The Brice
By Rose Po

Craig Brice swallowed, fighting to force down panic. The cold, slightly damp walls pressed against him, the gritty surface of the dirty bricks dug into his skin. He was stuck, his feet dangling above the ground. The dark air stank of soot and creosote. He took a deep breath and exhaled as much as he could. Brice slid downward, until his boots crunched against the ground. He breathed out again and relaxed, sliding free of the narrow channel, landing with his legs pinned awkwardly beneath him and facing a blackened wall. His right shin protested his cramped position. Craig scrambled to his feet, turned.

And peered out a... a fireplace. "What the hell?" muttered Brice, scrambling forward, past a row of stockings.

Craig looked around curiously. There was not a right angle in the entire room. Every opening randomly studding the mustard yellow walls was rounded. A huge Christmas tree, surrounded by a field of gifts and covered with an array of improbable ornaments, dominated one corner of the living room. It was capped with a crooked star. For all the world the entire scene resembled nothing more than a cartoon.

The hair on the back of Craig's neck stood up; the feeling of being an intruder was overwhelming. Brice tiptoed past a narrow corridor to a curved window and looked out. Snow blanketed a ring of loaf shaped houses, hemmed in by steep craggy mountains. This isn't California, he realized, turning away from the wintry scene.

The crooked star twinkled at him as he walked back to the fireplace. Brice padded over to the tree, trying to walk quietly in his heavy turnout boots. Straining, he reached for the star. Craig's fingers fell inches short, and he looked around the room for something to climb on. There was nothing suitable. The golden ornament leaned lopsidedly on the top of the pine, irritating Brice. He spied a large toy fire truck, its ladder extended into the air.

"You are a fireman after all, Craig," he muttered, testing the strength of the span. 'Never use a ladder that does not meet NFPA standards....' he quoted to himself. He glanced at the ornament; it glittered mockingly. Brice stepped onto the first rung.

"That's better," he sighed, admiring the now-straight star. He bent forward slightly to make a final adjustment.

Abruptly, the ladder shifted beneath his feet. The tiny truck started to roll. As if in slow motion, Craig felt himself begin to fall. Spicy scented branches slapped him in face as he plunged toward the ground. Sharp needles tore at his skin. Brice landed in a blinding hazy of agony.

As he lay on the floor, someone began to sing:

"DeSoto," moaned Craig, recognizing the voice.

Craig struggled to climb to his feet. His right leg exploded in pain. The odd-colored room swam in a field of stars. His stomach twisted as waves of nauseating pain shot up from his calf.

Craig screamed.

******

"Mr. Brice!"

Craig groaned.

"Mr. Brice, wake up. You're having a nightmare." The nurse gently shook her patient's shoulder. "Come on."

Brice blinked the woman's face into focus. "I'm awake." Beyond the nurse's head, he could see the maze of traction ropes. He fumbled for the trapeze, trying to adjust his position. The nurse helped him shift. His fractured right tibia and fibula ached. Frowning, he stared at the heavy white plaster cast encasing his leg, wishing himself far away.

"That was quite a dream," she commented, filling a glass with water.

Sighing, Brice slumped against his pillow. He had no desire to discuss the irrational ravings of his subconscious. He took the proffered glass. "Thank you. I'm fine now." He looked out the window at the darkening sky and tried to calculate how many more hours Beth would be on shift. Craig sighed again.

The nurse frowned. "OK, push the call button if you need anything."

"I'm fine, really." He forced a smile.

"Get some more rest if you can."

Nodding, Brice continued to stare out the window, remembering how he had landed in Rampart for the holidays.

******

Brice couched in the driveway, tightened his grip on the bow saw, and swore under his breath. He grabbed the rough trunk of the Scotch pine, the most bedraggled -- and crooked -- example of a Christmas tree he had ever seen. He whispered a second curse word and began to cut.

"Did you say something?" asked Beth Shaw, glancing up from where she was assembling the Christmas tree stand.

"No," he panted, sawing through the trunk. "You know, if we hadn't waited until Christmas Eve we'd have been able to find something better."

"It's a family tradition to get the tree and decorate it the night before Christmas."

Craig looked at the bent trunk and the gaping hole in the branches on one side. "It's crooked," he said plaintively.

Beth gave a final turn to the last bolt securing the leg of the stand and stood up. She walked slowly around the tree. "It's beautiful. And to think, you wanted to get an artificial one."

Slowly setting the saw down, Craig looked up. "Do you know how many people die annually in fires started by Christmas trees?"

