Another whistle. Louder now.
Caleb took quick stock of the resources at his disposal. From among these onlookers, he might need a hand. Lots of hands. And quickly.
He saw a Marine in fatigues, two strong young black men, a tall fellow with a slight paunch, pairs of concerned women, and a businessman a few yards back. They each jumped out at him in Technicolor, options to choose from and put to use. The only problem: he was prohibited from commanding civilians to put themselves in harm's way. He could, however, accept any aid that was offered.
Bethany was yelling, “Please
help
me. Don't let me
die
. Please!”
“Captain, it's not rolling,” Simmons huffed. “We gotta drag it off.”
“Okay, get the chain. Get the chain!”
Terrell turned in his yellow helmet and shouted, “Wayne, hook up the chain. Hook up the
chain
.”
Wayne was already running from the ladder truck with the box of chain in hand, instructing people to move their parked cars out of the way. Some heard, while others were focused only on the train now rolling around the bend.
Loud, short bursts from the horn.
Triple headlights blazing.
Caleb looked down the tracks and gauged the distance to be about six hundred yards, still over a quarter mile. But depending on how many cargo cars were behind that engine, it might require a full half mile to come to a screeching halt.
Bethany was in full panic now. “Helpmehelpmepleasedo-something . . .”
“The
train
.” Pedestrians were pointing their fingers and yelling. “The
train
!”
Simmons said from the back, “Captain, we don't have time. We gotta
pick
this car up.”
“All right, Ericâyou grab the front. Grab the front.”
The rookie shifted around and bent his stocky legs.
“Lift on three, all right?” Caleb said. “One, two,
three
.”
The four firemen grunted, putting every effort into lifting the Kia free, yet it moved only an inch before settling back down. Wayne realized the chain was out of the question, dropped the box, and dashed forward to lend a fifth hand. The entire crew was now positioned around the car, while on either side of the tracks, police officers on foot tried to corral people away from the intersection.
Simmons called out:
“Again.”
“Okay.” Caleb counted: “One, two,
three . . . Arggghh
.”
This time the vehicle felt ready to comply, then snagged and dropped back, having shifted only a few inches from its previous position.
“We gotta get this car off the tracks! One, two,
three
.”
Still nothing.
The crowd was alive with screams now as the locomotive had cut the distance in half. Brakes were shrieking, but it was apparent to all that the engine would come hurtling through this intersection before stopping.
“
Again
, Captain!”
Caleb was about to count it off once more, when he spotted a cluster of men dashing up the embankment from both sides. The dire situation had finally snapped them out of fear and into activity. A Marine. A young black man. A guy in a dress shirt and tie. And a policeman.
“One, two . . .
three
!”
With the hands of nine capable bodies, with straining legs and backs and shoulders, the car broke free and began to move laterally over the rails. Each sound of the horn reenergized the load bearers.
Another blast. A half foot.
Blast!
Half foot.
Blast!
The screams were horrendous now, the entire crowd lost in a moment of sheer panic and terror.
“Lord,
help us
!” Simmons cried out.
“Ahhhaahhhaahhhaahhh . . .”
They were so close, so very close.
Situated on the corner of the car nearest the oncoming train, Lieutenant Simmons threw his head back, clamped his eyes shut, and hefted with both arms while using his thighs to nudge the car that last few inches from doom. A wave of hot, oily wind struck him as the engine careened past and thenâ
The nick of metal against metal.
Kaa-bammm!
Simmons screamed as his helmet was torn clear from his skull, the chin strap snapping like a rubber band. The massive metal beast had caught the back flap and knocked it twenty feet from where he stood. Frozen in shock, head still back and eyes still closed, he let out a terrified howl that competed in volume with the thunder of the passing train.
Now that the car was cleared, Caleb and the other men dropped it beside the tracks. The Marine beside Simmons pulled him down away from danger and rested a strong hand of comfort upon his back.
