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Three Alarms
Sam
I’m officially on call at 4:00 am, and my first dispatch comes through at 4:30. I always keep a clean, pressed uniform hanging by the bathroom door, so I hop out of bed, throw some water on my face, and put it on. The blue light on my truck is flashing, and I’m weaving through what little traffic there is by 4:45. It’s a three-alarm fire, which means that there will be sixty firefighters and fifteen trucks at the location. This is a big one and will require additional support from the three surrounding cities. In my time in uniform, this is only the third fire of this magnitude that I’ve experienced, and one of those was in another city.
I see the lights from the pumpers and ambulance ahead and roll to a stop against the curb. It’s another abandoned building, so hopefully, there won’t be a need for the emergency medical team. When I reach my commander, he tells me to assist the last truck to arrive with their hose, and I rush to the pumper and begin laying the hose out in the middle of the street.
Our primary objective is to prevent the fire from spreading to the businesses on either side, and we do, but the blaze itself takes four hours to contain. In the end, the place is nothing more than a charred ruin. We’re in the process of surrounding the property with hurricane fencing with “Keep Out” signs when my commander waves me over to his truck.
“What’s up, boss?” I ask him.
“I wanted to tell you that the forensics came back on that fire on Main Street last week. It was intentional. I thought at first that I was gonna hear that some kids probably set it for a thrill, but the accelerants used and the quantity required points to arson on a more expert scale,” he tells me.
“I appreciate you letting me know. Any idea about the suspect?”
“That’s a police matter now. We put them out, and they find the bad guys.”
“Again, thanks for telling me.” I start to walk away and he stops me.
“There’s more. By the looks of this one, it may be the same perpetrator. We might just have a serial arsonist on our hands.” He shakes his head, and I can see the worry on his face.
Every fire has the potential to be a deadly fire, and the idea that anyone would be going around putting our lives and the lives of innocent citizens in danger for thrill or profit is enough to make my blood boil. I have to fight down my rage as I continue securing the property. Whoever this is, they need to be stopped quickly, and they need to pay for what they’ve done.
My crew and I go to the station, and I shower and grab a cup of coffee from the mess hall. This is going to be a long day, and I keep my fingers crossed that it will be uneventful. I’m still shaken by the idea that anyone would purposefully set these fires, and I wonder what kind of person could do this. I have to shake away the thoughts because my pressure is starting to rise again. The only time I’ve dealt with arson was when one of the locals decided to torch his own house. His business was going under, and he was drowning in debt, so he did it for the insurance money. But he was sloppy, and it didn’t take much for the Fire Marshall to figure out what he did. The Chief has called this a professional job, and whoever this guy is, he better hope someone like me doesn’t catch him in the act.
The rest of the day is quiet. We get called out to assist in two auto accidents, and by the time we return from the second one, my twelve-hour shift has ended. I get in my truck, rub my eyes, and stretch, thinking about how nice it would be to close the curtains and crawl back into bed. Then again, no amount of sleep deprivation is going to keep me from seeing Sara, so I slap my face a few times to shake off the cobwebs and pull out, heading north toward the shelter.
There’s a man in the shelter parking lot when I arrive. He’s walking away from the building toward a parked car. He stops mid-stride and looks at me through my window, and I lift my fingers off the wheel to shoot him a quick wave. He doesn’t wave back. He just stands there looking at me as I pass. I park my truck and get out to look for him, but all I can see is his taillights as he turns out onto the road.
“Who was the guy who just left?” I ask Sara as I enter the lobby.
“He said that he’s trying to find his lost dog. I don’t have any here that match his description, so he’s going to check the city shelter again. I told him to make sure he puts up signs in the vet's offices and at the dog park. Dog lovers are usually the ones who pick up lost dogs, so you want to leave your information in places that they tend to go,” she explains.
“Did he have a picture of his dog?” Sara shakes her head no.
“Wouldn’t you expect somebody with a lost dog to bring pictures?” I probe her a bit further, and this time, she crosses her arms across her chest and furrows her forehead.
“Usually, yes, but he said he was out combing the area for the dog and just stopped by here without going home first. I told him to make sure he puts the pictures on his flyers. Why are you asking?”
“He was acting strange in the parking lot. He just kept staring at me when I pulled in.”
“Maybe he thought you were bringing in a dog, and he was checking to see if you found his puppy.” She smiles and stands straighter. “Speaking of puppies, do you want to come to the back and see Lucky?”
“Did he leave you his contact information in case someone brings the dog here?”
“He wasn’t going to. He said that he didn’t want to trouble me, but I kind of insisted. So yes, he did,” she replies.
I feel a little better knowing that she has his information, so I let it go and say, “Yes, I want to see Lucky, but first, I want to see you.” I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and taste fruity. With one hand behind her head, I pull her closer, and she slides her arms around my neck. It takes an immense amount of strength to pull back, and we’re both breathing hard.
Before I’m tempted to do anything else, I turn her around so she can lead me into the back to see Lucky. He’s in his kennel and leaps to his feet when he sees us. His tail is wagging, and he tap dances on his little paws until Sara opens the door. He rushes out and runs to me like he’s found a long-lost friend. I get down on the floor, and he lays on his back so that I can rub his belly. Sara watches us with a huge smile then asks, “Do you remember when you said I should let you know if there was anything that you could do to help me?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly, still playing with Lucky.
“Well, I was thinking about contacting the news and seeing if they might want to do a follow-up story on you and Lucky. They could shoot here and maybe you could plug the shelter to get the word out on how people can donate.” She’s standing behind me with her hands clasped behind her, a hopeful look on her face.
I hesitate for a bit and tell her the truth. “I’m not big on being in the public eye.”
“But you’re a hero, and I’m sure there are people out there who’d like to know what happened to Lucky. It’s a good story and would give some much-needed free advertising to the shelter. Please?” she pleads. She bats her eyelashes playfully, and there’s no way that I can say no to her.
