Cave-In

By JoAnn Stuart

This story is set shortly after the events in "After The Exam." It's a fluffy little interlude before the next story in the arc, but we do learn some interesting things about Brice. This story is rated K+

"Cave-In" ©2000 JoAnn Stuart. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.

Thank you to Mary for the medical beta. This one is for you. As always, thank you to CJ for the zero tolerance of laziness and for the html stuff. Originally posted on CJ Smith's website, Station 51.

Brice was just exiting the locker room as Johnny entered. Calling out a cheery, "Morning, Brice," Johnny extended his hand to the other paramedic. "Glad to be working with you today."

Disbelief flashed briefly over Brice's normally undemonstrative features, before being replaced with the mask of calm self-assurance that he usually presented to the world. While the two had never worked together as a paramedic team, they both served on the paramedics' advisory committee, which Brice chaired, and the experience had given him the distinct impression that Gage did not like him. And, truth be told, Brice did not particularly care for the seemingly disorganized and rambling style of the other paramedic, either. "Good morning, Gage." Brice curtly shook the proffered hand once and continued on his way.

Smile still pasted on his face, Johnny nodded, determined to make the shift a good one. Always one to give another the benefit of the doubt, he hoped the horror stories he had heard were greatly exaggerated. While Brice's fussy, perfectionistic behavior was irritating and his slavish adherence to the manual annoying, Johnny knew the other paramedic to be skilled at what he did from first hand experience. And beyond that, the two had something else in common that Johnny was curious about. Both had recently lost their paramedic license due to errors with the recertification exam. Johnny really wanted to know how Brice had reacted to that.

As the rest of A-shift headed off for their morning cup of coffee after inspecting the apparatus, Johnny and Brice remained in the engine bay to perform the daily equipment check and assess the level of supplies remaining from the previous shift. Johnny was putting the bio-phone away as he watched Brice rearrange the drugs in the box. "What are you doing, Brice?"

"I'm sorting the drugs by alphabetical order, front to back in columns. It is more efficient if they are always in the same place."

"We usually arrange them by frequency of use. Put the lidocaine and the epinephrine in the front. The Pitocin and the diazepam in the back," Johnny commented helpfully.

"Since I am not familiar with your usage patterns, it is better to organize the drugs alphabetically. If everyone did this, we would all be far more efficient when we work out of other stations."

Brice decisively snapped the drug box closed and replaced it on the squad. Next, he pulled down the trauma kit and began inventorying the contents. Satisfied that the supply level was adequate, Brice reorganized and straightened the materials inside the box with precision while Johnny stood watching over his shoulder, expression dubious. Brice explained as he worked, "I find that it's more efficient to have the Betadine ointment and tincture plus the 4x4s here, and the IV extension sets plus the various micro drip solution administration sets arranged by gtts/ml over here."

"Uh, okay." The arrangement of supplies in the boxes seemed a small thing. Johnny could let it go.

Straightening from his task, Brice returned the trauma box to the squad and held out his hand. "Keys, Gage."

"Uh, I'm going to drive today." Relinquishing the rare opportunity to drive the squad was a bit harder to do.

"The compartments need to be locked."

Johnny didn't move. "We never lock the compartments."

"The regulations clearly state that the compartments are to be locked at all times."

"We're right here with the squad. Nothing's going to happen. Besides, it's quicker if you don't have to mess with unlocking the doors all the time."

"If someone steals your supplies and equipment because you failed to lock the compartments, you will be considerably less efficient than the two seconds required to unlock the doors."

Johnny wanted to raise another objection, but he couldn't think of a good argument with which to counter Brice. Technically, the man was correct. With an irritated sigh, he fished the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Brice, who efficiently locked the doors. Unconsciously mirroring Brice's earlier gesture, Johnny extended his hand, "Keys, Brice."

"I'll put them on the hook by the call station."

"Right. Just remember, I'm driving."

"You are the senior partner," Brice agreed blandly.

Johnny let his hand drop back to his side, his lips tightening as his resolve to make this a good shift began to fray just a bit around the edges. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Are you coming?"