The locomotive was slowing to a stop, at last.
In the Kia's front seat, Bethany was still bawling between gulps of air.
G
et the spreaders,” Caleb reminded the rookie, now that the car was off the tracks. Time was still a factor here, despite the disaster they had averted.
The sound of approaching ambulance sirens soothed him. On the rails, the train's brakes had fallen silent, and the conductor was now stumbling back along the embankment in a daze.
“Medic,”Wayne called from the car. “Medic!”
A pair of EMS personnel rushed to his assistance. One slipped through the back window to better reach the unconscious passenger from inside, while the other, an older gentleman, tore away the expended air bag for visibility.
“You're gonna be all right,” Caleb told Bethany in the driver's seat. “You're okay, you hear me? You're gonna be okay.”
He looked up and saw Simmons inching down the slope, still dazed. The Marine had his hands folded over his camouflage cap, taking deep breaths. Terrell and Eric had the generator running and tools connected, ready to cut through the car's window supports and roll back the dented roof. In the vehicle itself, the EMS guys had draped both girls in shrouds to protect them from any bits of glass or metal that might pop loose during the procedure.
Terrell angled the Hurst tool's Jaws of Life into place and started cutting.
The medical team stepped back, and Caleb said to the nearest one, “We got two males over there with minor injuries. These girls are pretty bad. Driver's suffered severe trauma to both legs. Her name's Bethany.”
“We got it. Thank you, Captain.”
Caleb sighed, taking it all in. He saw witnesses staring off in silence, their faces grim masks of shock. Others wiped away tears of joy and relief. A few of the volunteer rescuers were still nearby, and he pulled off his gloves as he approached the Marine and the young black man who had jumped into the fray.
“Gentlemen.” Caleb shook their hands. “Thank you for your help.”
“You're welcome.”
“I don't know about you, but that had me scared.”
“You ain't kiddin',” the black kid said.
Caleb turned to the Marine. “There's no way we could have moved that car without you. Thank you.”
“You're welcome, sir.”
“You guys are heroes now. You know, the news is gonna want to interview both of you.”
“Nah,” the first man said.
The Marine agreed. “We're good, sir. We don't need that.”
They both patted Caleb on the shoulder and walked away.
The captain collected his lieutenant's ill-fated helmet and turned back toward the truck. On the grass, Simmons sat with arms draped over his knees and eyes closed.
“Thank You,” he was whispering. “Thank You, Lord.”
“Hey, are you okay?”
Simmons looked up, brows knitted together over relieved eyes. “Captain, I just needed a minute.”
Caleb handed him the cracked helmet.
The man took it in both hands and stared at it as though expecting to find his head contained within. “Well,” he sighed. “I broke my record for how close I could come to death and still live.”
“Yeah? Well, don't break it next time.”
“I wasn't trying to break it this time.”
Caleb gave him a contemplative look, then rose to leave.
“Hey . . . ,” Simmons said. “Don't tell my wife.”
When it came to life and death and near misses, there were some things better kept between the guys. Among firefighters, it was the bond of the brotherhood. Caleb nodded, clapped a hand around his friend's arm, and left him to his thoughts.
BACK AT STATION One, the firemen climbed down from the trucks, shucking suspenders and heavy firefighting gear. Caleb battened down a loose hatch on the truck. Around the corner, Eric and Simmons were stepping out of their brush pants and boots. Despite the air of relief, there was palpable concern in the ranks. They could've lost a teenage girl. Or even lost one of their very own.
“Hey, Lieutenant?” Eric said.
Simmons looked up. “Yeah?”
“This kinda thing doesn't happen all the time, does it?”
“Risking our lives? Yes. Playing chicken with a train? First time.”
“Aren't you afraid of dying?”
Terrell was peeling off his jacket and he caught Caleb's eye. They both turned toward their comrade to hear his response.
