The Volunteer

By Tom Ward

Later, Doyle decides to become a volunteer firefighter and paramedic. He feels that with each life and property he helps to save; he makes a payment on his debt. For years, as Doyle responds to his community’s calls for help he ignores his own needs. To counteract flashbacks brought on by burnout, Doyle uses alcohol to keep going. Still, the memories of the destruction and dead villagers compels him to respond.

The Volunteer centers on one man’s struggle to find inner peace. And examines the question of what compels volunteers to respond no matter what time of day or night, to sacrifice their time, financial resources, their talents, and even their lives in the service of their communities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781613862223

Tom Ward

Tom Ward is a 23 year-old British writer and winner of the GQ Norman Mailer Award. He is represented by the Johnson & Alcock Literary Agency, and also writes for Huffington Post and Sabotage Times. Tom has been described as 'Quite possibly the best young writer in the country' by Bestselling Author Tony Parsons Tom can be found on Twitter at @RenegadeViper.

Book preview

1

The Volunteer

by Tom Ward

Published by Write Words, Inc. at Smashwords

©2013 Tom Ward All Rights Reserved

©Cover photo by Ross Rossco Beckley Used with permission

ISBN 978-1-61386-222-3

Dedication

For my Wife

Chapter 1

Robert Doyle, a member of the Cimarron Volunteer Fire Company sat on his haunches in front of a bedroom door. He anxiously waited for the attack line to fill with water so he could begin battling the raging fire just on the other side of the door. He tightly held the nozzle in his hands, concentrating on his breathing in an attempt to ignore the perspiration running down his forehead.

Christ, no, he whispered into his face mask. Sweat seeped into his eyebrows moving ever so closer to eyes.

Seconds later, the invading perspiration forced him to instinctively close his eyelids tight. After a few seconds, he started blinking quickly to ease the burning sensation. But the stinging persisted. In that instant, his mind took full advantage of the situation. Not satisfied Doyle had to contend with physical agony, the mind decided to heap on its own anguish.

Images of his deployment with the Multinational Peacekeeping Force in Beirut, Lebanon, flashed through his thoughts. But for the past seventeen years one recollection always came to the forefront. The memory centered on the order he gave in anger. At that moment in his mind, Doyle became Captain Robert Joseph Doyle, USMC.

* * *

"Grim Reaper, Grim Reaper! This is, Father Time. Over!"

"Go ’head, Father Time. This is Grim Reaper. Over."

"Grim Reaper, fire mission. Over."

"Go ’head, Father Time. Over."

"Map grid: Whiskey, Alpha, Charlie, Six, Zulu. Fire for effect. Fire for effect. Over."

"Father Time: Whiskey, Alpha, Charlie, Six, Zulu. Fire for effect. Over."

"For Christ’s sake, Skipper! That’s the coordinates of this village!" the radio operator shouted, struggling to take the hand set from his captain.

"Stand fast, Lance Corporal!" The captain yelled pushing his radio operator hard, knocking the Lance Corporal to the ground.

"But, Skipper!" the Lance Corporal shouted struggling to get to his feet.

"Stand fast!" the captain shouted pointing the handset at the radio operator.

Minutes later, the one ton shells from the USS New Jersey hit the village coordinates. The impact caused the earth to shake violently. While the shells continued to find their targets, the captain curled up in the fetal position covering his helmeted head with his hands. Doyle quivered with each earth shattering explosion. He kept shaking, but now John jerked the captain’s shoulder.

* * *

Doyle, we have water! Let’s go. What, the hell, are you waiting for? John shouted pounding Doyle’s shoulder with his gloved fist.

Doyle blinked; shook his head. Christ, you pick one helluva goddamn time for me to have a flashback.

Doyle, let’s move it! John shouted into the face mask so Doyle could hear him.

Doyle immediately gave the door a shove. It swung wide open, revealing flames consuming everything in its path.

He immediately yanked back on the nozzle’s handle unleashing the pressurized water to suppress the raging fire. The fire crackled like an endless pack of exploding firecrackers. In spite of the water, the fire advanced toward the volunteers.

’Bout goddamn time, Doyle shouted, hearing the hissing sound of water meeting fire.

He struggled to his feet, closing his eyes tightly to combat the perspiration. Opening his eyes, he started moving the nozzle in a figure eight pattern beating back the fire. With the flames retreating, the volunteers were able to advance farther into the room.

