Sally's Story (2-1) Burning Down the House

	A wet, concrete alleyway yielded two figures to the lone, back-door light illuminating it, the pair quietly stalking towards the small steel door sitting beneath the lone sodium-vapor lamp. The scuff of a heelless stiletto, flexed and wrought into shape to be a flat, issued a shush from the second of the figures sitting now underneath the idle light, deep yellow shadows cast across their meek faces.
	“Shh,” the larger of the two quieted, fishing a key from around his neck as he fussed with the doorknob. Peeking his blocky head through the door he swept his head around, a single all-seeing eye breaking the darkness with a soft orange flickering. “Come on.” With a tug he pulled the lithe other entrant behind him, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him in the abject dark of the station kitchen. A lime-green microwave clock hung in the darkness, the hefty robot’s accompaniment hardly able to see anything save for the soft glow of more lights beyond the threshold of the kitchen. Satisfied in their solitude the heavy robot stooped to clear his head underneath the cupboards above him, fishing in the dark for the loop of extension cord he’d stowed there. Nabbing it with a deft, solid hand he unspooled it and thrust it into the wall, beckoning his partner over to his side. Towering above his counterpart he gingerly lowered the right shoulder of her blouse, connecting the cord to its port on the back of her shoulder. A pleasing yellow light clicked on, the second robot shivering in response.
	“Same spot,” he added, popping open the larger cupboard at his knees. Batting clean dishes out of the way he scrunched the smaller robot into a little ball, a lingering finger brushing across a soft cheek, through thick ruby-red bangs as he tossed a wan wave goodbye, the simmering orange in her eyes glinting off his steely skin and the irons hanging on the wall opposite them, Halloween decorations stringing the ceiling between her and them. “I’ll be back soon.” Nodding he shut the door gently, careful to snake her cord covertly around the countertop. Sighing he stepped to the threshold of the kitchen, batting his head left and right for witnesses, with none to be found.
	“Oh hey Al,” a chipper voice intruded. “You take the garbage out?”
	“Yes, I did Logan.”
	“Attaboy,” the man smiled, a soft one-two punch laid into the robot’s solid shoulder. “Can’t sleep so I figured I’d run and grab a snack, just gotta get by if you-” Before the man could slip past the robot crowding the way between them a shrill alarm split his ears, the robot turning  a featureless face upwards to listen. Bells rang as stern shouts bounced from the upper levels of the fire station he called home, the robot shrugging as he gently stepped past the shorter man.
	“Sorry, Logan.”
	“Yeah, uh, see you.” Sniffing the fire fighter dawdled by the stairwell instead of fetching his snack, watching his compatriots rush into action as they stormed for their fire engine just a jog away. A small sense of pride stirred in him as the brusque handful of men clomped into action, their heavy three-quarter boots pounding the concrete floor of the garage as they roped their equipment together and piled into their trusty engine. Al, the robot, charged behind them, arms full of protective equipment meant for anyone but a robot like himself, his shimmering, powerful form climbing onto the back of the machine and holding tight to the ladder. With the cry of sirens, horn blaring, the engine escaped into the dense Beacon City night.

	“What’s the call?”
	“Structure fire over in Portsmouth,” coughed the brawny man sitting in the passenger’s seat of the fire engine, nursing the radio handset with calls across the line to dispatch and the other trucks arriving. “Sounds bad, at least three engines.”
	“Christ alive,” the younger fireman snorted, ripping the wheel left as he peeled down the street, lights painting the walls of brick rowhouses red as they left the city center and broke towards the middle-suburb flanking the river shore. “Sounds like it’s more than one building then.”