“No,” Simmons said, “'cause I know where I'm going. I just don't want to get there 'cause I got hit by a train.”He grabbed his commemorative helmet and headed toward the doors at the back of the garage. “Eric, why don't you come help me work on some dinner.”
“Long as you don't make me eat that hot sauce of yours.”
“The Wrath of God?”
“Stuff's hot asâ”
“Hey, now.”
The two men brushed by the fire pole on their way out, and Caleb grinned at their repartee. He moved to follow them out of the bay, intending to write up a fire report before grabbing some food.
“Hey, Cap'n.” Terrell stopped him. “Hold up for a second.”
Caleb paused.
“You, uh . . . you know where you're going?”
“I'm going to my office,” Caleb said.
“No, I mean . . .” Terrell fidgeted. “You believe in heaven and hell?”
“I . . . I don't know.”
Wayne climbed down from the truck beside them.
“Well, when I die,” Terrell said, “I'm going in the ground, and that's where I'm stayin'.”
Caleb shrugged. “You know, you and Michael both seem so sure. But one of you is wrong.”
Terrell sloughed that off. “It ain't me.”
“How do you know? Hey, listen, you might not agree with Michael, but you and I both know . . . he's the real deal.” Caleb turned toward the back of the bay as Terrell folded his arms across his wide belly.
“What about you,Wayne?” Terrell said.
“Don't drag me into this.”
“Man, you believe in heaven and hell?”
“Maybe,”Wayne confessed. “I'm open to the possibility.”
“I'm not.”
“Yeah, we know.”
“Well, what if y'all are wrong and it's all a big joke?”
“Then,” Wayne said, loud enough for Caleb to catch it, “I guess I'll be stuck lying in the ground next to your sorry bones. And who says the dead can't dance?”
“You kiddin'? You're
alive
,Wayne, and you still can't dance.”
THREE DAYS LATER, following a weekend that included softball games and birthday parties, Lieutenant Simmons walked back into the fire station. He was early, by twenty minutes. This gave him time to enjoy relaxing on a kitchen stool with the morning's
Albany Herald
spread out on the counter.
To his left, a CPR poster hung from the wall. To his right, a list of janitorial duties was taped to a cupboard. Everywhere he was faced with the job's requirements, and he took them seriously.
During his two-year tour north of Baghdad, as an Army tank mechanic, he'd witnessed the daily struggle between life and death, between freedom and captivity. It was hard coming back to a complacent culture after seeing the things he'd seen. He felt, sometimes, as though he owed his buddies back in Iraq more than he could give them here on friendly soil.
What he could give, though, was his bestâto his wife, his son, and his fellow firefighters.
“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might
. . .
”
He lived by those words from Ecclesiastes. Or tried to, anyway. He'd been given a second chance and he meant to use it wisely.
C
aleb parted the dining room blinds and saw his parents' car cut into his driveway. John and Cheryl Holt had made the trip over from Savannah, and he figured he should be thankful for their concern. On the other hand, as a healthy American maleâa self-made man, right?âhe believed he should be able to tackle the problems in his marriage on his own. Surely there was a logical solution. Something obvious.
Of course, he wasn't dealing with a logical creature, was he?
See, there was part of the problem.
He ushered his parents inside. Offered sweet tea to his mother. Set out a bowl of snacks that went untouched. Apparently they had no more appetite for this conversation than he.
“Son, can you tell us what's been going on?” John said solemnly.
Feeling defensive and helpless all at the same time, Caleb situated himself on the living room love seat, alone
â
how fittingâand faced his parents on the matching sofa.
John wore a ring of white hair around his head and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a sage, scholarly appearance. Cheryl had short, graying hair, glasses, and looked her usual presentable self in a peach top and pearl necklace.
“Caleb,” she said with a heavy Southern accent, “I just can't help worryin' about you two. Is Catherine doin' all right?”
“Catherine? Whose side are you on, Mom?”
“Oh, it's not about sides. She's a daughter to us, by her marriage to you.”