobered Harris up. Plastering himself against the stupid door and yelling into the radio like some chicken shit because of the bathroom cabinet? The damn building was on fire, and he was a firefighter!

“One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand.”

Harris’ voice dropped an octave as he counted. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t work any moisture into his parched mouth, while sweat trickled out of his pores in fucking rivulets. It drenched his back until his t-shirt stuck to his skin beneath the fire-retardant overalls.

“Four-one-thousand.”

The unresponsive girl was silently calling for his help. Not just professionally, as in, ’Sarkisian, do your job to carry me to safety.’ More like she needed him to get her out of whatever mess she was in, beyond this burning room.

“Come on, do the thing.” He peeled his back from the door.

“Sarkisian, come in!” Jung said. “Get out now.”

Harris pictured the arsonist watching their struggles from afar, rubbing his hands in glee. He roared and scooped the girl from the bed. She felt lighter than a feather in his arms; the heaviest thing about her being her red hair that streamed down from his elbow like a banner.

Harris described all this to Jung as: “I’m coming out with a carry-on,” and moved for the exit.

A deafening explosion interrupted his shuffling progress. It shook the walls so bad, it felt like the entire building would collapse. Then the big bang snuffed out all the other rustling, hissing, and crackling and imposed a moment of menacing silence.

Every ounce of Harris’ strength poured into maintaining his footing as he clung to the girl for dear life. He wasn’t sure whose life, his or hers, so he clung to both. “Jung! Jung, come in!”

The gap under the tower suite’s door glowed an angry red, and the sounds of a fire whooshed up again. Then something high-pitched pierced his hearing, something far, far too similar to a man-down alarm.

If the karma caught up to Jung for what he did to Dad… “Karma, don’t be a bitch,” Harris wheezed, cradling the girl tighter to his chest.

“Sarkisian, you’re cut off,” Jung grunted into the radio after the longest heartbeat in Harris’ life. “Go onto the balcony.”

“Moving out, Sir.” A sigh lifted Harris’ laden chest in a deep, cleansing exhale. The ringing in his ears went on, but it was just tinnitus, thank God. All three of them lived — for now. He made a shaky and burdened step forward, trying not to think of what would happen if the fire touched down on the balcony before the truck’s ladder.