User:Norman Stanley

Norman scours the ruins of Malton for the one person that made living worth while, Darma, all the time fearing the worst. He shows you a worn Polaroid of a striking lady with green eyes and asks 'Have you seen her?'

An introduction to and by Norman Stanley. Small town boy that became a big city Malton Fire Fire fighter.

As far back as I can remember I knew I didn’t want to grow up, much less grow old in the small outta the way town that I lived in. Now don’t get me wrong, it was pleasant enough...but it was too quiet for me. I wanted to live in the city. I found the perfect excuse when my relationship with an ex went sour. You know that thing, where everyone you know as a couple is everyone else’s friend, and when there’s a split things change. After three months of feeling sorry for myself my big brother took me out one night.

I still remember his words ‘do yourself a favour, get the **** out of dodge man, I’ll front you some cash, just get any ol job, square me later......be good for you’ I mulled on it as I got us another beer each. He broke out in a grin ‘be good for me too, I’m sick of looking at your sorry face!’ – ‘cheers, bro’ I laughed, decision made.

A week and a dozen calls later I had a room in an apartment with a bunch of guys all similar age to me in Malton, odd jobbers & Malton Uni students. I settled in real quick. I didn’t just like the city life, I loved it. I knew all the neighbours and hung out with the flat mates. After a few odds and end jobs, Greg, and friend of a friend said he was in Malton’s Fire Department, told me, through a drunken haze ‘if you like the city buzz, you gotta try it riding on the back of a fire truck with blues and twos going while screaming down the streets!’ – Hummmm I drunkenly thought, sounded just like my kind of thing.

Three months later I was fully signed up. Six months later I’d been hailed as a hero, pulled my first corpse out a building, done my first major vehicle pile-up. Not all on the upside then, but life was good, and getting better. Same friends, new friends, new apartment, my own apartment even.

Thing with living life at city pace is you don’t see the subtle changes. You don’t notice the extra military....trucks always going in and out of Creedy....the CDC notices on the chill room notice board at the fire house....the extra suits that turn up for an arson investigation, they’re all tight ass’s after all, what’s an extra two here and there?

First I time I thought something was off was that crappy old condemned building we had a call to. The CDC where there first, they had the first cordon up. They had their own guys (?) round the building, one looking out for crowd control, one looking in(?). Every twenty yards. I remember our three engines from Northcote Station and another pulled in from Billings Row, Greg’s ride over from the engine number, we all pulled up, kitted out, hosed up ready to go in under forty five seconds of pulling up. We we’re ready, kind a had a plan, then lots of radio chatter, Chief comes on line..... ’Let her burn awhile’ ‘Say again?’ ‘Let it burn, CDC don’t want us inside their perimeter, crews to watch for spread and to contain. Light winds are in our favour, stand by for further instructions’ I caught a look from Greg, his radio was up to his ear. Walking over to him he motioned to me, he shrugged his shoulders and mouthed ‘What the f***?’. His transmission done, I nudged him; ‘hay, a day without running into a burning building is a good day for me’ ‘Strange shit though, I’ve had call outs where it’s unsafe before, crappy buildings, falling roofs, gas mains or canisters to watch out for, but never, but never have I heard ‘let it burn’ as a standing order.

It was then, watching what was rapidly becoming an inferno, that the smashing of metal broke through the noise. Greg and I, used to noise level casually looked over to an area that looked like a loading bay. A metal shutter, big enough for several trucks to get through had crashed to the floor. Buckled in the heat no doubt, burnt and buckled mountings for sure I thought.

Greg gave a flick of the head. Not to the loading bay door, but the guys, the CDC guys round the perimeter. Without exception, they all were all standing square on to the building, and a few talking to their cufflinks I guess, all had hands on a weapon, ready to draw. ‘Now, that is some strange shit’ I laughed. ‘Uh huh’ Greg let out un-amused. Then nothing, after a few moments they relaxed, after a few hours the building, from the outside was a shell, a burnt husk.

Walking around, the police were keeping joe public and the news crews back a block or two, nothing unusual there, big fire, big area of protection. Greg’s engine retuned to station as did one of ours. Two crews to dampen down, two to take over, our twelve hour shift due to finish at six in the am. We’d start at daybreak, about four am considering it was summer.

It was 3 am, the city silent, a few of us in the engine cab talking sports, politics and BS to stay awake when the two white panel vans pulled up. We looked over, disinterested. Some chatter between the first driver and suits, they rolled on inside the cordon, backing up to the loading bay. I picked up my radio to call the chief in the other engine.

‘You seeing this?’ ‘Yep’ ‘We’ve not made safe yet’ ‘I know’ ‘Well’ ‘Norman, let them do their shit. They want to go in, fuck em’. It’s been a long night. I ain’t getting into a pissing match with a suit from out of town, as long as they don’t scrape a knee outside their cordon, what goes on inside it ain’t our business till we’re in there to make safe’ An hour later they were gone. As they passed I got a look at the driver, not so much the driver, the overalls, no lettering, just the symbol, kind a like a paramedics, only not. As the sky lightened on the horizon the CDC perimeter was cleared, the guys on the cordon left.

Going through the burnt building damping down, Mike called me over. Through is mask I could see the questioning look in his eyes. Several rooms inside, the layout didn’t make sense. A building within a building? Filing cabinets, a big looking industrial freezer and refrigerator, charred outside, clean inside, the clean tool marks visible where locks used to be.

Mike pulled me in further pointing at several areas, tracing lines in the air, ‘See this, look here’ muffled by his respirator. The debris was disturbed. I didn’t pretend to know what he was getting at, I was the new guy still.

All I could make out was what looked like burnt tables, they were like mortuary tables, the marble like tops cracked by the heat. The lines he traced along the roof of the inner building, large deep scorch marks crisscrossed the room, wall and ceiling, all originating to one point on the wall, a red box, a box I’d seen dozens of times. I rubbed away the grime and smoke tarnishing, I could still clearly make out,

N C SE OF EMER CY BRE GLA

It’s strange what a big fire can consume, and sometimes what it leaves behind. The rooms half gutted, the other half untouched, the objects that vulcanise, looking like ebony replicas of their original form. I looked at Mike my eyes wide, he was nodding slowly, he lowered his gaze from me, I followed it, the hand prints near the break glass box, marks down the wall, the debris disturbed at our feet. We cleared bits of junk and burnt stuff that littered the floor. The guys from the vans, they were in here. They’d removed things, big things from this spot.