Gently, Shaw brushed her hand over the needles, inhaling the heady fragrance. "I'll take my chances," she replied, bending and kissing his forehead.

Brice sighed. He grabbed a lock of her red hair and pulled her mouth to his.

"You'll never get done at this rate," she murmured.

Craig sighed again and turned back to the tree.

******

Beth snuggled against Craig's shoulder and looked at the glittering tree. Strings of tiny white lights sparkled amid the branches and clusters of ornaments. Taking a deep breath, she nuzzled his arm.

Brice kissed the top of Shaw's head. "The star isn't straight," he complained.

Irritated, Beth glanced up. "It's fine."

"No, it's canted about five degrees to the left."

Shaw straightened, pulling away from Brice. "Really!"

"Yes." He held up his hands, illustrating the relative displacement of the ornament. "Rather..."

"Does it matter?" interrupted Beth.

"What?"

"Does it matter? Does it make the tree any less beautiful?" she asked, her eyes sparking.

"Well, it interferes with the overall symmetry..." As soon as Brice spoke, he realized he had said the wrong thing.

"Craig!" exploded Beth, standing up. "It's perfect just the way it is. Real life is messy. Trees are crooked, ornaments are canted but life goes on. Let it alone!"

Brice stood. Slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek. "OK," he sighed.

Shaw's expression softened.

Craig hooked his finger under her soft chin and tipped back her head. He gazed into Beth's eyes and stroked her face, tracing an irregular path, connecting the freckles on her check.

Beth stood on her toes and kissed him. "I'll make us some tea," she said, turning.

Brice started to sit down, but the stepladder, still standing next to the tree, caught his eye. Carefully, he climbed.

"There," said Brice, happily eyeing the now-straight star. Leaning forward, he reached for the ornament to make a final adjustment. As he moved the glass bauble, the tree shifted, beginning to fall. Craig snatched at the trunk. Suddenly he was falling.

Brice plunged through the branches, glass balls and candy canes raining down around him, breaking on the hard floor. His leg caught between two rungs of the ladder, twisting. He landed; the ladder jerked in the opposite direction, refusing to release the limb. "Argh!" Craig yelled, as a blinding haze of pain engulfed him.

"Craig?" called Beth, running in from the kitchen.

Brice panted. The agony slowly resolved into distinct pains -- a stabbing from the glass fragments embedded in his hip, the deep ache of his bruised elbow, and the white hot pain of his mangled leg.

"Craig?" repeated Shaw, carefully shoving aside the ladder and leaning over him. Her face was white.

Brice tried to push himself upright.

"No, stay still," instructed Beth, pressing a restraining had against his chest. "Where do you hurt?"

Slumping, Craig dropped back on to the floor, gasping as the burning in his calf flared. "My right leg," he hissed between clenched teeth. "I think I broke it."

Jaw tightening, Shaw looked at his leg. Blood stained the leg of his jeans. "I'm gonna call the paramedics," she said, standing.

"No," ordered Brice. "We can rig a splint and you can help me to the car." He closed his eyes, knowing it was a stupid idea even as he suggested it.

"Craig, you're bleeding. You may have a compound fracture." Beth walked into the kitchen

Brice choked back a cry of frustration; instead he listened to Shaw talk to the dispatcher. By tomorrow I'll be the laughing stock of the entire department. The Captain will read me the regs on ladder safety and Animal will give me a ladder belt for home use. Craig gritted his teeth in pain and frustration.

******

"They're here." Beth looked through the living room window. The flashing lights outside painted the drapes a lurid red.

Grimacing, Brice stared at the ceiling, hoping that the men from 36's would be professional. His leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and blood had pooled under his hip and calf, forming cooling, sticky puddles.

"Fire Department!"

Brice groaned at DeSoto's voice. Figures 36's would be busy and 51's would roll on the call. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"It's open," called Beth. Behind her the front door creaked.

"Ma'am, what happened," began Gage, bursting into the room. He stopped and gaped at his fallen colleague. Soundlessly, Johnny opened and closed his mouth, studying the overturned ladder and shattered ornaments.

DeSoto plowed into his partner's back, forcing Capt. Stanley to engage in some fancy footwork to avoid the human pileup. The station officer rocked back onto his heels with a thump, holding out his hand, signaling for his men to stop. Chet peeked past Hank's shoulder, staring at Craig.

An engine company too. He noted the engine crew's turnouts and mussed hair. And I woke them. Craig tried to look as dignified as he could lying in a field of broken glass and candy. Suddenly, the appearance of the two paramedics registered. Brice stared.

