Do you believe fire hoses can walk by themselves?
Five years on the fire brigade, I've seen collapsed beams, exploded gas tanks, children stuck in car windows calling for their moms. But it wasn't until that day I understood—some things are more clinging than fire.
People trapped in a firehouse grip the last hose with their dying hands. They follow the truck back home.
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Half past four in the afternoon, the training ground was a steam box. The air smelled like melted plastic track. Li Yang squatted under the drill tower, filing down hose couplings. The copper rings screeched on sandpaper, sunlight bleaching a dark sweat stain across the back of his uniform.
"Yangzi, stop filing! Call out!"
The duty room window pushed open, Zhao Lei leaned half his body out and shouted at him, phone still pressed to his ear.
Li Yang slung the hose over his shoulder and ran toward the garage. The alarm was already blaring—an ear-piercing electric bell that made the back of your neck tighten in the quiet afternoon camp.
He jumped into the passenger seat of Truck 3. Wang Hai was already starting the engine. The radio crackled: "Old City South Street No. 58, third-floor resident reports burning smell. Neighbors knocked, no answer."
"Someone burning their pot again," Wang Hai shifted gears, voice lazy with familiarity.
Three fire engines pulled out of the station with sirens blaring. Old City South Street was narrow, flanked by eighties-era apartment blocks—peeling plaster, exposed brick, old sofas and bicycles piled downstairs.
Truck 3 couldn't fit down the lane, so they parked on the outer street. Li Yang jumped down and saw smoke from the third-floor window. Not thick, grayish-white, drifting slowly.
"You two go up. Everyone else lay out the supply line," Zhao Lei jumped down from Truck 1 to direct.
Li Yang and Geng Hui grabbed pry axes and ran into the building. Stairs were narrow, the motion-sensor light dead, small ads stacked five or six layers on the walls. The security door on the third-floor east apartment was closed. Smoke seeping through the crack smelled wrong—not the burnt food kind, with a hint of acid, like something sealed inside had burned too long.
"Anyone in there? Fire department! Open up!" Geng Hui banged on the door.
No answer.
Li Yang wedged the axe into the security door gap. Zhao Lei shouted from downstairs: "Force it!"
Three strikes. The iron door buckled and burst open. Black smoke rushed out, stinging Li Yang's eyes. The living room was foggy, TV on playing a noon news rerun, voice crackling. Fire coming from the kitchen.
"Kitchen!" Geng Hui yelled.
Li Yang crouched and rushed over. The kitchen floor was slippery, covered in water. A ceramic pot on the stove had burned through, flames licking the plastic spice rack next to it. He turned off the gas valve. Geng Hui sprayed the extinguisher twice, fire out.
"Where's the person?" Li Yang looked around.
Old three-bedroom apartment, bedroom door open. He walked in and saw a pair of feet first—wearing cotton slippers, ankles swollen pale and blue.
An old man lay on his back on the floor, face to the ceiling, lips purple. Expression wasn't painful, like he'd just fallen asleep. A plastic stool was tipped over next to him—he'd probably stood on it to reach something high and fallen, hitting his head on the nightstand corner. Dark red blood at the corner, already coagulated.
Li Yang crouched down to check the carotid.
Cold.
"Geng Hui, he's gone," he stood up, throat dry.
He'd seen this scene many times, but it never got easier. The old man's eyes were half open, pupils dilated, foggy gray reflecting the ceiling light. Li Yang reached out to close his eyelids. When his fingertips touched the eyelids, the cold made him pull back.
Zhao Lei came up to look, told them to contact police and family. Li Yang backed up and leaned against the living room wall.
That's when he noticed a hose in the corner. It was the white household type that residents keep, coiled messily on the floor, one end connected to the bathroom angle valve—not fully closed, dripping water drop by drop.
The ambulance arrived, naturally no need to transport. Police came to register, neighbors said the old man's surname was Sun, lived alone, son worked in the south.
By the time they packed up, the sun was already setting. Li Yang and Geng Hui rolled up the supply hoses—two 25-meter ones, soaking wet and too heavy to carry. Left a wet trail on the ground.
"Yangzi, your truck's hose is your responsibility to air out," Zhao Lei wiped his sweat. "Inspection tomorrow—don't leave it damp and coiled in the storage room."
Li Yang dragged the hoses to the training ground, straightened them out one by one. Summer evening, ground still hot, hose sizzled with steam when laid down. He found a rock to weigh down one end, the other fastened with a fire hook. Two hoses, both laid out.