We cleared a little more, tracks, tracks made after....no, during the fire, early on, from here? The box? No. I spun round to get a better look, no indeed, to here, from where? I looked up, Mike was pointing straight at the tables.

‘Awwww fugh awf mnn’ was the muffled response through my mask.

Mike laughed hard through his mask, raised his arms ‘Frankenstein’ style and slowly stomped toward me hollering ‘URRRGGGGHHHHH’ - made all funnier by his mask. Today was the last day I’d see him, or the rest of my crew 'alive'.

Darma & Norman, Norman's Story Part Two: Ignition Written: 2009-07-03 18:21:01

Part two of the introduction to and by Norman Stanley. The life of a fire fighter continues as strange news begins to filter through the media channels.

Part Two ‘Ignition’

I’d left the scene at six when the relief crews showed up. After getting to the fire house the chief greeted us. We filed past getting handed a sheet of paper. Being last in the queue I could hear the grunts and cursing of the guy’s in front.

‘Signed and returned before you leave’ the chief said all matter of fact.

It was anything but matter of fact.

I could hear Mike before I even got to the kit room.

‘An ‘Incident non-disclosure order’, what kind of BS is that?’

‘Same as your mum made me sign’ came the retort from one of the guys stowing his gear.

‘Oh that was a good one arsehole’ Mike laughed.

I handed in my paperwork and headed home. Malton was looking more awake and ready for another day, I was more than ready to be finishing mine. I grabbed quick shower, switching on the TV in my lounge on the way, some news flash about some vagrant or something attacking some folks on their way to work. Strangely, ‘In other news’ our fire barely got a mention, no fatalities I suppose. Well, those I knew as regular paramedics didn’t cart off anyone. I then thought about the panel vans, the disturbed debris, the way the inner building looked wired to burn from a box normally used to set off a fire alarm. Then Mike, arms raised coming at me. I laughed to myself. Damn, I’m too tired, besides I’m still a rookie, let the investigations department work it out.

Knowing I wasn’t due back on shift for twelve hours I put my earplugs in, a habit of someone not from the city pulling night shifts, and sank into a sleep.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

My eyes blinked open.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BUZZZZZZZ –

By practised reflex I shot a hand out and silenced the MFD emergency pager. I’d had only four hours sleep judging by the clock telling me it was just before mid-day.

‘oh for cry’in out loud’

I checked the pager – EMERGENCY COVER REQUESTED – BILLINGS ROW FH

Damn. Oh well no point moaning about it. I’d left the TV on. As I dressed I caught some C4 reporter outside Welsford Towers, some incident, people urged to stay in their homes, or place of work, yada yada yada, I flicked the local news channel. Same story. Different angle, white Hazmat tents across the front lobby of Welsford. Switched again, national news, some C list celebrity charged with drug possession.

‘Hay’ thought I, Welsfords a few blocks away from Greg’s firehouse, the one I was now on my way to. As the door slammed shut behind me Mrs Michaels, two doors from me on my landing, was sweeping the stairs, again. As I passed her she looked up, the usual ‘Take care Norman’ as I went past.

It wasn’t until I was out on the street I thought about the radio she had on....

‘....districts are currently under caution, citizens are recommended to report those with flu like symptoms and non weapon injuries caused by another hu.....’

You got to love the city I thought. It hits eighty degrees midsummer and everyone goes crazy.

When I got to Billings Row, I could see two engines out, one ready to roll.

‘Norman! You’re riding with me!’

It was Greg. Grabbing some spare gear for me we made our way from the kit room. Stifling a yawn Greg said how sorry he was, dragging me not only out of my bed, but to another firehouse. Gulsonside Fire Department was getting pulled every which way what with whatever was going on at Welsfords and two guys calling in sick, all hands to the pump as the saying goes.

The ‘saddle up’ alarm sounded, ‘here we go again’ I thought to myself.

Greg’s radio squarked as we made our way to the engine. ‘Looks like we’re on our way to the Cockell Building, NE of here, arson in progress’. Great, mid day drive through town.

I felt more awake once we were on our way, lights on, sirens wailing, a little of the energy I had left kicked in, the buzz of being on our way to a call. Having to avoid the residential areas we took the main road north hooking a right past the front Hutchin Railway Station. Traffic, people, traffic and more traffic. ‘Shit, I’m used to the Moses effect’ the driver said referring to his sirens and lights usual ability to part traffic. He picked his way through, repeatedly honking the engines horns ‘get outta the way!’.

I looked out left, Hutchin was all shut up, police and people in fluro jackets turning people away, screaming at them to leave. Hastily painted signs and been erected ‘NO TRAINS TODAY’ & 'ALL TRAINS CANCELLED, BY ORDER'.

Getting past Polycarps Hospital was the same, bigish crowd going nowhere, one TV crew, ‘now what was that about?’ I thought craning my neck out of the window.

Greg lent back punching my arm,

‘Hay Stanley, you still with us? Look lively man, almost there!’

Pulling up at Cockell, I could see four stories of residential, running almost the length of the block. We could see smoke billowing from the main ground floor entrance. Police, not as many as there should be already setting up. A few people on the opposite side of the street, some pointing ,others hands over mouths, more still sitting on the pavement, blankets round them being comforted.

We bailed from the truck, looking around, Greg immediately having words with the most senior looking police officer.

‘We got most of the ground floor checked via the fire exits, but it was already taking hold. No idea about floors two through four. Someone tripped the alarm, started banging on doors, and guessing from the smell, doused the main entrance and far stairwell and fire exit, then lit em up. We were on our way here when some of the lower windows blew’.

‘Why where you on your way here?’ I butted in.

Greg gave me a look.

‘Never mind that we got work to do’ he turned and headed over to the building, I went to follow.