Gage and DeSoto both had harried, overworked expressions and -- odd headgear. John wore a red furry Santa cap and Roy sported a green bell-topped elf's hat.

"Brice," squeaked John, finally. Setting down the drug box and biophone, he knelt next to the injured paramedic. His bunkers rustled stiffly. "What happened?"

"I'd think that would be obvious, Gage." He scowled. "Even to a man in a ridiculous, unregulation hat."

"Craig," snapped Shaw, frowning at him. "He fell from the ladder -- about five feet. I think he has a tib-fib fracture of the right leg." She stroked Brice's forehead and then took his hand.

Stanley looked at Kelly. "Get the backboard from the squad, Pal."

DeSoto turned, calling back down the entryway. "Chet, a leg splint too." Brushing away fragments of glass with his foot, he squatted next to Brice.

Johnny glanced first at the nurse, and then at Craig. "How?"

Brice felt his face flush. "I was straightening the star and I..." His voice trailed off.

DeSoto glanced up from assembling the biophone. He raised his eyebrows.

"I lost my balance," Craig finished lamely. He sighed.

"Straightening the star?" asked John incredulously.

"The damn thing was crooked!" yelled Brice. "I was fixing it, OK? Ouch!" He winced as Shaw squeezed his hand.

Roy choked. Stanley turned to watch Kelly carry in the backboard, hiding his grin.

"Anything you say, Craig -- Brice," grinned Gage, taking Brice's wrist. "Respirations 18, pulse 88."

"Are you going to survive, DeSoto?" inquired Brice, archly. He stared at Roy, challenging the other paramedic to meet his eyes.

DeSoto scribbled the pulse rate on the MICU form. His ears turned red.

"Where do you hurt?" asked Johnny, unrolling the blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around Craig's arm.

"My right hip and lower leg."

"How 'bout your neck or back?" continued Gage.

"No."

"Did you hit your head?" Roy watched John take the measurement.

"No."

"100/60," reported Gage, removing the stethoscope from his ears. "Roy, give me a collar." He glanced up at Kelly as he set the spineboard next to Brice.

"I'm fine! You don't have to board me." Craig started the struggle.

Beth and Roy caught his arms. John pressed gently on Craig's shoulders. "Take it easy!" ordered Gage. He looked into Brice's eyes and slowly smiled. "Craig Brice is asking me disobey regulations?"

Craig pursed his lips and quieted. "When you put it that way," he muttered. He tightened his fingers around Beth's palm.

John snorted. He took the collar from Roy and wrapped it around the injured man's neck. Pulling the penlight from his pocket, Gage peeled back Brice's eyelid and waved the beam over the gray iris, watching it contract.

Craig's jaw muscles tightened as John touched his face.

"PERL," said Gage, dropping the penlight back into his pocket. He traced his hands down Brice's limbs, feeling for broken bones.

"OK." Roy made another notation on the form. He lifted the receiver. "Rampart, this is County 51. How do you read me?" He clamped the handset against his shoulder and waited.

John fumbled at the holster on his belt, pulling out his bandage scissors. He slit Brice's pant leg from ankle to hip. Drawing a sharp breath between his teeth, he examined the wound. White bone shimmered in the middle of a jagged tear in Craig's pale skin. "Chet, get me a medium compress."

"Open?" Brice gasped as Gage secured the bandage.

Johnny nodded.

"Johnny," started Chet, pointing with his chin to the pieces of Christmas ornament sticking into Brice's now bare hip. "For once something is a pain in his butt," whispered Kelly, stopping when the dark haired paramedic's elbow slammed into his rips.

"Roy, compound right tib-fib fracture. Lacerations with embedded glass in the right hip," reported John

DeSoto nodded. "Rampart, this is County 51," repeated Roy.

"Go ahead, 51," crackled Morton.

Craig groaned again.

"We have a male, approximately 32 years of age, victim of a fall from a step ladder. Apparent compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula, glass fragments embedded in the right hip," read DeSoto, holding the MICU form.

"Approximately 500ccs blood loss," informed Gage.

"Pulse 88, Respiration 18, BP 100/60. Pupils equal and reactive. About 500cc visible blood loss," continued Roy.

"Chet, gimme the splint." Johnny held out his hand. Gently, he slid the thick cardboard beneath the broken limb and folded up the side. "Thanks," he mumbled around the strip of tape he was ripping with his teeth.

"Gage, that is disgusting. The Department gives you scissors for a reason." Craig's voice trailed off as Beth again tightened her grip on his fingers. Angrily he yanked his hand away. "Stop it."