"No. I'm going to the dorms to carry out my assigned duty," Brice said briskly as he crossed the engine bay.

Feeling vaguely guilty, Johnny headed the opposite direction to the kitchen. Noting the mild irritation on the paramedic's face when he entered the room, Chet asked with an amused smirk. "Where's Brice?"

"Going about his assigned duties while the rest of us inefficient slobs drink coffee."

Chet arose as Johnny was pouring himself a cup of coffee, and made a show of looking in both ears. "No smoke yet. Either you're brain dead or Brice is losing his touch."

"Ha, ha."

"Don't expect any sympathy from the rest of us, Pal. We've had more than our fair share of Brice shifts."

"Can it, Kelly," warned Cap. "Coffee break is over. Move it."

Johnny turned to dump his coffee down the drain. "Finish your coffee, Gage. The latrine can wait another minute." Cap's expression was mildly amused as he considered the composition of his crew this day. Johnny's shortness on patience was inversely proportionate to Brice's annoyance factor.

"Station 51. Child trapped. 214 Tillman Avenue. 2-1-4 Tillman Avenue. Cross Street Galway. Time out 8:23."

Cap acknowledged the call and handed Johnny one slip of paper. Johnny passed it over to Brice as he started up the squad and switched on the lights and siren.

"What a way to start the day. Every time we get a call for a child, it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut."

"Anxiety about a rescue before we've even encountered the scene is counterproductive," said Brice, eyes on the cross traffic.

"Are you telling me that rescues involving children don't bother you?" Johnny asked incredulously, sparing a glance at Brice.

"Car on the right. Becoming emotionally involved in a rescue clouds judgment, which leads to inefficiency and mistakes."

"These are people, Brice, not rescues."

"We can best serve the victim, any victim, if we maintain our professional distance, Gage," Brice stated with cool equanimity.

Johnny made no reply, focusing his full attention on driving through the last of the rush hour traffic as they sped to the address.

Cap reached the front of the house first. Just as he raised his hand to knock, a distraught woman flung the door wide and clutched the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him through the entrance as she spoke. "Please hurry! My daughter is stuck and I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself with her struggling!"

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked as he freed his arm from the woman's grasp. The sounds of a crying child could be heard from within.

She darted back inside without answering Cap. "Mommy's coming right back, honey! The nice firemen are here to help you!"

Just inside the front entrance Cap observed a red-faced and tearful four-year-old girl with her head caught fast between two cast iron railings midway up a staircase. If her wails served as any evidence, the girl did not seem to be experiencing any respiratory difficulties. He turned to call back out the doorway to the others still coming up the walk, "I think she's okay, but she's got her head stuck between the slats in the staircase."

Johnny smiled and relaxed at bit. Although rescues involving children always set his heart pumping just a bit faster, he figured that this would probably be an easy one. Upon entering the house, he set the trauma kit down by the foot of the stairs and walked to where the little girl's head poked out through the railings.

"Ma'am, you've got to try to get her calmed down a bit, okay?" he said to the woman on the stairs who was agitatedly patting her child's back. "And that means you've got to calm down, too. Everything's going to be okay now." Flashing his best smile at the little girl, he said, "Well, it looks like you've got yourself stuck, huh? Let's see about getting you out."

He reached up to see if he could gently ease the child's head back through. "Hmm. You did a good job, sweetheart. What's your name?"

"Her name is Kimmie," supplied the mother, moving aside to make room for Brice, who had joined her on the stairs. While the little girl had calmed down to the point that she no longer sobbed hysterically, she still cried in soggy, little hiccoughs.

"Hi, Kimmie. My name's Johnny. We're going to get you out. It feels like your mama already tried to use some baby oil, huh?"

"Yes, I did. When that didn't work, I called you."

"I don't think I can push her head back through without hurting her," said Johnny, looking up at Brice.

"I concur. It looks like we'll have to cut this," commented Brice, eyeing the railing.

