Firefighters - Wikipedia commons
ON A SHOUT
Part 1 of 2
Nik Morton
Without warning William Gorton's
world distorted and collapsed around him. Blinding white light instantly
banished all shadows and texture. His eyes watered, and even with his lids
lowered an after-image of fulgent light remained with him. The deafening noise
that followed was nightmarish. Disconcertingly he could feel his whole body
vibrate. Pieces of masonry and timber knocked him to the floor.
Groggy,
bruised and bleeding, he lay with his legs covered by debris. His world had
shrunk, had become a microcosm of pain. He coughed on blood and dust as he
tried to breathe in the clogged atmosphere. He still dared not open his eyes.
But he was alive! His head sang with the concussion and he could sense warm
dribbles pouring out of his ears, meandering through the caked dust on his
neck. The roaring of his ruptured eardrums was unceasing; no other sound
impinged. But he lived! As the ground where he lay beneath the rubble stopped
shaking, he did not; shock tremors persisted.
Fearfully
he opened his eyes. It was like peering through gossamer. Oh, God... No amount
of blinking would improve his vision. The film of frosted glass upon his eyes
was there to stay, it seemed, and the realisation greatly depressed him. Still,
poor sight was better than none. Later, he would shut his eyes often and
wonder...
White
flakes of plaster-dust floated eerily, like snow, and clogged the air. Only the
chimney-wall seemed to be standing. So his home - his ground-floor bed-sitter -
was n more. Neighbours were unknown to him, and some regret tinged his
thoughts, for he would no longer need to 'make the effort to get to know them'.
The
air was heavy with yellow smoke and was abnormally dark. With grazed and
throbbing hands Gorton pushed brick and plaster off his legs. There were gaps,
for he kept blacking out. Pain spread from deep gashes in thigh, shoulder, and
kneecap and his multiple bruises. He throbbed all over. At last he pulled
himself up and leaned against the truncated chimney. So it had finally
happened; his aching legs mockingly reminded him of the protest marches, the
snowballing force of public opinion behind them on the heels of the nuclear
devastation in India and Pakistan. Wrong, after all... Oh, God, what did we do?
His
bloodied hands trembled, veins distended; his muscles tensed as dizziness
continued to wash over him in this upright position. He brushed the back of his
hand against the side of his head and it came away stained dark red: his inner
ear was awash, drums perforated, affecting his balance... Only with difficulty
and some hidden reserve of will did he control the rising hysterical laughter;
to think that he had survived the collapse of the house! Mouth clamped tightly
shut, his tongue felt a tooth break loose and he almost choked, spat it out in
disgust.
Beyond
the ruin of his house, everywhere more resembled a surrealist painting than a
suburban street. Covered with dense clouds of smoke, the sky was as dark as
pitch. Under the blackness all the visible buildings for miles were on fire. As
though the world itself were ablaze, flames belching from the Earth's core. At
least his eyes could distinguish colours and contrasts. The sky was dark, the
ground scarlet, and shimmering between hung clouds of yellowish smoke. Stark
yellow, scarlet and oppressive black, through which darted black match-stick
people, the whole scene like something created by the visionary Bosch.
Gorton
vomited and strength drained from him. His heart pounded louder in the voided
shell as he looked on what seemed to be the end of the world. Salty wetness
trickled to his trembling lips as he stood unsteadily near the quite unscathed
edge. The devastated Solent Conurbation was now becoming submerged in a sea of
flames.
***
He was shaken violently from side
to side and clammy sweat made his wet clothing more uncomfortable. He awoke.
'Come
on, Bill!' Jacko's voice. He stopped shaking him, stepped back to finish
dressing. Gorton moaned and heaved himself out of sleep. Familiar, Spartan
surroundings, still viewed through gauze: cots, with bedding unkempt, damp;
emulsioned walls adorned with assorted posters, a television picture with the
sound turned off. And the radiators steamed where the wet clothes hung. Convenience
food wrappers were screwed up on the small plastic table with an untended pack
of playing cards. He closed his eyes again, briefly.
'More
racist arson!' Jacko spat out and swore repeatedly. Gorton remembered thinking
that Jacko's temperament was unsuited for this work; he smiled thinly. The
horrible ringing was still in his ears. But of course it was not concussion
this time but the fire-alarm.