Next morning after drill, Li Yang went to collect. Night dew was heavy, hose surface damp. Summer, normal.
He bent to roll the first one. Halfway through, something felt off. The side of the hose that touched the ground was icy cold, like something just taken from the freezer—fingers could feel cold drilling into bones.
He flipped it over. Water beads were seeping out of the inner wall, one by one, like sweat. But last night he'd drained all the water, wrung it out.
"Strange," Li Yang muttered. He held the hose up and shook it. The water that ran out had a rusty smell, a bit like that sour burnt smell from Old Sun's kitchen last night.
He didn't think much of it, aired it out another day. The training ground was scorching in the sun, concrete hot enough to fry an egg. Li Yang checked at noon—other hoses were dry, surface hot.
This one, though, you could feel the temperature difference from a meter away. Walk closer and the air felt chilly. He squatted down and reached out—the hose was still wet and sticky, a damp cool smell seeping into his nose.
Zhao Lei passed by and glanced: "What's wrong with this one?"
"Won't dry. Creepy."
Zhao Lei squatted to touch it, stood up frowning. His fingers paused on the hose surface. He didn't speak, then said after a few seconds: "You know the rules. When hoses come back from a call, dry and store them. If a hose won't dry no matter what—throw it away."
"Throw it?"
"Throw it. Don't keep it." Zhao Lei looked at him. "Not joking. In this line of work, you learn—some things that won't dry, don't force it. Throw it far away, don't leave it on the premises."
That afternoon Li Yang rolled up the hose, drove to the city's south dump. He deliberately threw it into the deepest trash bin, stacked two bags of someone else's rotten vegetables on top, then drove away.
Next morning, before the wake-up call blew at half past five, Li Yang went to the storage room for training mats. Pushed the door open and froze.
In the corner of the storage room, that hose was coiled neatly on the shelf. Coiled round and round, couplings facing outward, copper rings polished bright. But he'd clearly thrown it away.
Li Yang walked over. The hose surface had a thin layer of moisture, damp to touch, that cool feeling back again. He took it down and unrolled it. A small puddle dripped onto the ground. The water was cloudy, like something had been soaking in it.
His heart sped up a few beats. He stood still for a moment, then rolled the hose up again. Drove to the north side of the city, behind a construction site, threw it into a half-filled foundation pit. There was standing water in the pit. He didn't leave until the hose sank out of sight.
Third morning, Li Yang didn't go to the storage room.
He deliberately walked around, went to the canteen for breakfast, then did four sets of pull-ups on the apparatus rack. At the 8 AM shift change, Geng Hui called him: "Yangzi, who organized the storage room hoses? Coiled so neatly."
Li Yang stood in the middle of the apparatus field, sweat soaking the pull-up bar. He walked over and pushed open the storage room door.
Top shelf. That hose was coiled properly, misty with moisture, tiny water beads condensing on the copper coupling—like just pulled from water.
He noticed a detail: the coil direction was different from when he'd thrown it away yesterday. The copper coupling was precisely facing the storage room door, like waiting to be taken out for use at any moment.
"Geng Hui, did you see anyone mess with the storage room yesterday?"
"No. Why?"
"Nothing."
Li Yang closed the door. He stood in the corridor, thinking for a long time. Tell Zhao Lei? Old Zhao said throw it and don't keep it. He threw it twice, it came back twice. Saying that would make him look foolish.
Burn it?
No, hoses were brigade property. Equipment had serial numbers. Losing one required a report. And burning a hose in the fire brigade storage room—too much commotion, hard to explain.
He walked to the storage room door, stopped. Hand on the doorknob hesitated, then pushed it open.
Took that hose down from the shelf. The feel was the same as yesterday—icy, damp, like holding a dead snake. Li Yang undid the binding strap, unrolled the hose, and laid it on the concrete floor. Squatted down, looking inside from one end.
The inner wall was black rubber, could get fuzzy with friction. He shined a flashlight inside. The beam swept back and forth through the dark pipe.
First five meters: nothing, clean. Around six meters, a small dark stain on the inner wall—like rust but not quite. He picked at it with his key, wouldn't come off.
Three more meters in, the flashlight beam swept past something.
Li Yang folded the hose and leaned in to look. Something was clogging the middle of the pipe, dark, tangled on the rubber inner wall. He picked at it with his key—soft, wispy. Pulled a strand off the rubber surface.