Ear-splitting shrieks greeted this pronouncement as the little girl frantically tried to jerk her head back through the railing.

"Hold on to her!" Johnny yelled, as he reached through the slats for the little girl's shoulders. "It's okay, Kimmie! No one's going to hurt you! No one's going to hurt you!"

Once they got her calmed back down, the woman explained, "We just moved to this house a week ago. My husband caught her trying to poke her head through the railing a couple of evenings ago and he told her that if she stuck her head through there, he would have to cut it off."

"Kimmie, no one's going to cut your head off. Your Daddy was just teasing you," Johnny soothed as he pushed Kimmie's hair back from her face. "Ma'am, does she have a favorite blanket or something? We'll make a little tent while my partner is c-u-t-t-i-n-g, so she won't get so upset." Johnny patted the little girl while the mother went to fetch the cover. "Say, Kimmie, do you watch Sesame Street?"

Kimmie nodded mournfully.

"Who's your favorite?"

A wet snuffle was the only reply.

"Who's your favorite, Kimmie? I like Cookie Monster."

"Yeah, you would, Gage," said Chet, who had reappeared with a pair of cutters from the engine.

"Keep those behind your back, Chet," advised Cap, moving to block the shorter firefighter from the little girl's line of sight.

Ignoring Chet, Johnny continued, "Do you like Cookie Monster, Kimmie? Do you know the Cookie Monster song?" Many an afternoon spent in the company of his partner Roy's young daughter had taught him to not only recognize all the characters on Sesame Street, but learn to sing a lot of the tunes, as well.

Kimmie watched Johnny cautiously, fingers in her mouth, still not verbally responding, but no longer crying.

"C is for cookie! It's good enough for me! Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!"

"Good grief," muttered Chet.

Just then the mother returned with a blanket. Johnny interrupted his song to say, "Okay, here we go. Let's make a little tent over your head. Ma'am, why don't you come down here on the step below your daughter and join us in the tent?"

Brice exchanged places with the woman and arranged the blanket over the threesome, while Chet came up the stairs with the cutters.

"See? Isn't this fun, Kimmie?" encouraged the mother. "The fireman is going to get you out now and it won't hurt at all."

"Put your arm around her and keep her still," Johnny instructed, before launching into the Cookie Monster song again, with the mother joining in, to distract the little girl from the noise of the cutters. Soon Chet had a piece of the rail removed, and the mother pulled Kimmie back through.

"If you'll bring her downstairs, we'd like to check her out," said Brice.

"Why don't you have a seat right here? You can keep her in your lap," suggested Johnny.

Johnny placed the small BP cuff on the little girl. "Did you ever see one of these? It just goes 'foofa foofa' and squeezes your arm a little bit. It doesn't hurt."

Brice looked at Johnny as if the other paramedic had taken leave of his senses. "Pulse 90, respirations 16."

"BP 95 over 65," Johnny said as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. He reexamined Kimmie's head and neck for any signs of bruising or swelling. "Looks good."

"She does not appear to have suffered any injury. If you have any concerns, you may take her to your family physician," Brice informed the mother, as he replaced the BP cuff and the stethoscope into the trauma kit.

"Oh, I can't thank you enough!" exclaimed the woman, rocking her daughter in her lap.

Johnny knelt down at eye level in front of Kimmie. "Now, you don't go sticking your head through there anymore, okay?"

Kimmie buried her face in her mother's shoulder in reply.

"Bye, now!" Johnny waved, as he followed Brice out the door.

"C is for kookie! Kookie, kookie, kookie!" sang Chet as the two paramedics approached the squad.

"That's 'C is for cookie,' Chet. Don't you know anything?" grinned Johnny as he put the equipment back into the bay. "Man, I think I'm deaf from all that screaming. That girl has good lungs."

"We wish we were. Then we wouldn't have had to listen to you singing," Chet shot back as he hopped up into his seat on the engine.

"I think your singing was unwarranted. She was calm enough without it," said Brice when Johnny joined him in the squad.