‘Couple of people at the hospital, got attacked, bit up by some freak, we got a call, same thing here, go careful mate’ the cop said.

‘No worries’ I said ‘more scared of the fire’ I replied winking, then walking away, a confident grin. Bite’s indeed.

I saw the ladder unit from my own station turn up, Greg signalling the driver for his crew to watch the upper floors. Masks on, Greg and I headed in. There was little we could do with the foam the guys had outside, they had to deal with the points of where the fires had started. But we could check the building, stop the spread.

Cautiously we edged our way in, could see the blaze further down the corridor, all the doors open between us and the fire, an empty extinguisher lay here and there.

The smoke was already gathering a couple of feet thick. We headed up the stair well, getting to the first floor fire exit, Greg pulled it towards him.

‘What the?’

Furniture, five foot deep, smelling of fuel. Jerry can in the middle. Distantly, a red glow, the far fire escape already ablaze, working its way towards us, the smoke thicker now. Greg tested the barricade, rocking it back and forth.

It was then we saw a figure rise, overweight, five nothing in height, coming a few steps our way.

It, no, he kicked a jerry can over.

Almost synchronised with the sound of the movement and can tipping over, the banging, from where? I could make out mostly open apartment doors, just a little afternoon sun being let through into this corridor, running along the centre of the building, over head, the emergency lights beginning to be masked by the smoke.

With urgency both Greg and now tried to clear the way.

‘GET THE FUCK BACK’ The figure shouted raising an arm, a bulky tubular object in hand. He’d been crying.

‘NOTHING YOU CAN DO, I GOT EVEYONE ELSE OUT, YOU HAVE TO LEAVE’

We doubled our efforts.

‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! MY...MY WIFE...MY KIDS’

The guy looked back towards the door, the source of the banging.

‘CRAZY BASTARD, HELP US!’ Yelled Greg.

Splintering of wood.

I felt bile in my throat, both Greg and I stopped immediately, instinctively checking the ceiling and floor even though the fire was still away from us, still creeping through the building. Splintering , wood giving way.

The guy’s attention went to the apartment door. A hand, then two, pushing through, splinters embedding in the forearms, a shoulder now visible.

‘WE HAVE TO GET TO THEM!’ Greg yelled continuing to push and pull at the stack of furniture.

I looked on.

Upper torso visible, dark stains covering the nurse's outfit.

‘This ain’t right’ echoed round my head.

‘oh.....sweetheart, I'm sorry’ - I didn’t hear it, I’m sure I saw it on the guys lips as the arms pulled him towards the door, the woman’s head now through. She sank teeth into her husband’s neck.

I pulled Greg’s arm back from removing another piece of barricade, he snatched it back, looking at me, then down the corridor. We both watched in horror.

The guy pulled a carving knife from his belt burying it between the shoulder blades with his left hand as the streak of blood shot from his wound, the dark liquid covering her face. His right hand was flailing around. The screaming, even through the helmet....

The screaming...his...hers....others in the room

There was a dull thud as his hand tensioned enough to pull the trigger on the flare gun he was holding.

Time stood still as Greg and I watched the cartridge ricochet towards us – floor – wall – ceiling – embedding in the makeshift barricade, we looked up, eyes meeting, his wide with knowing what comes next.

I felt the slam in the chest from both of Greg’s fists, blowing the air from my lungs, pushing me backwards. My feet found the first step then trod only air as I my body went almost horizontal, backwards down the stairwell, all the while looking at Greg bent over, arms outstretched watching me fall.

The flares hot, burning white potassium light filled the stairwell like a flashgun for a fraction of a second, burning the image of my exposed friend on the stairwell into my eyes, a fraction of a second before the fuel flashed over.

White light was replaced by orange light with black highlights, the dense combustive fumes like the corona of the sun.

The jerry can caught. The thud of the compression wave, the air was blown out, then pulled into the expanding fireball above me, enveloping Greg, filling the air with splintered furniture, my body protected by the angle of my fall.

Blackness, blackness of sight, all except the image my eyes were still telling my brain was in front of me, of Greg arms out, still lit up white, having saved me. The flare whistling down the hall. The woman, the flesh in her mouth while she embraced her husband. The 'pyro' room from last night, the words 'in case of emergency, break glass'.

Blackness, blackness of mind, of unconsciousness.

Darma & Norman, Norman's Story Part Three: Combustion Written: 2009-07-04 23:30:58

Friends are lost. Malton is set to burn, but not only with fire. ***Friends, Romans, Malton dwellers, please comment! Whether good, bad or just plain ugly! Your advice is greatly appreciated***

Part Three: Combustion

White spots, all I can see. I blink. Then the sky, I can see the sky. The oxygen mask comes down on my face again, I feebly try to push it away. The paramedic now leaning over me moves her lips but I don’t hear the words.

I can’t see the sky, I blink, I think it’s Jerry, our driver leaning over me, I can’t hear him either.

Then the sounds come flooding in. Crowd noise, tens, maybe hundreds of people, all talking, gasping, a few screams, indistinct. The sirens, all melding into one bizarre melody.

‘WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?’ – Jerry looks across next to me.

Greg is there. Could be anyone, anything almost, but the blacked partially melted and burnt uniform tells me it’s Greg. Pierced in several places by burnt, broken furniture. I hope it was quick man. I’m glad his mask is blackened, so I don’t have to look at those eyes, the look of horror, of knowing what we saw. I saw it in his eyes before the flare, before the flash over.

‘NORMAN, LOOK AT ME’ - it’s Jerry slapping my face with a big gloved hand.

I remember the guy.....pleading with us to leave....I remember the arms through the door.....I remember ‘oh sweetheart’ right before the wife takes a chunk and he puts the knife in.

I pull the 02 mask off and try to sit upright, even though my own oxygen tank took most of the force from the fall, my back, my neck hurt so bad.

‘And he’s back!’ says Jerry as I struggle to my feet.

‘You have to let it burn’ I say weakly.

‘Fucking what?’

‘YOU HAVE TO LET IT BURN’ - I scream it now.

I’m up, turning to the building.