Hair.
Human hair, black, long, shoulder-length, tangled into a ball stuck inside the hose. The hair was coated in a sticky liquid, slippery and cold, like water weeds pulled from underwater silt.
Li Yang pulled back, key dropped to the ground. That strand of hair dangled from the key tip, wet, swaying, water dripping from the ends.
When he leaned in, he vaguely heard an extremely faint whimper—muffled, like underwater, seeping from deep in the pipe. He focused to listen, then it was gone again. Only cicadas outside the storage room.
He remembered now. The white hose in the corner of Old Sun's living room, angle valve not fully closed, dripping. Old man fell to his death, head hit the nightstand. But his hair was short white. This hair was long black.
Not his.
Li Yang stared at that clump of hair on the ground for a long time. The storage room was quiet. A cicada chirped outside, then stopped. He used his key to completely pick out that strand of hair from the hose. When it came out, it brought a gush of water, splashing onto the ground. Smell of fish and rot hit his nose.
He found an old newspaper, wrapped the hair up. Lit a corner with his lighter. Flames leapt up, licking the hair, making sizzling sounds.
The hair curled, blackened, burned to a crisp. A burnt smell rose up. After it was done, a small pile of black ash remained. Li Yang swept it clean and dumped it in the trash.
Then he looked down at the hose.
Dry.
Rubber inner wall was dry, outer surface was dry. Warm to touch, same as the other hoses on the shelf. That cool damp feeling was completely gone, even the rusty fishy smell. Li Yang coiled the hose back up, stacked it on the shelf, stepped back to look—no different from any other hose.
At lunch, Zhao Lei sat across from him.
"Throw it away?"
"Thrown away," Li Yang took a bite of rice. "Later... it dried up."
Zhao Lei's chopsticks paused, didn't look up. "Mm."
After a while he put down his bowl, looked at Li Yang: "You opened it?"
Li Yang nodded.
Zhao Lei turned his face to the window. Several new recruits were practicing two-section hose connections on the field. Geng Hui was shouting instructions at the top of his lungs. Cicadas buzzing made the glass hum.
"There was something in the brigade ten years ago," Zhao Lei's voice was quiet. "A garment factory down by the old street burned down. Big fire, three floors all fabric. Two engines went from our station.
"A female worker on the third floor was trapped by the window. Fire blocked the stairs, couldn't come down. We ran a hose up to spray water on her to cool her down. The hose was Engine 2's, number 0227."
"What happened?"
"The floor collapsed. We couldn't save her. When she fell from the third floor, she was still gripping the hose. The whole thing hung outside the window, burning. One section of the hose she'd gripped so tight we couldn't pry it loose. The hose was full of water at the time, and her hair... a section of it drifted inside."
Zhao Lei picked up his soup bowl and drank. "The old guys at the time said throw that hose away, don't keep it. But equipment has serial numbers, scrapping required procedures. The new captain didn't know the rules, didn't throw it. Used it several times after, everything normal, so nobody mentioned it again."
"So this time..."
"Old Sun's building is one lane away from the garment factory. That old street layout hasn't changed in decades—narrow lanes, buildings pressed together. Fire ground moisture and yin energy get trapped and don't disperse.
"The hose was used to save someone who didn't make it. She held on to it when she died. You brought back what she was clinging to..."
He stood up and clapped Li Yang on the shoulder. "Alright, there's a drill this afternoon. Don't think too much about it. This matter is closed."
Li Yang sat in the canteen, his food cold in front of him. He finished the bowl of rice, stood up, took two steps, then looked back at Zhao Lei. Old Zhao was already carrying his plate to the sink. His back was slightly hunched as usual, shoulders broad, uniform faded from washing.
Drill was on the training tower that afternoon. Geng Hui was timing. Li Yang ran to the third floor, flung the hose out, coupling clicked into the water distributor. When water pressure hit, the hose suddenly swelled and stiffened, like it came alive and struggled in his hands.
His hand gripped the rubber surface. Warm.
When packing up after the drill, Li Yang volunteered to coil it. Fingers touched the wet canvas outer layer. He paused. It was water—cold. Sweat seeped through his palm, soaking through the glove lining. He took a deep breath, coiled the hose up, stacked it in the storage room. Glanced back one more time before closing the door.
Top shelf. That hose coiled quietly. No moisture, no coolness, copper ring dry—same as the dozen other hoses next to it.
