Recriminations

Ryan turned up the volume and watched in mute horror and disbelief as Connie Mitchell narrated for the camera. He absently set his beer aside, aiming to set it on the end table and missing it altogether, ignoring the overturned bottle spilling foamy beer into the carpet next to his right foot.

“…State Route 74 has claimed two more lives as of today. Two area paramedics died tragically late this afternoon in a single-vehicle ambulance crash in rural Oneida Parish,” she was saying. “According to Louisiana State Police troopers on the scene, the ambulance left the roadway and struck a tree, killing both of the paramedics on board.

Troopers would not speculate that the weather was a contributing factor in the crash, but did tell us that the ambulance siren and emergency warning lights were not activated at the time of the accident. The paramedics, employed with Collins Ambulance of Audubon Parish, were apparently traveling north on Highway 74 when the accident occurred, just two miles south of the Audubon Parish line."

Who, damn it? Who were the EMTs?

“…names have not been released, pending notification of their families. Viewers may recall Headline News’ reporting of the rash of fatal accidents along this five-mile stretch of State Highway 74, and the ongoing efforts to secure state and federal transportation funds to widen and resurface the treacherous highway. Today, ‘Bloody 74’ claimed its tenth and eleventh victims in a two-year span, two paramedics who have quite possibly tended the past dead and injured along this very same highway. This is Connie Mitchell reporting, Headline News."

The feed cut back to the anchor in the Headline News studio, his expression grave and sympathetic as the monitor behind his left shoulder showed more footage of the ambulance being winched onto a flatbed wrecker.

Scarcely paying attention to the anchor’s pontifications, he slid to his hands and knees on the damp carpet, his nose a foot from the screen. The front end of the rig was demolished, front axle displaced rearward, and cab crushed from the impact. Through the mud, Ryan could make out the numbers on the ambulance fender.

Sixty-four. Oh God, Bob and Linda! That’s the rig they were in earlier today!

True to his nature, Ryan Pierce was outwardly calm. His hands did not tremble; his expression did not change. He sat silently, unmoving for several minutes, then turned off the television. He picked up the overturned bottle of Heineken, threw it in the trash, and padded to the bathroom for a towel.

He methodically blotted the spilled beer out of the carpet, took the towel back to the bathroom and threw it in the hamper. He walked back to his kitchen and carefully, almost ritualistically put his groceries away.

Steaks in the left corner, pork chops in the right. Need more fish. Looks like I have plenty of chicken. Leave some pork chops out for tonight. Pop Tarts go in the pantry, third shelf up. Chocolate donuts go in the breadbox, out of sight so Caitlin won’t constantly ask for them. Cereal goes in the storage containers; one for Frosted Flakes, one for Fruity Pebbles. Onions and potatoes go in their storage bins…oops, time to throw out some of these old potatoes…

And so he went, each item carefully stowed away, because he lived on a boat after all, and everything had its proper place. Everything had to be shipshape. Space was at a premium.

Except that space really wasn’t at a premium. Ecnalubma was roomier than his college apartment. Things didn’t really have to be all that shipshape. He hadn’t cast off the lines and taken her for a cruise in almost a year. Ryan was focusing on process again, his mind superficially occupied with mundane tasks while his emotions were far less organized.

Dead, both of them, a nagging inner voice told him, and too late now for you to fix things with them. Just like your mother. Just like Renee.

Not my fault, he shook his head vehemently. Not. My. Fault. They all chose their own paths. I chose mine.

Sure it wasn’t your fault, Ryan, the voice said sarcastically. Dawn leaving wasn’t your fault either, was it? And when she dies, what will be your excuse for not having fixed things with her?

“No,” he said aloud. His voice was harsh and strained, shattering the stillness. He shook his head ruefully.

