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Stick to the Plan
Rescue 5 scattered around the table in the kitchen. Through the windows, late afternoon sun slanted in, laying streaks across the floor.
“Full house,” Ben declared, tossing his cards with a flourish. “Pay up, losers.”
Groans erupted as the others threw their cards down in mock defeat. “You’ve got to be cheating, Lesage,” Carter said, shaking his head. “Nobody’s that lucky.”
Ben leaned in with a grin. “Luck? No, that’s called skill. You should try it sometime.”
“Pretty sure your skill involves distracting us with your constant trash talk.”
“Hey, if it works, it works.”
Static broke across the room.
“Rescue 5—respond to Maxwell Construction for firefighter extraction, shaft unstable, BLS on scene, ALS en route.”
Chairs slid back as the crew rose from the table. Ben grabbed his helmet, the smirk gone from his face.
“Gear up fast. Full kit. We don’t know what we’re walking into. Let’s move.”
They suited up with the same practiced rhythm, every motion hard-wired. Carter pulled on his gloves and murmured, “Firefighter extraction… damn.”
Ben climbed into the rig without a word. The others followed.
The engine kicked forward. Bay doors opened, and the last scraps of chatter died out.
“Stay sharp,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
They rolled across the pavement, tires thrumming, signal hissing between bursts. Ben kept his focus on the task ahead.
The channel flared again.
“Update—Maxwell Construction incident now operating on Tac 3.”
He switched over. The new feed crackled—layered voices, harsh and indistinct.
“…rigging point’s compromised, secondary line’s fouled—reset and check tension…”
“…Rosfield’s still in the shaft—hold that anchor!”
Ben went still, fingers digging into the handrail.
The crew exchanged uneasy looks, and he didn’t need to ask why.
One of them finally said, “You gonna be okay to run this?”
“Focus on your job.” His grip didn’t ease. “I’ll do mine.”
Ben stepped down into dust and wreckage. The shaft mouth barely held shape—collapsed inward, steel buckled beyond repair.
One glimpse told him enough. He kept going.
Responders clustered near the drop point, headlamps cutting through the haze. Gavin raised his head from a stabilization beam, grime smeared across his face.
“We just reached him, Lieutenant,” he said quickly. “Doc’s down with him now. It’s bad. He’s pinned and the shaft’s unstable.”
Ben nodded. The battalion chief was a few meters off, issuing orders to a pair of engine crew firefighters. He crossed a line of cable toward him.
“Chief,” he called, timing it between commands. “Rescue 5 can take debris removal and secondary shoring.”
“Good. Work under Rodney—coordinate through Rescue Group.”
“Copy, sir. Rescue 5, move in. Watch for shifts. Call out every adjustment. Stay focused. No risks.”
At the rim, Ben peered into the wrecked funnel—concrete, deformed rails, shattered flooring piled in ruin. Through the gaps, a flash of orange, half-buried beneath a pinned beam.
Matt.
Every part of him wanted to rush in—get down there, break through it, pull Matt out himself. But that wasn’t how this worked. Not when the zone was already hot. Not when one wrong step could trap them all.
He forced the instinct down. Matt would’ve.
Below, something bright flickered—high-vis gear catching the light. That had to be the doctor. Ben couldn’t make out more.
“Get those supports in place!” He refocused. “He needs out of there—now!”
After nearly an hour of painstaking work, the last of the debris came free—revealing Matt in full. He lay twisted in the wreckage, right side crushed from the fall. His helmet was cracked, blood tracing from a gash above his brow. An oxygen mask covered his face.
“Keep his head and spine steady,” Ben barked. “Watch his leg—don’t twist him.”
One firefighter checked the c-collar’s fit while another kept his shoulders steady. Ben crouched in, tightening the straps—then paused at the arm. The wrist was swollen, bent wrong, joint warped past anything a body was built to take.
“On three. One, two, three!”
They lifted Matt clear and into the stokes basket. As the frame took his weight, the leg gave a sickening pull—bone punching through the pants, blood blooming fast. Nothing aligned.
“Secure lines,” someone yelled. The haul rope snapped taut.
The basket rose, edging past the mangled rebar.
Ben stayed with it, tracking every tilt, every change in tension. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. His hands hovered too close to the line, long after his part was done.
He climbed out behind the rigging team—boots scuffing metal as he topped the rim. His balance felt off, like the platform swayed under him.
The medics were already at work, voices clipped and urgent as they transferred Matt onto the gurney.
Ben turned back toward the site. Secondary rigging to audit. Collapse markers to flag. He tried to lock in, but his attention kept drifting to the flurry around the stretcher, and the body on it that wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Lesage,” Carter said, coming up behind him. “Go check on him.”
“I’ve got secondary rigging to audit,” he said.
“You don’t. Rodney’s already on it.”
“We still need cribbing logged. Scene’s not stable.”
“We’ve got it.” His tone was firmer now. “Rodney’s got the scene. Just go.”
Ben pulled away at last. He made for the ambulance, each step heavier than before.
“Spinal precautions holding. Oxygen levels stabilizing. Internal bleeding is critical,” the doctor said, brisk. “We move as soon as he’s ready.”
Something in him gave way.
He stopped short as the scene replayed behind his eyes. The shaft. The beam. The haul.
Had we moved too slow?
Every delay, every call—was I too careful?
Could I have been sharper? Faster?
And then—one thought hit harder than the rest.
Did I move him the wrong way?
The training was muscle-deep—every protocol drilled until it stuck. But the questions didn’t care. They dug in and stayed.
He fixed on the medics and didn’t blink.
They loaded Matt into the ambulance. The doors slammed. Sirens rose.
Did I make it worse?
He watched it vanish.
Ben sat on the steps of the rig—helmet at his side, gloves tossed on the ground. Dust clung to his gear. He held his phone, trembling.
Lucy’s name lit the screen—call unsent. His thumb stalled.
What am I supposed to say? How do I tell her?
The siren faded, thinning with distance. The site churned around him—shouts, clatter, radios—but Ben didn’t move.
He stared at the glow.
Nothing came.
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