Tested by Fire Read online

  Tested By Fire

  A Medic-7, First Responders Novel

  By Pat Patterson

  Published in association with Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  Pat Patterson is a writer, a photographer, a paramedic, and an instructor of Emergency Medical Science. His book Answering the Call—Inspirational Devotions From a Tested Paramedic is based on true stories, real experiences from the streets of Durham, North Carolina where he served as a paramedic for seventeen years.

  "I hope you© enjoy Tested By Fire. If you do, I would be grateful if you would write a brief review on Amazon. Love it - hate it? Either way I would appreciate your comments on Amazon. Reviews are helpful to readers. They can also help a book's sales ranking. Either way, thanks for purchasing Tested By Fire and spending time with me." P. Patterson

  Religion & Spirituality / Christianity / Christian Fiction

  ©

  “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned...”

  Isaiah 43:2

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Prologue

  They were just young men, boys really, but they reminded him of a pack of wolves, dangerous predators protecting their turf. And red, even in the low light of the afternoon sun he saw lots of red. It was the colors of the gang—The Core Street Crew. Sid Drake glanced over his shoulder at the little canvas tent on the other end of the street. Bright and white, bustling with human activity, it seemed to glow with hopeful innocence. He thought of running back to it, but something drove him forward. Was it obligation? Duty? No, nothing so honorable as that. There was a young man he wanted to talk to, a good kid mixed up in a bad situation. He tucked his Bible under his arm and started down Core Street into the heart of East Beach ghetto, quoting scriptures, gathering strength as he walked, but as he emerged from the shadows and saw their eyes turn his way he felt as if a bright spotlight had fallen on him.

  “Hey!”

  The tall kid in the center of the group—a muscular looking young man with long arms and a thick weight-lifter’s chest—flung his cigarette butt aside and started up the street toward him.

  “Yo! You lost, bro?”

  Sid felt his legs go weak. The last time he had seen William “J-Rock” Jackson he was unconscious, barely breathing, with a syringe sticking in his arm and enough saliva backed up in his throat to choke a mule. Sid saved his life that day by injecting two milligrams of Narcan into his vein, reversing the effects of the mainlined heroin and preventing certain respiratory arrest, but today things were different. J-Rock was breathing just fine. He walked with power and pride, a fully alert fighter with a thousand dollars worth of gold jewelry around his neck and the look of a killer on his face.

  “Hey, white boy, you lost or just plain crazy, man?”

  J-Rock slowed his pace to a leisurely strut and stopped close enough for Sid to smell his breath, his body odor, and the aromas of fresh weed and sweat. The other gang members encircled them. Sid was trapped. J-Rock shook his head, sneered, and then held out his hands in a display of disbelief.

  “You must be a fool, bro. Know where you are?”

  Sid nodded and squeezed his Bible with both hands to keep them from shaking. “J-Rock, don’t you remember me? I’m the paramedic that saved your life last summer. You were—”

  “You a paramedic? Where your ambulance?”

  “I’m not on the truck tonight.”

  “Then whatchu doin’ here, man?”

  “Looking for someone.” Sid glanced at the other gang members. “His name’s Zee. I thought he might—”

  “Zee? Whatchu want with Zee?”

  “He…he came into the revival tent about an hour ago looking for help, but—”

  “You a preacher?”

  Sid shook his head. “I already told you, I…I’m a paramedic with East Beach. I just a volunteer at the tent…sometimes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sid Drake.”

  Sid stared into the cold, shark-like eyes. He saw no sign of warmth, no hint of acceptance, no indication that J-Rock either remembered or cared that the small man before him had recently saved his life, just a cold curiosity that left him feeling like a foreign specimen beneath the lens of a microscope. J-Rock stood over him like a general. The chieftain of a mighty horde. Sid took a deep breath to steady himself.

  “Look, I just want to talk to him, that’s all. He came into the tent asking questions. I showed him some passages from the Bible, but when I mentioned Jesus he stood up and—”

  “Jesus!”

  A stinging hand slapped across Sid’s face, jerking his head sideways and instantly numbing his cheek. He tried to shake away the shock of the blow but his eyes filled with tears, his mind with panic and disorientation.

  “Who you think you was gonna save today, preacher? My dawgs? Those whores over there?”

  J-Rock spat on the ground as if ridding his mouth of a thick wad of venom.

  “Jesus! You think you so wise comin’ down here with that Bible like you gonna preach at us about Jesus.”