Shit, now I’m talking to myself. I’m losing my fucking mind. Carpet cleaner. That’s what I need. Carpet cleaner and a brush. Gotta get the blood out of the carpet before it starts to smell…

Blood? NOT blood, beer. Where the hell did I get ‘blood’ from? Need to get the beer out of the carpet before it sours. Just my luck to have a big, nasty bloodstain on the…

STOP IT. More doing, less thinking, Ryan. Carpet cleaner. That, and a scrub brush right under the sink. And paper towels to blot with. Disinfectant. 10:1 water and bleach solution, mixed up fresh every 24 hours, just like Bob Collins taught me when I was…

STOP IT. It’s not blood, it’s spilled beer. Just a fucking beer, Ryan. Beer. You need another one.

Ryan stood up abruptly, tossing the carpet cleaner and brush onto the counter. He savagely yanked open the refrigerator, pulled another Heineken and opened it with shaking, fumbling hands. He turned it up and drained it in one long pull. He opened and drained another and part of a third in quick succession before he stopped, taking a ragged, gasping breath.

He picked up the carpet cleaner and the brush and marched purposefully across the cabin and knelt next to the drying stain on the carpet. He pushed the recliner and end table out of the way, much too hard, his hands guided by an unreasoning anger that his brain struggled to master. The table toppled onto its side with a crash, spreading magazines and unopened mail across the floor like a deck of cards fanned by a clumsy dealer. Ryan Pierce scarcely noticed. He was still scrubbing furiously thirty minutes later when the phone rang.

Ryan stared numbly at the caller ID and sank back onto his heels. His knees and arms ached fiercely.

Don’t answer it. If you answer, it becomes real.

He stared mutely at the handset as it rang insistently, his hands still trembling, his breath coming in long, shuddering gasps.

Hang up. No one home. Leave a message at the beep. No one here but us chickens. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again…

After what seemed like an eternity, the phone stopped ringing. Ryan heaved a thankful sigh, welcoming the silence. He got up from the floor, righted his end table and picked up the scattered mail. He returned the scrub brush and carpet cleaner to their places under the sink, and threw the soiled paper towels in the trash. He opened the refrigerator door and was reaching for another beer when he stopped himself.

No. You don’t need this. Four is already too much. You have a shift to work tomorrow.

Ryan closed the refrigerator door and leaned his head against it. He closed his eyes and commanded himself to breathe slowly and deeply, ordered his hands to stop trembling. Of all things Ryan Pierce feared, losing control scared him the most. It happened so rarely. Like cracks in the face of a dam, his inability to conquer his emotions, however brief or infrequent, left him with a vague sense of disquiet.

Long minutes later, Ryan padded to his stateroom and began stripping off his uniform. Socks, boxers and tee shirt in one pile, pants and shirt in another. Pens and change removed from his pockets, the chipped and worn blue star removed from his left collar point. Cap and belt hung in the closet, on a rack filled with ties he rarely wore. Body armor folded carefully and laid flat atop the bureau. Pager, wallet, cell phone, ID tag and a battered pair of trauma shears arranged carefully on the bedside table. Out of habit, Ryan checked the alarm clock to assure that it was set for five-thirty, even though he hadn’t awoken that late in six months.

He tossed his dirty clothing into the appropriate hampers, washed his coffee pot and set the brew timer for three am. He put a load of uniforms in the washer, and checked the closet to make sure he had a freshly pressed one to wear tomorrow. He did.

Ryan sat on his bed in the darkness and closed his eyes, mentally retracing his steps.

Groceries put away. Mail sorted. Alarm set. Laundry going. Carpet cleaned. That’s it. Everything shipshape.

Except it’s not, the nagging voice whispered. Nothing will ever be in its proper place again. You’re lost, and you’re alone. And that was your choice.

STOP IT.

Desperate for a distraction, any distraction, he trotted back to his living room and yanked open the door leading to his stern deck. He grabbed his muddy boots and took them to the sink. Turning on the hot water, he scrubbed them savagely until the black leather was unblemished once again, desperately willing his scattered thoughts down the drain with the swirl of muddy water.

He sank into his recliner and turned the television back on, surfing through the channels with no particular destination in mind. It was something to do. Sound muted, he stared blankly at the rapid-fire, flickering images that mirrored his own thoughts, never focusing too long on just one for fear that he’d find a show he couldn’t escape.

