National Event Memorial Archives
Museum of American History, Washington, DC
Personal Interview Number 8,268
Subject: Joseph Freeman
Pre-event: Firefighter - Dallas, Texas
Rating: Telekinetic, Level 2
Note: This material has been declassified under 18 U.S. Code § 2331 (Safety for All Americans Act, Revised)
It’s funny, the things you remember when you were a kid. Like I remember my parents talking about the day the space shuttle exploded. You know, the one with the teacher on it, what was her name? Krista? Anyway, I remember thinking how strange it was that they all remembered where they were when that happened. They said it was like that when JFK was shot. And of course my generation has 9-11.
All that was before the Event. We remember every little detail about that day, don’t we? Everyone has a story, and not many of them are the sort you’d want to hear. They say people will read these accounts hundreds of years from now, but for those of us who experienced that day, it's hard to imagine the world lasting that long.
I was a firefighter then. I was working B shift, and it was my day to cook. Mandy Green, our pump operator, told me it was the best chili she'd ever tasted. She was full of shit though. She just wanted to get out of her turn to cook ...
Green grinned at me over her bowl of chili. “Freeman, this is hands down the best meal I've had all week. Maybe you should moonlight as a chef.”
“Give it up, Green,” I said. “I’m not gonna cook for you tomorrow.”
David Hicks, our hydrant tech, groaned. “Guess that means we'll be having the ‘Mean Green’ special tomorrow—Hamburger Helper.”
“Hey, don’t knock the Cheeseburger Macaroni,” Green said. She shoveled another bite of chili into her mouth.
The emergency tones sounded over the loudspeaker. Hicks sighed. “Every fucking time we sit down to eat ...”
“Engine 11, Rescue 9, respond to an accident with injuries on Highway 78 Westbound at Coronado Avenue. Smoke visible…”
"Engine 11,” I said. “That's us." We jumped up, leaving our half-eaten meals where they sat. I checked to make sure the stove was off—It would be embarrassing to come back to a fire station on fire.
The reason firefighters can get into their gear so fast is because we leave our bunker pants around our boots. All we have to do is kick off our shoes, step into our boots, and pull our suspenders up. You put your jacket on as you haul ass toward the engine, and then take care of all the details on the way to the fire.
My delay in the kitchen cost me a few seconds, so everyone else was getting into the truck when my feet hit my boots. Engine 11 had jumpseats with airpacks built in—airpacks are those backpacks firefighters wear that have air tanks on them. I had just gotten my arms through the straps when Green pulled out of the engine bay, siren wailing.
Lieutenant Vardiso was our officer that day. I loved working with that guy. He was a little rigid, but he had that calm logic you want at the helm when the shit hits the fan.
Vardiso was listening to the details from dispatch coming over the radio. He yelled loud enough to be heard over the siren. “Fully involved painter’s truck. Masks on—no telling what kinda shit’s in those fumes. Rescue can’t get near until we’ve got that fire out. I’ll have the truck crew work on peeling the other car so Rescue won’t have to waste any time once you’ve got the fire out. Freeman, I want you…”
A car pulled out in front of us from a side street. Green swerved. “Mother fuckers. Mother fuckers! I hope it’s your kid in that mother fucking car!”
Green had a mouth on her—that's why we called her Mean Green.
Another car ran a stop sign and just missed us. “Morons! How do you not see a big red … fire truck ... holy mother of Christ.” She slammed on the brakes.
Cars were crashing everywhere. If you’ve never heard that much metal smashing at once, it sounds a lot like a tornado, only this one was coming from every direction. To this day I don’t know how we didn’t get hit.
There was no way we were getting to the scene of the original fire, but it didn’t matter. There were plenty of crashes to deal with right where we were.
“Everyone out,” Vardiso said. He didn’t sound any more excited than when he ordered Chinese food.
“Dispatch, this is Engine 11, come in,” Green said into the radio. “Dispatch, come in. What’s going on?”
Paul Ackman, a rookie, was sitting next to me. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. I pushed him. Nothing. I shook him. “Ackman? Wake up.”
His head rolled around to face me. He was pale.
“We may be dealing with some sort of terrorist attack," Vardiso said. "Stay focused. Ackman, Ramirez—go with Freeman. That F250 over there looks pretty bad. See what you can do. Hicks, you’re with me and Green.”
“Vardiso, wait,” I said. “Something’s wrong with Ackman.” I pulled off my glove and put my hand under his nose. “He's not breathing. We need to start CPR.”