	On the rear of the engine Al ignored the beating, pulsing lights as the engine bounced through potholes and over manhole covers, his iron grip holding him steady to the back of the engine. He drowned out the roar of the siren to think about the approaching roar of fire, the hellish whip crack of popping wood and collapsing beams. Autumn air whipped around him and lashed his panelling, resistant pads of kevlar laid over sensitive joints where alloy and cables wouldn’t suffice. Bouncing with the suspension he bobbed he held strong, quietly taking note of the retreat of the poorer neighborhoods as the fireman driving broke right, towards the pleasant crop of townhouses on the river shore where, sidling to the side and peering ahead, he could make out their destination. A billowing cloud of hellish smoke trailed into the night sky from the horizon, a home ablaze just a few miles down the straight-shot avenue they’d turned onto. Licks of orange rumbled in the cloud as it spiraled and dissipated underneath indifferent stratus clouds, waiting to drizzle on commuters come morning. Sliding back out of the slipstream Al steeled himself for another day of work, quietly taking a free hand to tug on the hoses coiled on the back beside him, making last-minute equipment checks as the engine roared onward.
	Breaking into the annoyingly crowded roads of the Portsmouth neighborhood the engine slowed to a meander, trying hard not to bump into any of the nicer cars the residents had crammed on either side of the curb. Squeezing through, no doubt between the annoyed cursing of the firemen in the cab, a deft hand twisted down one last street and into a broad cul-de-sac where three other engines were parked outside, the din of shouting operators almost drowned in the roar of flames pummeling the sky the home they were targeting and, to Al’s observation, the neighboring home beginning to go up next to it. Hopping off the back of the truck the staunch robot rushed into action, sliding lockers open as his companions piled out and pulled their heavy pants and jackets on, layered kevlar swaddling them as they clipped and velcroed their clothes together, masks donned and tools in hand before reporting to the company officer overlooking the scene. Looping the flacid firehose over his shoulder the robot bounded behind his comrades towards the fire for orders, their arms full and ready to move.
	“Engine 32,” a voice called, a squat man sitting with his hand on a walkie-talkie, coordinating the firefighters within the first house. “Just in time! We’ve got the first house handled, fire started somewhere in the attic and spread downstairs from there.”
	“And the other house?” The man snorted before regaining his composure, a thick moustache sitting under his nose wrinkling for a second.
	“Well, in the panic, one of the homeowners was trying to break a window to let the smoke out.” A silent trio of eyes rolled, Al listening intently to the commander as he explained. “The woman grabbed the nearest piece of furniture and tossed it out the window. Small thing, a little stool, but it worked. And it happened to be on fire at the time, so,” he frowned, casting a hand to the burgeoning fire now consuming the siding on the next home over.
	“Swear to Christ, man,” one of them started.
	“Not a problem, they were already outside by the time it happened, thankfully. They were the ones who called it in, at any rate. But I need you four to get in there and put that fire out before it spreads, good?”
	“On it,” the tallest nodded. “Our Alf can do entry, cool?” He turned to the robot who was already manhandling the last free fire hydrant, brawny hands twisting the bolt free as he attached the hose. A silent thumbs-up and he was ready, snatching a halligan from the hands of one of his smaller partners.
	“What’s the plan?”
	“Same old Al, get in there and find the fire. It looks like it’s mostly excluded to the outside,” he leaned, casting a wary eye to the licks of flame consuming the side wall of the home. “But knowing that it has a pretty quick way into the attic and second floor there, so we’ll handle things outside while you make entry and find where it’s moving. Understood?”
Nodding the robot set off at a purposeful jog for the front door, agape, stepping into the pitch black foyer before him. Batting his eyes around, feeling around for heat, he made his way up the first flight of stairs to where he could feel the angry, beating pulse of the fire as it ate through the siding and into the home he had to defend. Apt sensors cut through the smoke that was now seeping down from the scorching ceiling, the air choked and thick with soot, the reminder that the fire wasn’t burning cleanly and, with one wrong move, would be happy to lash out angrier than it was now. With that in mind he weighed the heavy tool in his hand, the spike on its one end ready to do work as he peered out the window to his right. There below the other three were deftly prying away the burning siding, letting it tumble to the lawn below to be stamped out where it couldn’t be directly extinguished. Turning back inside he scanned the ceiling with his eyes, calculating optimum placement for punch-holes into the separating floor to be sprayed down. With another pop over to the window he cracked it just an inch, enough to allow the smoke to ventilate quietly out of the home into the cold Autumn air. Another inch and he squeezed his hand through to wave the rest up and into ready position, the external fire quickly dispatched.