Above the sound of his pounding heart, the hissing of the water and the roar of the fire, Doyle heard a faint cry for help. He turned his head to the left while continuing to battle the blaze. He struggled with the sheer back pressure of the hose, all the while working his way to the left to where he heard the faint plea.

The veins in his temples pounded from a hangover headache. The sweat pouring from him scalded him because of the searing heat. Intensifying his efforts to get to the cry for help, he tightened his grip on the nozzle, gritted his teeth, and determinedly took another step to his left. He relentlessly blinked and smiled seeing the fire retreating. Doyle was about to duck down to look under the bed when suddenly he heard a high-pitched sound emanating behind him.

Shit!

Doyle quickly pushed the nozzle’s handle forward shutting down the attack line. He turned completely around, facing the source of the high-pitched distress signal. Doyle took a deep breath and looked at the blazing hot flames. He slowly exhaled; knowing the sound meant John needed his help. Doyle dropped the attack line and knelt beside his partner. The crackling fire reared up beginning to regain the ground it had lost because of Doyle. Within seconds the flames frantically lashed out trying to engulf the volunteers in a deadly embrace.

This is bullshit, God, Doyle screamed, wide-eyed staring at the flames leaping toward them

He quickly grabbed hold of John’s air pack harness straps. In that instant, he heard a child’s weak voice cry out for help again.

What the fuck, God? Let me get the kid too! Doyle shouted still staring at the flames.

With frustration and anger consuming him, Doyle quickly glanced to his left catching a glimpse of a closed closet door on the other side of the bed. I’m only six feet from the door. I should at least try to get the victim before it’s too late. He stared at the closet door. I can get both of them out of here.

Quickly shifting his gaze to the bed, all of Doyle’s hopes vanished in an instant when the fire engulfed the bottom of the bedspread. Seconds later the fire quickly advanced toward the closet door.

Jesus H. goddamn Christ! Why? Frustration seeped into his soul.

Doyle gritted his teeth as he angrily tightened his grip on John’s air pack harness strap and started to drag him out of the room. He only backed up a few feet when his right boot hit the doorframe. Struggling to get through the opening, he heard the child’s voice cry out again. He turned his gaze to the left but a wall of yellow orange flames blocked his view of the closet door.

Forcing himself to admit defeat, he once again started backing out of the room.

Christ, kid, I’m sorry, he softly whispered all the while pulling John toward safety.

Doyle pulled John into the hall just before flames roared out the top portion of the open door. He stopped; listened intently to hear a child’s weak plea, but could not be sure because of the deafening crackling that continued to consume everything in its path.

Goddamn it all to fucking hell.

While struggling with John in the hallway, Doyle’s mind instantly flashed before him the image of the dead village woman clutching her dead infant.

Not now! Doyle shouted shaking his head from side to side trying to wipe the picture from his mind.

He continued shaking his head from side to side still dragging John down the hall. Seconds later, an unknown brute force pushed him hard into the wall.

Jesus Christ, please?

A second later, another member of the backup crew advancing the secondary attack line to the fire slammed Doyle against the wall again. He quickly swung out his right hand grabbing the second volunteer by the turnout coat. He yanked hard on the coat shouting, There is a victim in the closet to the left.

The volunteer quickly patted Doyle twice in acknowledgment.

God, if it’s impossible for me to make amends toward the debt I owe humanity with this call, at least let someone save the child as partial payment. Knowing the victim stood a chance of being rescued, Doyle once again started down the hall while the other volunteer hurried to catch up to his partner.

Slowing his pace, Doyle maneuvered John around a corner. Once he rounded the corner, he continued into the kitchen area muttering, Sweet Jesus, let the backup crew reach that child in time.

Saturated with perspiration, he inhaled deeply. Then exhaled slowly while tightening his grip on the harness straps. Slowly he inched his way along the charged attack lines which he knew were leading him to safety.

Doyle tightly squeezed his eyelids shut while his right boot touched the kitchen door’s frame.

Nearly exhausted Doyle in a last-ditch effort struggled through the doorway pulling John with him. He stopped, flopped onto the deck, blinked several times while someone else grabbed hold of John. He felt relieved. He gladly released his grip on the harness strap, slowly rolled farther on his side closing his eyes.

Doyle lay on the deck to regain some strength. As he lay there, he managed to bring his breathing under control. He struggled to his feet, swayed a little, and decided to bend over resting the palms of his hands on his knees. I’m just a little dizzy.

He slowly straightened up, watching two volunteers carry John to the backyard where they gently laid him down.

