2020-12-17 - Flaming School Bus

The morning started out routine enough; there was a contingent of visiting firefighters in from Tacoma today, here to send over some equipment and borrow some in return. Spent some time laughing and chatting in deck chairs around one of the quints with bottles of soda, right until the alarms started going off. From the talk over dispatch, it sounded like an accident over on Bayside, and a pretty bad one at that. Multiple vehicles involved, children, possible hazardous materials.

When Chris's truck shows up, there's a school bus flipped over on its side, engine smoking, the scream of an ambulance heard in the distance and the wash of police lights already on scene; blue and then red in alternating waves. The mangled hulk of a pickup truck sits nearby, along with a couple of cars flipped into the ditch, and the smell of gasoline is frighteningly strong.

One thing is for sure: everything had been much quieter back in Spokane. Here, accidents just seemed to happen in higher frequency. Not that Chris minded overmuch; the endless boredom of waiting for an emergency was trying on the nerves.

"Undertaking evac on the bus," Chris reports into his radio. A few beats later, he's prying open the emergency exit and addressing the kids inside.

"I need everyone to stay calm," he says with his arms lifted to his sides like a conductor trying to quiet the performance. "I need everyone to leave their things and file to the back of the bus, where we are going to exit quickly and efficiently." The smell of gasoline was overwhelming. Hopefully, he could get everyone out in time.

Two more cop cars pull up, along with another fire truck, this one equipped with hazmat apparatus. One of the cruisers is an unmarked black Charger, and the officer who climbs out is clearly the acting Chief. He's out of uniform today, as he is most days, though slings a GRAY HARBOR POLICE jacket over his tee shirt and jeans before slamming the door to his cruiser and checking his weapon. He immediately begins coordinating the other responders while speaking to dispatch over his radio. Another truck is directed to handle the cars in the ditch, and the occupants of the mangled SUV.

On the bus, it looks so far like everyone's alive. The driver's unconscious and suffering from a nasty looking head injury, horn blaring, but has a pulse if checked. A few kids are crying; others are huddled in the back or under seats. One or two of them cautiously approach as they spot the firefighters, reaching for Chris's hand.

One of Chris's crewmates takes the driver while the other teams work on bringing down the temperature of the wreck with their hoses. His announcement delivered, Chris steps back from the exit to make way for the departures, offering a hand to the kids that need assistance heading through the doorway. Most of his work, though, involves Chris motioning with his hands while the schoolchildren did their thing - and that was well and good as far as he's concerned. It gives him a moment to observe the others at work and the new arrivals. Most were familiar faces he's spotted over the last few months on the job.

The driver's going to need an extraction, most likely. The crewmate tackles him, along with a couple of paramedics, who arrive with a stretcher and wait outside the door for the all clear to come in.

The kids are still hesitant to come out at first, but eventually start to filter toward the exit; one at a time, and then two or three. Then a few of them start clambering over each other to get out. They've got scratches and cuts, but most of them look none the worse for wear. One of them clings to Chris's leg and won't let go, sobbing for her mom.

"Got a count yet?" de la Vega wants to know. The Hispanic cop who piled out of the unmarked cruiser. Eyes on the bus while he pulls up alongside Chris, he's left the other cops to direct traffic around the accident.

Chris quickly kneels to help the kid while continuing to direct the others to get on their way. He knew in the back of his head that the whole thing could go up in flames at any moment. Once he confirms that her mother isn't one of the people in the crashed car or the driver, he pats her on the head and tells her, "Your mom will get here soon. You go over with your friends and be safe now, okay?"

"Thirty-four on the bus, sir, plus the driver. Might be a few broken bones needing an escort off. I couldn't say for sure yet." He spares a glance at the chief of police. He'd not met the man before, but he's seen him coming and going from their shared complex. Keeping a proper tally has him somewhat distracted from conversation, however.

