U-Turn Killur

Contents

CHAPTeR ONE

CHAPTeR TWO

CHAPTeR THREE

CHAPTeR FOUR

CHAPTeR FIVE

CHAPTeR SIX

CHAPTeR SEVEN

CHAPTeR EIGHT

CHAPTeR NINE

CHAPTeR TEN

CHAPTeR ELEVEN

CHAPTeR TWELVE

CHAPTeR THIRTEEN

CHAPTeR FOURTEEN

CHAPTeR FIFTEEN

CHAPTeR SIXTEEN

CHAPTeR SEVENTEEN

CHAPTeR EIGHTEEN

CHAPTeR NINETEEN

CHAPTeR TWENTY

CHAPTeR TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTeR TWENTY-TWO

FIRE SERVICE TERMINOLOGY

LIVING IN A DARKENED WORLD:

An Interview with Teric Darken

will U-turn, and look the other way,

or watch while I kill?

CHAPTeR ONE

drip… Drip… Drip…

Gabe… Gabe… Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Gabe… Gabe… Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

The voice was but a whisper: breathy, sinister. The corridor snaked into a hollow abyss: dark, dank, dismal. He was lying prone upon the moistened slab, unconscious, incoherent. But a sibilant voice was wafting, relentlessly chipping away at each tympanic membrane. Gabe… Gabe… Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Gabe… Gabe… Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

As if in slow motion, the prostrate figure inched his head upward. His eyes batted, repeatedly, struggling to reconnect with life and find the light of day. Yet, when his pupils dilated in response to the darkness, there was neither life nor light to be found. He lowered his head and waited for disorientation to subside. Hello? His voice reverberated off the slick, barren walls, returning: hollow, void, abysmal. Apart from his echo, only silence replied. Hello? Echo… then silence.

Fighting despair, the battered figure instinctively probed his mind: Who am I? I am a firefighter. Where am I? I don’t know. How did I get here? Not sure. Do I have any tools? His fingers fumbled about his body: patting, prodding, poking, frantically searching for anything to help his cause. There… There on his turnout coat, strapped across the front… Flashlight, I have a flashlight. He feebly flipped his instrument on. Total darkness: Beyond the lip of the flashlight’s lens, nothing emitted but enshrouding shadows lurking about a witching hour. The musty gloom continued to consume his beam as it drifted lazily through the pitch-black: merely a dim glow of erosion.

Partner, I have a partner. Where is my partner? S- Smitty! Smitty! His voice bleakly returned to him, the only indication of life. And then the creeping whisper summoned his name.

Gabe…

Who’s that? Smitty?

Gabe, over here.

That voice… so familiar... but not… You’re not Smitty! Who’s there?

Gabe, follow my voice.

That voice… masculine… authoritative… familiar… Disorientation wore out its welcome. D- Dad?

It beckoned from beyond the corridor, lingering as a subtle perfume just before it dissipates. No, Gabe, this way. Come down here.

Conjuring up every ounce of energy, the figure, bathing in his own sweat, wobbled to his knees. His left hand bumped into an object, and a heavy scraping sound bounced down the hollow hall. He felt of his head. My helmet… gone. Groping for his headgear, he scooped it up from the damp residue and fitted it atop his crown.

Crackle. Hiss. Pop. Smitty’s gone, Gabe, over here.

Who are you? Smitty’s not gone; he would never leave me. He would never leave his partner!

Smitty’s gone, Gabe; follow my voice.

You listen to me, I don’t know who you are, but that’s NOT TRUE! His last inflection ricocheted with intensity.

Crackle. Hiss. Pop. Come to me.

The lone figure paused for a moment, struggling to find discernment through a pounding headache and disorientation. He feebly stretched out his right leg and then tapped his inner core for the strength to stand. Forgiving the voice’s assessment of his partner, he resolved to find its owner. Okay, I’m heading your way. I can’t see you. Where are you?

The dark void at the end of the corridor beckoned to him. Down here, Gabe, around the bend. Follow my voice; come to me.

The cogs of instinct began to whir freely, stirring the firefighter within. Are, are you hurt? Are you trapped?

No, Gabe. If you want to get out, follow my voice. Crackle. Hiss. Pop.

Meticulously, the firefighter placed one foot ahead of the other. Attempting to find an interior wall, he stretched out his arms and, cautiously, veered to the right, expecting to connect with a solid slab. There was none to be found. The disoriented soul nervously rummaged through a side pocket on his turnout pants. Fingers finding a treasure, he pulled out a golf ball.