Doyle turned to his right watching thick dark gray smoke pouring out of the top portion of the back doorway.

Come on, Doyle. Go get the kid. The little one is another installment payment. So move your sorry ass.

Doyle’s mind commanded his tired aching muscles to continue with the task at hand of saving lives and property.

Inhaling deeply, he slowly exhaled while hurrying toward the doorway. When he reached the back door, he dropped quickly on his hands and knees. He started crawling back into the kitchen when he suddenly stopped.

Did you stay awake all night God, thinking of ways to fuck up my day?

He slammed his fist on the kitchen floor when he heard his air pack’s regulator bell ringing warning him he only had several minutes of air remaining in the cylinder.

Goddamn it all too fucking hell!

He slammed his fist down hard on the floor as feelings of frustration and anger enthralled him. He backed out of the kitchen and once on the deck, he cursed the air pack’s warning bell.

Thanks, god, Doyle sarcastically remarked, struggling to his feet.

He stared at the kitchen door for a moment, turned toward the backyard removing his yellow helmet as he did. He held his helmet and quickly loosened the face mask’s straps. With the straps loosened, he removed the mask, letting it dangle against his chest.

With the feeling of total defeat sickening him, he turned toward the doorway staring at the dark gray smoke still pouring out the top portion of the door.

I fucking failed. God, how the hell do you expect me to pay off this damn debt? He shouted shaking his head. Doyle stood on the deck with his hands on his hips staring at the backyard. What the hell? Doyle fixed his gaze on John. He scanned the area for any signs of Emergency Medical personnel but didn’t see a single one.

He did see Whinny and Josh removing John’s air pack.

Jesus H. Christ, Doyle exclaimed running to the steps, jumped landing upright while tightly holding onto his helmet.

With a burst of reserve energy, he ran to where John lay, almost knocking a junior firefighter to the ground.

Kid, go get the Squad! Doyle shouted at the junior firefighter.

The young volunteer stared at Doyle. After a few seconds, he realized what Doyle told him to do.

Doyle came to a sudden stop when he reached John. He dropped his helmet while he visually examined John’s unresponsive body. While he continued examining John’s body, he quickly disconnected the face mask’s flexible air hose from the air pack’s regulator.

He took the mask’s strap from around his neck letting the face mask drop beside his helmet. Doyle dropped hard to his knees, quickly removed the fire gloves, tossing them towards his helmet. Before the gloves landed beside his helmet, Doyle leaned forward to feel John’s neck for a carotid pulse.

Josh handed John’s air pack to Whinny and stood up while Doyle’s fingertips gently touched John’s neck.

Sweet, Jesus! Doyle stared at John’s bluish-gray lips.

No pulse. Doyle immediately positioned himself near John’s head, tilted John’s head back and gave him two quick breaths. He quickly moved to the chest, found the compression site and without hesitating, started giving chest compressions.

Doyle, the ambulance crew’s coming, Josh announced.

It’s about damn time. Doyle glanced up at Josh as perspiration streamed down either side of Doyle’s face. After completing the fifteenth compression, he hurriedly shifted his position to John’s head and gave two more quick breaths of life. Without waiting on the second breath of air to escape the lungs, Doyle scrambled back into position, to start another series of chest compressions. With aching arms, perspiration drenching his already damp clothes, he pressed on John’s chest wishing he had a pint of vodka to suck on.

Goddamn you, John, come on! My damn arms are starting to give way on me!

Doyle, we’ll take over, a female voice anxiously shouted.

Without missing a compression, he looked up into light blue eyes. He completed the thirteenth compression noticing a member of the ambulance crew tilting John’s head back placing a portable mask over John’s nose and mouth.

Breathe, Doyle commanded.

Doyle turned, looked at the male EMT then sat on his haunches while the EMT gave John a breath through the mask.

Where’s Janet? Doyle looked the female EMT.

She’s out on another call.

No medics? Doyle continued to look at the EMT.

No.

Jesus H. Christ! Doyle scanned the area in vain.

While scanning the area, he noticed a few of the other firefighters walking toward him and spotted the junior firefighter again. Doyle shouted, Kid.

What? The junior volunteer turned toward Doyle.

Look, kid, I need you to run to the ambulance. Tell them to bring everything necessary to treat a heart attack.

Okay.

