White-knuckle

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The blaze dazzled on the glass window pane. Her blue eyes held the image of the flames as she stared out the window. Her angular face looked like a temple or other place where people expressed glory. She scratched at her ivory skin. The Newark, Delaware landscape was like that for almost five years.

Her home was stocked with frozen and canned meats and refrigerated cheeses, cans of tomato soup, salted fish, and gallons of water. A gas powered generator kept everything that needed to be cold, cold. It also heated. Amenities like a satellite television and Wi-Fi and a library of digital books on her tablet remained in the home. Rolinda Marks’ mind stayed intact. It didn’t matter. She fought depression. She stopped pacing. In the room that once belonged to her husband, she felt that her isolation would subside like a punch to the gut. It would hurt initially but go away with time.

Except, the loss of Linklater Marks still stung after the years since he battled his last blaze. He ensured that she would be a survivor of all this, even if he perished fighting the fires.

She stepped around the room with a hint of reluctance. The space became a source of refuge. She could still smell his cologne emanating from his shirts. The scent of eucalyptus and cedar entered her nostrils and she closed her eyes in remembrance, rapture. She then opened her eyes.

Her footsteps led her out of the room and she closed the door. She went to her own room and took a shower. After putting on blue jeans and a thermal shirt, she ventured downstairs to the garage. A box with Marks’ gear sat in the corner.

With just enough will to continue on her path she peered at a pristine cherry red classic muscle car with white interior. It was Marks’ dream car that Rolinda had gifted to him for his birthday. She walked around the vehicle, the fortress that was like a fire engine literally without all the bells and whistles.

Her eyes averted back to the box of his gear. After picking up the container, she brought it into the mudroom. She donned the turnout pants and jacket, self-contained breathing apparatus, gloves, boots, the Personal Alert Safety System (PASS) and his helmet. At last, Rolinda placed the ax in the backseat. She was swimming in the gear but wore it anyway. She was a fire investigator, not a fighter. Prior to this moment, she had only worn this on one anniversary night which made Marks smile.

Rolinda was not smiling now. She looked at the keys on the holder on the wall and entered the vehicle. As the garage gurgled revealing plumes of smoke from fires miles away. The harmonious hum and rumble from the muscle car motivated Rolinda to enter the fray.

She squeezed the wheel as she shifted gears onto a desolate road. The white-knuckled excitement was the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She was a machine herself, acting in accordance with the nature of an advanced robot. Except, she maintained her cool elegance. She even wore aviator lenses that reflected the glow of the fire.

The journey to the center of the city presented challenges as the roadway had been heated. Rolinda entered the city just as her wheels burst from the extreme, high temperatures. She took control of the car and parked it before it crashed.

Her PASS device permitted her to find at least one other person out there coming her way. The satellite system detected another human being. It was another breathing being about who wanted to extinguish these fires, too.

The lighting pinged like a flashlight in the dark. The odor of the smoke enveloped the water pump that she needed to reach to douse the conflagration.

As she walked further, she met up with the firefighter. He was six feet four inches. She couldn’t see his skin color through all the gear. It didn’t matter, now. They had to reach the pump.

When they walked closer, the large pump loomed.

“I’m going to scale it to prime the top of it!” The mystery fireman called to Rolinda.

She sloshed in the gear with a tragicomic air. Rolinda took the ax from the back of the car and handed it to the fireman. He started slamming into the base of the structure. He knocked down the door at the hinges. Sparks flew with every swing. The door exploded open.

The unknown fireman found the top and started inputting a code to allow the water to flow over the land. A gush of liquid doused the area where the fighters stood, too. Smoke rose up like clouds of grayishness. The mystery fireman removed his helmet and reached out his hand. He raised his voice over the sound of the rushing water.

“Jaylin Rennel,” he said.

“Rosalind Marks,” she replied.

“Why don’t we go inside?” He suggested.

“Let’s,” Rosalind agreed.

They walked through the stuffy hall which smelled like burnt wood chips and heated steel. They removed their helmets. The man was dark as onyx. His face looked like it had been sculpted to present a man with a strong build and just the slightest touch of softness.

“I saw you on the PASS,” Rosalind commented.

“I picked you up, too,” Rennel laughed.

“You sure have some loose gear,” Rennel ohserved.

“It was my husband’s. My ex-husband’s.”

“I’m sure it still protected you despite the conditions.”

“That’s right. Still upright,” she acknowledged. A grin crossed her face. They looked at each other for a long time. They then embraced and kissed. They removed their gear and got down to their skivvies. Those fell off, too.

After moments of grandeur and grace in their actions, they nestled up together in the tower.

“Who knew we’d find each other?” Rennel said. “I was the last of my squad. Everyone I knew was dead.”

“Ditto.”

“Looks like we’re going to have to fight our way out of this and get in that sweet ride you have down there.”

“We’ll be pushing it. The tires are gone.”

“It’s still something that no air support came for us in all these years.”

“It’s alright. If they had, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“That’s true.”