  “No, J-Rock, you’ve got me all wrong, I wasn’t trying to preach to you, I—”

  The hand swung again. Sid tried to duck, but too late. J-Rock’s hand slapped across his ear and cheekbone, blurring his vision and setting off a loud ringing sensation in his ear. He dropped to his knees dizzy from the blow, unable to see beyond the watery film that covered his eyes. A viselike grip seized his forearm. He felt himself being dragged across the ground. He dug in his heels, tried to jerk free, but it was like trying to hold back a wild stallion. The coarse asphalt tore at his elbows and hands as J-Rock drug him across the blacktop and into the alley at the end of the street. Sid felt fear he had never known, as if a giant black spider had captured him and pulled him deep into its web. The darkness overwhelmed him. His panic grew. He felt the Bible wrenched from his hands, and then in one swift motion, as if he were nothing more than a soft dry rag, he felt himself catapulted off the ground and thrown against the bricks of the Core Street alley.

  “You wanna save somebody so bad, preacher, save your
self.”

  Through tear filled eyes, Sid watched the gangster’s fist swing low and arch into a vicious upward punch that drove deep into the center of his abdomen. He felt the air burst from his lungs. A sharp wave of pain shot upward and through his guts. A burning gush of vomit hit the back of his throat and spewed from his mouth. He fell to his knees and looked up. J-Rock towered over him like a hunter over fresh kill. There were no angels in sight, no swords drawn on his behalf. A powerful force was at work on the street, but it wasn’t God. Never had Sid felt so completely alone.

  “Jesus,” he panted, his voice a muted cry, “help me.”

  “Jesus can’t help you now, boy.”

  A sharp blow struck his left ribcage. Sid rolled onto his side.

  “Get up, preacher!”

  Another blow struck his right flank, kidney high, the worst one yet, and a screeching wave of pain radiated upward through his back. Another blow followed but this time it only registered as a dull sensation. The pain seemed to level off as if having reached some magic threshold beyond which it dared not go.

  Sid drew a tortured breath. He tried to stand, but before his knees could lock a bony fist smashed into his cheek. He felt his jaw crack. A coppery taste filled his mouth. He fell to the ground on all fours spitting out blood and broken teeth, trying his best to breathe and to grasp the reality of what was taking place. Then suddenly he was on his back. Strong hands grabbed him from all sides and jerked his arms over his head. Then someone mounted him and drove a knee deep into his abdomen. Air burst from his lungs. Spasmodic pain gripped his diaphragm. His guts wrenched again and warm vomit spilled across his face and into his nostrils and eyes. He could barely see. He couldn’t breathe. He turned his head and coughed.

  He was trying desperately to clear the vomit from his throat when he heard a click. A silvery blur flashed across the corner of his eye, then a wave of excruciating pain shot up his arm. His quivering wrist muscles rubbed mercilessly against the cold, cutting steel of the blade that pinned his hand to the ground.

  A gargled scream burst from Sid’s throat. He felt the pressure in his abdomen ease. He looked up and saw J-Rock standing over him with a gun. A wicked smile formed on the gangster’s face. His features turned cold. His eyes burned with hate.

  “Goodbye, preacher,” J-Rock spat, his voice mocking and vile. “Say hello to your Jesus for me.”

  Chapter 1

  Her act was flawless. She gasped and jerked like a pro. A less experienced paramedic might have been fooled by her animated wheezing and the panicky expression on her face, but he knew better. He was watching an academy award winning performance by a disrespectful teenager trying to impress her friends. He decided to teach her a lesson. Make a good show of it and play along.

  “Hmm, take some deep breaths for me, miss.”

  Jim Stockbridge placed his stethoscope against the young woman’s back and listened. Up and down, side to side, everywhere he placed the diaphragm a clean wispy sound flowed through the earpieces. It was the sound of healthy breathing. There was no problem with her lungs. He rolled his eyes and chuckled as he removed the scope from his ears. “When did all this start?” he asked, facing his patient and offering a look of genuine concern.

  Gasp.

  “About…ten minutes ago.”

  Gasp.

  “Hmm, I see.” He pulled the pulse-oximeter probe from a pocket on the side of the ECG monitor and placed it on her finger. Within seconds the display read 100%. Jim removed the probe, recoiled it and placed it back in the pocket. He turned off the monitor and pushed the unit aside. “Now you say you have asthma?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you use an inhaler?” he asked. “Any other meds?”

  The patient nodded. “Inhaler.”

  Gasp. Gasp.

  “Did you take it today?”

  Another nod. Another gasp.

  “I can’t…I can’t breathe.”

  “Tell me,” Jim said, sharply raising one brow. “Do you have anxiety disorder?”

  “What?”

  “A history of psychiatric problems, perhaps?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jim hung his stethoscope around his neck and leaned back casually. “Miss, you’re really not very convincing, you know.”

  “What?” The teenager glanced at the crowd of young people standing on the street behind the ambulance. “You ain’t gonna give me nothing?”

  “Nope. I think you’ll survive.”

  “But I…I can’t breathe.”

  “Really? Your breath sounds are better than mine.”