His torso twisted to the right, and he launched the ball in a fevered pitch. Nothing. His projectile indicated no telltale sign of an interior wall. The ball bounced, repeatedly, off the floor, echoing throughout the chamber, then rolled along the ground into oblivion.

In desperation, the firefighter dug through his pocket again, pulling out two more balls. He twisted left and hurled the ball with intensity. Mimicking the first ball, it provided no relief as it fell short, then dissipated into darkness. The frantic figure made an about-face and angrily cast the ball. It alerted his master that contact was made with the point of no return. The enshrouded figure screamed. A-A-A-A-A-A-G-G-G-G-H-H-H-H!

Silence tapped him on the shoulder, the forerunner to the voice. Crackle. Hiss. Pop. I told you, Gabe, if you want to get out, you’ll have to come to me.

The fireman dropped to his knees, circled a one-eighty, and began to crawl. His hands were stretched forward, ever groping, meticulously searching for any drop-offs along the path or entanglement hazards. The whisper remained just in front of him, its trail wafting as a verbal perfume.

He was sweating profusely- the liquid sodium now acting as fire ants, stinging his eyes. His voice embodied a raised pitch. Who are you? What’s going on? How do you know who I am?

Gabe, you know me. You know me, quite well. You’ve been a friend of mine for a long time. Just trust me; keep following my voice. Crackle. Hiss. Pop.

With all other options exhausted, the lone soul continued in the direction of the whisper. Strawberries began to form on his knees, under his protective gear, as he crawled through the abysmal cavern. Each movement proved increasingly painful. As he inched his way along in torment, a distant flicker of hope lit up in his eyes; a recognizable sound pricked his ears, and a familiar, foreign object crossed his path.

His ears tuned in to the voice. Crackle. Hiss. Pop. Crackle. Hiss. Pop. He knew the melody, quite well. The soft, warm glow ahead was inviting. He acknowledged each attribute of sight and sound: both beckoning to him as an age-old friend and bitter enemy. The solitary soul donned his SCBA mask, cranked open his air-pack, and hooked in. Interior condensation slowly crept in as a wet film inside of the face piece.

He patted the floor, searching for the foreign object winding through this unholy terrain. And there it lay: the hose-line. Running on instinct, the soldier of flame followed the only command he knew: Forge toward the fire. His pace quickened as he scurried along the hose-line’s path, snaking onward into the infernal abyss.

The minutes clocked in as hours, and each foot traversed registered as a mile through his wracked body. The sweating condensation in his facemask denoted that the outside temperature was rapidly rising. He was just short of arriving at his destination. There… a corner… the unmistakable glow…

The perfume permeated around the bend. Good, Gabe, good, you’ve made it. Just a little closer now; turn the corner.

The hose-line led into hell’s nook. Gabe cautiously followed. As he rounded the corner, his eyes were temporarily blinded by the dark light. On hands and knees, he slowly opened his lids, struggling to regain focus. He wished his temporary blindness to be permanent as his eyes beheld his partner. Smitty!

His partner remained still, lying lifeless on the barren slab, turnouts charred from the dragon’s breath. Small serpents of flame flickered as swaying cobras from the deceased’s protective gear. The rescuer was nonplussed. SMITTY!

The dragon seethed. I told you he was gone. He’s mine now, Gabe; he didn’t have what it takes.

Filled with horror and rage, the officer countered. LIAR! You killed him!

He couldn’t cut it, Gabe, so I had to cut his life short.

YOU ARE A LIAR! He was one of the best on the department!

The dragon drew breath: seething, spitting, spewing. Let me have just a taste of you, Gabe. Flames licked at the lifeblood crouched down before them, sampling his soul. So what are you going to do, fireman? What – are – you – going – to - do? You want to snuff me out, yes? And yet you want to watch me burn, don’t you?

I, I…

You want to kill me immediately, am I right? And yet you want to get as close as you can; let me linger for just another moment. You want to dance with the flicker of the flame. Gabe, you want to TOUCH ME! It’s okay, Gabe, TOUCH ME!

Through his SCBA mask, the firefighter witnessed the flames dance and twirl- a most horrific display of beauty. He was mesmerized by the sight. I – want – to…

The fiery rollover was relentless. I’ve been good to you, Gabe. All these years, I’ve been a friend to you, giving you a reason to be, haven’t I? You have built your kingdom off of my destructive nature, haven’t you?