Doyle unsnapped the buckle of his air pack as he watched the junior run. He took it off laying it near his other equipment. Sighing deeply, he finally removed his coat tossing it toward the air pack. He turned his gaze to the ambulance to see the remaining members bringing the Gurney with the necessary equipment.

Keep up the CPR until I tell you to stop, Doyle ordered.

All right, Doyle.

Guys, you’re going to have to stand back so we can do our jobs, Doyle shouted to the growing group of firefighters.

There’s no pulse, the male EMT stated without emotion.

All right, Doyle muttered, glancing at several of the firefighters who were staring at him.

Here.

Doyle turned toward the voice to see the young volunteer bend over to catch his breath.

An EMT told me to get this to you as s-soon as p-possible, the young man quickly stammered between breaths.

Thanks.

Doyle grabbed the defibrillator, quickly setting it beside his partner. Removing the pair of large electrode pads, he quickly ripped open one pad with his teeth, while holding the other.

Stop CPR! Get his clothes off. Doyle stared at the EMTs.

He quickly tore the other wrapper open, pulled out the pad sticking it in his mouth. He reached for the leads on the side of the defibrillator while an EMT tore John’s T-shirt wide-open just as Doyle connected the pads to the leads. I need a damn drink.

Removing the backing from the pads, he set them in place on John’s chest. Doyle felt the throbbing pain return to his temples as he opened the top of the defibrillator turning on the machine.

Stop CPR.

Anxiously waiting for the machine’s assessment, Doyle’s gaze shifted from the EMTs to the screen when he heard the synthesized voice. Stop CPR. Stand back.

He’s in V-fib. Stand clear, Doyle ordered without looking at anyone. Doyle shifted his gaze to John while the defibrillator started to whine.

Come on, John, he muttered softly while the pitch from the defibrillator increased.

Check breathing and pulse, the synthesized voice commanded.

Doyle shifted his gaze to the male EMT, who shook his head from side to side after checking John for any signs of life.

Stand back, the synthesized voice ordered.

Immediately following the command, John’s body tensed up from having 200 joules of electricity course through his body.

Watching John’s body relax, Doyle knew the machine immediately started analyzing. Hearing the machine’s whining sound signaled to him John continued to be in V-fib.

Come on, God, help me here. I have a debt to pay.

Stand back, commanded the machine’s voice.

Doyle wiped perspiration from his forehead hearing, Check pulse and breathing.

Nothing, the male EMT informed.

Yeah, Doyle sighed casting his gaze at the male EMT.

Stand back, the synthesized voice ordered.

While Doyle struggled to his feet, the electrical shock hit John’s body again. Doyle hurried to the Gurney, grabbed a laryngoscope, an endotracheal tube and a roll of tape.

Kid, Doyle hollered to the junior volunteer.

Yeah.

Grab this infusion kit and this bag of saline. Doyle pointed to each object.

Ah, yeah. Sure.

Doyle turned and bumped into Josh.

Doyle, are you okay? Christ, you’re sweating like a stuffed pig. You look pale and your eyes are bloodshot.

Josh, you’re a damn mother hen, he commented while hurrying by him with perspiration streaming down either side of his face. I just need a damn drink. Doyle hurried to John and dropped to his knees.

Stop ventilation, he told the male EMT.

With swift movements, Doyle used the steel blade of the laryngoscope to insert the endotracheal tube into John’s throat. He wiped his eyes with the sweat soaked shirtsleeve while tearing off several strips of tape from the roll. He secured the endotracheal tube and quickly attached a bag valve mask saying to the male EMT, Squeeze this.

The male EMT grabbed the mask and watched Doyle placed a stethoscope on John’s chest. Squeeze.

While the EMT squeezed, Doyle listened intently to see if he placed the tube in John’s trachea and not his esophagus.

Shit, squeeze again.

Doyle looked at John feeling relieved at the sounds he heard.

Bag him and hyperventilate with 100% oxygen, Doyle barked taking the stethoscope from his ears.

Okay, the EMT said.

Doyle struggled to his feet and maneuvered to the defibrillator where he dropped hard to his knees again. He looked at John and picked up the IV bag.

He held the bag, opened it, looked around, then smiled when he noticed Whinny standing next to the Gurney.

Whinny, relieve Karen on the chest compressions.

But I’m not certified yet, Whinny protested not moving.

Whinny, none of us here is going to tell anyone. Now get over there.

Whinny stared at Doyle then quickly moved toward the female EMT.

What’s your name? Stop ventilating. Doyle grabbed a syringe filled with epinephrine while shifting his gaze to the male EMT.

