already eating through the roof.
The first alarm came in at 2:59. Mike and the rest of the Winslow Street shift bolted out of their bunks. Mike had just cleared the pole down to the apparatus floor when the second alarm was sounded. He pulled on his boots and hauled himself onto Ladder 7, the truck already rumbling. The rear wheels hadn't hit the blacktop on the street when a third alarm was sounded. The fourth and fifth—which signify hellfire has been loosed on earth—were struck twelve minutes after the first, at 3:11.
The first engines on the scene tapped hydrants on the far side of the alley behind the building. But by then the fire had too much of an advantage. The rear was a sheet of flame, a lavish curtain that rose from the pavement, up the wall and eighty feet beyond, lighting a bank of smoke held low by the humidity. The fire had spread so far so fast that half the tenants never had time to stumble down the stairways. A few found ladders made from metal links or knotted rope in boxes beneath their windows. The rest were dangling from ledges or leaning over the sills, weighing the odds of surviving a multistory drop against the odds of being incinerated. Alexander Shemeth was one of those trying to decide, trapped in his fifth-floor apartment. He was sixty years old and everyone called him Hooks, on account of the prosthetics that had replaced the hands that were blown off by a dynamite cap twenty-one years earlier. He couldn't force his way through the smoke in the hallway, but he couldn't last much longer in his room, either. So he climbed through the window, twisted around until his chest was flush with the building, and set his hooks into the sill. He could operate a factory blowtorch with those hooks, could even cook with them. Maybe he could hang from a piece of limestone with them, too.
The hooks held to the ledge, but not to the man. When Ladder 7 pulled up to 728 Main, Hooks was crumpled on the ground, dead. The first thing Mike saw were the prosthetics, still dangling from the sill four stories above, wobbling against the building like small cornices that had broken loose.
People, backlit from the flames, screamed from almost every window above the second floor, their faces disappearing behind a draft of smoke, reappearing, vanishing again. A firefighter on the back of Ladder 1 scanned the upper floors, calculating who was in the most peril, steering the truck's long, steel arm from one window to the next. “Hang on,” he screamed. “Don't jump. Do not jump. I'm comin’ to get you. Just hang on.”
Mike was scared. He'd been in dozens of fires already, but only small ones, one alarms, two at most. Never something like this, something this bad, rampaging, voracious. “Lieutenant,” he asked his boss, “are people gonna die here tonight?”
Walter Rydzewski barely looked at him, too focused on the job. “They already have, kid,” he said.
The two of them grabbed a thirty-five-foot ladder and started toward the left side of the building, moving at a quick trot. Mike kept pace with Rydzewski, the ladder heavy on his shoulder. Halfway down the alley, he saw a blur of downward movement from the corner of his eye, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. A dull smack came next. Mike stopped short. A middle-aged woman lay on the pavement, mangled, her legs bent unnaturally beneath her torso, all of her still and quiet.
Mike tried to take a step toward her. Rydzewski felt the tug on the ladder, turned, barked. “What are you doin'?” he snapped, sounding both annoyed and incredulous.
“I'm trying to help her,” Mike said.
“What are you, nuts?” the lieutenant yelled at the rookie. “Forget her. She's down.” He jerked his head up and over his left shoulder, flung his arm toward the people wailing from the higher windows. “They're not. Let's go.”
Mike swallowed hard, then turned away. He matched his steps with Rydzewski's, the two of them humping down the alley to a spot where
The first alarm came in at 2:59. Mike and the rest of the Winslow Street shift bolted out of their bunks. Mike had just cleared the pole down to the apparatus floor when the second alarm was sounded. He pulled on his boots and hauled himself onto Ladder 7, the truck already rumbling. The rear wheels hadn't hit the blacktop on the street when a third alarm was sounded. The fourth and fifth—which signify hellfire has been loosed on earth—were struck twelve minutes after the first, at 3:11.
The first engines on the scene tapped hydrants on the far side of the alley behind the building. But by then the fire had too much of an advantage. The rear was a sheet of flame, a lavish curtain that rose from the pavement, up the wall and eighty feet beyond, lighting a bank of smoke held low by the humidity. The fire had spread so far so fast that half the tenants never had time to stumble down the stairways. A few found ladders made from metal links or knotted rope in boxes beneath their windows. The rest were dangling from ledges or leaning over the sills, weighing the odds of surviving a multistory drop against the odds of being incinerated. Alexander Shemeth was one of those trying to decide, trapped in his fifth-floor apartment. He was sixty years old and everyone called him Hooks, on account of the prosthetics that had replaced the hands that were blown off by a dynamite cap twenty-one years earlier. He couldn't force his way through the smoke in the hallway, but he couldn't last much longer in his room, either. So he climbed through the window, twisted around until his chest was flush with the building, and set his hooks into the sill. He could operate a factory blowtorch with those hooks, could even cook with them. Maybe he could hang from a piece of limestone with them, too.
The hooks held to the ledge, but not to the man. When Ladder 7 pulled up to 728 Main, Hooks was crumpled on the ground, dead. The first thing Mike saw were the prosthetics, still dangling from the sill four stories above, wobbling against the building like small cornices that had broken loose.
People, backlit from the flames, screamed from almost every window above the second floor, their faces disappearing behind a draft of smoke, reappearing, vanishing again. A firefighter on the back of Ladder 1 scanned the upper floors, calculating who was in the most peril, steering the truck's long, steel arm from one window to the next. “Hang on,” he screamed. “Don't jump. Do not jump. I'm comin’ to get you. Just hang on.”
Mike was scared. He'd been in dozens of fires already, but only small ones, one alarms, two at most. Never something like this, something this bad, rampaging, voracious. “Lieutenant,” he asked his boss, “are people gonna die here tonight?”
Walter Rydzewski barely looked at him, too focused on the job. “They already have, kid,” he said.
The two of them grabbed a thirty-five-foot ladder and started toward the left side of the building, moving at a quick trot. Mike kept pace with Rydzewski, the ladder heavy on his shoulder. Halfway down the alley, he saw a blur of downward movement from the corner of his eye, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. A dull smack came next. Mike stopped short. A middle-aged woman lay on the pavement, mangled, her legs bent unnaturally beneath her torso, all of her still and quiet.
Mike tried to take a step toward her. Rydzewski felt the tug on the ladder, turned, barked. “What are you doin'?” he snapped, sounding both annoyed and incredulous.
“I'm trying to help her,” Mike said.
“What are you, nuts?” the lieutenant yelled at the rookie. “Forget her. She's down.” He jerked his head up and over his left shoulder, flung his arm toward the people wailing from the higher windows. “They're not. Let's go.”
Mike swallowed hard, then turned away. He matched his steps with Rydzewski's, the two of them humping down the alley to a spot where
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