The firefighter with the kid clinging to him is watched for a moment or two, and then a few things rattled off quickly into his headset as Ruiz ambles off a short way. He's keenly aware, too, of the danger posed by that gas tank. There are hoses trained on it, and suppressant being laid down on the road right at this minute, and he gives Chris a little nod before wading in closer.

Up the stairs, he helps get a few of the kids carried out who are hesitant, handing them off to the younger man doing the count. The little girl seems reluctant to let go of him, but eventually is pulled away by one of his crewmates with a lollipop, who ushers her toward a waiting ambulance.

"Got one in here, trapped under a seat," he calls back, sniffing the air. Hoping that isn't smoke he smells. "Going to need a hand."

With the easy ones safe, Chris joins Ruiz at the location -- a crowbar, and a lug wrench from the truck on his shoulder in case they need to undo the bolts keeping the seat in place quickly. It was a race against time, but putting your life on the line to save others was part of the job. "We'd better get a move on," he suggests quietly to the other man.

The cop's not precisely kitted out for this kind of work, but he'll make do. And that seat's definitely going to need to come off; the one behind it's collapsed, and pinned a boy in place between it and the wall. He's looking pretty pale, but otherwise alive, and conscious. "I can't feel my foot," he squeaks, as Ruiz drops into a crouch to try to suss a way around the situation.

"I need you to focus on me, while my buddy here gets you out, yeah?" The cop cracks a smile, points at his eyes. And then.. a little shudder of sensation, like rust being shaken off old ley lines. The faintest pricklings of charge racing along them, and Chris might feel it, too. The boy seems to settle a little, and let the firefighter do his thing.

Chris glances at the man out of the corner of his eye and gives a subtle nod of his head. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't want to distract the boy from his trance-like focus on the officer. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, the fireman sets to work on the seat, the muscles in his arm bulging as he uses the crowbar to lever the bent piece back into a semblance of its original position.

Next, he sets on a couple of the nuts on the floor. It was a race against time and impending death, and a kick of adrenaline was a welcome companion to speed his efforts.

Ruiz makes a little small talk here and there with the kid. What's his name, what grade is he in? What classes is he taking this year? Meanwhile, the front of the bus has given up the ghost with a creak and a groan, and despite the firefighters' best efforts, an errant spark bursts into flame. The call goes up, and Chris can likely see it in the cop's eyes long before he sees it or hears it or smells it starting to eat up the plastic up front. They've got to get the fuck out of here.

Dragging the front of his shirt up over his face, de la Vega assists as best he can with the seat, and maintains whatever steadying influence he seems to have over the kid while Chris pries the thing loose.

Try as they might, the seat wasn't coming up quite as quickly as they needed it to given the situation. With enough of it loosened, the men work in tandem as a flicker of something extra causes the seat to bend upward, freeing the boy from his captivity.

"Let's get you out of here," he tells the young lad as he squats down by him. They don't call it a fireman's carry for nothing. Chris hoists the injured over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and makes haste for the back door.

The kid doesn't even protest as he's dragged out from under the loosened seat, and hauled over Chris's shoulder limply. And the back door's probably a good call, given that a swath of flame starts to eat its way along the dashboard and floor and front door as they get moving. And Ruiz's gun ain't gonna buy them much against that.

The cop takes the lead, with Chris lugging the kid along, shirt still bunched up against his face to block the worst of the smoke. The back door's a little stuck, though opens with the application of some solid shoulder. "Back up, back up," he barks to the other officers, and steps away from the bus to make a quick update to dispatch into his radio.

Getting out was the only thing that mattered now. The steps ahead were tunnel vision, with the bright lights of the outside making him squint as he makes his way out on Ruiz's heels. Only then can he finally exhale, but a sudden blast of heat from the bus's fire, finding some of the spilled gasoline, causes everyone to get down and get distant.

"That one was too close," Chris sets the child down with some of the paramedics, stooped over with his hands on his knees.