"Well, it didn't hurt!" Johnny replied, stung. While he expected Chet to twit him about his singing abilities, he didn't expect to be criticized for attempting to facilitate a rescue.

"It lacked professionalism."

"Your professionalism was scaring her. She thought you were going to cut off her head."

"I performed my duty in accordance with established procedures…"

"This is a little girl we're talking about, not a procedure. I'm sure there's something in the manual about relating to kids on their own level," Johnny interrupted sarcastically.

"Children can be related to in a calm, professional manner. I don't believe I've ever seen anything about singing Sesame Street songs to them," responded Brice, ending the conversation.

The next few hours afforded mostly garden-variety types of runs: a diabetic woman with low blood-sugar fainting in a beauty salon, an elderly gentleman with difficulty breathing needing transport to Rampart, minor injuries from a traffic accident. While the two men didn't exactly blend together as a team, they handled every call with practiced expertise, each employing his own style. In the squad, Brice had proven resistant to Johnny's further attempts at making conversation, and at the station, the reserved paramedic usually buried himself in a manual.

The tones sounded once again. "Squad 51. Possible drug overdose. 111 Craig Court. 1-1-1 Craig Court. Apt. 2C. Cross street Double Street. Time out 13:26."

Vince and another officer pulled up to the scene just as the squad arrived. Vince greeted the two paramedics with a nod. "Sounds bad," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the apartment building. Indeed, the sounds of crashing and someone screaming on the second floor could be heard from the parking lot.

"They're locked, Gage," reminded Brice calmly as Johnny tried to open the compartments without unlocking them. Shaking out his fingers, Johnny spared Brice a glare before opening the bays. Equipment in hand, the two paramedics followed the two law enforcement officers up the stairs as they tried to push their way through the crowd of gawkers gathered around the doorway. "Everybody step back! Paramedics coming through!" Vince and the other officer cleared a path for Johnny and Brice.

Once inside, they found a disheveled man in his mid-twenties standing atop a kitchen table, waving a baseball bat in the air. As they watched, he slammed the bat against the tabletop and screamed, "Don't come in! They'll get you!"

Both paramedics halted in their tracks. Johnny visually scanned the apartment while Brice asked, "Who will get us?"

"Get them off!" screamed the man, giving the table yet another hearty thump. "They're everywhere!"

"What's everywhere?" asked Johnny.

"Giant pink cockroaches! Look out! There's one by your foot!" he yelled, pointing to the right of Johnny.

Johnny jumped back and dropped the trauma kit.

"Good one, man!" crowed the victim. "You got him!"

"I did?"

"Yeah! Smashed that sucker flat!"

"Well, are there any more?"

"Gage, stop being ridiculous. There are no pink roaches in here. Sir, you need to come down from there."

"No! I'm not coming down!"

Johnny shushed Brice and addressed the delusional man. "Do you see any more?"

"Yes! Yes! Over there!" he pointed at the wall.

Johnny picked up a nearby broom and swatted the wall several times. "Did I get 'em?"

"Yeah! Look! There's some more!"

Johnny obligingly whacked the indicated spot with a broom.

"You're wasting time. We need to assess the victim and initiate treatment."

"Well, we can't do that while he's up on the table, and he won't come down until all the pink cockroaches are gone. Do you feel like wrestling with him?" Johnny gave the floor one more pass with the broom. "That's all of them, right?"

"NO!" screamed the man, pointing at Brice. "There's one crawling up his leg!"

Johnny glanced at Brice before swishing the broom against Brice's leg a couple of times and then pounding it on the floor, while saying, "Okay, I'll knock it off, and then I'll whack it."

"Gage! Really!" protested Brice, jumping back from the paramedic whom he obviously considered to be almost as crazy as the victim.

"Okay, that's all of them, right?" Johnny asked, looking expectantly at the victim.

"Uh, yeah. Seems to be," the man replied, cautiously peering around the room.

"Why don't you come down here, so we can check you out?"

"What if they come back?" he said anxiously, eyes darting from corner to corner.

"Uhhh… Is the ambulance here yet?" he asked Vince.

