2011: It's been ten years since the sky literally came crashing down around Yael Malkah and upended her world. Now she's returned to New York to visit her ailing grandmother. With no other family, it's up to her to take care of the family business...
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CW: Deceased Child.
By the time Engine 12 arrived on the scene, a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, causing Haustin Macauley's frown to deepen. He hated the gawkers who flocked to a fire, phones at the ready, hoping to catch something heroic or horrific. Didn't matter which. Shouts refocused his attention on the five-story walk-up. Overhead, blackened windows stared down at him with soulless eyes, and orange flames licked at the broken panes, relentless tongues warping the glass, devouring everything in their path. Blinding light swallowed him as a cameraman darted in for a close-up. How the hell did the damn news channel beat his crew here? He glared as he slid out of the rig, watching Ladder 99's truck roll to a stop.
"Macauley, Vasquez." Haustin's ears perked up, tuning in to the captain's gruff voice. "Get in there and sweep for any survivors who might be trapped, take the upper floors. Bond and Tovar, concentrate on the lower floors. Halls are narrow, so we don't need a crowd. Huffstetler, get on the ladder and aim a hose at those windows. Jenkins, take the kid and make sure the roof is stable. Not sure how much longer we got until the whole thing goes. This monster went up fast."
The crew reacted, a well-polished team who'd been through this a hundred times. Haustin picked up an oxygen tank, slipped it on, grabbed his axe, and followed Abel through the building's front door. Instinct slowed his frantic pulse as they rushed up the stairs, side-stepping the exodus of rats dashing towards safety.
He surveyed the general lack of maintenance and upkeep—exposed wires, ancient water stains, and a light switch dangling from its usual position in the flickering light. He cursed under his breath. Goddamn cheap landlords. Most fires they encountered were preventable if the owners actually gave a crap about their tenants and made a few improvements. The dismal state also explained how the fire grew so fast.
After sweeping the burned-out third level and finding nothing, they trudged on to the fourth. The higher they went, the more intense the swirling smoke and heat became. Flames slithered up the walls, across the ceiling, peeking through blackened holes in the sheetrock in a deadly game of hide-and-seek. He and Abel worked down the hall, swift and thorough, checking rooms and calling in reports. At the final door, Abel lifted his crowbar and wedged it open. The second it flew inward, the fresh supply of oxygen fed the fire, causing it to explode outwards, knocking both men off their feet, then sucking back into the apartment, instantly raging and snarling at every flammable surface.
"Son of a bitch," Abel sputtered as he rose to his knees and scrambled for his discarded equipment. "Hate when that happens."
Haustin called it in. "Engine, Engine, focus the hose on the westernmost window. We just pissed this bitch off."
He took a moment to gather himself, disguising it as rechecking the oxygen levels in his tank. It wasn't often a fire managed to rattle him, but whenever it took him by surprise, his heart galloped a little faster and mortality breathed down his neck.
