Smoke Eaters Page 2

  Crawling as fast as I could, I heaved huge gulps of air, following the hoseline. Jaws clamped onto my air pack, and my hands and knees left the floor as the dragon lifted me into the air. It shook me to and fro like my dog, Kenji, treats trespassing backyard squirrels. I bounced from one wall to the other, each hit bringing a new flash of pain.

  When I first got on the job, I had a captain who once told me, “If you’re going to eat a shit sandwich, you might as well swallow it in one bite.”

  Well, I was in the middle of a supersized quarter pounder of shit, and the only way I saw out of my predicament was to do what they’d trained us to never do, under any circumstances. I loosened my air pack’s harness straps and slipped my arms from them. When I unbuckled the waist straps, I fell until the air hose yanked my head up, ripping the helmet from my head and the mask from my face.

  I braced myself for the superheated air inside the house to enter my lungs and burn my throat. Dying from that and smoke inhalation would have been better than letting some ugly ass scaly get me. Maybe I wouldn’t become a wraith going out that way.

  But I didn’t succumb. Uncomfortable as the heat was, it wasn’t hurting me.

  The hell?

  I was so surprised I was able to breathe, I almost neglected the dragon dropping my air pack from its teeth and opening its mouth, the sound of a high-octane crescendo rising in its throat.

  My axe lay in front of me, so I threw it at the ugly bastard. I’d only done it to distract the scaly, but, as if God owed me a favor, the axe twirled through the air and landed in the back of the dragon’s throat. It rose, smashing holes in walls and breaking through the roof, shooting its fiery breath into the afternoon sky. The dragon was throwing an all-out temper tantrum, and I was caught in the middle of it.

  I crawled for the fire hose, but the dragon swung its tail into the corner, dropping smashed bits of wood and sheetrock to block my escape route.

  Shit.

  “Hey,” someone shouted from above.

  Through the hole in the ceiling, Truck 1’s captain stood at the tip of their ladder fifty feet up, lowering a harness at the end of a rope.

  I was going to kiss that man.

  The dragon coughed up the axe as I secured the harness around my middle. Yanking twice on the rope, I yelled for the other captain to take me up. That’s when the house began crying.

  A structure, like any other entity, makes certain sounds when it’s dying, ones I’ve developed a knack for identifying. This house was coming down. The dragon clawed against the collapsing walls, too focused on me to realize it was being pinned down by the collapse.

  Truck 1’s captain could only pull the rope so fast, considering he was an out-of-shape, middle-aged man pulling another guy on the end (me) who wasn’t Jack Spratt either.

  Kicking off one crumbling wall, I dodged another that would have flattened me. Below, most of the dragon’s body lay under the rubble, but its long, ugly head was out in the open and snapping toward my wrinkled ass.

  I was done for, seeing, almost in slow motion, the trajectory of the scaly’s coal-black teeth. They’d pierce my legs, rip me from the harness with a back-breaking snap, and then the bastard would drag me underground to enjoy its meal.

  But something flew into the side of the dragon’s throat, stabbing it with a blade of white flame. It was a someone – a smoke eater. They’d jumped nearly fifty feet with the aid of the thrusters in their power suit, and plugged the scaly with an enormous laser sword on their right arm.

  Smoke eaters always got the coolest toys.

  I was just above the roof, and Truck 1’s driver rotated the ladder to get me and his captain out of the battle, when the dragon roared louder than ever, a huge sound wave rippling from its jaws. The pulse racked the ladder truck, along with me dangling from it, and killed the truck’s power. The ladder stopped moving, and I was stuck above an angry dragon trying to shake a smoke eater from its neck.

  The smoky looked at me. They wore a slick green fire helmet, and what looked like tactical wraparound sunglasses covered their eyes. I knew it was a woman by her lips, but I guess it could have been a man with particularly nice kissers. She shouted something I couldn’t decipher.

  Another smoke eater flew in from above, the heat from his thrusters wapping against my head. He landed on the dragon’s bottom lip and, with a hand holding on to the top of its snout, shot a thick stream of foam into the dragon’s throat. Before the scaly could chomp him, he hovered down to the ground and blasted the dragon with laserfire from his other arm.

