Doorway of Hell
I have been at the Rockland Fire Company for almost ten months. I have been the first responder at every call. The first to be suited up and ready to go when the boys decided to stroll into the firehouse. The men tease me for being the only woman on the squad, “Smell the estrogen in the air,” and “Hey, can’t handle the heat in the kitchen?” Let the boys play and leave the work to the only person who takes saving lives seriously, me, “Sparky.”
Yessiree, that’s the name, don’t wear it out, especially after today’s urgent call.
“All responders, house fire at 232 Altamont Avenue” was announced loud and clear over the intercom and rang through the speakers of the talkies. “All available responders are needed for a house fire at 232 Altamount Avenue.”
The alarms were blowing before the first call ended. I was ready by the second call — the only one ready to go. Larry, Moe, Curly, and their clown posse came walking as if they were on a stroll through the woods. Pissed, I yelled out from the driver’s side of the ladder truck, “Let’s go, lard asses!! Come on!! We have lives to save!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mother Teresa, hold on to your damned girdle. Save your bitchy hero complex for people who give a shit.”
Under my breath, I mutter, “Assholes.” Karma is now the mother of bitches, and she will come for each one of those idiots. I’d pay to watch her punch each of them in their nuts!
“Engine 4 at the scene. Running residential structure fire.” I drop the walkie, final gear set and run for the enormous blaze reaching far into the night sky. I glance over my shoulder, “Where are those morons?”
The fire called my name with a deep, sinister voice. I reach the front door and check for clearance. Through the hiss of burning fabric, crackling embers, and shattering glass, I hear a cry for help. Soft, scared, and yet, amazingly clear. I search through the devil’s playground and find a little boy crying hysterically, “Mommy, mommy is up there.” Tear-filled eyes look up the stairs, and he points.
“Okay, little buddy, come on, let’s get you out, and I will find your mommy.” I carry his shaking body to the front lawn.
“Where the hell are those stooges?”
I run back to the house and hurdle the falling timbers to reach the stairs. The flames circle me and bite at my suit. I run up the stairs, two at a time. I cautiously and strategically look for anyone. I am especially hoping I find the boy’s mother. The fire circles around and glares at me like a dragon ready for a kill, “Fuck you,” I yell at the flames.
“Help, is there anyone there? Please, please… my boy. Help!” I follow her pleas and find her searching in a small room engulfed in flames, her face covered in soot and eyes red with pouring tears. I put my hand on her shoulder and let her take a couple of breaths from my mask, “He’s outside; he is waiting for you.” I break the window to yell for the ladder, fuckers, where are they? The fire truck lights are flashing, the hose and ladder are intact, and no assholes are to be seen. I put my mask back on, took a deep breath, and put my arm around this hysterical woman. Dodging falling beams of Hell’s fury, I guide her to the staircase.
We made it to the bottom of the stairs through the blinding smoke and past the deep moans of the wood, losing its vitality. We quickly made our way outside, where her son nervously waited for her. I briefly watched them reunite.
I wonder if anyone else is trapped in the tidal wave of scolding flames.
“Sparky!”
I turn to the blaze and squint to make out the figures standing inside the house.
“Sparky!”
I tried to run toward them.
“Sparky!”
I felt like I was drowning in quicksand.
“Sparky!”
Time quickly slowed to a stop.
“Sparky!”
Hades fell down on them, dragging them to the pit of Hell.
“Nooo!”
I jolted awake, “Sparky, oh my God, she’s awake.”
I could barely open my eyes. I was in so much pain. Turning my head to the left, I saw a body covered with a white sheet, “No, no, no….”
Slowly turning my head, I faintly hear, “Call it.”
“Time of death, 4:17 am.”
My tears seemed hot as they poured from my eyes down my face, “No.”
After many weeks of hospitalization and physical and occupational therapy, I could maneuver myself in my new Hot Rod — a fire engine red wheelchair.
Reading the article several hundred times, I don’t know how I survived.
‘Residential Fire Kills Three Firefighters and Leaves One in Critical Condition
On October 23, 2020, at approximately 5:30 pm, a structure fire was reported at 232 Altamount Avenue, West Port, New York, the home of Sarah Richmond and her son Peter. Flames engulfed the house soon after Rockland Fire Company’s Engine 4 arrived at the scene.
With quick maneuvering from firefighters, the mother and son were rescued from the terrifying blaze. However, the fire overcame the structure quickly, causing the collapse of the three-story home, taking the lives of Lawerence MacDonald, Morris Tompkins, and Red “Curls” O’Malley. However, Jane “Sparky” Jones was fortunate to survive the hellish destruction, leaving her in critical condition.
“I can’t express the thanks and sadness I feel,” states Sarah Richmond.
“The lady firefighter looked like an angel. She helped my mommy and me get out of the fire.” Replied five-year-old Peter Richmond.’
I am sure I will never recall all that happened that night, but I will never stop seeing Larry, Moe, and Curly standing in the doorway of Hell.
THE END
MaryAnn Lindquist & Mojha R. MacDowell