“Ramirez is out, too,” Vardiso said. “Get them out of the truck.”
“Shit!” Green said. “What if it’s biological?"
"Air masks," Vardiso said. "Now."
My stomach flipped. There were all sorts of nasty airborne agents and we weren’t trained or equipped to deal with most of them. I stood up, popped my air tank out of the jumpseat and pulled on my mask.
“Hicks!” Vardiso said. Hicks didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at his hands.
It happens. People crack. We didn’t have time to deal with that right now. We struggled to get Ackman and Ramirez out of their jump seats and onto the ground. Green and I started CPR. Someone at dispatch was shouting into the radio, but they weren’t making any sense.
Green cried as she worked on Ramirez. I’d seen her deal with dozens of deaths and never let emotion get in the way. But Ramirez was her cousin—and it’s different when they’re family.
“He’s dead,” she said, “Fuck! Jay’s dead! What am I going to tell Cindy?”
Thank God for Vardiso. “Green, stay focused,” he said. “He’s got no trauma … just keep the oxygen getting to his brain and there’s a good chance he’ll be fine."
Ackman wasn’t responding to CPR, either. Maybe we should have stopped—there were so many other people who needed help. But it’s hard when you’ve worked side by side with someone for years.
I glanced back in time to see Hicks holding a pike pole and charging at Green from behind the fire truck. The six-foot hooked pole stuck through the base of her skull. There was no scream. Just like that, she was dead.
Hicks laughed as he yanked the pike pole out of Green’s head. His eyes came to rest on me. He lunged. I scrambled to my feet and managed to get out of the way just in time. He was making guttural grunts with each breath. He sounded like a wild boar.
“Christ! Hicks, you just killed …” I ducked again. This time I was able to grab the pole as it went by. He was strong—way stronger than I remembered. His breath was hot on my face as we wrestled for the pike.
“Vardiso!” I said. “Help!” But Vardiso was frozen. He just stood there, staring at the bodies of his crew.
Hicks shoved me again. “Vardiso!” I yelled.
Vardiso shook his head like he was coming out of a dream, then took a step toward me. Tires screeched and a car sailed over the median, slammed into him, and crushed him against the fire truck.
The car’s driver was hanging out of the window, unconscious or dead. But I didn't have time to worry about him, or Vardiso, or anyone else.
"David!" I hoped Hicks’ first name would make him … stop, or remember who he was, or something. This wasn’t him. Hicks was a comedian, a clown. Just the week before we'd spent hours on the Internet looking at engagement rings for his girlfriend.
Hearing his name only made him crazier. He slammed his shoulder into me. I fell back. My helmet and airpack hit the pavement with a clunk. He wrapped his hands around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Blackness crept into the edge of my vision. I … I had to ...
There wasn’t any choice, you understand? I had a family. I know now he was going to die anyway—no one who went insane that day survived more than a few hours. But at the time I didn't know anything. We didn’t know it as the Event. For the people living through it, it was just chaos and death.
I had my fireman's tool in my pocket. It's like a Swiss army knife made especially for firefighters. I got it open and I.... I stabbed him, right in the gut. It didn't even slow him down. So I stabbed him again—and again and again, until he stopped choking me.
I don’t know how long it was before I managed to push his body off me and stand up, but when I did, I looked around and saw a city that was dying.
There was smoke in every direction. Gunshots and screams everywhere. I saw some things I won’t talk about, or even think about, ever again—and that was just one street in one city.
None of it really registered until I saw the little girl running toward me. She probably saw a fireman and thought I would save her. But the man chasing her wasn’t more than a few feet behind her. He had the same look in his eyes as Hicks. He was already leveling a shotgun at her back.
There was nothing I could do to stop it. They were too far away.
But somehow, I did. I pushed him.
He flew backwards, hard, and rolled into a car like a tumbleweed. The shotgun flew off to the side and skittered down the road.
I picked up the little girl. I didn’t look back to see what the man was doing. I just ran, and kept running until we found someplace safe.
I saved as many people as I could that day, but that girl was the first. Her name is Kelly. I still talk to her on occasion. She’s married with kids—a grandkid now, in fact—and they’re all doing well. She doesn’t remember much about the Event, or what came after it.
Most people her age don’t. I guess the memories of that day, that sense that the world as you know it could end any time, will die out with my generation.
