Smoke, the color of dirt, leaked from the eaves of the house and curled low across the Vancouver neighborhood, spoiling a perfect blue sky. The kitchen window was already baked black and brown with blotchy yellow patches. Getting hot inside.
A bad afternoon for someone.
Neighbors crowded the sidewalk across the street, staring, speaking quietly to each other. Women occasionally moved their hands over their mouths. Men tightly folded their arms across their chests. A dozen kids rode their bikes in circles in the middle of the street, thrilled to see a fire truck on their block.
At the curb, the red fire truck marked its territory with blinking white strobes and red rotators. The vehicle’s centrifugal pump whined at high revs as the operator stood at the pump panel; a steady hand on the controls, keeping his eyes on the fire attack crew and ears attuned to the radio. A 44mm Combat Hose snaked up the driveway from the fire truck to three firefighters beside the house, standing on the driveway.
The firefighters were clad head to toe in bulky yellow duty gear, their attention on the side door of the bungalow. Each man shifted his weight from one leg to another trying to contain a rising flow of adrenaline, steeling himself.
Their captain, Gerry Ormond, wore the red helmet. Years of hard-won knowledge ran through his mind. As the officer, he decided the strategy. But with a clever firebug loose in the district, strategy may not count for much. If he felt it unsafe to enter they’d change tactics; switch to an exterior attack, a defensive mode.
The moment his rig pulled up to the curb, Captain Ormond began sizing up the bungalow, forming a plan. The front and basement windows hadn’t yet blackened and smoke was only emanating from the rear half of the home where the kitchen was normally located.
Odds were the firebug caused this.