Sacrifice. Brigid Kemmerer
barely penetrated more than a few feet, and lit up nothing more than smoke in the hallway. But still, she didn’t need to feel along walls to navigate through the thick darkness.
She knew this house.
She knew this staircase. This wall. This archway. This kitchen, where Michael would make her coffee and ask her quietly about her day.
She’d known the door they had to break through to get in here. The windows she’d had to smash to release trapped heat and smoke.
She and Irish weren’t going to find anyone conscious in here.
They’d be lucky to find someone alive.
Her breath shook for a moment, loud behind her mask. Stop it. If she lost herself in thoughts, she’d never be able to get through this job.
Thoughts like how Michael and his brothers hadn’t been sitting out front, waiting anxiously for the fire trucks.
Thoughts of Michael’s hand pushing the hair back from her face. Or how he could be gruff and rough around the edges with everyone else, but his voice would go soft and gentle, just for her.
Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.
“Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”
“Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab his feet.”
Her heart stopped.
Then her brain caught up, letting her training kick in. A patient needing assessment, just like any other rescue.
A body didn’t have to be Michael. It didn’t have to be one of his brothers.
Yeah, like there’s some random guy lying in the middle of the kitchen.
But she was moving now, and that’s all that mattered. She couldn’t see for crap, but she caught hold of ankles and lifted when Irish said he was ready.
Ankles. Good. Ankles could mean anyone. They’d get this guy outside and assess his condition.
She wasn’t fooling herself.
The body hung limp and heavy between them. Hannah’s flashlight bounced and arced along the smoke as they made their way through the foyer, never quite lighting on the patient’s face.
Then they were through the broken front door, into the frigid night air, into the bright lights from the fire trucks and ambulances.
Michael.
No surprise. No shock. She’d known, from the minute she’d picked up his ankles.
She choked on another breath and was glad she still wore the mask, feeding oxygen into her face. She was lucky to recognize him, his face and clothing were so filthy and caked with soot. His head lolled back, his face slack, with dark smudges around his nostrils. Smoke inhalation, for sure—how long had he been in there?
They got him on the ground. Irish was speaking into his radio, calling for an RSI—a paramedic trained to insert a breathing tube.
Holy shit—that meant Michael wasn’t breathing at all. Hannah yanked her helmet and gloves off and flung them into the grass. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.
“Call for more on rescue,” she said in a rush. “Four other people live in that house.” She shifted her fingers, searching. “Come on, Michael,” she whispered, putting her face down close to his, feeling for breath. “Come on.”
Nothing.
She was distantly aware of Irish beginning chest compressions. Of firefighters rushing up the steps behind her, preparing to search the house.
When Irish called out the count, her training kicked in, and she bent to press her mouth to Michael’s. She should be using a bag and a mask, but she didn’t care. He didn’t have the two minutes it would take for her to run to the truck.
His lips were ice cold. She tasted soot on his skin.
He wasn’t moving.
“Damn it!” she yelled between breaths. “Where the hell is the RSI?”
Oscar Martinez, a guy she’d gone through fire school with, spoke from beside her. He was a full paramedic, but he couldn’t intubate. He was trying to thread an IV needle into the back of Michael’s hand. “Next house over. Some teenagers got the whole family out the back, but they’re in bad shape. We’re waiting on another ambo from station fourteen.”
Michael couldn’t wait that long. How long had he gone without a pulse? How long had he been in that house?
He’d sent her two text messages today. She hadn’t bothered to read either of them because she’d been too pissed at the way he’d been blowing her off.
Two text messages. Two frigging text messages. How hard would it have been to read them?
Hannah choked on her breath again. “Come on,” she whispered. She pressed her hand to his cheek. “Come on, Michael. Wake up.”
No response. She blew another breath into his mouth, but his chest barely rose.
“Your brothers need you,” she said.
Irish glanced up. She met his eyes and saw the resignation there.
This might be a lost cause.
Her own eyes blurred.
And then she heard the rumble, as the ground started to shake.
CHAPTER 4
At first, Hannah didn’t understand what was happening. The sound wasn’t loud; more like a slow roll of thunder. The vibration of the ground under her knees felt more like a large vehicle starting up than anything else.
But then it grew stronger, until she had to put a hand on the ground to keep her balance. Someone somewhere was shouting. It took her a moment to make out the word.
Earthquake.
Irish didn’t stop the chest compressions, but she could see he was struggling to maintain his balance too.
A loud crackling echoed from her left, and she snapped her head up.
“The sidewalk!” said Oscar. He’d dropped to a knee, and now had a hand on the ground.
He was right—the sidewalk was splitting, slow cracks crawling along the pavement.
Firefighters were shouting, both live and from the radio on her shoulder. The team that had rushed into the house a minute ago came flying through the door, stumbling on the steps.
She’d thought nothing could overpower the cacophony of the trucks and radios and discordant fire alarms, but the new sounds brought on by this earthquake were deafening. Metal shrieked from everywhere, and Hannah could swear she saw the porch supports at the front of the house start to buckle. From the street, more shouts, more splitting pavement. Metal on metal as fire trucks began to slide and collide with each other.
“What the hell is going on?” said Oscar. He must have lost the needle; Michael’s hand was bleeding.
Wind ripped between the houses, sudden and cold, pulling smoke and debris from across the court. More shouts from the hose teams as water blew back, away from the flames, showering the rescue team with ice-cold droplets. Fire was in the air now, bits of flaming ash flying wildly.
One of the porch supports groaned, then cracked fully. The roof over the porch sagged.
“We need to move,” said Irish.
But they couldn’t. The ground bucked again, and Hannah watched the grass split and separate. The gap spread in a line from Michael’s body all the way to the road. She swore and shifted to the other side of his body, beside Irish.
It