  “But you have to help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Breathe. I…can’t…breathe.” Her neck muscles strained. Her eyes practically popped from their sockets. She made a good show of it—chest heaving, nostrils flaring—but her act was unconvincing. Her skin was as healthy and pink as a warm baby’s toes. “You got to…give me…something.”

  “Look,” Jim said with a chuckle. “We’re all very impressed with your little show, but it’s impossible to fake an asthma attack. Now if you don’t stop this nonsense, you’re likely to blow a head gasket.”

  “A what? I need a breathing treatment,” she demanded angrily banging her chest.

  Jim shook his head.

  “Give me something,” she demanded. “Now!”

  “No.”

  “You have to!”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “I’ve got asthma!”

  “Not tonight, you don’t.”

  “You don’t know what you talkin’…‘bout…I can’t…breathe!”

  “I know exactly what I’m talking about, princess, and you can breathe.”

  “Princess? Who you callin’ Princess?!”

  Jim’s patient all but swung at him. She threw her arms about, shouting and cursing, flinging insults at him with perfect clarity, no breaks in her voice that would indicate shortness of breath. She was perfectly lucid without a trace of respiratory difficulty, and her ranting proved it even more. Jim knew he had won. He had called her bluff and she didn’t like it one bit. He grinned at her, and that broke the dam. The cursing turned venomous, and suddenly he had a situation completely out of control. The only solution was force.

  “That’s it,” he shouted, “Get out!”

  “This ain’t your ambulance,” she hissed. “You can’t make me get out.”

  “Oh really?” Jim grabbed the young woman’s wrist and pulled her out of the ambulance. “Now,” he said eyeing her with utter contempt. “Hit the road!”

  “I wanna talk to your supervisor!”

  “Call 9-1-1.”

  Jim had to jump back to avoid being hit by the girl’s well-aimed spit. She laughed mockingly at him as she walked a few steps and merged with her crowd of delighted friends. They started up the street cursing, jeering and laughing about the dumb cracker medic that thought he was God. She turned around and thrust her middle finger in the air at him, then turned away laughing and dancing as they made their way up the street.

  “Jim?” his partner said, an incredulous look on her face. “Oh no!”

  “She was faking, Sharon.”

  “Yeah, but you think maybe you could have, like, egged her on just a little bit more?”

  “I’m a paramedic, Sharon, not a circus entertainer.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, lover—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “One day you’re gonna meet someone who’s not so easily put off and you’re gonna find yourself in trouble.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Shut up, Jim! You’re not Superman! And I know you’ve been drinking tonight, I can smell it on your breath.”

  Jim frowned at his partner for a few seconds then looked away. He reached in his pocket for a piece of cinnamon gum, threw it in his mouth, and started chewing.

  “I can’t believe you came to work this way,” Sharon continued. “You’ve got e
nough alcohol in your system to embalm a corpse.”

  “I only had a couple of shots.”

  “Well I don’t like you when you drink. You get mean when you drink. You’d never treat a patient like that if you were sober.”

  “I hate fakers. I won’t tolerate stupidity. Besides, Sharon, I’m perfectly sober.”

  “Yeah? Well, they decide to pull a random drug test tonight and you’ll be sweeping the floors at Wal-Mart tomorrow afternoon.”

  “My drinking is none of your—”

  “You’re playing with fire, Jim. And one day you’re gonna get yourself burned, maybe even killed.”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Well try harder. That stuff makes you crazy. And when you get crazy, bad things happen to other people.”

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Jim dropped to one knee behind the ambulance door. Sharon jumped in the back of the truck and ducked low beside the stretcher. “See what I mean?!”

  Jim waited for the sound of shattering glass, but the windshield remained intact. And no lead peppered the side of the ambulance. But his heart pounded like a drum. Not from fear—he was used to the ghetto…the bullets and knives…the gangs and the fights and the blood—but more from a genetic need of adventure. Or was it the need of alcohol? The demons that haunted his memories suddenly took control, and the need for another drink soon became overwhelming. An escape from reality, from the harsh reminder that life is easily crushed. That buildings fall. That when steel and concrete are involved human tissue always loses. There was still just too much pent up anger. Too much bitterness and gall. Drinking helped him forget. He was on the wrong road, alcoholism would be the ultimate result, but at that moment he didn’t care about addictions, or the doctor’s warnings to slow down or else. Nighttime was beginning in East Beach, something bad was about to happen, and he wanted to be there when it did.

  Jim waited, listened intently, for shouting, for the sound of running feet, for any indication that the fight was coming his way, but the night turned quiet. No more shots were fired. His heart rate began to slow, his breathing returned to normal, and the built in sirens that warned him of danger were quickly silenced. It’s okay, he told himself. Scene’s safe. He could relax. And he did.