Chapter Text
Disclaimer: The E! characters do not belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.
"Semi Conscious"
By Ross
"LA, Squad 51 available. Returning to quarters," firefighter paramedic, John Gage, wearily informed central dispatch.
"10-4, Squad 51..." the dispatcher blurted back, via their rescue squad's dash-mounted radio.
Gage replaced the mic' and ran the fingers of his right hand back through his sweat-drenched, wind-whipped hair. "Wonder what Marco fixed for lunch?"
"Does it matter?" his partner, Roy DeSoto, pondered in return.
The pair had been going nonstop since the start of their shift, at 08:00 hours. It was now rapidly approaching 15:00 hours.
"Nahhh. Guess not," his famished friend was forced to concede, over the low rumbling in his empty tummy.
DeSoto hit their rescue truck's right turn signal and moved into the freeway's next EXIT lane.
Gage's sweaty head swung in the driver's direction. "You gonna take Highland?"
"Yeah. I know it's a little longer. But there'll be less traffic. So, we should make better time," his equally famished friend explained and gave his complaining stomach a couple of comforting pats.
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The rescue squad pulled onto Highland and the pair traveled along the divided highway in relative silence.
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'Roy sure was right about there bein' less traffic,' John silently realized, six miles later, and gave an oncoming semi-tractor-trailer a disinterested glance. His right eyebrow suddenly raised in thought, as something about the vehicle struck him as odd. It took a few seconds for it to finally dawn on him what it was. "Get into the eastbound lanes!" he anxiously requested and started reaching for their radio's mic'.
DeSoto immediately slowed up and then unquestioningly obeyed—turning onto the very next EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY cut across.
"LA, Squad 51. Standby for a possible still alarm," Gage informed the dispatcher, as they began heading back in the direction they'd just come from.
"10-4, Squad 51..."
"Pull alongside a' that Peterbilt," John further requested of his puzzled, but compliant, partner, and pointed at the back of the big rig that was now just ahead of them and one lane over. "When it went by, I didn't see anybody sittin' behind the wheel," he solemnly explained.
DeSoto's eyes about doubled in size. "Somebody has to be driving, or it would have left the road by now. Maybe they just bent down to get something," he further postulated.
"May-be," Gage agreed, sounding hopeful. "Pull up alongside, and we'll find out soon enough."
DeSoto obediently depressed their rescue truck's gas pedal until they were traveling side-by-side with the bright red semi, which was doing about 45.
The firemen's worst fears were confirmed, as only one head was currently visible in the open driver's side window of the big rig's sleeper cab. It belonged to a teenaged boy—who was seated in the Peterbilt's passenger seat!
Both of the panic-stricken lad's white-knuckled fists were gripping the runaway semi's steering wheel, in a desperate attempt to keep it traveling in a steady-and straight-path. The kid got his first glimpse of the firemen and immediately began screaming for help.
The ends of two rubber high-pressure hoses were dangling from the tractor's undercarriage: one red and one blue.
Speaking of the firemen...
Gage and DeSoto exchanged a pair of very grave glances.
Both of the big rig's air-brake lines had been severed, somehow, and were currently whipping in the wind.
Roy re-donned his helmet and then reached out to flick their lights and siren on.
His partner depressed their mic's send button. "LA, Squad 51 responding to a still alarm in the eastbound lanes of Highland Highway, approximately six miles from the Pamona Freeway. There is a driver-less semi-tractor-trailer—with no brakes—approaching the Pamona Freeway onramp. Request an ambulance at our location. Also, contact CHP and have them stop all traffic on the Pamona Freeway near the Highland Highway entrance. My partner and I will attempt to...intervene."
"10-4, Squad 51. Ambulance is responding...CHP will be notified to stop traffic near the Highland Highway entrance to the Pamona Freeway...Time out: 15:08."
John replaced the radio mic', re-donned his helmet and released his seatbelt.
Roy held his right arm across his partner's chest and prevented him from leaving his seat. "What—exactly—did you mean by 'intervene'?" he nervously inquired.
"The driver is obviously incapacitated. His foot is probably pressing on the accelerator. One of us has got to get into that truck cab," Johnny irrationally rationalized.
"No. One of us does not have to get into that truck cab," Roy—the voice of reason—calmly contradicted. "One of us wants to get into that truck cab."
"It's not that I want to get in there," John assured his upset associate. "It's just that I want to respond to a 'twenty-car freeway pile-up' even less."
Roy watched the highway's six-mile marker go by.
They were rapidly running out of time.
"Okay. Say you make it into the cab—without killing yourself. What do you know about semi's?"
"I know a lot about semi's. For instance, I know that that is a 13-speed '77 Peterbilt 359 EXHD sleeper, with a Cummins 450hp diesel, Jacobs Engine Brake, 370 ratio, tandem axle and air ride suspension."