And that’s probably for the best.
Museum of American History, Washington, DC
Personal Interview Number 8,268
Subject: Joseph Freeman
Pre-event: Firefighter - Dallas, Texas
Rating: Telekinetic, Level 2
Note: This material has been declassified under 18 U.S. Code § 2331 (Safety for All Americans Act, Revised)
It’s funny, the things you remember when you were a kid. Like I remember my parents talking about the day the space shuttle exploded. You know, the one with the teacher on it, what was her name? Krista? Anyway, I remember thinking how strange it was that they all remembered where they were when that happened. They said it was like that when JFK was shot. And of course my generation has 9-11.
All that was before the Event. We remember every little detail about that day, don’t we? Everyone has a story, and not many of them are the sort you’d want to hear. They say people will read these accounts hundreds of years from now, but for those of us who experienced that day, it's hard to imagine the world lasting that long.
I was a firefighter then. I was working B shift, and it was my day to cook. Mandy Green, our pump operator, told me it was the best chili she'd ever tasted. She was full of shit though. She just wanted to get out of her turn to cook ...
Green grinned at me over her bowl of chili. “Freeman, this is hands down the best meal I've had all week. Maybe you should moonlight as a chef.”
“Give it up, Green,” I said. “I’m not gonna cook for you tomorrow.”
David Hicks, our hydrant tech, groaned. “Guess that means we'll be having the ‘Mean Green’ special tomorrow—Hamburger Helper.”
“Hey, don’t knock the Cheeseburger Macaroni,” Green said. She shoveled another bite of chili into her mouth.
The emergency tones sounded over the loudspeaker. Hicks sighed. “Every fucking time we sit down to eat ...”
“Engine 11, Rescue 9, respond to an accident with injuries on Highway 78 Westbound at Coronado Avenue. Smoke visible…”
"Engine 11,” I said. “That's us." We jumped up, leaving our half-eaten meals where they sat. I checked to make sure the stove was off—It would be embarrassing to come back to a fire station on fire.
The reason firefighters can get into their gear so fast is because we leave our bunker pants around our boots. All we have to do is kick off our shoes, step into our boots, and pull our suspenders up. You put your jacket on as you haul ass toward the engine, and then take care of all the details on the way to the fire.
My delay in the kitchen cost me a few seconds, so everyone else was getting into the truck when my feet hit my boots. Engine 11 had jumpseats with airpacks built in—airpacks are those backpacks firefighters wear that have air tanks on them. I had just gotten my arms through the straps when Green pulled out of the engine bay, siren wailing.
Lieutenant Vardiso was our officer that day. I loved working with that guy. He was a little rigid, but he had that calm logic you want at the helm when the shit hits the fan.
Vardiso was listening to the details from dispatch coming over the radio. He yelled loud enough to be heard over the siren. “Fully involved painter’s truck. Masks on—no telling what kinda shit’s in those fumes. Rescue can’t get near until we’ve got that fire out. I’ll have the truck crew work on peeling the other car so Rescue won’t have to waste any time once you’ve got the fire out. Freeman, I want you…”
A car pulled out in front of us from a side street. Green swerved. “Mother fuckers. Mother fuckers! I hope it’s your kid in that mother fucking car!”
Green had a mouth on her—that's why we called her Mean Green.
Another car ran a stop sign and just missed us. “Morons! How do you not see a big red … fire truck ... holy mother of Christ.” She slammed on the brakes.
Cars were crashing everywhere. If you’ve never heard that much metal smashing at once, it sounds a lot like a tornado, only this one was coming from every direction. To this day I don’t know how we didn’t get hit.
There was no way we were getting to the scene of the original fire, but it didn’t matter. There were plenty of crashes to deal with right where we were.
“Everyone out,” Vardiso said. He didn’t sound any more excited than when he ordered Chinese food.
“Dispatch, this is Engine 11, come in,” Green said into the radio. “Dispatch, come in. What’s going on?”
Paul Ackman, a rookie, was sitting next to me. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. I pushed him. Nothing. I shook him. “Ackman? Wake up.”
His head rolled around to face me. He was pale.
“We may be dealing with some sort of terrorist attack," Vardiso said. "Stay focused. Ackman, Ramirez—go with Freeman. That F250 over there looks pretty bad. See what you can do. Hicks, you’re with me and Green.”
“Vardiso, wait,” I said. “Something’s wrong with Ackman.” I pulled off my glove and put my hand under his nose. “He's not breathing. We need to start CPR.”