Confused. Dazed. Disoriented. Y- Yes…

There’s no way out, Gabe, no way out. You’ve valiantly fought against me your whole life, but, sooner or later, you meet up with a foe that’s bigger than you. That time has come, Gabe. Now, come to me; dance in the fire. Be as your partner and die a HERO!

You’re a LIAR! You’re not telling the truth! There’s always a way out! Gabe plowed through his brain, desperately attempting to avoid panic while trying to unearth a sensible solution. Panic found him soon enough; the solution was nowhere to be found. Something’s not right: I have no idea where I am or how I even got here.

Your only escape is through the fire, Gabe; THAT is the only way!

He crawled two paces in retreat and watched the room burn. There was no way he could salvage Smitty’s body; he was completely consumed. The fireman’s tears blended in with the sweat and condensation permeating his mask. Crackle. Hiss. Pop. Amidst the infernal storm, all was eerily quiet, much as the atmosphere before the tornado strikes. The silent roar of consumption surrounded the dragon’s breath; everything charred had given up its ghost. Crackle. Hiss. Pop.

The beast’s flaming tongue reached out and licked him a second time, demanding his attention. So what are you going to do, Gabe? Die as a coward or dance with the flame?

I’m going to snuff you out just as you murdered my partner! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU! The lone soul charged in, grabbed the nozzle, and jerked the bale open. D-D-I-I-I-E-E-E!!!

The soldier of flame lashed out, slashing away at the belly of the beast. The dragon seethed and hissed, winding around the room as a flaming serpent. His sinister whisper writhed its way under Gabe’s helmet, through his hood, and into his ear. Just remember why you’re here, Gabe, remember why you’re here.

And why is that?

When you cultivate darkness, you reap it.

That means nothing to me.

Then, perhaps, you’ll remember that when you play with fire, you get…

BURNED… I’M BURNED! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! A-A-A-G-G-G-H-H-H!!!

The dragon had bellowed, billowing out hot gas and flame that completely engulfed the abysmal corridor and the lone soul that lurked within. The flashover took no prisoners. When the inferno darkened down, darkness was all that remained.

<><+><>

A hand reached above the waterline of sweat and swatted at the alarm clock. The shrill cry was muted at 5:30 a.m. He lingered in the tide an extra moment, struggling to find his breath. The figure rolled out of drenched sheets, heart thumping erratically, and staggered toward the master-bath. The lukewarm spray from the showerhead escorted the man’s senses back to earth. He lathered and rinsed but had no time to repeat. Drying off his body, he tossed the towel, donned fresh boxers, and lumbered toward the sink.

Drip… Drip… Drip…

The leaking faucet was up for morning conversation. It received no reply from the hurried figure. A quick shave was in order, followed by the mandatory dental hygiene. Finishing up, he flicked the faucet handle off and slipped into a pair of well-worn cargo shorts, an old t-shirt, and some flip-flops. The monologue continued.

Drip… Drip… Drip…

Grabbing his handbag, meticulously pre-packed the night before, the figure reached for his keys and headed out the door. In forty-five minutes, his shift would begin. I need some coffee.

CHAPTeR TWO

the coffee pot. Good grief a-mighty, was there another invention as great as the coffeepot? Lieutenant Gabriel Gabe McLaughlin, Truck One officer on A shift, mulled this over in his mind as his eyes scanned across the Wittmann, Arizona sunrise while driving toward Central Fire Station. The man practically lived on coffee- could drink a whole pot by himself.

The coffeepot was the first thing that he reached for when the rooster crowed… anywhere… didn’t matter where. And he liked his joe straight up black- just stout enough so that the first sip gave him a little slap across the face. Good cup of coffee! Folger’s Colombian was his roast of choice- it was relatively cheap, easy to find, and produced a rich cup.

Reputation preceding him, most of the guys around the station knew better than to speak to Gabe before he had his first sip of the bean. If they did, they were lucky to get a half-hearted grunt out of him. Having the little, white cup in his hand meant the green-light to his co-workers, signaling them that conversation would be acceptable.

The firehouse crew routinely took time out to poke fun at the officer with the bean fetish during morning apparatus checks. Every firefighter was required to check their assigned apparatus at shift change, ensuring that the equipment and operations were up to standards. Their personal turnout gear and handheld radios were also to be inspected. And seldom was Gabe seen checking anything in the morning without that sacred, Styrofoam, java cup in his hand.

