“Firebug”
By Laszlo Belarski
"Move it guys!" Deputy Chief Velasco was shouting
from the vehicle, adjusting his headset. "We have a priority 4 from
Syscom! It’s a 10-1 on helicopter support!" his voice crackled in the
men's earpieces.
George took his place in the jumpseat area next to Biederman and
Clarke, the two other firefighters, closing the door just as the driver
launched the E-One tanker roaring in the street.
The summer had started badly, with an arsonist on the loose in their
area and strong winds blowing. The damage had been so extensive as to suggest
the work of more than one maniac. So far, the bastards had only targeted
woodland, but the fires were getting dangerously close to the industrial zone
northeast of town. "This could be it," George thought. "Hey,
Sarge!" he called out. "Where's the fire scene?"
In the front seat, Sergeant Campbell and Velasco exchanged a look, then
the Sarge replied, his voice sounding nervous in the headsets.
"The woods behind Ridgedale Power Plant. Looks like our firebug's
handiwork".
* * *
After five years in the Department, George still felt a knot in
his stomach every time he looked at a raging fire, a feeling of impotence
against the uncanny force of the flames. It only lasted a few moments, but he
hated himself for it.
This was no exception. A wall of flames was devouring the stretch of
woods between the road and the perimeter of the power plant, marked by a tall
brick wall. The trees and tall bushes below were ablaze, the smoke acrid
through the airpack facemasks. Above them, the helicopter was mapping the fire
and performing limited firebombing with retardant foam, trying to keep the
flames from engulfing the perimeter wall.
"It's too damn big, Chief!" Campbell was shouting from the
deck gun on top of the tanker. The powerful, 1,000-gallons-a-minute water jet
was struggling to clear a central area for the attack team to get in.
"No backup available!" Velasco replied, hard at work on the
radio. "We'll have to start on our own. Just try to stop it from spreading
north, while we wait for a pumper!"
"You got it!"
"Now looks good. Cut the deck gun!" said the Deputy.
As the spray dissipated, George saw his entryway and lead the attack
team in, lowering the visor of his helmet. He was acting as nozzleman, with
Biederman and Clarke behind him pulling the line. George started working
straight in front, spraying a fog pattern.
It didn't take long to realize that something was odd. This was no
ordinary wood fire. The smell was wrong. The bluish color at the base of the
flames was wrong.
"Something's not right, Chief!" he called on the firecom.
"You're telling me!" Velasco replied.
"The flames, Chief, something is fueling them!"
"Huh?"
"It's not reacting as wood fire! It's more like... chemical
stuff!" George stopped, a fit of cough exploding in his chest.
"You OK, George?" Biederman asked. "Let me take the
front."
George swapped places with the other fighter, recovering from the fit.
"Hang on guys," said Velasco. "Let me check with the
heli..."
They all jumped, as a loud explosion burst above them. They looked up
to see the Bell 412 spinning out of control toward the wall, on fire. There was
a strident crash, as the brick wall collapsed under the helicopter weight.
But that wasn't what paralyzed the firefighters.
Behind the collapsed wall, a huge black shape was slowly rising. The
thing spread two enormous wings, semitransparent in the blaze of the flames. A
long, scaly neck uncoiled, snake-like. The massive head turned toward the
petrified men, vicious reptile eyes locked on them.
Then the dragon produced a loud, ear-piercing screech.
"I... I think we got our firebug," George whispered, before
hell broke loose.
* * *
Biederman found himself in the middle of a giant flamethrower
burst, as a dark gush of liquid shot out of the creature’s mouth, catching fire
as it touched the blazing bushes. He shrieked, his body shielding George and
Clarke. They instinctively dropped to the ground at the ghastly vision of the
nozzleman’s body melting in front of them. The man just stood there, in an
uncontrollable convulsion, as the heat consumed his outfit, flesh and bones.
The gush eventually subsided, and Biederman’s charred remains dropped forward.
George snapped out of it, rolling on the ground as far as he could. The
creature’s neck arched back, preparing for the next burst.
George scrambled to his feet, started running toward the tanker. Behind
him, Clarke stood up, but tripped over the hose and fell again. George felt the
heat of the second burst on his back, didn’t stop running. The horrific sounds
in his earpiece told him Clarke never made it to his feet.
“Christ, this can’t be happening,” George kept repeating. Breathing had
become hard, his visor had steamed.
The tanker seemed miles away, as George ran toward it. Each new step
was torture to his lungs. He saw Velasco near the cabin, frantically gesturing.
He saw the driver, still at the pump controls. Then he saw Campbell on top of
the vehicle, shooting the deck gun, directing the water jet over his head.
Without stopping, George glanced over his shoulder, following the water
as it struck the creature, causing it to momentarily stop the deadly gush.
George‘s eyes were glued to the reptile, a vision so out of place, yet so real
in its details. The thing rose higher above the wall rubble, a clawed leg
reaching the wreck of the helicopter. As the dragon stepped forward, resting
its weight on the leg, the helicopter cabin collapsed. Plexiglas shattered like
a soap bubble under the prodigious weight.
Distracted, George ran headlong into the tanker and fell backwards to
the ground.
“OH SHIT! It’s charging!” a voice shouted.