When his cell phone rang an hour later, it startled him. He padded to the stateroom and picked it up, feeling the tightness grip his chest once again as he saw Collins Ambulance on the display. Ryan walked back to the kitchen, cell phone in hand, and took the remainder of the case of Heineken from the fridge. He walked onto his stern deck, heaved the phone as far as he could into the river, and collapsed into a chair. He opened another bottle, and started drinking.

Rain

“Control to…304,” the radio crackled, as if Satan were unsure of which unit she should be calling.

Probably trying to figure out of we’re close enough to punk with this one. The bitch.

Ryan and Steve listened with half an ear as 304 was dispatched to a wreck on the interstate, just a few miles east of their location.

“People can’t drive for shit in the rain,” Steve yawned sleepily, checking his watch. “Only two hours until shift change. Can’t get here soon enough.”

“It has been the shift from Hell,” Ryan agreed, “But if you keep talking about it, you’ll jinx us.”

Steve said nothing, just nodded sleepily and leaned back against the headrest. Ryan turned his attention back to his incomplete patient care reports.

Fourteen calls in ten hours. Eleven transports. I’ve been listening to the damned radio, and nobody else has transported half that many, even if all but one of ours were emergency calls. She knows where to post us so we’ll catch the most calls. God I despise that woman…

“…304 on scene,” David Hendricks’ voice cut into his reverie. “Uhhhh…Control, you can cancel Oneida Fire. Looks like a minor accident, and everyone is out and walking around.”

“Ten-four, 304,” Satan acknowledged. “Advise us if you have any refusals.”

Stop telling my crews how to do their jobs, bitch. They know what they’re doing.

David’s reply was not the expected one. “Uhh, Control! Keep Oneida Fire rolling, and send us additional units! We’ve got fucking rubberne - um, ahh, chain reaction crash at this scene, Control! I’m gonna need a lot more ambulances here!” In the background, the sound of screeching brakes and rapid-fire impacts of crunching metal only punctuated his fear and excitement.

“Let’s go, Steve,” Ryan ordered, fastening his seatbelt. “Mile marker 120, I think it was. That’s gonna be on the overpass.” Steve Hatfield had the rig in gear and rolling before Ryan could finish the last sentence.

“306 to Control,” Steve radioed. “We’re responding to that chain reaction wreck at 304’s location.”

“Stand by, 306,” came the reply.

Stand by? What the fuck does she mean, ‘stand by’?

Ryan and Steve shared a look of disbelief and disgust. “Give me the mike,” Ryan ordered. Steve, rolling his eyes and shaking his head resignedly, handed it over.

“Be careful what you say,” he warned. Ryan ignored him.

“306 to all available units,” he radioed, giving Steve a defiant glare, “Priority One call on the interstate, westbound at mile marker 120, backing up 304 on a multiple MVC. All other units, expedite transport and check in with Control.”

“That’s not your job, Ryan,” Steve reminded him tiredly as the other units in the city began marking en-route to the scene, “and all you’re gonna do is piss her off, maybe even get written up for self-dispatching.”

“Fuck her, Steve. Right now, she’s frozen, wondering what she should do. The first coherent thought she’ll have is after this is all over.”

“And that thought will be how she can stick a knife in Hawkeye Pierce’s back for making her look like an idiot!” Steve flared. “Goddamnit! Don’t you get that?”

Ryan said nothing in reply, just stared out the window mutely. Steve, fuming, negotiated the surface streets approaching the nearest interstate on-ramp. When Steve Hatfield was angry, he tended to handle the rig roughly. From the jerky steering corrections, hard braking and acceleration, Ryan could tell he was monumentally pissed.

“Look, you can see 304’s lights from here,” he says, pointing at the elevated roadway. At the head of a massive traffic jam, the flash of 304’s emergency box lights could clearly be seen.

“Shit,” Steve breathed. “No way we’ll get to him through all that traffic, and we can’t use the eastbound overpass. Any ideas?”

“No,” Ryan answered honestly, “but get closer and let’s see if we can figure something out.”

