Page 21 of Embers in Autumn

Dean

The firehouse was never truly quiet, not even at one in the morning.

The air held a hum, a restless energy—radios murmuring from the office, the faint whir of fans drying gear, the steady tick of the wall clock.

The dorms smelled faintly of detergent and sweat, the kitchen of burnt coffee left on the pot too long.

I’d been half dozing in my bunk, boots lined neatly on the floor, when the alarm shattered the stillness. The bell clanged, sharp and merciless, followed by the dispatcher’s voice crackling through the speakers: “Structure fire reported. Abandoned warehouse, east district. Possible spread risk.”

Adrenaline hit like a switch. I swung my legs over the bed, jammed my feet into my boots, and grabbed for my turnout gear.

Around me, the others were already moving—Mike cursing under his breath as he yanked on his coat, Alvarez double-checking his helmet straps, Carter stumbling out of the dorm still shoving his arms through his sleeves.

The place erupted into noise: Velcro ripping, buckles clanking, radios crackling louder now with updates.

The bay doors groaned open, letting in the night air, damp and sharp with the smell of lingering rain.

The engines gleamed under the fluorescent lights, hulking red beasts ready to roar.

I shrugged into my SCBA harness, the weight familiar against my shoulders, and pulled my hood up over my head.

My gloves dangled from my belt, waiting.

“Warehouse fire,” Mike muttered beside me as we jogged toward Engine 3. “That place is a tinderbox. Been empty for years.”

“Exactly why we’re going,” I said. “Don’t want it spreading.”

We piled into the cab, the door slamming shut, and the engine rumbled to life. The siren wailed, echoing off the empty streets, as we tore into the night. My pulse hammered, steady and strong, the way it always did on calls.

This was the job. Midnight or not, rain or not. Get in, fight what you had to, protect what you could. And make damn sure the fire didn’t win.

The warehouse loomed out of the darkness like a beast lit from the inside, flames chewing through broken windows and curling out of the roof.

Even from the cab, I could feel the heat prickling my skin.

The sirens died as we rolled up, replaced by the roar of fire and the hiss of steam where rain still clung to metal.

“Goddamn,” Mike muttered, hauling his mask into place as we jumped down. “Whole place is lit.”

The crew moved fast, practiced, each man and woman slipping into their role. Lines were uncoiled, nozzles checked, the pump operator already working the panel. The first jet of water hissed against the flames, steam exploding upward, but it barely dented the inferno. The fire was too far gone.

“Mike, Alvarez, hit the east side windows!” I barked, my voice carrying over the roar. “Keep it from licking the roofs next door. Carter, with me—we’re on the south exposure.”

Water thundered from the hoses, arcing bright against the night.

The fire snarled back, embers spitting high into the sky like sparks from a forge.

I hauled my line forward, boots crunching on wet gravel, eyes narrowed against the heat.

The mask fogged, cleared, fogged again as I fought to keep my vision steady.

Out of the corner of my eye, Mike’s stream punched through shattered glass. Flames recoiled for a breath, then surged again, brighter, angrier. He cursed over the radio. “Started from some junkies, I’ll bet anything. They’ve been squatting around here for months.”

I gritted my teeth. That checked. A couple of kids with a lighter and a mattress, and now half the district was at risk.

Then I saw it.

Beyond the collapsing wall, just two lots down, a second warehouse squatted in the dark. The rain-slicked sign over the bay doors read Nolan & Sons Paint Supply . I froze, stomach dropping.

“Dispatch,” I snapped into my radio, forcing my voice calm even as adrenaline spiked. “Requesting an additional truck, repeat, additional truck. We’ve got an exposure hazard. South side of the fire sits thirty yards from Nolan & Sons Paint. That’s a paint storage facility.”

For a heartbeat, all I heard was the rush of my own breath inside the mask. Then static crackled back, the dispatcher’s voice tight. “Copy, additional truck en route. ETA twelve minutes.”

Twelve minutes. My gut clenched.

If this fire spread, if even one ember carried over—paint fumes, solvents, thinners—this wouldn’t just be a warehouse blaze. It would be an explosion, the kind that could take out a city block.

“Move, move, move!” I shouted, yanking Carter with me. “Shift everything south! I want a goddamn wall of water between this and the paint shop. Do not let those embers land!”

The team pivoted, hoses swinging, water slamming against the night in desperate arcs. The fire crackled louder, greedy, sparks carried high on the wind, some drifting dangerously close toward that neighboring building. My throat was dry despite the steam, my pulse thundered in my ears.

Every ounce of training, every call before this, funneled into one thought, sharp and simple.

We had to stop it here.

Because if we didn’t, half the town was going to light up before dawn.

The fire raged harder with every breath, feeding on old wood and broken furniture inside the warehouse.