That night Li Yang was on night watch. Came back from checking posts at eleven, passed the storage room. The corridor light was broken and hadn't been fixed. He shined his flashlight through the door crack—ground was dry, nothing.
Went back to the dorm and lay down. Geng Hui in the upper bunk was snoring, AC humming. Li Yang turned over in bed, going over Zhao Lei's words in his head: "She was looking for the hose, not a person." But he'd burned the hair that morning. So where was she now?
He closed his eyes then opened them again. Ceiling was a blurry white in the dark.
His phone pinged once. Duty room system notification: Old City South Street No. 58, an alarm call came into 119 tonight. When the operator picked up, no one spoke—only the sound of running water. Operator called back, the number was empty.
Li Yang stared at the notification on his screen three times. Flipped the phone under his pillow, covered with the blanket.
Next morning during drill, they ran past the storage room. Li Yang slowed down and glanced sideways—door closed, lock hanging outside, same as last night.
He didn't go to the storage room all morning. During lunch break, Zhao Lei found him: "Yangzi, air out the hoses again this afternoon. Weather forecast says rain tomorrow."
Li Yang nodded.
Half past two in the afternoon, the hottest sun. He dragged the hoses from the storage room one by one. When he got to that one, he hesitated, but dragged it out anyway. The hose scraped the concrete floor with a rustle. The coiled loops rolled twice and stopped.
He unrolled the hose, felt it from start to finish.
Dry. Rubber inner wall dry, outer surface warm from the sun. He opened the coupling and looked inside—clean. Flashlight beam reached all the way to the end, nothing.
Li Yang laid the hose on the training ground, weighed down with rocks.
When collecting in the evening, he was the last to pick up this one. Sunset stretched the hose's shadow long. He bent to roll it, fingers touched the fabric—warm, dry, carrying the day's sun heat.
Rolled it up, stacked it back on the shelf. Li Yang stood in the storage room looking at that row of hoses. Sunset slanted through the window, dust floating slowly in the light beam. That hose on the shelf looked exactly like its companions—coiled round, couplings bright, no difference.
He locked the door and left.
That night he slept well. Maybe from exhaustion, maybe from relief—hit the pillow and was out. Nothing in his dreams. Slept straight through till the alarm.
Those next few days the brigade was busy, two calls—one a car fire, someone else fell into a sewer. That hose was taken out by Wang Hai once, attached to Engine 2, came back, dried and stored as usual. Nobody mentioned it.
Li Yang sometimes glanced at the storage room when passing, the hose was coiled properly, gradually blending in with the others. He stopped trying to identify which one it was. Felt it wasn't worth the effort.
Weekend rotation, Li Yang went back to his hometown. Mom made ribs, Dad asked if the brigade was busy. He said not bad. After dinner sitting on the sofa watching TV, local news broadcast: Old City South Street shantytown reconstruction starting, Building 58 included in demolition scope, all original residents moved out.
Li Yang looked at the footage of Building 58 on the TV screen. A big red "DEMOLISH" character painted on the brick wall. Third-floor window pitch black, curtains already removed.
He thought of Old Sun, thought of that strand of hair. The ribs soup in his bowl had gone cold, oil congealing into a white film.
He put down his bowl, clenched his fist. After burning that hair, the hose was indeed normal. But what Zhao Lei said—the hair drifted into the hose, that was dead person's thing.
Burned that surface strand, who knows what else seeped into the rubber seams? Building 58 was being demolished, the ground turned over. Whatever was buried under the garment factory's fireground back then—would it come back up? That hose was still sitting on the brigade's storage room shelf, stacked with all the others.
He picked up his phone and sent Zhao Lei a WeChat: "Old Zhao, remember the serial number of that hose from back then?"
Ten minutes later, Zhao Lei replied: "0227. Why?"
"Nothing, just asking."
Li Yang put his phone in his pocket, watched Building 58 collapse on the TV. The excavator's arm lifted and dropped, brick walls collapsed into a cloud of dust.
Monday back at the brigade, Zhao Lei came to him with a form: "Equipment scrapping and replacement, those old hoses in storage need changing. Go count them up, mark which ones to scrap."
Afternoon Li Yang went to the storage room to take inventory. Took each hose down one by one, checked production date, wear. Most were still usable, a few with fuzzy canvas surface needed to be eliminated. He squatted in front of the shelf registering each one. When he got to the third shelf, his fingers paused.