  Damned dragon never had a chance.

  The smoke eater hanging on to the scaly’s neck removed her sword and flew onto its head. With a quick steadying of her weight, the smoky plunged her sword into the scaly’s skull. As the big bastard flopped to the ground, the woman jetted to the front yard like the Angel of Death.

  Truck 1’s captain lowered me to the ground. I removed my harness and took the next moment to throw up the big breakfast DeShawn had cooked that morning.

  “You the one who was inside?” The foam-shooting smoke eater jogged over to me.

  I wiped my mouth, head beginning to ache. “Yeah. I went in after my crew.”

  “You lost your mask. You could breathe in there.” The way he said it was a mix of inquiry and confusion. Hell, it seemed he knew more than I did about that shit. He hit a button at the side of his head and the tactical goggles split and retracted into his helmet.

  He was a black guy, and had red irises. I knew they weren’t contacts, because that kind of crap wasn’t tolerated in our line of work, but some people had a strange allergy to the dragon ash that turned their eyes weird colors. Others just developed a bad case of silicosis. It’s why you saw a bunch of people walking around wearing surgical masks.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess the hole in the ceiling vented the smoke pretty well.”

  What did this guy want from me? I just wanted to retrieve my crew and mourn like every other red-blooded American.

  “Then you’re going to have to come with us.” The voice behind me was feminine and stern.

  I turned as she retracted her goggles.

  “They only sent two of you clowns?” I said. “And a little too late.”

  She looked almost like Sherry when she was younger. Except her eyes were closer together and her nose was bigger. Her helmet prevented me from seeing what her hair looked like, but by the way she gave me the evil eye, I would have bet my life’s savings she was a redhead.

  A policeman ran over. “Holy cow! Did you see that?”

  “Officer,” the Angel of Death said, as Foam Shooter closed in on me.

  “Huh?” The cop started at the smoke eater’s voice.

  “Hand me your cuffs,” Angel said.

  I’m too old and tired for this shit. I would start swinging fists if I needed to.

  It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what she wanted to do with those cuffs. What’s that saying? Out of the fire, into the frying pan?

  I spit. “You guys are on some drugs if you think you can kidnap people in broad daylight. Firemen especially. Clean up your own dragon mess. I’m calling my chief and going home.”

  A black apparatus with flashing purple and green lights drove up and parked behind Truck 1. More smoke eaters.

  Foam put his hand on my chest.

  The cop fidgeted the handcuffs from his belt, all smiles. “Sure thing. You’re the boss.”

  I turned to run, but Angel caught me in the back of my legs. My knees hadn’t been on the ground more than a few seconds when she clicked the cuffs onto my wrists.

  “You assholes have no right,” I shouted. “I was doing my job and trying to help my crew. If you fuckers had showed up sooner–”

  Angel pointed to Foam, who pulled a black bag from his turnout pocket.

  I continued to yell and curse until he put the bag over my head. It tightened around my face where I couldn’t breathe, so I had to shut up.

  “Calm down,”
Angel said.

  I couldn’t see anything. But my silence caused the bag to loosen a bit, allowing me to breathe. I heaved, ready for the air to be taken away again.

  “The bag you’re wearing,” Angel said, “tightens if you talk, cutting off your air. If you didn’t already figure that out.”

  I nodded.

  “I normally don’t like to do things the hard way, but you aren’t making this easy. So this is what’s going to happen. We’re calling in the cleanup crew to quarantine this area. We’ll try to retrieve any of your firefighters’ bodies. But, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with us.”

  Chapter 2

  I could deal with the quiet of the man-sized terrarium they’d put me in; it was a nice change from the dragon fire I’d managed to crawl out of, even though Theresa’s headless corpse kept popping into my mind. I could deal with the occasional green-shirted smoke eater who walked by without paying me any attention. I didn’t want to talk to those assholes unless they were going to let me go home. I could deal with the stink of my sweat-soaked duty shirt and my ash-covered turnout bottoms. I could even deal with the hard-on-the-ass chair I sat in, which highlighted my lack of anatomical cushioning.

