Sparks Flew

Cord lay there for a moment. My head aches.  My eyes burn. My arm hurts like hell. Tripped over my own big feet. Comstock, you’re not going to live to be an old man if you don’t get your sorry butt up from here. Old man! Wendy used those very words when she skipped off with that fireman.

As he recalled. Her exact words had been, “You’re nothing but an old man inside a young man’s body,” she’d said with her lip curled in disgust.

What does that say about me when we met? Just look at yourself, old man. I will when my eyes can focus without watering. I need to get back in focus more ways than one.

Cord lay there for a moment. Great, there’s a bone poking through—and blood, lots of blood. I broke my stupid arm. There was a scenario at competition one time like this. Only the protruding bone was moulage’—road kill and latex. The blood was a gelatinous concoction of Sweet’s. Bruises were clown makeup and ashes for effect. The medics worked diligently to evacuate their victim but were ‘timed out’. That mustn’t happen this time. Don’t even think it.

Where’s Baby? Or Bogie? Crap, left them penned up in the truck. Smooth move, Comstock. Can’t even call for help. No radio or anything to communicate.

His training kicked in. If the victim is isolated and unable to correct the situation for himself—assess the situation.  Check the hazards.

Well, as Fern says, I’m in deep caca and there’s fire and smoke nipping at my body. Every fiber in my being screams: get the hell out of here. Think, he commanded himself. He looked all around. Ashes powdered the hard ground. Mesquite trees popped and sputtered in death throes. He was at the bottom of a knoll near the pasture where he kept the large animals. A coyote lay dead close by. He could smell its scorched hide.  Even a predator shouldn’t have to die like that.  A row of charred fence posts dangled from barbed wire garrotes around their necks.  Scrub brush had been reduced to toothpicks.  The donkey was braying in sheer terror.

Who could blame him? My own throat is so dry I could spit cotton.

Cord’s eyes teared. A spasm of coughing overtook him. Holy Moses, that hurts.

Off to the right and behind him, he heard voices near the cattle guard.  He tried to sit up and call to them. A hoarse croak came out. The smoke was so dense—foggy looking—like something out of an old movie with Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. Only this isn’t fog, it’s smoke and fire!

The animals must be released! That’s where I was headed. I’ve got to rescue them. The house be damned. Things can be rebuilt. Lives are what are important. Beginning with mine. Okay, grit your teeth and stand.

Cord had gotten as far as putting his weight on his good elbow when a man came into view looking like an apparition.  At first, he thought it was an illusion—backlit as the figure was by yellow-scarlet glow. A tall tree nearby went up with a whoosh, Cord felt arms on either side of him, helping him to his feet. He couldn’t suppress a groan.

“What in blue blazes do you think you’re doing, Man? The fire’s nearly engulfed this whole damn place.  Looks like an acre or two of hell out here.”  His foreman, Vic scolded Cord in his right ear as he tilted the canteen of water to his boss’ parched lips.

“All the animals I have boarded,” he gasped, “got to get them out.” Another groan escaped his lips.

“Not with one arm, you ain’t,” the stranger in fire-gear took his left arm—the broken one. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m the SOB who’s going to flatten you if you don’t let go of me. That arm’s broken, you fool. Who the hell are you?”

“Call me Clark. I’m a trained volunteer who wants to help you.”

“A man is headed for the pens to check on the animals, Cord,” Vic assured him, then turned to the rescuer, “He’s my boss.”

“I need him to answer, to let me know that he’s able to reason.”

The man in a neon orange slicker turned to Cord. “We have to get you to safety.  With your permission, I’ll lash the broken arm to your side with your shirt, securing it to your body.  I’m trained in first aid. I may h