‘Look Norman, you’re all shook up’ - Jerry follows me as I look for the rest of Greg’s crew.

‘WE GOT TWO! WE GOT TWO, FIRST FLOOR!’

I look around, all the exits now well lit up. My attention goes to the ladder man, signalling a first floor window, he gets moved closer.

He’s motioning for someone to move away from the window.

‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, SAME AS LAST NIGHT, WE HAVE TO LET IT BURN, CALL THEM BACK, SHUT DOWN THE WATER’ I plead franticly.

I’m almost at the ladder engine – Jerry is trying pull me back.

Everyone’s attention is drawn to the unfolding drama above. I can see hands at the window, small hands, children’s hands. Boy and a girl I think, their small mouths gasping for air.

After five seconds of waving for them to stand back the ladder man gets desperate, he knows it’s a risk but he unhooks his axe.....

My mind races, first floor, several apartments deep, the one opposite the banging and screaming.

The one with the door open opposite where the nurse and the husband lived.

I remember the guy again, tears streaming down his face.

‘My wife...my kids...’

I’ve met the wife.

‘NO!’ I scream.

Too late, the smashing of glass makes even me jump, the crowd gasps.

As the ladder man rakes glass, small hands reach out. Smoke billows from the window partially obscuring the sight. The ladder man reaches out scooping the girl up, he thinks so desperate to escape. The boy takes hold of his again outstretched arm.

As he pulls them clear the crowd applause and whoop.

Then confusion sets in.

Some of the smoke clears. The ladder pulls back from the window.

Something is wrong.

The girl, thought to be kissing the fireman, isn’t. Tiny fingers are in his eyes and pulling at his face, the boy trying to eat through the sleeve, clinging to his arm.

Screams erupt as the ladder man losses balance, the axe dropping to the ground, desperate to remove the thing trying to eat his exposed face.

‘Fuck me’ is all Jerry can manage.

Ladder man topples over the basket, caught by his safety line, but pulled upside down by the girl still clinging to him, legs wrapped around, she has what she wants, she will not let go. Hands and teeth pull, more blood flows.

The boy has no option, gravity takes hold, his hands and teeth have no purchase on the rubberised uniform.

More screams as he falls, thudding to the street.

A police officer rushes over, stops abruptly, and takes a step back. The crowd almost silent with shock now by comparison to before.

Arms push the boy up, one contorted from the fall, then a knee, then the other, he stands.

An unholy wail erupts from the boy. He turns to face the cop, the crowd.

Everyone can now see. I can see. The dark patches of flesh removed from his body, the white bone showing through on his chest, the sunken eyes.

His arms raise towards the policeman as another wail erupts.

I look back up to the ladder man, lifelessly dangling while the thing feasts.

My gut tells me it’s Mike.

Something clicks in my still fuzzy brain.

The burnt out lab, last night, it had to be a lab, CDC guys, the pyro-wired room, the news, the attacks.

This is what’s going down, all over Malton I think. The touch paper lit yesterday. There may be no stopping it.

Malton is the perfect tinderbox ready to combust.

Darma & Norman, Norman's Story Part Four: Wildfire Written: 2009-07-06 21:38:16

The scene at Cockell Building continues as Norman, the fire crews and police begin to realise the gravity of the situation and panic spreads amongst the public.

Part Four: Wildfire

The boy looks eight, maybe nine. He’s just above half my height, grievously wounded yet up on his feet. The wail quickly settles into a throaty moan.

Chaos erupts, the crowd’s flight instinct kicking in, fleeing every which way, only the few stay, mesmerised by the spectacle before them.

The rest of fire crew still attending to the fire, do exactly that, the training keeping their mind on directing the powerful hoses.

The paramedic, not seeing the boy from the front rushes to the boy’s aid giving the cop a dirty ‘What is wrong with you!’ look as she steps between them.

The cop, Jerry and I don’t react quickly enough.

She kneels in front of him, hands go to his shoulders. ‘There ther....’ she utters, her jaw then goes slack at seeing his wounds, then her gaze goes up, to look into those dead eyes.

The paramedics scream snaps us out of it, the three of us quickly moving round her and the boy.

‘Get him off - GET HIM OFF!’ she screams weakly punching him in the face.

The boy has her thumb, all the way to the hand in his mouth. Sharp little teeth start to cut through powered by the robotic jaw. Her blood seeps inside and out of the latex glove. The nails of his small fingers pierce her hand and wrist as he tries to push in more.

I go onto my knees next to her, trying to pull her arm back, bracing my other gloved hand against his forehead. Jerry comes down on the other side, grabbing the boys wrists, attempting to prize his small hands away. The cop adds leverage from behind, his left hand coming round to grab the front of the boy’s neck, his right arm going round the waist. He’s a strong little fuck I think. I notice he doesn’t blink, I don’t know why he doesn’t gag.

One, two, three go the unspoken motions as we work together. Only as we all come apart do I sense what a fuck up we’ve made.

The paramedic and I fall back, I keep my balance, still holding her arm, the whole thumb is missing, her wrist and hand a mess of torn skin. The boy’s jaw having been locked by the cops hand round his neck, the hands still dug in. The opening is pissing blood even as I scream for the other medic. I grasp the wound with my free hand trying to keep it raised, the medic now sobbing.

Jerry is lying on his back staring at us with a look of disgust. The cop is also on his back, having pulled from behind. He still has the boy by the waist, but having lost his grip on the neck. The boy seems oblivious to all around except cop’s free hand.

It’s the cop’s turn to scream as small and ring finger are pushed into the bloodied mouth of the boy. I can see the glint of the wedding band fade as it’s slicked with blood, teeth clicking and breaking on it, preventing the boy’s mouth closing.

‘Oh Jesus no, no , no, no, no, no’ - the policeman tries not to panic having seen the previous result. Rolling himself and the boy left he scrambles for a second I as I realise what he’s doing. The look on my face puzzles Jerry as he props himself up snapping his head round to see what I’m looking at.

The gun un-holstered, pushed into the boy’s right side, the cop pulls the trigger.

The boy jerks, black ooze slops from the wound and the noise briefly deafens, but still the grinding of teeth on metal.