Beneath him the tramp of heavy boots clambered up the stairs, his own commander patting him on the shoulder before nodding to the bar in his hands.
	“Get to work Al, we’ll start spraying once you open it up,” the man yelled from behind his mask and over the din of the fire roaring silently between the floors. With a start the robot thrust the pick-end up and through the drywall and particle board underneath, gypsum dust and splinters of wood pulp raining down before a second fall of glowing cinders and wisps of ash, the tongues of flame exposed at once and casting a hellish orange glow into the smoke-choked room. “Good one, keep it moving!” Shuffling around the bedroom they’d taken position in, Al kept up the hole punching, more and more holes broken into the ceiling and exposing the trapped fire where it was promptly sprayed, the water hissing and popping in angry reply before a mist began to form. The smoke cooling finally they ducked into the nursery opposite the room, the same side of the home smouldering around them. With a forceful kick the robot sent a wheeled crib across the floor and into the closet doors, ready to punch more holes into the weakening fire above them. The same routine ran through the room, two men tending and controlling the hose with disciplined pulses of water into the ceiling space followed by a shuffling over to the next punch hole, the fourth man clearing furniture where it began to fume angrily.
	With the second floor cleared and controlled all that remained was the attic, the downpour of hose water dripping onto the helmets and heads of the four firefighters. Little streams of lukewarm water pooled on the ground beneath them, carpet soaked and hardwood slick as Al took the lead and yanked the pull cord to open the attic. A rush of hot air washed the trio behind him, Al powering forward unaffected by the towering waves of fire now awash on the one side of the attic.
“Christ alive,” one screamed over the roar of the growing fire, splinters of red-hot wood falling and sparking on the floor of the attic space. “Al get up there and cut us some ventilation!”
	Al paused to bat an eye around the room, carefully examining the heat and the scattered, stored furniture as he watched noxious fumes pull off of them, the morbid smoke in the aperture of the attic beginning to burn and heat the entire space more and more.
“Quick,” the robot shouted, throwing his halligan down and grabbing for the hose waiting behind him. With disciplined bursts towards the ceiling he pounded the advancing fire, billowing clouds of steam flash-vaporizing off of the yellow-hot flames, perceptibly the fire’s intensity was slaked for the moment, a total flashover stopped as Al beat against the fire, taking a free foot to kick back the halligan to the next man down the line. “I can handle the hose, please get some ventilation where you can.” Quietly advancing into the depth of the glowing attic he kept pulsing his hose, the vapor slowly, deliberately cooling the smoke to save the three humans behind him from being scorched by a spontaneous ignition. Pouncing on the fire he spun the hose-head in little rosettes, just like he’d been programmed and trained to do, making sure to keep clear of the other three humans around him as they began to punch and claw their way through the thick roofing to let the rest of the smoke dissipate.

	Time passing the quartet locked the fire down, the damage limited as best they could as the three humans clomped down the stairs and out onto the lawn, panting as they tore their helmets and masks off to lay the weight off. Still inside Al quietly assessed the damage, careful to move furniture and other personal effects out of the deep puddles of hose water where he could, quietly looking at the scorched punch holes dotting the ceilings around him. Head down he went to step outside, ready to offer any other assistance before they were dismissed and the next shift could come in to help with cleanup and recovery. Many miles away, however, far off the river shore was their home fire station. The ancient building, encased in chilly red brick, house a baggy-eyed fireman who didn’t get to fall back asleep, his early-morning alarm yanking him awake just a few hours after the previous call woke him up. Logan yawned and turned over in bed, his stomach rumbling. He had just a little bit of time beforehand so he made his decision, slipping silently down the stairs and thinking to himself.
	“A bagel would be nice, yeah,” he thought. “Maybe some cereal, too. Just a snack.”