A Matter of Time

An accompanying piece to "Ghost Story" written for the last round of the fiction competition (1000 word limit). It also works as a standalone story. Based on the prompt "tell me what gives you hope".

“You can’t save them all.” Yeah, I get it. It comes with the job. But that doesn’t make it any easier. I put my head in my hands, exhausted. Every time I close my eyes at night I see the flames again, I hear the screams, and I feel the utter defeat in the pit of my stomach. I don’t sleep much nowadays. “You tried.” Not hard enough. I bite my lip.

            “It was an entire family, with a seven year old kid,” I argue. I don’t look up, but I feel the chief’s gaze. “They put their faith in me to save them, and I failed.”

            “For god’s sake, the ceiling collapsed on top of you! We barely got you out alive. There was nothing you could have done to change that,” the chief says. Absentmindedly, I flex the arm that was crushed in the accident, and feel the dull, lingering ache. “If you need more time off, I understand. But it’s been three months, and the faster you get back on your feet, the more people we can save.” I nod, but I don’t believe him. He turns to leave. I know he wants me to move on; forgive myself so I can get back to work…but somehow I have little hope that my efforts will make a difference. It couldn’t be helped, everyone said; but I should’ve seen the collapse coming. I could have moved faster. I could have done something differently, but I didn’t. People died because of it. I can’t forgive myself.

            I stand, about to go after the chief to request another week off, and the dispatch alarm sounds. The station erupts with hectic activity. The chief comes back for me, but whatever I had to say gets caught in my throat when he speaks first.

            “I need you.”

            My mouth feels dry. “But…” He gives me a look that says it’s not the time to argue.

            “The dispatch came in for an apartment complex, I need all the help I can get,” he says. “You can do this. Suit up.”

            Where once I felt an intense energy and preparedness, all I feel is dread as the sirens blare and tires squeal. Then we see the smoke. Black and thick, rising above the city skyline. From the extent of the damage, it’s clear the fire started on the second floor. I choke back my panic at the sight. The truck comes to a stop in front of the building, and the chief starts barking orders.

The fight begins.

            Minutes pass. I see one of ours being carried out of the building and towards the ambulances. I rush over, asking no one in particular what happened�"his equipment malfunctioned; he inhaled too much smoke, I hear. He doesn’t look good.

            I feel particularly hopeless in that moment, watching my friend cling to life and the building burn. We’re losing the battle. The residents evacuated, but plenty will lose their homes today.

            And then my friend gasps, clutching at the oxygen mask with one hand and at my arm with the other.  

            “Someone’s still inside,” he manages.

I pause, wordless. What can I say? It’s likely too late. But then his words break through the haze of doubt and truly resonate. I feel the return of my initiative like a flipped switch in my head.

Someone is still inside.

Without thinking, I jump up and dash towards the building.

“What do you think you’re doing? That building isn’t stable!” the chief snaps.

“Someone’s still inside!” I shout, not turning away from the inferno.  

The heat and smoke hits me, and even with my gear the panic that grips me makes my chest tight and my breath short. My heart is pounding, drowning out the sound of the raging fire. Consumed in flames, every building looks the same. All I can see ahead of me is the house from three months ago.

 No. There’s no time to think, no room for doubt. I can’t afford to hesitate. Adrenaline coursing through me, I round the corner of the weakening staircase and find a young woman collapsed near the top. Breathing, but barely. My heart sinks when I notice the debris blocking my way. A heavy beam has fallen onto the staircase, and the moment I put my weight behind it my arm erupts with pain. I grow frantic, wondering against all logic if I have time to wait for backup. Is anyone following? The sudden, strained groan of the building answers my question. It’s the same groan I heard just moments before the accident…I�"we�"have seconds, if that.

            I have to move. Once again I brace myself against the weight, and I push. My old injury throbs from the exertion, but past it I feel the debris budge. Just a little further.

            The ceiling above us creaks threateningly.

            “Hold on!”

            With one final effort, the beam falls aside, and all in a matter of seconds I drag her over my shoulder and stumble down the staircase out into the open air, as most of the second floor caves in behind us.   

            The hospital room is quiet, besides the steady tone of the monitor. I worry the flowers I’m holding so tightly will wilt before she wakes up. If she wakes up. She should, they said. Thanks to me. The chief appears in the doorway then. Instead of a speech, he gives me a nod.

            “What gave you enough hope to pull a stunt like that?” I consider my answer. It’s my job. That’s true, but that’s not my honest answer.

            “I still had a chance to change the outcome. In that one critical moment, I found the strength to save someone’s life and make the world a little better. As long as I have that strength, I at least have to try.” I look over at where she sleeps. “Chief, I don’t think I’ll need any more time off.”

            She opens her eyes.