I want to puke so badly.

Now the cop panics.

Without thinking, the pistol goes to the base of the boys head, angled high. I do my best to shield the medic pulling her inside my open coat, my upper body between her and the cop.

Another shot rings out as the small head explodes. There is a clunk and a splattering of God knows what on the back of my jacket.

I take a second before I look round to see the cop hysterically weeping, trying to clean his now free hand, wiggling the fingers almost lost, the pistol lies on the street at his side.

Next to it is the boy. Now still, his head stops at the lower jaw, smoke rises from the burnt and bloody remains.

Then I see Jerry, eyes closed, the side of his face a gory mess. Now I’m the one saying ‘Jesus no’.

The other medic arrives at my side to tend the injured medic as I move on all fours over to Jerry. After earlier it’s now my turn to look over him.

As I lean over, Jerry’s eyes begin to blink. I see the gory mess on the side of his face doesn’t belong to him save a few deep scratches. Gore and bone cover him from the shoulder to the top of his helmet. His coughing turns into retching as I help him sit up.

As Jerry tries to wipe his face I grin, I can see the deformed bullet embedded in his helmet having bounced off the street.

‘You lucky, lucky bastard’ I whisper as Jerry brings his retching under control, and begins to stand.

‘LUCKY!’ he says angrily as he turns to the cop.

‘STUPID FUCKING PRICK ALMOST KILLED ME!’ as he lashes out with a boot, kicking the cop over. The cop just goes foetal on his side, arms round his head, weeping.

Jerry looks to the injured medic being lead away, to Greg, the boy, then the girl, still clinging to Mike, hands working away inside his jacket, his face and throat gone.

We both look to the railings on the pavement below the window. ‘Meet the mother’ I say to Jerry as he looks on.

Having fallen on the railings from the smashed window she is writhing about, hands and arms missing from the elbows, the ends charred from the explosion, both nurse and her uniform burnt black at the front.

We both look round as we make out for the first time the distant gunfire, some from the direction of Polycarps Hospital and the rail station. The smell of burning is now heavy in the air, not just from our fire but others, carried on the wind.

Jerry kneels to pick up the pistol. The policeman’s partner, the guy Greg was taking to, now trying to snap his friend from his distress looks up, taking out his own gun.

‘Hay!’ the cop says.

‘Hay fucking what?’ Jerry replies.

‘I’ll help, you shouldn’t have to do it alone’ the cop almost whispers.

‘I can see’ the cop nods to the nurse.

‘They ain’t breathing are they’ he continues.

Three more are now at other windows, hands sliding down glass, their mouths slowly opening and closing.

‘And the little one didn’t stop till your friend put one in his head’ I add.

‘Shut em down’ Jerry says, meaning the engines pump. I jog over and shut the pump down. The hose teams looking over confused as the pressure goes, the job not finished.

Jerry signals to the remaining crew to wrap it up ‘Let it burn’ is the word that goes round. The half dozen cops are told ‘anyone, anything that approaches you, a fellow officer, or any of the fire crew gets two warnings then a shot to the head’. They have seen what’s going down, they now understand too.

Two more shots ring out, the thing sliding off of Mike to the street below once the senior cop blows it’s head open. Jerry covers his face, levels the pistol to the top of the nurse’s head and pulls the trigger.

It stops moving.

We cut Mike down and bag him. The remaining medic takes him, Greg and the fellow medic.

‘Polycarps not answering and the radio’s all jammed with traffic, I’ll try elsewhere’ the medic assures us. We want to know where Mike and Greg’s bodies are going. The three things we carefully bag and toss into the burning building.

I stick with Jerry and his crew. We decide we need to get back to the station, same for Mike’s crew and the PD guys.

Is this really going on elsewhere is the question going round.

‘Stay safe’ the cop says as we climb in the fire truck. He motions for Jerry to keep the pistol, handing two magazines from his partner’s belt.

‘I really hope you don’t have to use it again, but better to have it and not need it....’ his words trail off.

‘I know Malton is burning and there’s little we can I do’ I think as Jerry starts the engine and points us toward the station house. The others are silent, an empty space in the cab for Greg.

My head rests against the window of the fire trucks door. Letting out a deep sigh, my eyes reflect the dancing flames that are the Cockrell Buidling as we leave.

The tiredness and emotion set in. I feel the strain.

Jerry starts to weep at the words sung under my breath. I do not hear him, or see the ablaze Cockrell.

I am a child again, one amongst many children. The boy and girl sit either side. We are singing in rounds, loud and joyful.

Our collective volume ebbs and flows whilst getting louder like the singing at a big football match, the chorusing effect of the large school assembly hall....we are all so happy....

'Malton's burning, Malton's burning, Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Fetch the engine, Fetch the engine, Pour on water, Pour on water, Malton's burning, Fetch the engine,Fetch the engine, Pour on water, Malton's burning, Fire! Fire!,Pour on water, Fetch the engine, Fetch the engine, Pour on water, Fetch the engine, Pour on water, Malton's burning, Fire! Fire! Malton's burning, Fire! Fire! Fetch the engine, Fetch the engine Pour on water.......'

I start to tremble and the tears begin to well in my eyes...

Darma & Norman, Norman's Story Part Five: Both ends burning Written: 2010-03-19 15:28:17

Norman, Jerry and Steve leave Cockrell to burn as the city descends into chaos.

Jerry takes the lead and decides we should get back to the station. We stick to the back streets and then head on through the residential streets.

Some of the rougher estates we'd normally stay out of. Gangs of kids on the rougher side of town think it's a national past time to throw bricks at fire engines and ambulances. But here, it's kind of quite when compared with the city.

Occasionally we see people, some boarding up their homes, others packing stuff into cars and vans. The few who watch us pass by do so suspiciously.

Jerry pulls the truck over, then fumbles around in his jacket for his cell phone. He senses us looking at him as his phone dials out. 'What? Make your calls gents.....I'm gonna make mine...'

While Jerry speaks to his wife about staying indoors and locking up their home until his return Steve, our other crew member and I begin to do the same.

