Sam ignored Oliver’s mumbled reply, rushed over to the pumper, and raised the hood. The gas valve was in plain sight. He checked to see if it was in the closed position as a safety measure in case the Ahrens-Fox had sat for any length of time. He switched the lever to the on position and then checked to see if the battery showed any signs of life. There was a weak display of sparks when he tapped the two terminals together, but not nearly enough juice to turn the big four cylinders fast enough to cause combustion.
“Is that it?” Remi asked, her voice slightly above a murmur through the clean shop rags she’d wrapped as a mask around her face to prevent her inhaling the acrid fumes. “How do you plan to start this thing?”
At that moment, Sam felt the floor vibrate under his feet seconds before the far section of the warehouse roof crashed to the concrete floor in an explosive typhoon that seemed like it was controlled by a madman.
Faint sirens began to be heard over the deadly intensity. But by the time the firemen arrived, it would be too late.
With every minute, death crept closer. The only bit of fortune that came their way was that the Ahrens-Fox had been parked directly in front of the huge door, their only hope of escape.
Remi was standing close to Sam but spoke no more. She kept staring at those damned doors as if she could part them with her mind.
Sam looked at Remi. “Better you hop in the driver’s seat than me.”
Remi stared back at Sam as if he was a tree stump.
“What makes you think I can drive this old thing?”
“I have to start her from the outside. If I’m successful, I can get seated and launch the pumper in time to strike the door.”
Remi shook her head. “There must be another way.”
“If you don’t listen to my instructions,” he said hoarsely, “we all die.”
She had never heard Sam speak to her with his voice so cold. A scowl crossed her face, but she said nothing. She knew this was no time to waste arguing with him when his mind was set. Every moment, fiery debris from above fell in a storm that came closer and closer to the ancient fire engine.
Sam’s eyes were set, sweat was pouring down his face, yet there was no expression of fear. He looked into the eyes of his sweetheart and said, “Time to go. Take the seat behind the steering wheel. Oliver, get onto the fire truck.”
Oliver blindly tried to climb into the truck on his own. Sam gave him a boost, and he slid into the section behind Remi.
“The lever on the left side of the steering wheel controls the ignition,” Sam explained. “Pull it down to its stop when the engine begins to turn over and fire. The right lever is the throttle. The top stop is the idle position. When it begins to start, jiggle it a few inches up and down to build up the revolutions per minute until the engine smooths out. Use it as you would a gas pedal on a car.” Next, he gave her a quick instruction on shifting the gears of the transmission.
“How can I start it,” asked Remi, “with a battery that’s almost dead?”
Sam held up a hand and produced a silver-plated crank. “This is how I have to start the engine. I’ll take over when the engine fires up.”
“You’d better hurry it.” Remi barely got the words out before the blaze surrounding the pumper began assaulting the tires that started hissing.
Sam ran to the front of the truck and yelled back to Remi, “Ignition on.”
“On!” Remi repeated in a choked voice.
Sam remembered how to crank an ancient engine. He and his buddies used to drive the school majorettes onto the field before the football game in an old Model T Ford with no self-starter that had to be cranked by hand until the engine turned over and began running.
He grabbed the crank by the handle, braced his arm, and heaved.
The crank barely moved a quarter of a circle.
Again. This time he managed to make a full swing, as the oil began circulating inside the engine. The third pull came a little easier, but there still was no indication the engine was going to start.
Sam looked up and saw flames dancing along the rafters and support beams overhead. Then as he tightened his hand on the crank, he peered through the maze of pipes, pumps, and valves over the front of the radiator to see if Remi was still conscious and able to grip the steering wheel with one hand with the other hand on the gearshift.
Grim determination was etched on her lovely face.
Sam lost track of the time as he turned the crank but still no burst of exhaust. His arms were so numb he felt as if they had abandoned his body. He began to gasp more from the physical effort than from the fumes of the fire. After a few more spins of the crank Sam was physically finished. Curiously, he was not conscious of the blisters rising on
his hands. He sank to one knee, heart pounding, lungs heaving, vision fading, certain he could make only one more twist of the crank.
He would crawl up to the seats and embrace Remi for one last time.