My crew braced against the hoses, streams hammering into the flames, but the beast only screamed louder, sparks flaring high and catching in the wind.

Every one of those sparks was a threat, a fuse waiting to light.

“Hold that line!” I shouted, pushing forward into the spray, heat blasting through the layers of my gear. Sweat pooled under the mask, but I kept my grip tight, forcing the nozzle higher. “Push it back from the south wall!”

Mike was a few yards over, his silhouette hunched, boots planted wide as he aimed water straight through a shattered window.

He was relentless, cursing at the fire like it could hear him.

Alvarez and Carter flanked him, both of them heaving on the line, their stream cutting across his.

The three arcs of water hissed and steamed, turning the fire’s roar into a shriek.

For a moment, it almost looked like we were winning.

Then I heard the groan.

Low at first, a shudder deep in the frame of the building, followed by a crack that made every hair on my body stand up. My eyes shot up in time to see the roofline sag, flames curling greedily along the edge.

“Mike!” I bellowed. “Get back, now!”

He didn’t hear me—or maybe he did but thought he could hold his ground a second longer. The beam gave with a sickening snap, and in an instant, part of the roof collapsed, dragging half the south wall down with it. Fire and debris rained outward in a shower of sparks and metal.

Mike went down hard, the hose whipping out of his hands.

Adrenaline surged white-hot through me. I dropped my own line and lunged into the chaos. The heat seared, sparks pelting off my helmet as I grabbed his harness and hauled with everything I had.

“Got you,” I grunted, dragging him clear of the falling wreckage. My lungs burned, my muscles screaming, but I didn’t let go until we were both outside the danger zone, other hands pulling us back.

Mike coughed, mask askew, his eyes wide and glassy through the soot. “Son of a bitch,” he rasped, voice raw. “That thing nearly flattened me.”

“You’re fine,” I snapped, though my heart was still jackhammering in my chest. “Stay down. Let Alvarez check you.”

Even as I barked the order, fresh sirens cut through the night.

Relief flooded me when another engine screeched up, lights splashing red and white across the smoke.

The backup crew spilled out, hoses unfurling in practiced waves.

Their streams hit hard and fast, slamming into the flames before more sparks could take flight toward the paint warehouse.

The tide shifted. Water pounded against fire, relentless, until the beast shrieked louder but lost its edge. Steam rolled thick and heavy, obscuring everything, but the flames didn’t climb higher again. Not this time.

I stood, chest heaving, one hand still braced on Mike’s shoulder.

We’d stopped it. Barely.

Mike was loaded into the back of the ambulance, protesting the whole way. “It’s just a bruise,” he grumbled, clutching his side, but the paramedic gave me a look that said otherwise. Cracked rib, maybe two. He’d be benched for a while.

“Let them check you out,” I told him, firm. “Better safe than sorry.”

He shot me a look that could’ve burned hotter than the fire, but he didn’t fight as the doors slammed shut. The siren wailed once, fading into the dawn.

By the time we rolled back into the firehouse, the sky was bruised with gray and pink. Everyone was dragging, soot-streaked and reeking of smoke, but alive. We dropped our gear, the clatter of helmets and SCBA packs echoing through the bay.

I stood near the rig, my hands braced on my hips. The men and women of my crew gathered, waiting. I wasn’t one for long speeches, but sometimes they needed to hear it out loud.

“Good work tonight,” I said, my voice gravelly from smoke. “We stopped it before it spread. We did our job. That’s all that matters.”

There were nods, tired but proud. Alvarez muttered something about coffee strong enough to melt steel. Carter, the youngest of the bunch, grinned. “Or we could grab a beer. Shift’s over in thirty. First round’s on me.”

I barked a laugh, shaking my head. “It’s six in the morning.”

Carter shot back without missing a beat. “It’s five p.m. somewhere.”

The others chuckled, and for a moment the tension broke.

I felt the warmth of it too, but beneath it was something heavier.

I remembered the days in my twenties when a night like this would’ve ended with us crowded in some bar, beer sweating in our hands, adrenaline still buzzing too loud to let us sleep.

Not now. Not at thirty-seven. Which, let’s face it, was just a polite way of saying I was pushing forty.

“You go,” I said, giving Carter a nod. “I’m passing.”

I could feel their grins as they clapped my shoulder and filed out. They’d go, sure enough. Blow off steam the way we all used to. But I had no pull left in me for cheap beer or loud bars.

I clocked out, the screen glowing 07:00 sharp. Outside, the air was damp but clean, the drizzle gone, the streets slick with dawn light. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering for a second longer than it should.

Then I typed.

Dean: Good morning.

The words looked too simple, not nearly enough to hold everything I wanted to say. But I hit send anyway.