Who was I to call I think looking at the screen? I push some buttons and put the phone to my ear. 'Mum, yeah it's me, listen, has there been anything on the news?' 'What do you mean Norman?' 'About Malton?' 'I've not had the news on today, it's your dad's thing.....hang on a second' I can hear her calling my dad to turn the TV on. 'No son, there's nothing we can see.....what's the matter, you sound tired. I hope you're not burning the candle at both ends, you got....' I butt in. 'No mum, no, listen, something is going on here, some sort of sickness or virus outbr....'

Three pulses in my ear tell me the call has been broken.

I look at the screen, within a few seconds - CALL LOST, CALLS BARRED, NO SIGNAL As I'm expressing my frustration at my phone, Jerry looks at Steve.

'Anything?'

A worried looking Steve shakes his head in the negative. 'Maybe she's getting the kids from school?' offers Jerry. 'I hope so, she temps at an office nearby' 'Look, why don't we swing by your place, it's kinda on the way back to the station? You good with that Norman?' 'Absolutely'

Twenty minutes later we turn into Steve's road. Much like the others people are shoring up or shipping out. Pulling up outside we can see the family car in the drive. Jerry checks the pistol as we get out. I assure Steve it's better to have it and not need it.

Steve runs to the front door and starts banging while Jerry and I watch the street, Jerry tucking the pistol under his jacket. A few knocks and the door opens a jar, restrained by the security chain, his wife Helen is holding one of their children.

'Oh God I was so worried! You have the kids with you?'

'Yes, yes! They're here' Steve and Helen's eyes tear up as she fumbles the latch open.

'Worried! Me too! Every one heard there's something going on in the office and started to leave! The radio said to collect children immediately, I just knew I had to get us back home. And when I get back there's like five answer messages from Angie...'

Jerry leans to me and whispers 'Greg's other half'.

'...saying she can't get hold of him and when she got through to the station they won't tell her anything....'

We all exchange glances

'What? What's going on Steve....Jerry?'

While Steve tries to find words, Helen looks past him at Jerry.

'My God, you have a gun!' she whispers alarmed Steve grips her shoulders and looks at her. 'Truth is, Greg's dead, so are a lot of other people, Malton is going bad real fast and....'

Jerry steps forward 'and that's why you, Steve and the kids are packing up and leaving right now'.

'But the station?' I say.

'Can do without him' I'm told, Jerry then turning back to the others.

'You need to get moving, I'd be doing the same but Joan's got our place locked up tight and way I see things it's move now or leave it a good while, let all the traffic trying to get out die down. You guys take the south ring road, it's the nearest. Steve, keep your brigade radio on the station channel, if we hear anything we'll try and call you from the station house'.

'Thanks Jerry'

'Don't mention it, Norman, let's roll'

'Take care man, you too Helen' I say over my shoulder as Jerry and I head back to the truck. __________________________________

It takes Jerry and I half an hour before we're back at the station having made our way through the chaotic streets. Shops are being looted, all traffic heads south.

The two Welsford Towers crews are back. We sense the depressive atmosphere of a call out gone bad as we make our way inside. They look look as worn down as Jerry and I do. With all three engines in there bays the Chief orders a lock down of the station. Provisions and supplies are checked. We are exhausted, our number down by half. The drill takes longer than expected. As we take stock the other guys explain that Welsford was sealed a few hours ago. They describe how an SO19 team entered the building after shouting could be heard from the roof where reams of photo copy paper where being thrown off, catching on the wind and falling to the street below. Jerry and I are handed a few crumpled sheets.

'SAVE US' and 'THEY ARE IN THE BUILDING' are printed over and over again.

The police firearms unit, a ten man team, entered Welsford. There are a few radio messages about the horrors found within the basement and lower floors. The barricaded door ways and stairs. Then shouts of 'CONTACT! CONTACT!' over the radio, the sporadic uncontrolled gun fire. Shortly after, the shouts from the roof turn to screams and a few bursts of gun fire. A single gunshot on the roof signals to the police and fire controllers on the ground floor that Welsford is lost.

After that, the fire brigade are ordered to seal the building using anything they can find. All emergency services are ordered back to station.

'It's all on the TV mate, well most of it....' one guy solemnly says.

We make our way to the lounge. We get a few nods, word has already gone round about the Cockrell building too. A few of the guys are watching TV, others have gone AWOL, a couple are trying to get some sleep.

Exhausted, Jerry and I find a seat, and focus our tired eyes on the images.

'…these are the scenes unfolding around the city....' Looting, panic, police desperately trying to regain control. By contrast, a few less densely populated residential areas are scenes of orderly calm.

'...Leave? Me? At my age! Your joking! Hitler couldn't make me move, neither can this....' one of Malton's more elderly residents’ quips.

'...we're just not being told what to do....it's chaos!...' a business woman says angrily.

'...horrific images from earlier today...and we apologise for the graphic nature of this footage, but feel we have to show that this is what Malton residents are up against.....'

I sit up recognising the helicopter shot of the roof of Welsford Towers. About thirty office workers are on the roof, several are against the door. Others pick up fists of paper and throw them off the building, the white sheets flash as they catch the sun. The heavy breathing is of a police radio transmission being dubbed over the noise of the news helicopter.

'They are everywhere! Officers are down, officers are down, request back up'.

'We have lost control of the situation......requesting supp...' Is the last message.

Moments later, on the roof, the few at the door look like they are arguing. A consensus appears to be reached and the door is opened. A black clad figure stumbles through, turns and fires a sub-machine gun into the void of the stairwell. Desperately they try to close the door as more figures follow. Parts of the footage are now pixelated as the office workers are attacked. The scene is horrific. The people try running this way and that but ultimately have nowhere to go, several understandably choosing to jump when cornered.

Several of the guys in the room with me look distraught.

The black clad figure, the word 'POLICE' in blue now clearly seen across his back on the zoomed shot is pushed back into a corner himself. He jumps into the hanging cradle the window cleaners use, then throws the empty sub-machine gun at the pressing crowd. While he fumbles at the controls the cradle jerks, but the bloody figures with no sense of danger rise over the edge and tumble into the cradle, several missing it and falling off the side, twenty floors earth bound. As he is taken hold of, he removes his side arm and places the barrel under his chin.