"It just pulled up," replied the law enforcement officer.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. Why don't we take you to our ambulance? It's just been fumigated, so there are no pink cockroaches in there."

"Yeah, okay," said the victim agreeably, flinging himself down from the table. Brice and Johnny caught the man as he leapt, stumbling from the impetus as he crashed into them.

"Whoa! You okay there, buddy?" asked Johnny.

"Yeah! I was flyin'," giggled the man.

Brice resettled his glasses on his nose, tossed Johnny a sour look, and then requested Officer Howard to please bring their equipment back down to the ambulance.

After walking the victim down the stairs to the ambulance, the two paramedics quickly performed their assessment, set up communication with Rampart, administered the ordered IV and medication, and soon had the patient prepared for transport.

As they lifted the gurney into the ambulance, the man started to become agitated once more. "What if they come back?"

"Uhh. Here." Johnny handed him the ambu-bag. "This is filled with special pink cockroach bug spray. You can't see it, but it keeps them away. Just keep squeezing it."

"Far out, man!"

"Who's riding in?" Johnny asked Brice.

"This one is all yours, Gage," said Brice succinctly, stepping away from the ambulance.

"Okay, see you there," said Johnny, stepping up into the ambulance. "After all I've done for you, don't barf on me, man," he muttered under his breath.

"You didn't!" said Dixie with a chuckle.

"I did." Johnny set the ambu-bag down on the counter. "And I told him that this would keep the pink roaches out of the ambulance, too. I can't believe he believed me."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to call you 'the exterminator.'"

"One call does it all."

"Are you done, Gage?" inquired Brice stiffly.

Johnny closed his eyes briefly, glanced at Dixie, and said, "Yeah, Brice. Let's go."

The ride back to the station was long and uncomfortable, with Brice sitting in silent reproach of Johnny's paramedic tactics. Just as they were backing in, Johnny tried one last time to initiate a conversation with his taciturn companion.

"Brice, why don't you just loosen up a little? I'm trying to be as nice as possible."

"We're not here to socialize, Gage. We're here to do a job. You would do well to concentrate on that."

"I do my job! What is your problem?" Johnny asked as he got out of the squad.

"As I said before, you're not following established protocols. You make things up as you go. In my book, that makes you as dangerous as a loose cannon. Keys." Brice pointed to the object dangling from Johnny's fingers.

Brice watched impassively as the other paramedic crossed the few steps to replace the keys on the hook and then turned around with his arms folded across his chest. "The manuals can't cover everything, Brice. They provide the foundation and the framework. There's always going to be situations where human judgment, or improvisation, as you call it, is required."

"That's just an excuse for lack of preparation. If you spent as much time studying the manuals as trying to impress the nurses, you wouldn't feel the need to improvise." Brice turned smartly on his heel and left the other paramedic standing frozen in place with his mouth open.

"Having a meltdown, Johnny?" asked Marco in mild sympathy from the doorway where he had watched the tail end of the unfolding scene.

"Better shut your mouth before your brains leak out," added Chet helpfully over Marco's shoulder.

"Oh, shut up, Chet!" Johnny snapped, startling from his seeming trance, and abruptly spinning on his heel in the opposite direction that Brice had taken.

Chet grinned and winked at Marco before trailing Johnny to the locker room.

Johnny stood bent over the sink, splashing water on his face when Chet arrived. Leaning against the locker, with his arms crossed, Chet needled his favorite pigeon. "We made bets as to how long you would last with Brice before you lost it." Chet looked at his watch. "You barely lasted seven hours."

Johnny raised his head, face dripping, and met Chet's eyes in the mirror. "I did not lose it," he protested irritably.

"Well, from where I'm standing…."

The tones and the voice of the dispatcher interrupted Chet.

"Station 36. Station 51. Station 127. Structure collapse. North end of Maciel Ave. Cross street Dominquez. Time out 15:56."

Johnny quickly dried off his face and flung the towel in the direction of the sink as he dashed after Chet through the door toward the engine bay.