After that episode I needed a distraction, so I created Zach causing more problems for Tommy:
Sunday night shifts were a rough reality of being a first responder. The kind of shift that whispered, you chose this life, dumbass.
When you became a pilot you get a number of jumpsuits, two were in the wash, one was at Harbor, Buck had attacked one and it was no longer suitable for public settings (long story, do not ask), so Tommy was trying to locate his one clean jumpsuit, the elusive beast that it was turning out to be, when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and frowned at the name.
He answered with a touch of suspicion, âCapâ? You miss me that badly? Iâm only a few hours out, try not to pine.â
The voice on the other end was not amused. âKinard, Iâm telling you this out of respect: talk to your probie before he loses his damn job.â
âMy probie?â Tommy asked, âHeâs not my probie, heâs Harbourâs probie, and if anything, heâs yourâŚâ
âKinardâŚâ The tone was a warning.
âSorry Capâ, whatâs the problem.â
âCalled in sick again. Second shift in a row. Only this time, the genius had his friend call it in. From a house party. I could hear the DJ. If heâs not on deck by shift start, heâs toast.â
âRight,â Tommy muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. âAnd this is my problem becauseâŚ?â
Climbing the stairs to apartment 404, because of course, the lift was broken. Think Big Bang Theory without the smart people.
His knee clicked, and he muttered something deeply unkind about gravity. This was why he was the pilot and Buck was the firefighter who charged into buildings.Â
He could already hear the so called music, some unholy mashup of bass drops and techno beats as he finally reached the landing, he took a second to mourn whatever was left of his hearing and his self respect.
Did he care this much Zach he mused to himself, if Zach lost his job was that his problem?
Whatever. He'd knock, talk to the idiot and leave.
He made his way down the hallway, the light above him flickering, just like his patience.
Two shirtless, stupid looking dudes in their mid twenties smirked at him. One had glitter on his nipples. The other had aviators. Indoors. At night.
âDid anyone order pizza?â the glitter-nippled one asked, grinning like he thought he was original.
Tommy didnât blink. âNo.â
The guy took a swig from a Solo cup. âWell, youâre definitely not my kind of stripper, sweetheart.â He moved to shut the door.
Tommy stepped forward, placing his hand flat on the door like the grim reaper of discipline. âWhereâs Zach?â
âZach Anderson,â Tommy said âhe lives here, his Snapchat story told me heâs here.âÂ
Because Zach had no sense, and proudly broadcast his life, including his location all over Snapchat. There on the weird little map that Snapchat had was Zachâs shirtless little cartoon person (whatever it was called).
âSearch me, what exactly do you want old man?â Aviator scowled, twisting over his shoulder, clearly longing to get back to that amazing music and beer.
âCan I come in?â Tommy asked, but pushed past without waiting for an answer.
Inside was, honestly, hell.
There were lights strobing in a way that should come with a seizure warning. There was a makeshift DJ booth set up on a repurposed ironing board, with a guy who looked twelve and absolutely not sober hyping up the crowd like he was at Coachella instead of a second-floor rental with water damage in the hallway.
"Yo, Daddy in the house." He yelled into his mic and a couple of young chicks rubbed themselves up against him.
Untangling himself from drunk chicks, and a drunk dude and making his way through the house where stupid red plastic cups littered every surface. A couple was making out aggressively on the arm of the sofa. Someone had used the inside of a lampshade as an ashtray. There was a girl in the kitchen pouring vodka straight into a watermelon, and a guy doing the worm in the hallway, despite there being absolutely no room for it.
Tommy sidestepped him with the agility of someone who fights fire for a living.
He was aware, in a detached kind of way, that he was now the oldest person in the room by at least a decade. He could feel the sensory overload building: too loud, too bright, too chaotic but he forced himself to scan the crowd anyway.
Find Zach, smack him around the head, drag him to work to face the music.
Ah, it wasn't Zach but he recognized that dumb idiot with a black cap on backwards.
âCassidy, whereâs Zach?â
Cassidy turned, his pupils the size of dinner plates. âOut!â he yelled, as if the music required shouting even though they were six inches apart.
âWhat are you doing here, Tom-Tom?â he added, with a dopey grin.
âTommy,â Tommy corrected flatly, barely resisting the urge to walk into the nearest wall. âWhen will he be back?â
âFuck knows!â Cassidy yelled again before grabbing a nearby girl and smashing their faces together with enough force to cause dental damage. Tommy took that as a sign that the conversation was officially over.
He sighed. Deep. Bone-tired. Then pulled out his phone to check Snapchat.
Sure enough, Zachâs little Bitmoji cartoon was still tagged to this address, smiling like a smug bastard.
So Zach was here. Somewhere. Probably hiding. Probably drunk. Possibly pantsless.
He opened the first bedroom door
Two people on the bed. One in a cat mask. The other wearing⌠Tommy didnât even want to know. There was whipped cream involved. He shut the door. Hard.
No sex this time. Progress. Just three guys passing around a rolled-up bill and giggling like cartoon villains. One of them gave Tommy a thumbs up. âYou want in, Uncle Jesse?â
Tommy stared at him, deadpan. âDo I look like I want in?â
The guy giggled. âYou look like you need it.â
Tommy closed the door. With force.
Someone had built a pillow fort. Sweet, right? Wrong. Inside the fort: two girls aggressively making out, and a guy crying into a puppy.
âIâm fine,â the guy sobbed, clutching the bewildered dog, âshe just said I have âdistant dadâ energy.â
Tommy blinked. âMaybe donât cry on the dog.â
The fourth room was dark, and smelt damp?
Tommy paused in the doorway. There was a lump on the bed. Motionless.
Finally. Hiding like the coward he was. Typical.
