Slow Burn, Chapter 6/21

CHAPTER SIX

Marguerite was sitting in the driver’s seat of Engine 49; she reached through the open window and adjusted the side mirror again.  Then she withdrew a tube of apple-red lipstick from her bag, pouted, and began applying it.  This was the last touch; the rouge and eyeliner were already done.

She really had still been sorting dressings when Ginny came around calling people to the meeting.  But this was already the third gab session today.  Rit had not worked with Thompson for very long, but she could already tell the lieutenant had an unusual penchant for confabs.  That was why Rit hadn’t had many qualms about taking a few minutes for herself – after her task was done – before heading over to another interminable meeting.

It was in the same mirror that she saw an unexpected flash of movement.  Rit curiously moved the mirror to follow it – then lowered the tube from her lips as a rush of fear swept over her.

A tall man in black garb, face concealed by a ski mask, was passing by the double doors which connected the garage to the rest of the station.  Cradled in his arms was the limp, inert body of Candy Carmichael, the station’s vivacious young dispatcher.  Her head was nestled into his chest; her arms and legs dangled inertly.  One of the man’s arms held her shoulders; the other disappeared under her dress, gently cupping her backside.  The odd tender elements of the scene only increased the sinister nature of the whole.

Candy was motionless except for the dull sway of her limbs as the mysterious man carried her out of sight, towards the crew quarters.

Rit shrank into her seat, anxious to hide, though as far as she knew no one was watching her.  Her rouge hid the paleness as blood drained from her face.  “¡Dios mio!” she whispered.  What in God’s name is going on?  She huddled into a compact ball.

Rit worriedly speculated on what had become of the rest of her friends and coworkers, but after a short while forced herself to stop.  Okay, chica, you’re no help to them here.  Gotta get out of here and call the cops.  Thoughts turning now to escape, she peered over the edge of the window, looking toward the large retractable door which enclosed the garage bay.  The button to open the door was only a few dozen feet away.  She could reach it quickly, but the door would make a heck of a racket.  And how long would it take to open?

Then another shape darkened the doorway of the garage, and Rit instinctively scrunched down again.  Then she gradually inched back upward, exposing as much of herself as she dared trying to get a look.  She could see another intruder – shorter, but otherwise nearly identical – stalking towards the fire engine.  Hunting.  Her blood froze.

She was absolutely sure he would check the cab of the truck, and she glanced about feverishly looking for a better place to hide.  There wasn’t much room to spare in the compact interior.

At last Rit’s eyes fell on the fireaxe stored behind the passenger seat.  With misgivings she pulled it out, hefting its weight.  Every fiber within her was geared toward mending harm, not causing it.  But the shoe was on the other foot now, and there wasn’t much time.

She swallowed hard and winced as she ran her thumb gently along the sharp blade.  She’d been at the scene of enough gang fights to know what cutting implements did to human flesh.  Then she reversed the handle so the butt end of the axehead was leading.  I’m still a healer, damn it.

She backed up in the cramped cab, making as much room as possible for herself to swing.  She aimed toward the side door, at about what she guessed his head level would be.  Strangely, one of her instructor’s voices kept running though her head, droning about the clinical description of a concussion…

“You’ll notice an immediate and transient alteration in brain function, including alteration of mental status and level of consciousness…Sometimes the blow can result in microscopic damage to the brain cells without obvious structural damage visible on a CT scan. In severe cases, the brain tissue can begin to swell…the enlarging blood clot causes increasing pressure within the rigid confines of the skull…this can cause serious neurological problems, and can even be deadly in the right circumstances…”

She thought she’d dozed through that particular lecture.  But it all came flooding back now.  In spite of herself, she idly wondered about the truth of absorbing things better when you’re sleeping.

Can I do that to someone?

Rit heard a hand on the door handle, and all of her thoughts rushed to battle stations.  Her muscles tensed, and she drew in a deep breath.

The door opened, revealing the impassive mask of the intruder.  The medic took aim, shut her eyes, and swung.  She felt the axe connect with a resounding thud, and the tense silence was broken by a yowl of pain.  Rit tentatively opened one eye, and saw the man reeling backward, clutching his shoulder.  She’d missed his head.  Oddly, part of her was relieved by that.

She leapt over and past him, taking off running for the garage bay door.  Her two-inch heels were a hindrance, and she quickly kicked them off.  Finally reaching the control console, she pushed the green button.  The motor clattered to life, and the door began to rise – with agonizing slowness.  Desperately she hammered the button, though she knew this would not make the door move any faster.

Suddenly Rit felt a powerful grip on her wrist – the intruder was on his feet again, and he had her!  She saw with horror that he was holding the axe in his free hand.  She frantically wrenched out of his grip and ran for the door, determined to crawl beneath it.  But even as she reached it and threw herself prone, the heavy door reversed direction and began descending, quicker than it had been rising.  The gap she’d been depending on quickly disappeared.  She looked back over her shoulder to see her assailant standing at the console.

Marguerite had heard the close of firehouse bay doors a thousand times, but now the crash of the door hitting the floor was terrifying.  I’m sealed in.  Even as she picked herself up, the man swung the axe at the console and smashed it to bits.  He glared at her from beneath the expressionless mask.  Then he started forward.

With a strangled sob she rose and fled.  Not towards the station doors – her assailant had come from there, and she had no idea how many accomplices he might have.  There were no other exits.  She ran for the last possible refuge – the hose tower adjoining the garage.