The screen goes black.

The whole thing lasts just over a minute, then returns to the news studio.....

'Shocking scenes there....' Is all the newsreader can manage.

I realise I'm holding my breath and let out a sigh, a few are just shaking their head or looking at the floor.

There's a mumble and I look over at Jerry, asleep in his chair, he shakes with the odd shiver. I half wake him and help him up to the dormitory. I'm careful not to wake the other two guys in the dark room even though a radio plays a folk and county station quietly in the background. He's strong, but things have clearly taken there toll on the older guy I think as I swing his legs up onto a bed. He's picked up a cough from all the smoke too. I take the pistol from his jacket and carefully place it on the cabinet, placing his helmet on top of it. I catch sight of the bullet, still stuck in the side. 'Sweet dreams you lucky bastard' I say as I leave the room leaving the door ajar.

Unable to sleep I head back downstairs to the chill room. Holed up safe in our station it's hard to imagine the things going on on the TV are right outside our door, in the streets around us and the city at large.

'…armed forces are being ordered to put Malton under quarantine....in images more familiar to Israelis and Palestinians, massive concrete wall sections are being air lifted and assembled around parts of the city not already filled by the old Roman era city wall with army patrols and riot police holding back the few crowds that have made it this far...'

A news banner rolls along the bottom of the screen. Malton's suburbs are coloured red, amber and green. As the minutes go by the greens turn to amber, the ambers turns to red. Malton's hospitals are listed. Few are 'open', most are 'at capacity' and some a tell tale 'Closed, do not approach'.

'….we are not sure of the nature of the outbreak as yet....it may be a strain of rabies...' say the 'special advisers'.

'….towns trunk roads are being closed with residents being asked to return to there homes and await further news....'

'…reports are being received that those areas that cannot be walled are being mined...'

A still image is on the screen of what looks like two Royal Air Force jets, hundreds of black specs trail the air below them, then another talking head.

'…quite clearly, we can see that far from being scrapped under international law the, the Air Force is actively deploying what I suspect to be, or are similar to, anti-personnel mines in the rural areas....'

The news anchor is back on, hand to his ear, professional, but faintly puzzled.

'And we cut to a live feed, a press conference...ughhh, I'm not sure where from....'

The emblem at the back of the conference hall I've seen before. The white panel van, the image on the drivers boiler suit from this morning. Armed private security guards are dotted on the periphery of the room.

'...understand the alarm, we robustly deny any involvement contributing to the emerging situation. However, that said, we here at Necrotech and our friends over at Malton University are confident this thing will burn itself out in forty-eight to seventy-two hours....'

There is a muffled shout from a reporter, the press officer continues.

'…rabies? No. Who told you that?.....'

Another shout. The press officer looks uncomfortable, a nervous laugh plays across his face as he looks at the lab coated folks sitting in the front row, then back at the rest of the reporters.

'...are they un-dead?' Don't be ridiculous, That's impossible, next question'.

'Fucking liar!' I say almost getting to my feet.

'How badly would I like to smack him in the face right now' offers one of the other guys.

'...we interrupt the press conference as breaking news reaches us this evening that explosions can be heard on the outskirts to the north and west as Army demolition teams completely destroy Malton's access bridges while armoured personnel carriers stand guard on the far side, with the city now almost sealed....'

'The city almost sealed, shit' - I blink at the TV as I remember Steve, Helen and the kids......

Darma & Norman, Norman's Story Part Six: 'Purge' Written: 2010-03-22 21:13:29

Events continue as night envelopes the city.

I leap out my chair startling the other three guys in the room. I speedily hunt through the odd items of kit that lie around the room.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, where is it, where the hell...' the jackets, magazines and assorted crap go this way and that.

'Jesus Norman, what the fuck you looking for?'

I don't see who said it, I spin on my heels to face the other guys.

'My radio..my brigade radio? Quick where is it?'

'I put 'em on charge man, in the kit room, there all charging' one guy, Carl I think, says.

'Norman, we're all here, well those who decided to come back, why do....' not quite finishes another.

'Steve and his family, we gave em a radio and Jerry told em to go south!' is the best explanation I can offer as I dash from the room.

I narrowly miss the Chief, clipboard in hand, as I grab the door frame of the kit room, my momentum flinging me into the center. I spin round, unfamiliar with the layout. They aren't where I expect them to be, in my tiredness forgetting I'm not at my station.

'Chief! Radios?'

The Chief snatches a radio off charge and tosses it in my direction.

'AND I WANT IT BACK WHEN YOU'RE DONE' he shouts after me.

Shouting a thanks as I head back up to the TV room I snap back the waterproof flap, switching the unit on.

'Steve....Billings Station copy?.....'

'Steve....Billings Station copy?.....'

I check the transmit button twice while looking at it just to check. Shushhhhhhhhhhh, click, silence, shushhhhhhhhhhhhh, click, silence, shushhhhhhhhhhhh.

Watching the the green RX led blink off and as the TX led goes red in-between. Satisfied its definitely working I retake my seat and try to catch my breath.

'Steve.....Billings...you copy?'

I feel disappointment creep into me at the prolonged shush emanating from the speaker. Deflated I sit back, my eyes once again coming to the TV, the other guys watching me. I shrug and shake my head feeling like I've let Steve down. A guy I've know less than half a day but a Brigade brother no less for it.

'Billings, Steve....who's that? I tried calling you know....' Relived I snatch the radio back to my ear.

'Steve it's Norman....Gulonside Norman......tell me your outside the city limits?'

The fact he's still in radio range makes me doubtful. I scan the TV for any news that might help. More people running down streets, from what is unclear, the TV crew taking flight too.

'I wish I was....we're stuck. The army has a blockade, we're sitting here two hours now, no word , nothing' my doubt now confirmed.

'Listen, they're sealing off Malton, south is the only way.....can you make the back roads?'

'Negative....I wish we could, there's got to be like thousands of people here. Can't go forward'

'Ahh hang on' I transmit, the radio now up loud so the other guys can hear. My eyes take in the text scrolling along the bottom of the TV

'How far is Theopan General from the south access road?'