“306 to 304,” Steve radioed. “We’re thirty seconds out. What have we got?”

“We got eleven cars,” David replied tersely, “I don’t know how many patients. I’m still triaging.”

“Control to 304,” Satan radioed, walking over Steve before he could reply. “Are you declaring an Mass Casualty Incident?”

“Ten-four, Control,” David confirmed, “declaring an MCI at this time.”

“Control to all responding units, we have a declared MCI,” Satan declared decisively. “304 is Incident Command. Responding units stage at…stand by.”

“Control, looks like the best place is the Tarleton Avenue off-ramp,” Ryan furnished helpfully. “Everyone needs to come up Tarleton the wrong way and stage there at the base of the off-ramp. We’re gonna have to push the stretchers and equipment up the ramp to get to the wrecks.”

“Control to all units, copy 306’s traffic?” Satan relayed coolly, professionally.

“Looks like she got unfrozen pretty quick,” Steve observed innocently as he parked the rig on the concrete median at the base of the Tarleton Avenue ramp. “That sounded like fairly coherent thought.”

Ryan just grunted noncommittally and extended the middle finger of his left hand as he bailed out of the rig. Two minutes later, legs burning and breathing hard, they had pushed their stretcher, piled high with two spine boards, cervical collars and first-in bag, up the ramp and through the line of stopped cars. They found David Hendricks leaning in the driver’s window of a compact SUV with minor, cosmetic damage.

“How many patients?” he asked without preamble.

“Looks like only six,” David sighed with relief. “Front two cars, mainly. Two people in the front SUV with minor injuries, mainly necks and heads. The guy that rear-ended them is serious – chest and head. Three people in a car behind them with Allstate-itis. They’re just lookin’ to get paid.”

“Gotcha,” Ryan acknowledged, and turned to Steve. “You help David and his partner get the critical patient packaged. As soon as they’re transporting, come back to me.”

“Why don’t you have David cancel the MCI,” Steve suggested, “since he’s Incident Commander and all? All we need is another transport unit, and Oneida Fire for extrication on our critical guy.”

“Good idea,” Ryan stuck his tongue out. “Perhaps you’re not totally fucking worthless after all.”

David Hendricks chuckled at the two partners as he keyed his radio. “Incident Command to Control…only six transports here. You can stand everyone down. We’ll still need another truck, and keep Oneida Fire rolling. We’re gonna need extrication on one patient.”

“Ten-four, 304,” Satan replied coolly, then relayed the traffic, “Control to responding units?”

“Ten-four direct,” came the replies from other units as they stood down, pulled their units over and waited for new posting assignments. The radio crackled again. “305 to Control, we’re only thirty seconds out,” came the voice of Mark Perry.

“Continue responding, 305,” came the reply. “Stage at the base of the Tarleton Avenue off ramp.”

“We oughta be able to handle this fairly quickly,” Ryan judged. “Let’s get to it.”

“Quicker we get ‘em assessed, extricated and packaged, quicker we’ll be out of the rain,” David agreed.

Together, they both walked up the line of wrecked cars. Ryan peeled off near the head of the line as David returned to the car with the critical driver. Walking in a wide circle around the wrecked SUV at the head of the line, Ryan approached it from the front, making eye contact with the driver and motioning for her to roll down the window. As the window hummed down, Ryan slid his hands through the opening gap and gently grasped the driver’s head, holding it still.

“Howdy, Ma’am,” he grinned. “Lovely way to spend a rainy afternoon, ain’t it?”

“Just fuckin’ great,” the woman chuckled nervously. “I should be in a thirty-car pileup every day.”

“Where are you hurt?” Ryan asked, turning serious.

“Neck and forehead, mainly,” the woman grimaced. “Neither of us was wearing a seatbelt. My friend hit the windshield.” She cut her eyes toward the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “You okay, Sheila?”

“I think so,” Sheila muttered. “I busted my head on something.”

“Okay, I need both of you ladies to hold still,” Ryan directed. “I’m going to put collars on both of you, and I want both of you ladies to stay in your vehicle and try not to move around.”