“Ramirez is out, too,” Vardiso said. “Get them out of the truck.”
“Shit!” Green said. “What if it’s biological?"
"Air masks," Vardiso said. "Now."
My stomach flipped. There were all sorts of nasty airborne agents and we weren’t trained or equipped to deal with most of them. I stood up, popped my air tank out of the jumpseat and pulled on my mask.
“Hicks!” Vardiso said. Hicks didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at his hands.
It happens. People crack. We didn’t have time to deal with that right now. We struggled to get Ackman and Ramirez out of their jump seats and onto the ground. Green and I started CPR. Someone at dispatch was shouting into the radio, but they weren’t making any sense.
Green cried as she worked on Ramirez. I’d seen her deal with dozens of deaths and never let emotion get in the way. But Ramirez was her cousin—and it’s different when they’re family.
“He’s dead,” she said, “Fuck! Jay’s dead! What am I going to tell Cindy?”
Thank God for Vardiso. “Green, stay focused,” he said. “He’s got no trauma … just keep the oxygen getting to his brain and there’s a good chance he’ll be fine."
Ackman wasn’t responding to CPR, either. Maybe we should have stopped—there were so many other people who needed help. But it’s hard when you’ve worked side by side with someone for years.
I glanced back in time to see Hicks holding a pike pole and charging at Green from behind the fire truck. The six-foot hooked pole stuck through the base of her skull. There was no scream. Just like that, she was dead.
Hicks laughed as he yanked the pike pole out of Green’s head. His eyes came to rest on me. He lunged. I scrambled to my feet and managed to get out of the way just in time. He was making guttural grunts with each breath. He sounded like a wild boar.
“Christ! Hicks, you just killed …” I ducked again. This time I was able to grab the pole as it went by. He was strong—way stronger than I remembered. His breath was hot on my face as we wrestled for the pike.
“Vardiso!” I said. “Help!” But Vardiso was frozen. He just stood there, staring at the bodies of his crew.
Hicks shoved me again. “Vardiso!” I yelled.
Vardiso shook his head like he was coming out of a dream, then took a step toward me. Tires screeched and a car sailed over the median, slammed into him, and crushed him against the fire truck.
The car’s driver was hanging out of the window, unconscious or dead. But I didn't have time to worry about him, or Vardiso, or anyone else.
"David!" I hoped Hicks’ first name would make him … stop, or remember who he was, or something. This wasn’t him. Hicks was a comedian, a clown. Just the week before we'd spent hours on the Internet looking at engagement rings for his girlfriend.
Hearing his name only made him crazier. He slammed his shoulder into me. I fell back. My helmet and airpack hit the pavement with a clunk. He wrapped his hands around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Blackness crept into the edge of my vision. I … I had to ...
There wasn’t any choice, you understand? I had a family. I know now he was going to die anyway—no one who went insane that day survived more than a few hours. But at the time I didn't know anything. We didn’t know it as the Event. For the people living through it, it was just chaos and death.
I had my fireman's tool in my pocket. It's like a Swiss army knife made especially for firefighters. I got it open and I.... I stabbed him, right in the gut. It didn't even slow him down. So I stabbed him again—and again and again, until he stopped choking me.
I don’t know how long it was before I managed to push his body off me and stand up, but when I did, I looked around and saw a city that was dying.
There was smoke in every direction. Gunshots and screams everywhere. I saw some things I won’t talk about, or even think about, ever again—and that was just one street in one city.
None of it really registered until I saw the little girl running toward me. She probably saw a fireman and thought I would save her. But the man chasing her wasn’t more than a few feet behind her. He had the same look in his eyes as Hicks. He was already leveling a shotgun at her back.
There was nothing I could do to stop it. They were too far away.
But somehow, I did. I pushed him.
He flew backwards, hard, and rolled into a car like a tumbleweed. The shotgun flew off to the side and skittered down the road.
I picked up the little girl. I didn’t look back to see what the man was doing. I just ran, and kept running until we found someplace safe.
I saved as many people as I could that day, but that girl was the first. Her name is Kelly. I still talk to her on occasion. She’s married with kids—a grandkid now, in fact—and they’re all doing well. She doesn’t remember much about the Event, or what came after it.
Most people her age don’t. I guess the memories of that day, that sense that the world as you know it could end any time, will die out with my generation.
And that’s probably for the best.