Storming in, Tommy yanked open the curtains with the aggressive grace of someone done playing Whereâs Waldo: Dumbass Edition.
It might be night, but the lights of the city still filled the room.
Zach groaned from the bed, a weak, watery sound.
âOh just wait, Zac-attack, Iâm getting to you.â
Tommy didnât have sympathy for hangovers. Not when they got in the way of Zachâs shift, which he knew about. Young people had no respect for work.Â
He reached the bed and grabbed at the blanket, only to recoil immediately.
âJesus Christ, dude,â Tommy muttered, flinging the sheet back like it had personally offended him. Which, at this point, it had.
Zach lay there, curled in on himself, wearing nothing but white boxer briefs that were clinging in a way Tommy did not want to analyze. His skin was pale, slick with sweat, and he let out a pathetic, broken whimper like someone had just kicked a puppy.
Tommy stepped back slightly as the smell hit him.
Sickness. Like that actual sick stench.
Something clicked in his gut. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and pressed a hand to Zachâs clammy forehead.
âZach.â Tommy gave his cheek a light slap. âHey. Come on. Look at me.â
Zach groaned and tried to roll away, muttering something that Tommy couldnât make out as Tommy watched his arm twitch.Â
âLiâŚlighâŚlight.â Zach actually cried, squinting and Tommy actually felt bad, grabbing a t-shirt and covering Zachâs eyes.Â
Zach let out a breathless, broken laugh that turned immediately into a hacking cough. He curled in tighter, trembling all over like a fevered ball of misery.
ââŚI donât feel good,â he rasped, sounding about six years old.
âI can see that.â Tommy stood up again, raking a hand down his face. âJesus, Zach. I need to get you to the doctor.â
âNoooâŚâ Zach whimpered. âDonât wanna move⌠T-Bone⌠everything⌠hurtsâŚmy headâŚplease.â
Tommy paused. His jaw clenched. He didnât do well with begging. Or crying. Or people depending on him when he hadnât emotionally budgeted for it. But the kid looked awful.
âAlright,â he muttered. âIâm getting something cold for your head. Donât choke while Iâm gone.â
Made his way out of Zachâs stinky,damp room into the loud noisy hallway, bumping into other idiots. Stumbling past them till he made it to the bathroom, only to be met with the very loud sounds of suction.
Two people, mid-makeout, half-undressed, looked up at him, blinking like startled raccoons in a kitchen at 3am.
âSeriously?â Tommy said flatly.
The girl scrambled to adjust her top. âExcuse me, weâre busy in here.â
âI do not care,â Tommy said, stepping over a suspicious pile of clothing to the sink like a man on a mission. âI need water, not whatever youâre exchanging DNA for.â
The guy tried to hide behind the shower curtain like that would help. It didnât. Tommy turned on the tap, yanked off one of the hand towels (possibly clean, juryâs out), and drenched it under the cold water.
The couple just⌠stood there. Watching. Waiting for him to leave.
Tommy turned, towel dripping in his hand, and made his way back to Zachâs room.
Tommy pressed the cold towel to Zachâs forehead, watching the younger man melt into it like it was the single kindest act anyone had ever bestowed upon him. It probably was, in Zachâs case.
Zach wasnât just sweating. He was shaking. Uncontrollably. His limbs twitched like the muscles didnât know what to do with themselves, and his lips had taken on a faint bluish tinge.
The light sensitivity. The fever. The confusion. The stiff neck. The way Zach kept whimpering at the slightest sound or shift in light like it was physically hurting him.
Tommyâs heart skipped. Then thudded. Then locked in.
No.
No no no no.
Heâd seen this before. He knew this.
It slammed into him like a punch to the gut.
âFor fuck sake Zachâ Tommy cursed under his breath and yanked his phone from his pocket with the kind of precision that came from knowing how fast things could go wrong.
He tapped 9-1-1 and pressed the speakerphone, already mentally calculating time-to-hospital, trying not to let the panic bleed into his voice.
â911, whatâs your emergency?â
âYes, hi. Firefighter Tommy Kinard. Iâve got a twenty four male, fever over 104, photophobia, disorientation, possibly altered mental status, stiff neck, heavy sweating. I need paramedics atââ he paused, checked his phone for the address he Snap-mapped earlier, ââ1206 Blackridge Avenue, apartment 404. Suspected meningitis. We need transport now.â
Tommy wiped a fresh layer of sweat from Zachâs forehead with the now-damp towel, his phone pressed to his ear as it rang.
The Harbour Captain picked up on the first ring. âKinard.â
âYou getting close? Is Zach on his way?â
Tommy exhaled, glanced down at Zach, who was barely conscious and mumbling nonsense and replied, voice low and clipped:
âNo, sir. Heâs not coming in.â
Tommy leaned back against the wall, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek as he reached for another dry corner of the towel.
âAnd Iâm not gonna make it either.â
There was a pause on the line, heavy and tense.
âKinard, what the hell is going on?â
âHeâs sick,â Tommy said simply. âLike⌠real sick. Fever, photophobia, stiff neck. Itâs not a hangover, itâs not a bad taco, itâs bad bad. Iâve already called it inâEMS is en route.â
âJesus,â the Captain muttered. âYou think itâsâŚ.â
âI know it is.â Tommyâs voice went flat. âItâs meningitis.â
Another pause. Then the Captainâs tone softened. âIs he okay?â
Tommy looked down at Zach, who was now gripping his wrist like it was an anchor.
âNo,â he said, quietly. âBut Iâve got him.â
He hung up before he could hear the Captainâs response. Then tossed the towel aside and grabbed Zachâs hand more firmly.
âYou better live, kid,â he muttered. âI did not suffer through glow-stick purgatory and accidental porn scenes just for you to check out on me.â
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