Page 1 of Choke

Good Girl

God, you look so fucking sexy.

Into the Fire

Adrian

June 10th

I race back up the stairs, my boots slamming against the cement, their echo bouncing off the walls. I lean toward my shoulder when I hear the crackle across the radio. McCoy’s voice sounds rushed, panicked, scared. I can smell charred plastic, but I’m unsure if it’s from the fire or clings to my skin from earlier.

“Mayday! Mayday!”

My stomach hits the ground beneath me.

No.

“This is McCoy—Floor eight, heavy fire, flashover conditions! Low air, need immediate backup!” His pleas for help are interrupted by his coughs, and my heart races. I pick up my pace, racing up the stairs. “I’ve got civilians. Conditions are deteriorating fast. Fuck. Guys. Help!”

Fuck.

His first fucking fire. He’s so young, barely twenty-three, still green, still so excited about the job. When the call came in, we cheered for his first fire; he beamed from ear to ear and told us he couldn’t wait to tell his mom. His mom. Will someone call to tell her he didn’t make it out? He shouldn’t be alone. I left him to take her to the medics, and he said he was okay with staying. This is my responsibility—I should have ordered him out.

Move.

Fifth Floor.

Sixth Floor.

The heat intensifies the higher I get, and my gear sticks to my skin. I’ve done this for years, but tonight, there’s a different pressure around me. Despite the heat, a chill crawls down my spine; claustrophobia grips me for the first time in my life. A sound behind me makes me hesitate as I spin around, searching for the source of the sweet voice that seems to be calling my name.

Not possible.

Seventh Floor.

I take in the door to the eighth floor as I reach it. It’s closed, but black smoke seeps through the edges, crawling up the walls like large snakes that swirl and twist upward. The visibility is reduced to a foot. My lungs scream as I rip it open, and a shroud of smoke and darkness swallows me. The fire is a living entity; the heat pulses over me, suffocating me in its thick, blistering wave, burning through my protective gear. My throat is raw, and my lungs burn; it’s unbearable. Before this job, I had no idea that fire was so loud—it crackles and screams, and the roar drowns out everything else—my radio, my thoughts, and the thunder of my heart.

I know there’s a long corridor ahead, but I can’t see it. The fire is somewhere, but I can’t see that either. I can’t see McCoy. The air pulses and moves, feeling like standing too close to a bonfire or an open oven.

“Copy, McCoy. I’m on eight, via stairwell A—confirm the location of the fire.” My voice is rough and scratchy from my time without my mask.

His voice sounds weak when he responds.

“Everywhere. Adrian, it’s everywhere.”

I returned to the stairwell, noticing the immediate change in the atmosphere, even just out here. With my elbow, I smashed the glass-fronted cabinet, accessing the fire hose reel inside. I yank it free and drag the line toward the doorway. There is no pressure.

Fuck!

“Command, standpipe on eight—where the fuck is my water?”

Time stands still.

“Working on it—pumps charging the riser.”

The connection cuts in and out.

My pulse hammers as I wait, listening to the roar of the fire mixed with the continuous tones of the building’s fire detection system. I know it takes seconds, but it seems like hours, and in situations like this, seconds could mean life or death for the kid somewhere in the sea of smoke. When the hose shifts in my hands, expanding with the increasing pressure, I don’t hesitate, pushing past the false safety of the stairwell and into the hallway.

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