He disconnected the BMV, inserted the syringe into the tube, and pushed the plunger into the barrel. He recapped the syringe, reattached the BMV saying, Bag’em.

Doyle glanced at his watch, turned his gaze to the junior saying, Kid, grab a latex glove from the Gurney.

The junior nodded and ran to the Gurney while Doyle picked up the heavy-duty plastic bag of saline and tore off the protective cover.

I’ll purge the line for you, Karen offered, taking the bag from him.

Thanks, said Doyle.

Here, the junior stated extending a glove to Doyle.

Thanks.

He took the glove, placed it under John’s left arm, and tied it tightly above the elbow saying, Kid, what’s your name?

Michael. Michael Mahoney.

Mike, thanks for your help.

You’re welcome, Michael answered, watching Doyle grab a packet of disinfectant quickly tearing it open.

He grabbed John’s left arm wiping the nape of the elbow with the disinfectant. He tossed the towelette aside, took an IV needle catheter inserting it and smiled when he noticed the flashback of blood entering the catheter’s plastic applicator. Nodding he advanced the catheter farther into the vein while removing the needle.

Karen, is the bag ready? Doyle smiled satisfied.

Yes.

Good.

He recapped the needle, set it on the ground then took the long tube from her. He shifted his gaze to the young volunteer saying, Michael.

Yes.

I need you to hold this bag in the air, Doyle watched Karen extend the bag toward the junior.

The young volunteer nodded, took the bag and held it high, while Doyle attached the IV tubing to the catheter.

Doyle, I’ll secure everything for you. Karen watched him wipe perspiration from his left eye.

Thanks, Karen, he stated, glancing at his watch.

Two minutes since the epi. He looked at John shifted his gaze to Whinny and finally stared at the male EMT. Shit. He shifted his gaze to the defibrillator. He turned the defibrillator’s knob to 360 joules, and grabbed the paddles.

Stop CPR. Doyle reached over, quickly removing the adhesive pads from John’s chest, and placed them beside the defibrillator.

Stand clear.

Doyle placed the paddles on John’s chest and delivered the 360 joules of energy. John’s upper torso tensed up and rose off the ground. He then checked the defibrillator, placed the paddles back on his partner saying, Clear.

John’s body tensed up and relaxed. Doyle sat on his haunches, still holding the paddles in his left hand. He stared at the defibrillator. Son of a bitch, he’s still in V-fib. Continue CPR.

Doyle dropped the paddles, picked up a full syringe which he uncapped and grabbed the IV bag. He leaned forward opening the medicine port on the IV injecting the medication lidocaine. He closed the port, recapped the needle setting it beside the other two. He picked up the paddles, pushed in the button and listened to the whine of the machine.

Clear!

He placed the paddles on John’s chest, prayed a prayer, and sent 360 joules of electricity through his partner’s nonresponsive body.

Flat line, he lamented, placing the paddles beside the defibrillator.

Doyle, Karen whispered seeing the frustration on his face.

Let’s get him ready for transport. I’ve done all I can, Doyle gave his partner two more shots, another dose of epinephrine, and the other atropine.

Doyle wiped perspiration from his face with the palms of his hands and struggled to his feet. Standing up, he arched his back, turned his gaze to John while he rubbed the back of his neck. Nodding, he sighed deeply watching the EMTs place John on the long board then hoisted him onto the Gurney.

I’ll clean up, Doyle.

Thanks, Karen.

He brought his right hand up to his face, rubbed his chin while watching the EMTs push and pull the Gurney toward the ambulance.

Doyle?

He placed his hand back on his hip, turned to look at the person who called him by name.

You’re a sight for sore eyes. He gazed into the light blue eyes of the female hospital paramedic.

What’s happening?

Heart attack, I shocked him five times, plus gave him two shots of epinepherine, and one of atropine.

Saline? She asked pointing to the bag Michael held.

Yeah.

I’ll go with him, if you want.

I’d appreciate it, Judy. I don’t think he’s going to make it.

Stranger things have been known to happen, she affirmed squeezing his forearm.

Yeah, that they have. Call me if you hear anything, good or bad.

Sure.

The hospital’s paramedic nodded then ran to the ambulance. He watched her before walking to his fire coat. He grabbed it, and rummaged through the pockets grabbing his cigarettes and lighter. He pulled them from the pocket, quickly removing one placing it between his lips and lit it. A wailing siren caused him to shift his gaze to the ambulance.