The coffeepot went missing at the station, once. Gabe thought someone was playing a practical joke at first, as firefighters are prone to do, but when he figured out it was the real deal, he began to get a little antsy. As time progressed, that restlessness had developed into full-blown irritability by mid-morning. Several of his co-workers dipped snuff or smoked cigarettes. Not Gabe. He drank coffee, and he needed his fix. To resolve the issue, Lieutenant McLaughlin ordered his men to load up in The Truck, as his ladder rig was commonly called, and his driver was instructed to commence to the nearest gas station. Gabe hopped out of the cab, jogged into the convenience store and got his coffee: two cups, thirty-two ounces each. He was then a happy camper.

He had no clue who invented the coffeepot. Perhaps I should look that up on Wikipedia. He was about to reach his destination when his cell chirped out the tune Disco Inferno.

Yeah, hon…

You at work, yet?

Just about; what’s up, Mel?

Well, I think Josie must’ve gotten into some papers that you left on the computer desk; they’re all sprawled about on the floor now. I didn’t know if they were anything too important or if I could just chunk ‘em.

No! Good grief, don’t chunk ‘em! Those are my rough drafts for that novel I’m working on- three months worth of work, Melissa! Just stack ‘em together and leave ‘em on my dresser where she can’t reach ‘em.

Alll-riiight, I’ll put ‘em up, but you don’t have to get your knickers in a twist about it.

You don’t understand, Mel, I’ve been pouring my heart and soul into that thing.

"Oh, believe me, I know! Gabe, you really have been immersing yourself in that project lately."

I’m just trying to broaden my horizons, Mel… tap into some unused resources.

Whatever, weirdo! Just don’t forget you have a wife and child at home, too!

Yeah, I hear ya; I hear ya.

Say, babe, two days have come and gone since your mom called; she’s been asking when you might be able to get to her yard.

I know; I need to get over there. I’ll try to get to it soon.

Oh, and honey…

Uh-oh, the dreaded honey; what does she want now? Yeah, babe…

About the faucet… it’s been a month now…

Yeesss, I know; I need to get on that, too.

I suppose you also know that I missed you last night.

Missed me? We were both home.

That’s not what I meant, Gabe. I missed YOU. When I said, ‘Hey Gabe, it’s nine o’clock; I’m putting Josie down,’ what did you think I meant? It was early!

Sorry, I guess it didn’t register.

Okay. Hey, can you do me a favor?

What’s that?

When you watch her tomorrow, can you pick up a little before I get home- save me a little headache?

No problem. Alright then, I’m about to pull in. Talk to you later…

Aren’t you forgetting something?

Oh yeah… love you.

Love you, too!

Click.

Minor mishap aside, today was going to be a great day: He would will his tour of duty to be light, and he now had another reason to sit down with a cup of coffee- Lieutenant Gabe McLaughlin would soon be author Gabe McLaughlin. He was primed and pretty-near-ready to unleash his first novel to the masses- an aspiration he had harbored since high school.

Gabe pulled into the station’s lot, picked up his duffel bag from the passenger seat, secured the door and commenced to the dressing room. Still shaking the remaining grogginess from last night’s sleep out of his system, he opened up his locker and surveyed its contents. Sleepily, he pulled out his uniform and then stripped the hanger of its contents, laying his shirt and pants to rest on the bench.

If Gabe was hoping to will the day away into a light tour of duty, he should have risen sooner. For as soon as he placed his uniform on the bench, the alarm brought his senses to life:

Commercial structure fire, 104 Westmore Drive, Lil’ Devils Gentlemen’s Club, for: Rescue One, Engine One, Truck One, Engine Two, Engine Seven, Truck Five, Battalion Two and Battalion Five.

As the dispatcher repeated the assignment, a partially coherent Gabe was none too happy. Blast it all! He immediately shucked off his civilian clothing and threw his legs into his uniform pants. He then punched his head and arms through the shirt holes, failing to realize that his shirt was on backwards, and jogged to his turnout gear. Dodging another firefighter en route, he proceeded to make a beeline toward the aerial truck.

Mornin’, Lieu! Smitty, his truck partner, jokingly teased from the driver’s seat, sporting a half-cocked grin. The probie in the back knew better than to speak up. He had not earned that privilege yet.