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RIDGE

I’m bored.

I immediately regret the thought as soon as my brain thinks it. It’s the rule we all abide by: never take boredom for granted. Boredom means people are safe. Boredom means they aren’t having their lives upended by a raging fire, a horrific car accident, or an unspeakable tragedy.

A fireman’s motto… boredom is great. Bring on the boredom.

Let me work out. Let me clean the rig. Let me run drills. Let me cook some food. Let me teach a class of first graders how to stop, drop, and roll. Let me be bored forever.

But…

But the other motto we have, the one that we never talk about, the one that would make us complete assholes if we were to say it out loud, is… let me see some action tonight.

Give me a purpose. Let me help someone, help them when they’re at their very worst. When they’re in their lowest and darkest moment, let me save them.

Of course, we can’t say it because that would mean we want something bad to happen. But that’s not the case. We don’t want bad stuff to happen; we know it’s gonna happen. No matter what, something bad is always gonna happen. So, what do we really want? We want it to happen when we’re on duty. We’re trained for it. We’re ready to make a difference. We’re ready to put our lives on the line for you.

And God above, I love it.

I walk back and forth across the front courtyard enjoying the breeze and the smell of the ocean air. I can’t really see the stars. The shopping complex and movie theater across the parking lot steal the opportunity from me. But that’s alright; it’s cloudy tonight anyway. I even felt raindrops on the call earlier. But alas, nothing happened. A few sprinkles hit my shoulders, and then it stopped.

I think back to the vacationing grandfather, now sitting in the small hospital emergency room having his finger stitched up. Knives and oyster shells don’t mix.

We’re a lucky town, really. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of horrible calls in the three years I’ve been here, but for the most part, we’re fairly tame. We don’t see the action that the other beach vacation cities do. Nestled on the central west coast, we’re not far enough up the Panhandle to get the wet and wild college spring-breakers. And we’re not far enough down south to entertain the rich and famous Northern snow-birds. Plus, our town is somewhat rural. This shopping complex and movie theater is as crazy as it gets. There’s no clubs. No modern-age martini bars. No strip joints. We’re the perfect place for families. And that’s what we get. Happy-to-vacation-from-my-forty-hour-week-at-the-office families.

How’d I get here? To this calm, cozy, safe, little beach town? To this twenty-first century, perfect-for-an-ocean-sunset-selfie, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood? Recruitment from my Fire College. Most of my class wanted to run off to the big cities, where the starting pay for a firefighter is much higher. Me? I’ve never been much of a city guy. What I wanted was more training. More ways to save lives. White Sky agreed to sponsor my attendance to paramedic training if I signed a four-year contract. I just hit year number three. Last week actually, on my twenty-second birthday.

And that’s actually my position, currently, on this tour. Paramedic.

Ridge Conway, Firefighter Paramedic.

Even if a fire breaks out right now, paramedic duties are my first priority. Once that’s done, I can work the line. Which do I like better? That’s like asking my mom to choose who she loves more—me or my brother, Cullen.

Well, maybe that’s a bad example.

Mom will always love me more. I mean, come on, I am the woman’s firstborn.

We only have one main station in White Sky. We have an engine company and a truck company with five guys in each company each shift. Three rotating shifts. And of course, those of us with our paramedic license also have to work the ambulance during tour. We work 24 on/48 off. Which gives me plenty of down time at the public beach, which just happens to be across the street from my apartment.

Although we’re a small department, we’re still bigger than a lot of those in rural America. If something big breaks out, we can always call on the volunteer departments scattered throughout the county. And Tallahassee is only an hour away. Last year, a structure fire broke out in a three-story condo complex that was being remodeled. It was a beast. Tallahassee companies worked that stretch with us.

I scuff the ground with my boot and turn to head inside when my eardrum pierces with the blare of the alarm. The dispatcher’s voice muffles over the station’s speakers.

The fire alarms have been pulled at the movie theater.

I spin around, looking at the theater in the distance, searching for any signs of flame or smoke.

Nothing.

I see a couple of people milling around on the sidewalk, but as of yet, there’s no huge crowd streaming through the front doors.

Where is everyone?

The theater’s only got three screens, but still...it should be crowded. It’s a Friday night in April; it’s not like the ocean is warm enough for a night swim. What else is everyone gonna do? Especially the kids too young to hit up one of the few haggard, old beach bars in town? I guess, there’s always mini golf. But last time I went there with a date, both the windmill and the clown’s face were broken. In fact, on the eighteenth hole, we had to shoot our ball into the clown’s left nostril—where someone had made a hole with a hammer—to return the ball because his mouth wouldn’t open.

So, all that to say, the sidewalk in front of the theater should be packed with people.

But I get it. Some dumbass kids probably pulled the alarm as a joke. It happens all the time. That’s why no one is ever in a hurry to leave. They stand around looking at each other, wondering if they can just ignore the alarm and stay put.