  But damned if these smoke eaters didn’t give me lukewarm coffee in a chipped, Parthenon City Fire Department mug. Terrorists are treated better.

  I didn’t see what kind of vehicle they used to bring me here, but it had sounded and moved like any other fire apparatus. I also had no clue how long the trip had taken. Time has a way of escaping you when you have a kill-happy, near-sentient bag over your head.

  Outside my glass prison, movement drew my eyes to the left, where a black man in a crisp, flame-orange uniform shirt walked up and looked in on me. A golden badge shone on his chest. Pinned on the collars, where a fire officer’s bugles would normally be, were some other decorations I couldn’t make out.

  This guy was high up on the smoky ladder for sure.

  He smiled and waved at me. Then, lowering his head, he pushed something on a panel next to him. Sirens buzzed inside the glass room. Thirty years of slowly losing my hearing with each emergency run did nothing to block out the sharp robo-bird-like squawking. I covered my ears.

  From vents in the room’s floor, black smoke rolled out, engulfing my feet and ankles.

  The hell with this.

  I threw the mug of insulting coffee at the glass wall in front of me. The porcelain shattered, leaving brown liquid dripping down the unscathed glass, where, on the other side, the man in orange stared at me, scrunching his lips as if I was the one behaving poorly.

  So I threw the chair, which had even better luck surviving the impenetrable wall. Before the smoke closed around my head, I flipped off the man in orange and stole a big gulp of air. Then the smoke blocked everything from view. It wasn’t hot like in a fire, but I sure as shit didn’t want to breathe it in.

  Over the years, smoke had become more dangerous due to all the different chemicals they used to make couches and holostereos. Not that the old, wood-only fires were safe to breathe in – it’s where the original term “smoke eater” came from to describe firefighters – but modern times created the type of smoke where one puff could kill you. A nasty combo of hydrogen cyanide and carbon monoxide that would displace your oxygen or send you into cardiac arrest.

  I closed my eyes, holding air in my cheeks, drawing it into my lungs, and then inflating my cheeks again. I was fooling myself if I thought I could keep doing that forever.

  I don’t want to die!

  If the chair or coffee mug couldn’t break the glass, I’d have been stupid to think slamming my fists against it would do anything more. But since my fire training wasn’t offering me anything useful…

  …I went shamma-lamma-ding-dong stupid.

  The first glass wall I found got a flurry of punches until my knuckles ached.

  I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. The point of no return was miles behind my anatomical rearview mirror, and I was so damned tired. I’d gone past fight or flight and sailed directly into “fuck it.”

  After emptying my lungs and a three-count, I opened my eyes and breathed in the smoke. Might as well get it over with, huh? If these smoke eaters wanted to punish me for fooling around with their dragon, I wouldn’t let them have another second to torture me. I just wished I could have seen Sherry one more time.

  The black smoke rolled over my lips, tasting like coffee grounds and the ashy bottom of a nuclear reactor – or what I’d imagine it would taste like. I held the smoke in my lungs like a toke of marijuana, waiting for a fatal coughing attack, waiting for the toxins to kill me. But they didn’t. I exhaled the smoke from my nostrils, smelling the charred essence. After another moment, I breathed in again with no lightheadedness or signs of asphyxiation.

  What the hell is going on?

  Air whooshed into the room as the man in orange entered with a slight limp and a clang with every other step. Behind him, what I’d thought to be solid glass resealed, and the black clouds swirled around us both. The vents in the floor hummed like a vacuum cleaner, sucking away the smoke as quickly as they’d spewed it out.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people,” I shouted. “I don’t have much for a lawyer, but I swear we’re going to sue the shit out of you!”

  The man in orange bent over and picked up the chair I’d thrown. “Relax, Captain Brannigan.”