DeSoto shot his knowledgeable associate a strange stare. His friend never ceased to amaze him. "Okay. Then, how do you intend to stop 80,000lbs of runaway semi in less than six miles?"
"I'll open all 18 valves on the Jake Brake and just keep downshifting. If that fails, we'll open the doors and jump."
Roy exhaled an audible sigh of resignation. "Be careful! Will yah?"
"Always," Johnny assured him. "I'm gonna get out on the running board. You pull as close as you can and I'll 'transfer' onto their running board."
Roy cringed at the details of his partner's proposed plan of action, but then managed a reluctant nod—er, an extremely reluctant nod.
His fearless friend stood and stuck the upper half of his torso out of their moving truck's open passenger's window. John then turned around and began pulling the rest of his body out of the Squad's window, as well.
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Several miles away, in an office at LA County Fire Station 51...
Captain Hank Stanley had been only half-listening to the radio chatter coming from the wall speaker out in the garage. That is, until he overheard the conversation between his paramedics and headquarters.
The fire officer had found Gage's little announcement, that the two of them were planning to ‘intervene' with 40tons of runaway tractor-trailer, especially disconcerting.
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"Hey, Cap?! Guys?!" Chet Kelly suddenly called out into the garage. "Can yous step in here a second?! There's somethin' on the TV that I think yous should see!"
Hank got stiffly to his feet and started heading for their station's rec' room.
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"KXLA just interrupted the ballgame with a special live report from their traffic chopper," Kelly informed his Captain and crewmates as they stepped into the rec' room, and directed their attention to the scene on their TV's screen.
Stanley stared in disbelief, as the hovering helicopter's cameraman zoomed in on the LA County Fire Department Rescue Squad that was traveling alongside of the runaway semi-tractor-trailer.
One of the Squad's occupants began climbing out of the moving vehicle's passenger window—without a lifebelt or lifelines.
The Captain cursed beneath his breath and covered his eyes with his right hand.
"What is he doing?!" Mike Stoker alarmedly inquired.
Stanley gazed out at the television screen from between two splayed fingers and watched—in horror—as John Gage suddenly latched onto a mirror brace and then jumped, from one moving truck to the other.
The fearless fireman's shiftmates emitted a group 'gasp' and their racing hearts skipped a few beats.
"Good lord!" the daring paramedic's Captain exclaimed...among other things.
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The tractor-trailer's terrified, temporary driver was so preoccupied with the attempt that was being made to rescue him, he failed to keep his eyes on the road.
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Speaking of eyes...
DeSoto's already wide eyes got even bigger. A colorful expletive escaped from the paramedic's tightly pursed lips, as the big rig they were traveling beside suddenly left its perfectly straight path and came careening towards him—er, them. "Johnny! Look out!" he warned.
But his shouted warning came a couple of seconds too late.
Johnny had already begun his 'transfer'.
Roy watched in disbelief—and anguish—as the swerving semi slammed into his leaping partner. He hit the Squad's brakes and then the shoulder of the highway. "Hang on, Johnny! Hang on!" the fireman fervently urged—er, prayed, and promptly pulled back onto the pavement.
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An "Ooof!" had escaped from the leaper's lips as the big rig suddenly collided with his already in-forward-motion self-knocking all the 'wind' right out of him. The breathless fireman's sweaty face filled with a grimace and his mouth immediately formed a silent 'Dammit!'
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The rescuer's shiftmates saw the semi swerve, just as John jumped, and winced in unison.
"Oooh. That looked like it hurt," a deeply concerned Chet Kelly quickly determined. "C'mon, babe! You can't let a little 'collision with a semi' stop you!"
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"Oh! Gawd! I'm sorry! I am so-o sorry!" the swerving big rig's young passenger assured his rammed rescuer and forced his straying eyes to return to the roadway.
John felt the running board beneath the soles of his boots and promptly braced his feet. The fingers of his right hand had somehow managed to lock onto the semi's doorframe. His left hand was still clutching the chrome-plated mirror brace. 'Ah, shit...' he silently said, as his oxygen-deprived brain began to 'shut down' and his vision began to 'tunnel out' on him. He could feel his grip starting to slip.
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51's engine crew saw their shiftmate's knees beginning to buckle and exchanged anxious glances.
The group emitted another unified 'gasp'—of abject horror—as their friend's right hand suddenly let go of the runaway truck's doorframe.
The crew continued watching, as Johnny's right arm dropped limply to his side and his bruised body swung out and away from the driver's door he'd been hugging. Fortunately, the fingers on the now semi-conscious fireman's left hand remained firmly attached to the chrome mounting brace on the big rig's back up mirror.
"Ah! Shee-eesh! Hang on, pal! Hang on! That's an order!" their Captain proclaimed, just prior to covering his wincing eyes back up. He'd be damned if he was going to watch his young friend fall to his death.
TBC