'Few blocks I think....some of those people that got attacked at Methringham Rail station got carted there this morning I think, why's that?'.

That's why I knew the name of the hospital. Mrs Michaels radio as I left when heading over to Billings.

I point the radio aerial at the TV, their gaze following.

'Oh no.....' One of them says softly.

POLICE CORDONS OVER RUN AS LARGE NUMBERS OF PLAGUE 'VICTIMS' DISPERSE FROM THEOPAN GENERAL HOSPITAL

'Is there anywhere near the south approach road they could go?'

I get blank faces before Carl snaps his fingers. 'Huggins FD, there's a brigade station on the edge of the city, just before you hit the south approach road....they'll take them in'

'Steve, Norman, can you one eighty, make it to Huggins Station?'

'Yeah, I know it, going to be tough, but gotta be better than sitting here right? Copy?'

'Copy that, quick as you can' unsure how much to say as I now pace the room.

The TV goes split screen, the newsreader now sharing with a woman. While the sound is down I know she's in a helicopter from the over large head phones and boom mic. The camera switches from her to out and down, the shot showing the city roads lit up by the orange street lamps. It follows these until they merge with the bright white sodium lamps of Theopan Generals car park.

The helicopter shot goes full screen.

There, the flashing lights of abandoned police cars fight for attention. The unsteady image zooms. Human shapes methodically are at work over other prone figures. More are moving, with slow menacing purpose while yet more flee before them, the camera panning with the movement of the helicopter.

'Steve, Norman, copy?'

'Copy, go...'

'You need to move, now'

'We can't get the car round'

'Leave the car...you need to move right now.....'

We watch the screen as the helicopter moves south, following a group of what I now can think of only being described as the walking dead. The street is now becoming devoid of the living, them having fled or being locked up in there apartments and houses.

'When did they get to be so many?'

'How fucking quick does this thing spread?' we ask ourselves.

The TV goes split screen again. A male reporter. He's facing the camera but pointing backwards, at the backs of a line of soldiers. He motions to the cameraman. The picture points to the ground then is up again. The cameraman now standing on the bonnet of a car, more of the scene is revealed.

Small arc lights cut a swath in the darkness, lighting up the first few lines of people, held back by chain link fencing. The street lamps dimly lighting the rest, the gathering stretching away up the south approach road. Steve, Helen and the two children are in a sea of people.

'Hang on Norman....what?' The question isn't directed at me, quieter like Steve has held the radio away. I wait stretching and then balling my free hand impatiently. Come on man....

'Norman, they're leaving...the army, words going round... the...the army...I err...your sure? Really? They're leaving?'

'Say again' I TX uselessly, Steve still having his mic keyed.

A uniformed figure remonstrates with the reporter as the holding line of army begin firing objects over the fence. A white smoke glows eerily as it jets from the canisters. The crowd begins holding hands and clothing up to their mouths. Others falling to their knees, choking on the gas.

'Tear gas? You sure?' again, not at me but someone else.

On screen a solitary figure undaunted by the gas stumbles forward, takes hold of a choking man and tears at him. Those that can, try and flee, scrabbling on the ground. The crowd divides. Many grasp at the fencing, it shaking back and forth, others stumble into backs of the crowd already surging north.

The reporter at the scene drops his mic to his side as the line of soldiers, an order is going round. They turn and run at the trucks, mounting them and helping others up. The cameraman drops, slides off the bonnet and a hand comes into shot as he grabs the collar of the reporter signaling it's time to leave.

'I don't think Steve and Helen can make it' says one guy.

The last three soldiers are signaled. They turn, fire a volley of shots at the un-dead man, another at the living trying to get over the fence.

Several bullets undoubtedly miss or pass through them into the backs of the crowd beyond. There final act is to hurl yet more canisters at the fencing. This time the vapour puffs red and the scene is obscured.

'Holy Christ! They're firing into the crowd! Helen! Get d...' It's hard to hear above the background of screams.

The view of the blockade retreats as the camera is pointed out the back of a news van.

'Steve, leave the car, get Helen and the kids to Huggins...now!'

Shushhhhhhhhhhh

'Steve you copy?'

Shushhhhhhhhhhh

'Steve?' the sound of hard breathing and screams in the background from the radio fills the room.

'We're running......everyone is.....'

'Get to Huggins' is all I can say.

'Shooting....infected in.....the crowd.....maybe.....coming....this way?'

The right side of the TV screen is now filled with the junction of the where the south approach road meets the south of the city. A few of the un-dead, those that must have been here already are heading towards the noise of the panic stricken crowd, they themselves running away from the army blockade. There, the arc lights show the drifting tear gas and dense red smoke.

On the left side of the screen something zips into view and is then gone.

I motion to turn the sound up.

The helicopter rocks as the woman describes the two jets over flying the blockade, heading south.

A dread is lodged in my stomach.

'...can see the navigation lights, and engines burning brightly in the night sky.....they...they are turning....' The camera back up on her as she peers out into the dark.

'..yes.....can see them coming around....'

She motions the cameraman to cut back to the scene below. The thousands having been trying to get out south are flooding back towards the city. They don't know of the hundred or so infected heading for them let alone the few already there.

'Steve, get to Huggins, don't stop'

'Lost....Helen....and Jo.....gotta find......them'

Another thirty seconds passes before picture rocks again, the screen fills with a fiery orange bloom. The camera man fast zooms back as if to fly away from it's burning grasp. The image cuts to the cabin, now askew, shows the occupants thrown to one side of the interior, the movements sudden and violent. The scene shakes rapidly as the warning sounds from the helicopter bleed into the audio feed. The view is momentarily the image of pure burning liquid fire before colour bars fill the screen, the transmission lost.

The left side shows the size of the explosion, fire on the horizon like a distant sun setting in an overcast sky.

Five seconds go by before the newsreader is back on, looking off camera, then, the shock registering on his features. The looking at his desk shaking his head.

'And....we've....ahhh, my God......I can't find the words.....'.

We sit stunned at the purging of it's citizens.