George became aware of the ground shaking rhythmically. He tried
standing, but the weight of the airpack pinned him down. Sergeant Campbell
jumped down from the tanker roof to help him.
“Get it off, quick!” Campbell said, his hands busy with the airpack
straps.
The thing was coming closer. The thundering steps were now right behind
them.
George managed to unhook his facemask from the airpack regulator.
Feeling the shoulder straps loosening, he rushed on all fours, pushing Campbell
toward the tanker ahead of them.
“GO! GO! GO!” he shouted. They desperately dived under the tanker.
There was a tremendous impact. The tanker shook and tipped to one side.
It stayed at an angle for a moment, then fell back down with a deafening sound.
George’s world went black.
* * *
The smell woke him up. Or maybe it was his survival instinct.
Sitting up, he bumped his head painfully against the bottom of the
tanker.
“Ouch!” he let out, and fell back flat.
He looked around, vigilant. Campbell lied immobile next to him. He had
a nasty gash on the back of his head.
"Sarge?" George whispered, feeling the man's wrist. No pulse.
"Oh, no. Sarge..." he dropped Campbell's limp arm.
A noise caught his attention. Like a huge snort. He crawled to the
other side of the vehicle, toward the road, and peeked from behind the truck
tyres. The creature was there. It had circled the truck, and was chewing on
something. George gasped in horror, as he recognized Velasco’s severed torso.
The creature was pulling one arm with his mouth, holding the torso flat with
one sharp claw. Like a dog tearing a toy.
George withdrew his head, rested it against the tyres. He noticed the
driver’s charred remains behind the truck. He banged his head against the hard
rubber, repeatedly. The bastard had killed them all. All his team. Burnt to
death.
"For Christ's sake," he thought, in tears. "Those were
honest, hardworking men. Friends. We survived fires, floods... To die here,
chargrilled by some... fairy tale lizard."
He looked again. The dragon was swallowing the torso, its head up. For
some reason, it didn't even scare him now. A stupid, oversized monster. George
felt anger surging within him. He was determined to go out with a bang.
The firefighter gave Campbell one last look, then crawled to the other
side of the tanker. He stood up, sidestepped along the vehicle, and opened the
driver's door. The dragon was turned slightly away from the tanker, at about
two o'clock. It didn't seem to have noticed him.
After glancing at the ignition cylinder, George slid on the driver's
seat. Good. The key was there. He breathed in. "Right, you only get one
go." He readied himself, pushed the gear stick into first. One hand on the
ignition key. The other on the siren switch. His foot on the accelerator.
George took a deep breath.
He turned the key. The diesel engine came to life, jerking the E-One
into motion, tyres screeching, siren blaring.
The creature turned to face the hellish noise.
"Wanna play chicken, son of a bitch?" George shouted. He held
the wheel with all his strength, closing his eyes.
The impact came, like hitting a wall face first. George was projected
forward; he hit the windscreen with his forehead, drawing webs on the glass. He
felt the stream of blood on his face, and painful broken ribs.
When he looked up, he saw the creature’s chest obscuring the whole of
the windscreen. He could see it heaving and panting. Then the blows started
coming from above.
The first hit smashed all the windows in the cabin. George ducked,
while a myriad shards rained on him from three sides. As the second blow shook
the truck, he could see the vertical windscreen supports bending.
He had to get out. The next blow was even harder, and caused the metal
roof to warp at a worrying angle. George protected his head, as one of the
compartments behind the seats burst open, scattering heavy tools around. He
grabbed the door handle, but the distorted metal stopped it opening.
Laboriously and painfully maneuvering in the cluttered space, George double
kicked the other door, each kick an agony for his ribs. It didn’t budge.
In desperation, he thought of finding shelter behind the seats, and
probed with one hand to find a grip. His hand closed around a thick metal
shaft. Helping himself with the other hand, he clumsily retrieved a pike pole,
the spear-shaped tool used to pull sheet rock down from ceilings.
As the cabin was reduced in half by the next blow, George let his
instinct guide him. Ignoring the pain, he thrust the pole through the shattered
windscreen, right at the creature’s exposed chest. The spear pierced the thick
hide, sinking in deeply.
The earsplitting shriek of the creature preceded by an instant the
spurt of dark blood from the chest wound. The dragon’s movements became
spasmodic, and George realized the vehicle was about to capsize.
“Christ!” he shouted, holding on as best as he could while the world
tumbled around him. Finally, with a loud crash, the truck settled upside-down.
George was hurled through the windscreen, breaking a few more bones in the
process.
When the haze of pain allowed him, George saw the dragon’s spasms
becoming weaker, until the snake-like neck flopped on the ground, leaving the
creature motionless. A black carcass against a backdrop of flames.
A condition not too dissimilar from how George was feeling.
* * *
“You’ll be OK, buddy,” a voice was saying, ”don’t you worry about
a thing.”
George was on a stretcher, paramedics around him. A drip in his arm. In
the background, water jets seemed to be taming the receding flames.
In the instant before losing consciousness, George knew he would never
again feel helpless, facing a raging fire.
What he didn’t know was that for the rest of his days, the mere mention
of the word reptile would throw him in a state of unspeakable panic.
END
© Copyright Laszlo
Belarski 2005