No. No, you cannot. For future reference, run.

Shaking my head in disbelief at both the dumbass kids who pulled the alarm and the dumbass patrons who don’t run, I race into the bay, slide into my turnout gear, and jump into the ambulance. As per the usual, I’m waiting on McDonald to finish. “C’mon, McDonald! You’re killing me! I could’ve run across the parking lot, bought a tub of popcorn, and watched Titanic by now.”

He finally climbs in, shooting me the bird in the process. Laughing, I pull out, following behind the engine and the truck. We turn on the lights and give a small sample of the siren. It’s not like we need to knock traffic out of the way. We’re literally two hundred yards from the scene. Parking, we climb out, and I immediately toss my jump bag over my shoulder, waiting for instruction.

Shelly, one of the theater managers is talking to the chief. You can tell she’s nervous, waving her hands in all directions. She’s actually friends with the chief’s daughter. So, it’s pretty funny to hear her call Chief Latner “Mr. Dave.”

“I don’t know what’s going on Mr. Dave. I didn’t see any smoke or smell anything. And there’s supposed to be a failsafe that when the alarm goes off, the movies stop playing. But I don’t think that happened. I still heard them going. I can go in with you and clear the auditoriums.”

“No, hon. That’s what we’re here for. I don’t need you going back in there in case something is wrong.”

About that time, the front doors open and group of about ten middle school-aged kids come meandering out, lazily flopping left and right like they don’t have a care in the world. “Hey guys, hurry up!” I scream at them, urging them to pick up the pace and put a safe distance between them and the theater.

“I can’t believe our movie stopped. It was at the good part too,” a girl with braces says.

A tall lanky boy with a horrendously bad haircut pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Yeah, someone probably pulled the alarm on purpose. Just like at school. And I spent my allowance on this movie because I like the video game so much.”

One of the other guys, Hartselle, ushers the kids away and tells them to stand at the far end of the parking lot. “This will take a while. Y’all should probably call your parents to come pick you up.”

I glance up at the marque. Only three movies are playing. One is an animated movie based on a popular video game. And the other two are action movies. Just the kind I love. Fast-moving with violence, shooting, and explosions. Of course, I hate spending money on movie tickets, though. I’m happy to wait a year if it means I can just pay the rental price or stream it for free.

I’m about to pipe up and let Shelly know the failsafe worked—at least for the kids’ movie—when Chief blurts out his instructions. “Alright, guys, we’re gonna divide and conquer.” He splits us into three teams. A group entering the front doors, a group entering the west-side doors, and a group entering the east-side doors. The two side doors lock from the outside. They are used as exit doors only and stay locked to prevent people from sneaking in and watching movies for free. Chief heads to the west to open that set of doors, and Shelly comes with my group to the east to open that set of doors. I’m paired with Hartselle and Battles. Which is fine by me, they are both good guys.

Hell, everyone in our department is a good guy.

They’re lugging all of their equipment and air tanks but still able to jog at a fast pace, keeping up with me. Shelly’s hands are shaking too bad for her to open the door. Smiling, I hold out my hand. “Shell, let me get it, okay?”

She looks at me with big doe eyes. She’s a sweet girl. She’s actually a year older than me, but she seems so much younger. She asked me out when I first moved to town. I wasn’t attracted to her, so I went on the obligatory first date so she wouldn’t be embarrassed and then played the friend card. But it all worked out for the best. She’s actually engaged now. He’s a chill dude, works on one of the off-shore commercial fishing boats.

She nods, handing me the key. After unlocking them, I pull the metal double-doors, propping the left one open with my foot, and nodding for Battles to grab the handle on the right-side door. I glance down the long corridor, squinting my eyes and studying everything in line of vision. I can actually see all the way to other side. I watch as that door opens and Chief looks around, taking in the same sights as me.

No smoke. No flames. Just the flashing light of the fire alarms painting the ceiling. And the loud-as-fuck chirp that follows every ten seconds.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as a couple of police cars pull into the parking lot. Sending Shelly on her way to deal with the police, I step in, walking with a slow yet determined purpose, paying close attention to everything in my line of sight. I’ve been in this theater dozens of times; I know the layout like the back of my own hand. Halfway down the corridor, the hallway opens up, and the movie theater lobby and concession counter will be on the left side. The third group of guys will be meeting us there since they’re coming in the front doors. Once we determine the common areas are clear, we can start searching the movie auditoriums and other rooms that are lined on the right side—bathrooms, janitor closets, food pantries, a party room.

I’m about ten feet inside when I hear it.

Gunshots. And it sure as shit doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a movie screen.

And it’s followed by muffled screaming.

“What the hell?” Hartselle says.

Both him and Battles are behind me. I turn sideways, wanting to see if their brain is processing information the same as mine.

“Shit. Is that—” And I never get to hear the last words from Battles.

Because he explodes. Right in front of my eyes.