3

With Loach and the twins watching, I finished the visual inspection. I returned to my truck and radioed Julia.

“Got an ETA on the tanker?”

“They’re still ten minutes out. Cap says for you to call him on the radio.”

I stood on my truck sideboards and radioed Lamar. “Got your status update, Captain.”

“What’s the situation on site?”

“We’ve got a level three burner on a single residence. Stick built. Approximately one thousand five hundred square feet with multiple stories.” I stretched out the mic cord. “Fire has spread to all four corners. Flames coming through the roof in three, check that, four different areas.”

“Exterior fuel sources? Heating oil tanks? LP?”

“That’s a negative, sir.”

Firefighters feared LP, liquid propane. A pinhole leak and a random spark could create an explosion strong enough to blow down a house. A LP tank for a barbecue grill could swell to twice its size and become a poor man’s claymore, blowing jagged chunks of shrapnel straight through your body, turnout gear be damned. Most of the houses in Allegheny County used LP for heating and had huge tanks sitting right next to the structure. It was enough gas to make a crater deep enough to swallow a fire truck.

“How many occupants?”

“None. According to Atamasco VFD. They were first responders. They state that the house is abandoned.”

“Atamasco is half way across the county.””

“That’s an affirmative.”

“Is their captain on site? Their tanker?”

“That’s a negative.” More static. “This is a suspicious situation.”

“Roger that. Our ETA is now eight minutes. Do not engage until we arrive. Roger that.”

How was I supposed to engage without a tanker? “Roger. Childress out.”

I tossed the mic onto the seat. Nothing to do but wait. Just like Loach and the twins, who were parked on their butts in the shade of an oak tree, passing around a pack of Camels.

Hat and hooligan in hand, I walked toward the back of the house. It was typical of farmhouses built in the early twentieth century. It had narrow windows, high ceilings, and an attic. Two doghouses protruded from the roof. Flames danced behind the windows in both of them.

Across the roof, the fire had opened holes the size of a manhole cover, and acrid smoke poured out. I could hear the pop and crackle of the dried-out rafters as they exploded from the heat. In my mind’s eye, I saw splinters as long as my arm flying like jagged arrows in all directions.

I heard a high-pitched squeal, and the window of the high doghouse blew out.

“Look out!”

Glass flew ten, maybe fifteen yards, raining down on the ground. I pulled an arm across my face, dropped to one knee, and heard a scream coming from the doghouse.

The same doghouse that was engulfed in enough heat and smoke to roast a man alive.

“There’s somebody in there!” I waved for Atamasco company to join me. “I heard a scream. There! Another one. Someone’s calling for help!”

Loach and his boys didn’t budge.

“Y’all going to help or not?” I yelled.

The twins, Ronnie and Donnie, turned their backs to me, and Eugene Loach just cupped a hand to his ear.

“Can’t hear you.” Eugene blew cigarette smoke through his nose. It curled around his face so that he looked like a bearded Chinese dragon. “Must be that boomer stopped up my ears!”

“Assholes.”

I bounded to the front porch. Turned the knob and put my shoulder to the heavy paneled door.

No give at all.

The dead bolt was thrown.

I drew the hooligan tool back like a spear and rammed it through the door panel. The wooden cracked in half, and when I yanked the head of the tool out, the panel came with it, followed by a blast of heat and smoke that drove me down the porch steps.

“What’re you doing?” Loach yelled.

“Somebody screamed!”

“There ain’t nobody screaming, you dumb ass. It’s just gas releasing or something!”

Loach and the twins stood five yards behind me. Their fire coats were unbuttoned, and their mattocks were stacked against the oak tree.

“Don’t go in there!” Loach yelled. “You ain’t got the right equipment.”

“Then cover me. Ronnie and Donnie can back us up. Two in, two out.”

“Dream on! Ain’t no way we’re risking our lives to rescue some charcoaled pole cat.”

I knelt on the floor and turned on my breathing tank. Heat rose from the planking, and I could feel it through my Nomax pants. It gave me pause. If the porch was already hot enough to heat up my fireproof pants, what would it feel like to walk into a blast furnace? What if Eugene was right, and the sound turned out to be another possum? How would I explain that to Lamar?

No.

It wasn’t a possum.

Wild animals don’t scream, help me!

I reached inside the door. The deadbolt was an old-fashioned twist bar, and I pulled it down. With a screech, the bolt withdrew, and I kicked the door open.

A wall of heat engulfed me.

Inside, the living room was a wall of flames. Through the smoke, I could make out a pile of furniture and an old sideboard on the opposite wall. The floor seemed intact, as least as far as the stairway, which was about ten feet to the right of the door. I couldn’t see any hot spots there, so it would be my first target.

I crouched, ready to make my first move.

Loach grabbed my mask and pulled it away from my face. “Hold up, Possum, you ain’t going in! It’s suicide!”

I yanked my mask out of Eugene’s hand. “Let go of my equipment!”

“There ain’t nobody in this fucking house!”

Help me! Por favor!

“It came from upstairs!”

“It’s just a fucking cat!”

“That speaks fucking Spanish?”

Every second he wasted, the fire got worse. By opening the door, I had let in a massive pipeline of oxygen. But Loach was having none of it. He hooked my left arm. Ronnie grabbed my breathing tank and lifted it, trying to rock me off my feet.

I brought the hooligan down on Loach’s arm. “Back off!”

“Goddamn!” Loach howled. “You about broke my arm!”

Bent at the waist, I lifted Ronnie off the ground and dumped him unceremoniously on his ass. Before they could stop me, I leapt inside, ducking the mass of heat above me.

The stairwell was functioning as a chimney. It drew smoke from the first floor to the second. There were still no visible hotspots, but I knew that the fresh oxygen from the front door was sucked upstairs, too.

It would only feed the fire.

Lamar had repeatedly warned me about second stories. You had to worry about the ceiling and the floor. Both could give way without notice, and you’d be sandwiched between a ton of superheated material.

“Childress!” Loach yelled.

The three men squatted beside the back door. They beckoned for me to come back. Their coats were still unbuttoned. Proof they had no intention of rendering aid.

“This is suicide!” Loach yelled. “Don’t be a hero!”

“It’s not being a hero! It’s doing what’s right!”

 With the end of the hooligan, I jabbed the steps. The sharp tip found solid wood, so I took each step before stopping to check the next until I reach the second floor.

Inside the turnouts, I felt my sweat sizzling against the fireproof fabric. I had to get out fast. The suit could protect me from flash hits, but the material itself could scald my flesh.

Inside the foyer, smoke bloomed across the ceiling and flowed down the walls to the floor, where it formed a stew of toxic fumes. One breath of that stuff, and I’d be a dead man.

“Don’t be dead.” I stayed low, turning my head to the right and left, trying to hear the screams again. But what if it really was another possum? What if I hadn’t heard anything at all?

Three doors ahead.

One was open. In the room, I could make out the clawed feet of an antique bathtub. The other two doors, on either side of the foyer, were closed. One of them had to lead to the attic. That’s where I’d heard the voice because there was no sound until the doghouse window blew out.