He quickly sized and fastened a cervical collar around the driver’s neck. “Wiggle your fingers and toes for me, Miss…what was your name?”

“Andrea,” the woman furnished as she complied with Ryan’s request, flexing her feet and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

“Anything numb or tingling?”

“Nope.”

“Great!” Ryan replied before moving around to the passenger side and repeating the procedure on Sheila. Aside from the superficial laceration to her scalp, everything seemed okay. “Ladies, I’ve got other people to check on,” he told them. “Either me or another paramedic will be back in just a few minutes.”

Ryan walked back down the line of cars, noting that Steve and crew of 304 had been joined by two City of Oneida firefighters. As he passed the wrecked Hyundai, the head and shoulders of yet another firefighter appeared over the outer retaining wall of the elevated roadway. Curious, Ryan walked over to the wall and looked down to find an Oneida Fire Department bucket truck parked below them.

Huh. That’s one way to do it. Beats the heck out of lugging up their generators and extrication equipment by hand.

As David had described, the three occupants of the last vehicle were deep in the throes of Allstate-itis. As if on cue, they halted their animated conversation as Ryan approached, leaned their heads back against the seats, closed their eyes and started moaning loudly. One still held her cell phone against her ear as she moaned piteously.

Ignoring her theatrics, Ryan rolled his eyes as he walked around their vehicle.

They stopped in time to avoid hitting Critical Boy’s car, but the car behind them managed to tap their bumper.

Hands thrust in his pockets, Ryan prodded the barely damaged rear bumper with his foot.

Cosmetic damage only. Even the taillights are intact. Hardly even made a scuff on the bumper, and yet managed to inflict potentially permanent disability on the poor unfortunate occupants. Oh, the humanity!

Ryan knocked politely on the driver’s window, but the woman made no move to open it. Rapidly losing patience, he slapped the window hard. “Roll down the window!” he bellowed.

Still moaning piteously, right arm flung across her eyes, the woman slowly reached out her left arm and cranked down the window.

Jesus Christ. $5000 spinner rims on this 80’s vintage lead sled, and they don’t even have power windows. Well, maybe your insurance settlement can buy you some aftermarket ones. Maybe even have enough left over for some bling and a new weave, girlfriend.

“Where y’all hurt?” Ryan asked shortly.

“Mah neck…I wranched mah muhfuckin’ back…yo cuz, mah head hurt,” came the moaned chorus of the occupants.

“And I suppose you all want to go to the hospital?” Ryan sighed. All three occupants nodded in unison.

Synchronized malingering. They should be in the Scumbag Olympics or something.

Ryan quietly fumed as he unwrapped three new cervical collars from his first-in bag. As he was wrapping the cervical collar around the driver’s neck, taking care to remove her hoop earrings first, a voice appeared at his right elbow.

“Where you need us, Hawkeye?” Mark Perry asked.

I’m going straight to hell for this, but hey, I’m the stuporvisor. I can get away with it.

“You take this car,” Ryan grinned maliciously, handing Mark the other two cervical collars. “They’re all in desperate need of your superior lifesaving skills.”

Mark Perry, no stranger to turfing, scowled and gave Ryan the finger, hand hel low at his side where only Ryan could see. In reply, Ryan blew him a kiss, turned and trotted back to the head of the line of cars. He found Steve and two firefighters kneeling next to the opened driver’s door of the SUV.

“We already got the passenger out and packaged,” Steve reported. “She’s in our rig, strapped to the squad bench. Mark has three people from the original wreck sitting in the back of 304, ready to sign refusals.”

“You got this?” Ryan asked, laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder as he nodded affirmatively. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. Remind me to say nice things about you on your next performance evaluation. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Ryan opened the driver’s door of 304, fetched David Hendricks’ clipboard from between the seats, and walked back around to the rear of the ambulance. He opened the door and found an Oneida Police officer interviewing three wet, bedraggled teenagers. It was the same cop he had encountered earlier, the one who had found Colonel Mustard.

“I’m about tired of seeing you,” the cop grinned before Ryan could. “If you’ll give me another minute, you can have ‘em.”