The
digital said 02:23. He rubbed callused palms over his lined, drawn features and
through the thinning patches of grey hair. A tremor jerked his heart: small
tufts of hair still fell onto his pillow.
'What
about the others?' he asked Jacko, glancing up. 'We only got back from a shout
thirty four minutes ago.'
'Called
out.' Jacko's dark brown close-set eyes glistened; his broken nose gave an
attractive lopsided aspect to otherwise harsh, rugged features. Nervously
unwrapping a stick of chewing-gum, he threw the paper away in a pointless
gesture of frustration. He used up too much nervous energy in futile gestures
and exclamations: energy that couldn't be adequately replenished these days.
For the fourth time that night, Jacko said, his voice pitched high: 'If the
bells go down one more time, I'll jack it in!'
He
looked like some cartoon character, his slight frame encased by a heavy and
cumbersome rubber delta suit. Regulations on build had long since been placed
in abeyance: the Fire Department was glad to get anyone.
Leading
Fireman Gorton swung his legs round and sat up, thrust his wet stocking feet into
thick rubber boots. Medicals for recruits had been abandoned, too, otherwise he
would now be one of the five million jobless. And the jobless had shrunken
bellies; they had too much time on their hands to brood and to hit out in a
variety of ways. Arson was but one; they also escaped, by suicide.
In
an effort to be rid of his traumatic memories and to shut out the insistent
cold and insidious cramp, he collected his belt and equipment. He devoted his
concentration to buckling on his harness with axe, revolver, mallet and knife.
He ignored his friend's outburst: Jacko had always intended 'jacking it in',
hence his name.
It
was a bittersweet realisation: they had let him sleep the longest. Somehow,
they had learned about his weaknesses, his past. Strangely, there wasn't any
guilt. If they knew how he cared, how he helped... they gave no sign. Did he
talk in his sleep? On return, the entire crew had fallen into a sleep of
physical exhaustion in their wet clothes. Now, as always, he regretted
sleeping. Painful though it was, he could contend with cramp; but nightmares
were a different matter.
They
met up with the others and hurried to their appliances downstairs. Jacko lagged
beside him, offering moral support, for he was soon short of breath.
R.T.
crackled in the cab. Reynolds, the Station Officer, was at the scene, having
been waylaid on his return from another shout. Jacko belted himself in the
driver's seat and snapped the torn computer printout on the dash's clipboard.
Destination, a hotel in the Chinese ghetto, behind Soho... The take-away next
door had been put to the torch by another racist faction. 'All aboard!' Jacko
shouted unnecessarily and gunned the vehicle through the computer-controlled
doorway.
Gorton
was bounced along in the cab as the fire-engine raced through the streets.
There was a depressing sameness about London now; long gone were the colourful
clothing shops, the bazaars and amusements, the bijou cinemas and cosmopolitan
restaurants. Instead, there were boarded-up shop windows and gutted ruins
fenced off with barbed wire; consumer society rubbish was cast far and wide,
clogging gutters and drains. Day and night, shadowy figures skulked, some
misshapen through the evil agency of war, others carrying broken frames caused
by malnutrition and general neglect. The few eyes that would meet Gorton's were
empty, without hope or sentiment. An inhuman hardness was there; it was like
looking into chilled water. People were clubbed to death for trifles and bodies
lay where they had been attacked. The police and armed forces were incapable of
containing street violence, even under a kind of martial law. Some three years
after the end of the War, the country was moribund. The demoralised population
was easy prey to any cancerous propaganda, so racism rose to terrible
proportions; a cause to espouse, to foment...
Seeing
these fleeting images as the vehicle hurried through the city, Gorton reflected
on his good fortune to be alive, even with contamination rotting his body. Life
was worth hanging onto at any cost; not for him the quiet submission, the weak
acquiescence, the descent to a living death, or the final admission of failure,
suicide.
***
Bathed in the eerie yellow light,
the unkempt woman clutched a brown paper parcel to her torn clothes; her flesh
on the left glowed red. She knelt, trembling uncontrollably and looked up as he
trod across the rubble towards her. Bloodshot whites encircled fearfully
staring irises and her mouth opened in a broken-toothed grimace. The momentary
distraction was enough to loosen her grip and scorched bones fell out of the
tatty bundle, some garbed in soiled baby clothes that stank terribly. She
scrabbled in the dust frantically to retrieve them, her fear at his presence
submerged by her insane maternal distress. She did not feel his gentle touch or
his merciful blow.