The hose tower was a common feature of older fire stations, dating from a time before synthetic hoses became common.  Older hoses had to be hung to dry after use, to prevent mildew, and were draped over bars across the top of the two-storey structure.  Captain Hawkins had discovered a trove of old cotton-jacket hoses in storage when she began renovating the Paradiso Street Station.  Never one to waste material, she’d ordered her crew to test the hoses and see which were still viable; Augusta and Antonia had gone through testing them only earlier that morning.  Now the hose tower was in use again, crowded with dangling, dripping hoses – not the best refuge by any means, but at this point Rit wasn’t being picky.

The medic ran in amongst the densely hanging hoses, harboring a vague hope of finding a ladder and making it up onto the roof.  But her most overpowering urge was simply to go to ground and hide – the timeless urge of prey beset by a predator.  She nearly slipped on the puddles of water which pooled beneath the still-dripping hoses, but her toes managed to find footing through her tights.  She slid her way between the dank coils, her predator close behind.

The sodden hoses hung on every side, crowding close.  Their moist, musty odor created an oppressive atmosphere and assailed her nostrils.  She could only see a short distance around her in any direction.  The girl kept turning to look fearfully over her shoulder as she forced her way deeper into the tangle, and soon she’d lost all sense of which way was forward.  She was terrified at the thought of the intruder abruptly emerging from the mass of hoses, with murder in his eyes.  She listened for a moment or two, but heard nothing.  The silence was chilling.  I have no way of telling where he is…except…  She glanced downward.

The hoses were all hung so that their nozzles hung about two feet off the floor, to allow for proper drainage.  Marguerite knelt down – feeling the omnipresent water on the floor seeping in through her nylons, then wet on her hands.  Finally she bent her head down to look.

She could see right underneath the thicket of hoses, with a straight view back to the fire engine.  But there was no sign of her attacker.  She slowly turned, craning her head to search in 360 degrees.  Where did he…  The thought stopped short as she turned to see a pair of heavy boots, standing not three feet behind her.  The glinting axehead hung down beside them.

Her left hand flew to her mouth to suppress a gasp of dismay.  She stared at the boots in terror; they weren’t moving.  She was certain her breathing must have given her away by now – hadn’t it?

Still the boots remained motionless.  Keeping her hand over her mouth, trying to avoid sobbing in fear, Rit began backing away on her hand and knees, inch by sopping inch.

Then he sprang.

The man lunged out of the press of hoses, free arm out in front of him, snarling.  He didn’t grab her directly – he couldn’t see well enough for that.  He simply tripped over her, knocking Rit on her side and sending him sprawling.  The axe clattered away into the far reaches of the tower.  

Marguerite finally gave vent to the scream that had been building in her throat, and tried to get up.  But he was on his feet again in an instant, grunting as he pushed his way through the hoses.  In a flash he’d thrown the girl flat on her back and straddled her.  The standing water on the floor dampened her hair and soaked through the back of her white shirt.

“Teach you to try to axe me, puta!” he growled.  He reached up and grabbed one of the hanging hose ends, pulling it down and wrapping it around the girl’s neck several times.  Then he pulled it tight.

Rit fought back as best she could, by pure instinct.   She raked his face with her fingernails, and thrusted upward with her hips to push him off and get some purchase with her feet on the slick floor.  But he bore down with his full weight, and pulled the hose ever tighter.

Now her eyes were growing glassy.  She stopped fighting him; her hands went to her own throat, desperately trying to pry off the constricting coils.  She’d also stopped screaming – it used up too much air.  It took all of the strength she had to struggle for each gasping breath.

The man reached up with one hand until he found the opposite end of his weaponized hose hanging above, and he yanked down on it like an overzealous bellringer.  Marguerite rose into the air now, dangling with all the hoses, still faintly struggling.  Her own weight was now working against her, cinching the vise ever tighter.  Her shapely legs kicked out spasmodically, searching for a foothold they could not find.

She did not even hear the echo of rushing footsteps in the garage, or the shout, “Ybarra!  What are you doing?!”  Her awareness was receding inward, where another lecture from her nursing classes was replaying itself in her head.

“The relatively superficial and unprotected jugular veins in the neck are quite vulnerable to compression by external forces,” the instructor plodded.  “Obstruction of venous outflow from the brain leads to stagnant hypoxia and loss of consciousness in as little as 15 seconds…Common features include evidence of external pressure on the skin of the neck by the ligature, assailant’s hands, or other object causing strangulation...”

Rit felt the rake of her nails on her own throat now.  “Defensive marks may also appear on the neck in the form of abrasions/fingernail scratches…”

“…the decrease in muscle tone allows the external force to tighten further and leads to complete arterial occlusion, brain injury, and death…”  The girl’s eyes bulged out of their sockets.  “…allows the external force to tighten further…”  Her aching fingers slipped from the coils around her neck and fell uselessly to her sides.  “…leads to complete arterial occlusion, brain injury, and death…”  Desperation rattled in her throat.  “…death…”


* * *


The hose was jerked from Ybarra’s grasp, and the medic dropped limply to the wet concrete.  Pullman was still breathing hard from his run after hearing the screams.  Between breaths he verbally accosted Ybarra.  “What the hell, man?  You know what the boss said.  We’re only here to kill one!”

“Screw what the boss said.  She swung a fucking axe at me.  So I made her swing.”  He grinned evilly.

Below them, Marguerite lay sprawled on the floor, motionless beneath one of the dangling hose nozzles.  A staccato of periodic drips dribbled down onto her face, landing amongst her eyelashes.  The droplets ran down until the remnants of her eyeliner and rouge, so carefully applied, streaked down her glistening cheeks.

Pullman thought it looked like she was crying.