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Mehta thinks that, of all the other stations, he liaises with the 118 the most. It’s weird: he can’t remember the last time he had an operation with the 134, and it’s been months since he ran into someone with the 132, and those are his neighbours. But the 118, far away as they are, always seem to pop up. So he’s not surprised to see two of the 118 on his scene when he pulls up, even though it is surprising. He just assumes, well, it’s typical 118 stuff. And it is.
Until it isn’t.
“Buckley, you get promoted to captain when I wasn’t looking?” Mehta asks as the two firefighters get out of the battalion truck.
Buckley looks unrepentant. “Only vehicle available.”
Fair enough. Mehta addresses the other firefighter as they enter the building behind the rest of his 133 team. “Diaz, you call this in?”
“Yeah,” Diaz says, not answering the unspoken question, which is why the hell is he the one calling it in? “Possible O.D.”
The team bursts into the apartment. There’s a woman on the ground, lying still in the way that Mehta’s never really gotten used to. There’s also a kid there, hovering over her, looking like he’s halfway to a meltdown. Honestly, Mehta doesn’t blame him. The kid looks about…what, ten? When Mehta was ten, he could barely tie his fucking shoes.
“I don’t think she’s breathing,” the kid says.
She most definitely is not breathing.
“We’re here now, we got her,” Diaz says to the kid.
Since Diaz apparently has all the information, Mehta asks him, “Do we know what she took?”
“Yeah,” Buckley says. “Eddie thinks it's tetrahydrozoline poisoning. Eye drops.”
“She always puts drops in my food,” the kid says, tearful. “She thinks I don't see her, but I do. I just wanted to see what would happen if I gave them to her. I'm sorry.”
Jesus. Mehta rifles through his pack, helping his team prep the woman for transport. This is definitely some 118 nonsense.
Diaz is comforting the kid. “That's okay. You didn't mean to hurt her.”
“Yeah, the kid's gonna need treatment, too,” Buckley tells Mehta. “Same kind of poisoning, just smaller doses. But for a really long time.”
Munchausen by proxy? Fuck, this really is some 118 nonsense. Mehta starts directing traffic, getting people looking at the kid, too. He calls for another R.A. unit. He kind of loses track of Buckley and Diaz in the commotion, which is good. It means they’re staying out of the way, which Mehta appreciates. The last thing he needs is people underfoot.
Mehta and his guys are loading the woman and her son into separate ambulances. She’s screaming for her son. Demanding to see him. Mehta thinks it’ll probably be a long time before that happens. Munchausen by proxy. That’s not something you see every day. And somehow, the 118 is at the middle of it.
The kid is trying really hard to be brave. Mehta can see it on his face. “What about my mom? Will I see her at the hospital?”
“She's a little more sick,” Diaz says, before Mehta can answer. “She's got to go to a different hospital. This is your ride.”
The kid nods. He looks terrified. The woman’s screaming isn’t helping. The paramedics close the ambulance doors on her, muffling it.
Mehta can hear Buckley and Diaz talking behind him.
“Should have got here sooner,” Diaz says.
“That kid is just lucky he met you,” Buckley answers.
“Diaz,” Mehta says, once the kid is loaded up. “You want to ride with the kid to the hospital?”
Diaz nods. “Yeah, that’d be gr—”
He’s cut off by a bullet in the shoulder. Blood arcs out from him and splatters all over Buckley, bright arterial red. Diaz doesn’t crumple instantly: he wavers for a few long seconds, blinking. Buckley stares at him.
Diaz drops.
Buckley stands there, motionless.
“Get down!” Mehta shouts, but Buckley isn’t moving. Mehta sees the glimmer of something across the street—or maybe he imagines it—but either way, he jumps into action, launching himself towards Buckley and knocking him to the pavement behind the cover of the ladder truck. He’s on top of Buckley, one hand forcing his head down to the ground. He can feel Buckley tremble underneath him, can feel the warm, wet blood start to stick to his skin. Mehta relaxes his grip enough to get to his radio. “Shots fired, shots fired!” he says into it, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. “Firefighter’s been shot!”
This isn’t 118 crazy anymore. This is something much worse.
Mehta orders the ambulances to mobilize. They have to get their patients to the hospital. They don’t have the time or ability to care about Diaz bleeding out on the pavement.
When he’s satisfied that Buckley is safely out of fire, Mehta gets off of him. “We need LAPD and air support,” he says into his radio. “Firefighter needs help!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Buckley roll under the truck. Mehta desperately hopes he doesn’t do anything stupid. He keeps relaying the situation to Dispatch until Buckley reappears, dragging Diaz behind him. There’s a sickening snail trail of blood behind them. At least this stuff looks darker.
If only there weren’t so much of it.
“Get him into the cabin!” Mehta shouts, once Buckley’s clear of the undercarriage. To the rest of his firefighters, Mehta says, “Get to the trucks!”
Mehta helps Buckley haul Diaz into the back of the ladder truck and then they’re off, reversing quickly and screaming toward the hospital, hopefully away from this mess. Mehta’s in the passenger seat, twisting back to look at Buckley and Diaz. Buckley has Diaz’s shirt open and is tearing into a fresh roll of gauze. Pack the wound. Good.
Diaz is coming to, just a bit. Mehta watches him look at Buckley, covered in his own blood. “Are you hurt?” Diaz asks Buckley, dazed.
“What?” Buckley looks at Diaz. “No, no. I’m good.”
Mehta gets back on the radio. “ This is the captain of the 133 en route to Byrne Memorial. Requesting a trauma unit to meet us. We have a firefighter with a gunshot wound. Firefighter Eddie Diaz of the 118.”
Buckley is talking to Diaz, trying to keep him conscious. He’s basically on top of him, pressing down on the wound in his shoulder. “You just hang on,” Buckley says, like he’s talking to more than just Diaz. “Three minutes away. You're so close.”
Mehta looks at the rapidly darkening cloth against Diaz’s chest. At the rivulets of red running down Buckley’s forearms. “We're gonna need a lot of blood,” Mehta says.
He’s never felt so nauseated at the sight of blood before.
Three minutes later, they pull into the emergency bay of Bryce Memorial. Nurses and orderlies rush out to greet them, ready to wheel Diaz away as soon as he hits the gurney. “Through-and-through. Upper torso,” Mehta tells the nearest nurse.
She nods. “Copy that.”
“Large caliber,” Mehta adds.
“We've got a transfusion ready.” The nurse frowns at him. “Did you say large caliber?”
Mehta nods, throat dry. “It was a sniper.”
“Pulse is weak,” another nurse says. “Trauma Bay Two. Let's set up for a thoracotomy,” she says, and then Diaz is gone.
Buckley stands alone, staring after him.
“You okay, Buckley?”
Mehta immediately regrets the question. Buckley looks at him with this hollowed-out look, this dead-eyed stare that somehow also communicates blind panic. His shoulders heave with uneven breaths, and he’s swaying a little. He’s not okay, not even a little bit. So Mehta shakes his head and heads back towards the ladder truck and his shaken-up team. He’s got people to look after.
Behind him, he swears he hears Buckley answer, “No.”