  The smoke hadn’t bothered this guy either. No one knew all the secret shit the smoke eaters were into when they weren’t slaying dragons, but messing with old firemen for the hell of it was apparently part of that protocol. With the room clear, I saw that this man’s collar pins were crossed lances, like the knights used back in medieval days.

  “Who are you?”

  He sat in the chair and held out his hand, smiling. “I’m Chief Donahue.”

  “Never heard of you.” I shook his hand, mainly out of habit and respect for the rank. The fire service has a way of doing that to you.

  “I’m chief of the Smoke Eater Division.”

  “I guessed so. With the orange shirt and the collar pins, and the way you almost killed me!” I walked over to the wall and leaned against it. “Listen, Chief, I’m not trying to be disrespectful. But it’s been a real bad day, no thanks to you guys, and I’m sure my chief will want me to file a report and do some debriefing, and I really just want to go home. You’ve had your fun scaring me with the smoke. So if you don’t mind–”

  “That smoke wasn’t for my enjoyment. And it was as much for your understanding as it was for mine.” He unwrapped a thick piece of colorless gum and began chewing.

  I stifled a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you I didn’t get anything out of this dog and pony show. I’ve seen fog machines before.”

  “That wasn’t fake fog. That smoke was real. Dragon smoke, actually. As was what you breathed in the house fire today.” Donahue nodded his head, smacking on his gum. He hadn’t blinked once.

  At that moment, I knew he was telling the truth. But that just confused me even more.

  He directed a hand to the other chair in the room. “Have a seat, Cap.”

  I took my time getting there, watching the chief the whole way. When I got to the chair, I plopped down.

  Donahue leaned forward. “I want to apologize for the way my smokies handled things this afternoon. I bet you can understand how your adrenaline goes from zero to a hundred at a structure fire. It’s compounded when you’re fighting a dragon.”

  “She put a bag over my head that suffocated me if I wasn’t compliant.”

  Donahue held his hands out like a sympathetic guidance counselor. “I know. I know. We’ve had issues with citizens interfering with dragon scenes in the past. Idiots who want to get a selfie with a dragon and put it on the Feed. The mute bag is supposed to be a last resort. And my smoke eaters are instructed to bring in anyone who can breathe smoke.”

  “I’d get sued for that kind of thing. And then I come here to be experi
mented on? Because my old ass can handle a little smoke?”

  Donahue cocked his head, thinned his eyes. “You kidding me? That wasn’t a little smoke. And this room isn’t an experiment. Like I said, it was to show you that what happened today wasn’t a fluke or a result of your firefighting experience. Don’t you know what it takes to be a smoke eater?”

  “More balls than brains.”

  Laughing, Donahue shook his head. “My guess is we never caught wind of your ability because you were already well on in your career and age when the dragons emerged.”

  “My ability? I’ve got a bum knee and a weak bladder. What do you mean?”

  Donahue stared at me, as serious as a heart attack. “Captain Brannigan, you can breathe smoke, withstand intense heat. You’re a smoke eater.”

  I think I’d known since that dragon ripped my air mask off, but I’d been denying it. How could anyone believe something like that was possible? Up until that point, when Donahue smiled at my visible realization, I’d been calling bullshit.

  Looking back over the years, I could pinpoint certain instances where I’d showed signs of a smoke eater, besides the recent house fire: eight years old, out camping and my mom telling me not to sit so close to the bonfire as I danced my fingers over the flames; hanging out in a smoke-filled garage with my uncle, Teddy, who burned through American Spirits as if his lungs depended on it. I just thought everyone was like that.

  Even in my whole career as a firefighter, smoke and heat had never bugged me like I’d seen it affect others on the job. I thought I was either lucky or they were pansy-asses.

  All of this ran through my mind as I glared at Donahue. “Well, too bad for both of us, huh?” I stood and walked toward where I’d seen Donahue enter. “Now, if you pricks can take me back to my fire station…”

  Donahue turned the chair around to sit in it backwards. “There aren’t many of us smoke eaters around. Not that we know of. We’re the only ones who can effectively fight these dragons. Especially within a structure. And the scalies love to hole up in buildings. Our little group here has to cover the entire state. We need you.”