An old hose, but coiled very properly. The copper coupling had an inconspicuous dent, like something had gripped it hard. Serial number tag was worn blurry, only the last digits were still visible: "227."
Li Yang looked at it for two seconds, pulled it out and unrolled it. Inner wall clean, canvas outer layer dry. He leaned in and smelled—just canvas and hose rubber smell, plus a slight sunbaked rubber scent.
He re-coiled the hose, checked the box next to "Hose #0227" on the scrapping form with a tick. His finger paused on the ballpoint pen for a moment, leaving a small ink dot on the paper.
He knew if he just left it like this, moved to a new station, replaced batch after batch of equipment—someday someone would take that hose out on a call. Building 58 was demolished, the garment factory land was being re-foundationed. Things buried underground got disturbed, who knows what might come alive again.
Zhao Lei looked at the form, didn't say anything, just nodded: "Alright, I'll process it."
Scrapped equipment was stacked in a temporary iron shed behind the training tower, waiting for unified disposal. Li Yang passed by twice, didn't specifically look.
About a week later, the equipment recycling company's truck arrived. Li Yang happened to be on gate duty, watching workers throw those scrapped hoses bundle by bundle into the truck. The iron shed was empty, ground left with circular indentations.
When the truck drove out of the station, Li Yang stood in the watchtower watching. The last bundle of hoses draped one length over the truck's edge. Canvas surface swayed in the wind, then disappeared around the corner.
Zhao Lei came out of the office, passed the watchtower and tapped the window: "Gone?"
"Gone."
Zhao Lei nodded, walked two steps then turned back: "By the way, I went down to the old street last weekend. Building 58 is gone, flattened."
"Mm."
Li Yang closed the window and sat back in the watchtower. Afternoon sunlight seeped through the blinds, cutting light strips on the desk. The duty phone lay quietly there, red indicator light dark.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. The station was quiet. Far away at the training tower, someone was calling cadence, faint running sounds and equipment clattering. Wind brought the smell of plastic track and a hint of green onion cooking from the canteen.
Just an ordinary afternoon.
Li Yang opened his eyes, looked at the duty log on the desk, flipped to a new page, wrote "Sunny" after the date. Pen scratched the paper twice and stopped.
He closed the log. The thermos lid had tea in it, the water surface reflecting the window light and swaying.
It's over.
He told himself.
Three months later. Early autumn, weather turning cool. The detachment organized a cross-district joint drill. Li Yang went with the team to the eastern city stadium. Large venue, hoses from several teams covered the ground, red, yellow, blue mixed together, couldn't tell whose was whose.
When collecting equipment, Li Yang bent to roll up an old hose borrowed from another unit. Canvas worn pale, a small dent on the coupling—the same position, same depth, exactly like the mark on #0227.
His fingers paused on the dent, didn't move. Looked around. Other team's firefighters were collecting their things in the distance, nobody cared about this one in his hand.
Li Yang fully unrolled the hose, looked inside from the coupling. Rubber inner wall clean, flashlight beam showed nothing. He smelled it again—just normal canvas and water smell.
Stood there a moment, then re-coiled the hose and returned it to the adjacent team's equipment officer.
"Thanks, bro," the guy said casually as he took it.
Li Yang nodded, turned and left.
Walked two steps then stopped and looked back. That hose had already been thrown into the equipment truck by the guy, stacked with a messy pile of other hoses. It rolled over, showing the other side. A small dark stain on the canvas surface—shaped like a handprint.
The truck's flap banged shut. Driver started the engine, diesel rumbled. The truck slowly drove out the stadium's side entrance, merging into main traffic.
Li Yang stood in the center of the field. Evening wind blew, carrying autumn's dry coolness. The hoses spread on the ground were mostly collected, only light-colored indentations left on the grass.
"Yangzi, let's go!" Geng Hui called from by the truck.
Li Yang pulled his gaze back from the side entrance, brushed the dust off his hands, and walked toward the truck.
Sitting in the passenger seat, closing the door, he glanced at the rearview mirror. The equipment truck had already turned the corner and disappeared.
Wang Hai started the engine, AC vent blowing out hot air that had been trapped all afternoon. Li Yang rolled down the window, autumn air rushed in and hit his face.
The brigade's truck followed the guide vehicle slowly out of the stadium. In the rearview mirror, the venue shr smaller and smaller, finally becoming a thin gray-white line.
Li Yang leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
His hand rested on his knee, thumb unconsciously rubbing his trouser seam.
Nothing.
He told himself.