Protecting What's Mine(3)

“Where do you want us?” Two men appeared on the other side of the barrier. They each held up their tools.

“Climb over onto the hood,” Linc ordered. “We’re going through the sunroof.”

“Can we get a blanket over here?” Wonder Woman shouted at the gathering crowd. “And where are my fire extinguishers? The rest of you all need to get the hell back!”

“You’d make a great incident command,” Linc told her.

“Honey, I’ve got five kids at home. I can command the hell out of any incident.”

“Listen, you all give this two minutes. If we’re still not out by then, you need to get clear,” Linc ordered.

“Three minutes,” she repeated.

A blanket was produced and draped over Nelson’s head to protect him from the glass.

Time disappeared. There was only the intensity of the heat and Linc’s focus. The seatbelt gave way finally, the belt cutter slipping and nicking his hand. He heard the telltale whoosh of single-use fire extinguishers, the hiss of flames. But it was still damn hot. He was still burning. The good Samaritans attacked the sunroof, and chips of glass rained down in a shower.

“Thank fucking God,” he muttered, stashing the cutter back in his pocket and pulling on his gloves. It was too late. He already felt the blistering on his right hand. But what was a firefighter without a few burns to show off?

“Holy hell, chief,” Skyler’s pretty face appeared in the open sunroof.

“It’s about time, New Guy,” Linc shouted. “Nelson, buddy, are you ready to get the hell out of here?”

The heat was beyond oppressive. His muscles felt like they were liquifying. Black smoke filled the vehicle and poured out of the open windows.

“But I’m having such a nice time,” the man joked, coughing and sputtering.

Linc grinned. “Okay. On the count of three, Wonder Woman, you and I are going to heave Nelson here up and out. Rookie, you and your Good Sams are going to pull him out and get him across the barrier. And then everyone is going to run like hell. Copy?”

“Copy!” They shouted it as if they’d been training together for years instead of a fate-dealt group of strangers trying to save a life.

The back window shattered behind Linc as the flames licked closer. “Now!” he shouted.

Still using his body as a shield, he reached around to lever Nelson up out of the seat. His weight, the angle, the twisting. He felt the pop in his right shoulder and welcomed the pain as distraction from the misery of hell heat. They heaved and pushed and pulled together, grunting and shouting.

It sounded like labor. Like birth. The back seat was on fire. Flames were eating the upholstery, the fabric on the roof. Time was up.

And then Nelson was disappearing through the sunroof. Linc sent up a prayer of thanks as the man’s loafers vanished and the distinct sound of cheers reached him over the lick and crack of the fire.

“Get out of there, chief!” Skyler yelled, reaching down for him.

He gave her his left hand and, gasping for oxygen, let her pull him toward the air, the sunshine, the blue sky that was blotted out with thick, black smoke.

“Hang on!” Reaching down with his bad arm, Linc clutched the flowers. “Okay. Get me the fuck out of here.”

“Never pegged you for a romantic,” Skyler said through gritted teeth as she hauled his two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle and gear through the roof of the car.

They landed on the hood, and then she was shoving him over the barrier, and they were both falling. There was a loud pop behind them as one of the tires exploded.

Hands. What felt like a dozen of them grabbed him, pulled him up. They were surrounded by angels. Bloodied, bruised angels. Everyone crying and laughing at the same time. A girl in a softball uniform. A woman in a pencil skirt with bloody knees. A pizza delivery guy. A truck driver in a Jimmy Buffet shirt. Black. White. Rich. Poor. They came together to defy death.

Linc’s shoulder sang, his knuckles throbbed. But he grabbed Skyler’s arm. “Everybody move!”

There were sirens. An entire opera of them. Help was coming.

They moved as one, snaking between the stopped cars to the other shoulder of the highway. Skyler’s braid was no longer neat and tidy. Black flyaways escaped from all angles, and her dark skin was smudged with soot and dirt. She grinned at him.

“Not a bad day’s work, chief,” she said.

Nelson, arms draped over the shoulders of the glass-breaking golfers, limped ahead of them. Linc stole a glance over his shoulder, and just like that, the gas tank finally blew, shooting orange flames thirty feet into the air.

The flowers clutched in his hand were wilted and browning. But they’d survive, just like the man who’d bought them.

No. Not a bad day’s work at all.





2





On the side of the road, Linc used his left hand to apply pressure to a motorcyclist’s leg wound while an EMT worked to stabilize the unconscious woman’s spine.

He could feel, rather than see, the web of emergency responders as they infiltrated the chaos and began to carefully restore order. Fire crews would control and re-route traffic. Police departments would begin the painstaking investigation. EMTs and paramedics triaged and treated victims, arranging for transport to the nearest hospitals. Wreckers, an army of them, would be staging now, ready for the mop-up. More help arrived by the minute.