The shudder of heat coming off the thing is intense, and the guys with hoses double up their efforts to combat the blaze before it gets out of control. Once he's sure the children have all been escorted to safety, and the scene is secured, Ruiz approaches the firefighter he'd been assisting inside the bus, and claps him on the shoulder firmly.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Good job in there. Don't think we've met. You're new around here, yeah?" That same hand is offered to shake. Ink all the way up his forearm, and to the backs of his presently grease-stained knuckles. "Captain Javier de la Vega." He speaks with a fairly heavy accent. Mexican national, most likely, though by the sound of it he's been living in the States for some time.

"Hey," Chris greets Ruiz in the middle of another brush of his forearm across his sweaty brow. He transitions the motion into a firm shake, locking gaze with the man. "Chris Baxter," he says with a gentle smile before releasing it. "Thanks for the assist back there. And yeah, a few months in from Spokane." His voice quiets a notch as he spares a glance over his shoulders to check for eavesdroppers. "I have family in the area, from what I understand. That's what brought me in."

No eavesdroppers. And the captain appears to be a capable enough multitasker; he's coordinating the tow trucks for the other vehicles while they talk. "Baxter?" he repeats, with a not so subtle sliding of his gaze over the younger man. No smile in return, but he doesn't seem like someone who has an awful lot of them to spare. "Yeah. You've got a few." His own grip's firm without being overcompensating, palm rough and heavily callused as if with some sort of past manual labour. Hard to say what, precisely. "You've got the, uh.." He looks askance, then back again, and his radio crackles. Dispatch, which he replies to without taking his eyes off Chris.

Chris was no stranger to rough labor, as his own hands can attest. His breath finally stabilizing, he lifts a hand behind his head and stands nearby to oversee some of the operations; mostly, he's just making sure he isn't needed anywhere. "All's I know is that my dad went to high school here. The fucker never even mentioned this place or told me who my mother was. How can you have a Jane Doe on a birth certificate?" He shakes his head before fixing his gaze back on the other man, hopeful that he has a few nuggets of wisdom.

Things seem to be under control now, for the most part. The fire's out, the kids are off the bus, and the ambulances have headed off for the hospital with their precious cargo. "You, uh. Here." Squinting a little at one of the other approaching cops, he gives the guy some brisk orders to send him back off again, and digs something out of his jeans pocket. A business card, and a ballpoint pen shortly follows. He uses the window of his cruiser as a spot to rest it against, and scribbles down a name and number, before passing the card over to Chris scissored between two fingers. "Take it." He crooks a brief smile, gone before it really takes hold.

On the card, Alexander Clayton, and a cell phone number.

Chris follows the older man, shadowing him as he writes and giving the card a quick once-over. "Alexander Clayton?" he repeats with a skeptical look. Presumably, on the other side is the chief's business information; he slips it into one of his pants pockets. His gaze returns to the chief's face with an interested eye. "And this Mr. Clayton will be able to help me, you think?"

Chris would, of course, presume correctly. On the back of the card, the GHPD logo and Captain Javier Ruiz de la Vega, along with a different cell phone number. "I think so. Give him a call, let me know how it goes." He claps the firefighter on the shoulder solidly, meets his gaze for a couple of beats. And then, with dispatch requiring his presence elsewhere, the cop opens the door to his cruiser and swings on in. "Welcome to Gray Harbour. If you get the chance, I'd leave." He hesitates a moment like he might have something more, then goes to slam the door and fire up the ignition. Firefighters and cops continue to scurry about like ants, cleaning up the scene, cordoning off the area to motorists, filling out incident reports.

"Thanks," Chris glances from the man back down to his hand before realizing he'd already squirreled away the card. Taking his comment as a joke, he cracks a crooked smile, "Yeah, Spokane could be that way too. Thanks for the lead, Captain." Turning slowly on his heel, he surveys what else they need to do as far as cleaning up and packing his firetruck. It turns out, that consists mostly of picking up the tools he'd unloaded and giving a hand with the hoses.