***
Not only were his sleeping
moments disturbed. She had been the first victim he had relieved. He still
remembered the heart-wrenching decision, the gut-feeling after the action: he
felt good, merciful. He had knelt down beside her corpse and dutifully
collected the baby’s remains, placed them beside her. Unbidden, prayers tripped
over his quivering lips. He had never been religious, but now prayer seemed to
provide a need, to salve. In the cab he licked his lips, tasted the now
familiar salt; the others, sitting beside and opposite him, ignored his tears,
for they were used to his introspective periods.
Screeching
round a barricaded bend, the vehicle burst through and scattered street
fighters left and right. The steel-reinforced fender at the front was a potent
persuader; Jacko laughed hysterically. Some fired stolen automatic weapons, but
the fire-engine raced on. The siren blared stridently. The whole city was a
constant noise of sirens, chafing at nerves, remarkable only when a rare lull
occurred.
***
The conflagration was discernible
two blocks away, bestowing a pale aurora upon the sky. A heat-halo from Hell,
he thought sardonically. Even above the siren-wails he could hear the cries of
the fire victims. Ringing in his ears. And the tears ran.
***
Thousands died in unbearable pain
for the analgesics ran out very quickly. Often, he came across wandering
survivors; vacant, insane, or simply running amok in extreme anguish, like
moths about a light. Frenetic, frenzied, self-immolating.
***
When there were no witnesses to
misunderstand his motivation, he helped to remove the pain, by taking what
little life remained and it wasn’t much, usually. He spent some time trying to
muster the victims’ will, to mentally subdue the agony, or he nursed them till
they died of shock. Only as a last act of mercy, taken reluctantly, he told
himself, did he end their soured existence. Afterwards he always felt good; but
he supported profound sadness too. So much life, so much innocence: scourged.
It
was little consolation now that the Limited War had been halted, miraculously,
when it was feared all-out nuclear war would follow. Some sombre rejoicing took
place at the announcement of the incredible climb-down from escalation. The
television screens had brought all the horror and carnage home, to every
country, courtesy of the satellite stations. But the rebuilding of the nation
suffered more setbacks as frustration and national grief swamped people. Easy
prey to those who expressed these feelings were the black, yellow and Jewish
communities.
***
In his white bloodstained coat
the young doctor wiped sweat from his glasses; absently, Gorton noticed only
one lens installed. 'I can't prescribe anything for these people,' he said,
frustration shading his tone. 'Profound emotional disorders aren't curable just
like that,' and he tried unsuccessfully to snap his fingers. The doctor turned
away, ducked into the recently erected Army tent, and left Gorton surrounded by
moaning and crying, shouting and swearing: ambient suffering.
Turntable
ladders and emergency tenders filled the roadway; water glistened in pools;
rainbows were flaunted by oily surfaces. Searchlights illumined the buildings:
a hotel of four storeys, bed-sitter buildings, boarded-up boutiques and
take-away shops. Fire rages, spreading fanlike across the frontage.
Firestorms
had turned the few fallout shelters into crematoria. He wandered for days
before a survey team found him. Blackened match-sticks huddled in the shelter
corners beside their televisions, scorched and burst canned food, their
air-filtration units and bio-loos. Survivors near the edge suffered severe
burns that were superimposed upon the radiation effects. Protective clothes
should have been but were not comforting as the teams trod through the
wasteland to make readings and leave monitoring boxes.
Many
on the survey team killed themselves: the prevalent feeling was that the team
members had cheated, had not shared in the torment.
Of
course the fallout had spread, for miles, invisible, deadly. As time passed,
deaths mounted from infection and radiation-induced disease; lack of water, of
sanitation and of contaminated food compounded the death-toll.
Yes,
he found much evidence that the living envied the dead. And jargon persisted,
cold, divorced from reality: 'Suicides seem to be on an exponential curve, with
no levelling off in sight.'
Conditions
worsened as there was no way to dispose of the thousands of decomposing
corpses. Epidemics spread; virulence increased as the medication was exhausted.
But
that was three years ago, he reminded himself.
'Things
are improving...' More specious propaganda. But surely life was worth living,
regardless?
He
was no longer so sure.
To be continued tomorrow…
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