"Then quit acting like a kid," retorted Shaw. "How many times have you complained about ungrateful patients?"

Brice fell silent. He closed his eyes and listened to the approaching ambulance.

John struggled to keep from smiling. In the doorway, Stanley started coughing. "I'll show the ambulance crew in," said the older man, excusing himself.

"10-4, 51. IV D5W, TKO and transport," ordered Morton.

"10-4, Rampart," acknowledged DeSoto. He reached in the drug box, pulled out a bag of IV solution and an administration set.

Craig watched Roy begin to unwrap a needle. "No, I want Gage to do it. He's got better hands."

DeSoto turned a delicate shade of purple. Reluctantly, he handed the packet to Gage, who grimaced sympathetically.

John tore additional strips of tape and then lifted Craig's arm. He began to inflate the cuff.

"Don't you think a 14g is a bit excessive?"

Gage stopped, holding the alcohol prep above the bulging vein on the injured firefighter's arm. "Do you want to do this?" he demanded, sourly.

"Yes..."

"Well, forget it. I'm sure it's against regulations to let a patient treat himself."

Craig opened his mouth. Beth shot him a warning glance, her green eyes narrowed. He closed his mouth.

"When a qualified paramedic is present," interrupted John, hastily. He slipped the needle under the skin, angling through the wall of the blood vessel.

Keeping his face still, Brice clenched his jaw, crushing a fold of skin between his teeth. The warm penny taste of blood filled his mouth.

Johnny finished securing the line. He handed the bag to Kelly. "OK, lets get him on the board."

******

"I'll ride in with him," volunteered Roy, taking the drug box from Johnny.

"OK," answered Gage.

Brice considered protesting but he was too busy clinging to the edge of the backboard as the stretcher jolted down the brick sidewalk. The heavy straps surrounding him offered little comfort; he still felt like he was going to fall. He could hear the doors slamming as Beth closed up the house. "Are the lights off on the tree?" he asked.

"Craig!" exclaimed Shaw.

Craig opened his eyes and looked up at the dark-haired paramedic walking at the head of the litter. The bag of D5W swayed nauseatingly over head, sending ripples through his already queasy stomach. He strained to catch sight of DeSoto. The look of grim enjoyment on Roy's face did nothing to reassure him. Brice closed his eyes. They lurched to a stop behind the ambulance. The diesel stink of the exhaust washed over him. Silently, Brice vowed all his future ambulance rides would be made in an upright position.

"Wait a minute," instructed Johnny.

Craig could feel the paramedic's hands busy folding something warm around his head, working carefully to avoid the pads and tape that immobilized his neck. A terrible suspicion rose in his throat. He opened his eyes. John's fanciful headgear was gone. "Gage!"

Johnny patted Craig's shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Brice."

"Get this thing off me," ordered Brice.

Roy shoved the drug box and biophone into the ambulance. "Let's get him in the rig," he instructed, ignoring Brice's protests.

Craig swayed into the air. The rear doors slammed hollowly at his feet. Roy smiled down at him.

******

Brice awoke with a jerk, as something hit him. He looked around in confusion. His dinner tray still sat abandoned by his bed, and the room was nearly dark. Half a package of Oreos lay on his chest, and his partner, Bob Bellingham, looked down at him.

"Merry Christmas."

Craig stared at open cookies.

"I got hungry on the way over," apologized Bellingham, sheepishly. He flipped on the lights. Bob's gaze caught on the discarded tray; his eyes started to glow. "Cool, chocolate pudding."

Brice groped for the controls to raise the head of the bed. "Help yourself," he offered.

"How are you doing?" asked Bellingham, between bites.

Craig shrugged.

"I heard you fell organizing the Christmas ornaments..."

"I was straightening the star," asserted Brice, irritably. He glared at his partner.

"Whatever." Bob started rooting around, moving things on the bedside table. "Where's the woman?"

"The woman," quoted Craig, frowning disapprovingly at Bob's choice of words, "is working." Bellingham had expanded his search to the blankets surrounding Brice. "What are you looking for?" exploded Brice.

"The remote. Six is having Christmas special marathon."

Sighing, Brice threw his head back against the pillows. Great,' A Charlie Brown Christmas'. I'll get to listen to a hundred tree jokes.

"Ahh here it is." Bob sat down, pushed the button, and burped his satisfaction.

"Bob!"

On the TV screen a commercial ended. The music is started. "Hey! It's The Grinch!" exclaimed Bellingham, jiggling up and down on the chair in excitement. "You're a mean one Mr. Grinch," sang Bob.

Groaning, Brice snatched at a pillow, covering his face.