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A Cold Fire by Lisa Logan Fires never have the decency to happen on a convenient timetable. They inevitably occur when I’m eating, sleeping, or watching the playoffs. Sure enough, this particular shrill of the station alarm found me mid-squat to a late lunch––Stouffer’s lasagna, heated to mushy non-perfection in the station microwave. My butt never made it to the vinyl-padded chair––instead, it rocketed out of the firehouse within the bouncy confines of Ladder Truck Number Nine. We arrived at a fully ablaze Victorian across town in time to see a soot-smeared woman staggering out of the roiling smoke, three panicked felines clutched to her breast. "They’re inside!" she said. "God, they’re still inside! Help them!" My adrenalin surged to new heights, already calculating in-and-out rescue scenarios. "How many inside, ma’am?" "Two." She coughed, voice as acrid as the hazy air surrounding them. "Front room, on the left. Babies!" Kids? Damn. Paramedics descended upon the poor woman with enough respiratory equipment to outfit an intensive care unit. The captain cut me off as I was halfway to the house. "Where’s the fire?" I was in no fit mood for ridiculous attempts at half-wit. "Kids inside, captain." The comma twisting the corner of his oversized mouth evaporated. "Let’s get a team." "No time. I’m going." Ignoring Cap’s order to return and taut string of expletives, I plunged into the black smoke. The fire burned hot and angry down the nearby hall, enough to prickle my skin with heat and urgency. The whoosh of my respirator was drowned out by crackling and popping of flames hard at work in the hallway just beyond the front room the old lady described. I wasted no time spanning the distance and pushing open the door. "Fire department," I said, crossing the threshold. "Hello?" In reply, several searing splinters of pain slammed into my back. "Ouch! Damn!" Reaching behind me, I extracted needle-sharp claws that had found purchase through my fireman’s jacket. They were young and scared––terrified, in fact. Unable to recognize my role as personal savior, they clawed at me in merciless fashion. Kittens. Two kittens. A sweeping survey of the room turned up no babies in cribs, no whimpering toddlers huddled behind stained green curtains or under watermarked coffee tables. Was I in the wrong room? Flames peeked around the corner of the door frame, as if deciding whether they could sneak up without my notice. No time now. Ducking the advancing flame, I hustled the prickling balls of sooty fluff outside. The old woman was waiting, the oxygen mask slapped over her maw unable to hide the fact that she was now handcuffed––and grinning. "You saved my babies!" The chief noticed my expression and explained. "There were no kids," he assured. "Seems the old lady here stuck her five cats in the front room while she set fire to the place. Misjudged the spread and couldn’t get ‘em all out." She torched her own place with her pets inside...then urged me to save them? My jaw tensed at the news, chin jutting at an unhappy angle. "So cat lady’s an arsonist?" The chief’s helmet shook a negative. "Murderer, actually. Seems her husband was in the back room, getting overly friendly with the widow next door. They didn’t make it." He was still talking when I turned away, unaware of the mewing balls of black and gray fuzz attached to my jacket as I heaved myself aboard Ladder Nine. There are heroes in this world. Some days, I feel like one of them. Other days, life plays a raucous game of kick the can, and I’m the dented and rusty Campbell’s soup. THE END Lisa Logan © 2006 |
