Page 61 of Flash Freeze

“Roger that. We’ll try to contain this and report back if we get it put out before another engine arrives.”

“How’d you know the roof was about to come down?” Flores asked. He wasn’t a rookie, but pretty new to Station Eight. He hadn’t studied under Smokey or spent the past nine years under Captain O’Riley’s leadership.

“Experience,” she said, “and the best trainers a firefighter can get. Read the smoke and listen to the signs. A fire will tell you what it’s going to do if you pay close enough attention.”

“Lieutenant Cash has this special relationship with fires,” Waylon said, most of the anger drained from his voice. “They talk to her, and sometimes they even listen.”

Keeping the pressure on the ceiling, the team slowly beat back the flames. A second engine never came.

A man in a long black coat, wrought with worry, rushed up to Flash when they walked out. “Where’s Susan?”

A police patrol car had arrived, and the officers were keeping the small crowd back, but the owner, Flash supposed, had broken through.

“Is that the manager who’s disappeared?” she asked.

“Yes.” He wiped a hand across his brow, beaded with sweat, as steam puffed from his mouth into the frosty air. “She went in to check on things, and she didn’t come out. Don’t tell me you left her in there to die!”

A sick feeling roiled in Flash’s gut. “Flores, Woods, check the perimeter. Waylon, with me. You stay here,” she instructed the frantic owner.

Without masks or hoses, Flash and Waylon trudged back inside, where little trails of smoke drifted up from blackened piles of what were once walls, the bar, and the ceiling. Light poured in from the tremendous hole where the kitchen roof had been, charred beams broken. The floor was already getting slick under their feet as the water had begun to freeze.

“Sorry I yelled at you,” Waylon said, bumping her shoulder with his.

“I’d have done the same,” she replied. “Where could that woman be?”

“No one ever went upstairs,” said Waylon.

Flash sighed, shaking her head. “Let’s check there first.” She’d hate to uncover charred remains in the kitchen.

Together, they climbed the steps in silence, the plight of the missing manager weighing heavily on Flash. They found a small cleaning closet and a large dining area, mostly intact. The far wall, nearest the kitchen, had blackened from smoke, and the wallpaper was singed around the edges. Then Flash noticed a short hallway, barely perceptible beyond a potted tree. Venturing down it, she spied men’s and women’s restrooms. She and Waylon each took one, meeting each other back in the small hall.

“Nope,” Waylon said. “Listen, Flash. You were right. If we’d stayed, that would have all fallen in on us—maybe killed us.”

“Maybe,” she responded. There was one more door, scorched and brittle, nearest the burned-out kitchen. When she pushed it, the wood broke apart, its pieces clattering to the floor. Inside was a small office. A strip of floor about three feet wide had collapsed along with the kitchen roof, and she could see the rubble beneath it. The accompanying wall lay in flame-licked, smoke-blackened tatters. Her chest tightened.

Flash eased one boot onto the office floor. It flexed beneath her weight. “Wait there,” she told Waylon, who was much heavier than her. “The floor feels spongy.” He stayed because every firefighter knew what that meant.

Dread settled deeper with each step as she slowly navigated the floor. A large desk blocked her view of what might lie on its other side. Flash’s breath hitched. She realized she’d slowed for no tactical reason. Instinct dictated that she run around the desk; something inside begged her to turn around and leave.

“Do you see anything?” Waylon called.

Flash took another step, hugging the wall farthest from the damaged portion of floor. She spotted the UGGs first. Then she rushed, the hope the victim would still be alive clawing against the fear.

“Wait,” she yelled back, as she knelt to the floor, worried that the bull of a man would dash in and break his leg falling through the compromised floorboards. Finding who she assumed was Susan, she checked the pulse at her neck. Nothing. She rolled her over and leaned in close to her face, checking for evidence of breath. Nothing.

Flash activated her radio. “Female victim, unresponsive, requesting ambulance at the Bayou Bistro fire location, second floor. I’m administering CPR.”

“You found her?” Waylon’s voice rang with astonishment.

“Bring me a BVM from the truck.”

While Waylon was gone, Flash carefully dragged the victim past the bathrooms and into the dining area, where there was room and a solid floor. Waylon returned with the unit and used the valve bag to force air into the victim’s lungs while Flash performed chest compressions until the ambulance crew arrived. Her turnout coat weighed heavier than usual, water droplets having refrozen into ice embedded in the fabric. She had to pull off her gloves because they were too stiff to work in.

Flash didn’t know the ambulance team who entered, as they were from a different firehouse. “I found the victim unresponsive and have been administering CPR.”

Bags in hand, the two knelt beside Flash and the victim.

“We’ll take it from here,” the man said. Flash stepped back.