“No worries,” Ryan winked. “Shouldn’t you be out directing traffic or taking measurements or something?”

“What traffic?” the cop asked rhetorically. “We’ve got the interstate shut down from the Guyton Avenue east to Highway 63. One of our units is parked at the Guyton exit directing people onto the surface streets. It’s a mess, but once I get done with these guys, we can start moving the cars that can move and clear some of this out.”

“Most of ‘em are drivable,” Ryan informed him. “With the exception of the SUV and the car behind it, it’s mostly bent bumpers.”

“How many cars?”

“The other medic says eleven. Only two will need a wrecker,” Ryan replied, then addressed the teenagers. “What’s your story?”

“Well, I was driving right at the speed limit, one of them starts to answer, “in the right lane, and this car cuts in front of me outta nowhere…”

“Hydroplaned into the guardrail,” the cop cut him off. “No sign of the other vehicle.”

“Did you guys call the ambulance?” Ryan asked.

“I called,” the cop answered. “Figured better safe than sorry.”

“Is that right?” Ryan asked the teenagers. “None of you requested an ambulance, nobody’s hurt?” Shivering, the teens nodded yes to both questions.

“That’s all I need to hear,” he told the cop. “They didn’t make the request for the ambulance, and they don’t want treatment. They can go when you’re done with them.”

“They don’t need to sign anything?” the cop asked dubiously.

“All you kids over eighteen?” Ryan asked, to affirmative nods.

“That’s all I need,” Ryan confirmed as he backed out of the rig. “They’re all adults, and they didn’t request the ambulance. None of them are officially patients.”

“Works for me,” the cop agreed. The back door opened, and Joanna Bradford poked her head into the back of the rig.

“Time to clear out, folks,” she ordered tersely. “We got a bad one we gotta move with.”

Ryan backed out of the rig and motioned the others out of the way. As Joanna guided the stretcher wheels into the back of the rig, Ryan lifted the undercarriage as she rolled the entire stretcher into its mount. David Hendricks followed the stretcher into the rig and immediately began digging through the cabinetry for supplies.

“You need help?” Ryan asked.

“I need an airway,” David answered tersely as he suctioned the man’s mouth. “His face hit the steering wheel. He was doing okay for a while, but once we got him onto the board, he started going downhill. I could probably bag him from here to St. Matthew’s, if I had someone along to help.”

“That trip’s gonna take an extra ten minutes,” Ryan informed him. “All the eastbound interstate traffic has been routed onto the surface streets.”

“Shit,” David sighed bitterly. “I guess he buys a tube, then.”

“Get your kit ready,” Ryan suggested. “I’ll get the line.”

Ryan quickly set up an IV of saline, straddling the stretcher as Steve and another firefighter loaded another patient onto the squad bench.

“Dayum, cuz!” the man said as Steve fastened the straps. “Homeboy fucked up!”

“Shut up!” Steve snapped tersely. “Just lay still and you’ll get your ride.”

Ignoring the malingerer strapped to the squad bench, Ryan quickly sank a 16-gauge catheter into the man’s left arm, attached the tubing and secured the catheter with several wraps of two-inch tape. Retrieving two medication vials from the drug box, he quickly drew up two doses of medication.

“You ready?” he asked David, who was poised at the patient’s head, steadily ventilating the man and doing a fair job of it, despite the man’s wrecked face. David nodded.

“Here’s the etomidate, and here’s the succinylcholine,” Ryan recited automatically, “on board at 1704 hours.” He moved up the stretcher and pressed down hard on the man’s thyroid cartilage, effectively blocking his esophagus. Presently, the man’s arms and legs began twitching spasmodically, followed by flaccid paralysis.

David Hendricks inserted a laryngoscope into the man’s mouth and peered inside. He muttered under his breath, suctioned some more and ordered tersely, “Deeper…and more to the right.”

Ryan complied, manipulating the man’s larynx into position. David slid the tube home with a self-satisfied grunt. Ryan grinned and handed him the capnograph adaptor, which David attached between the bag valve mask and the endotracheal tube. As David squeezed the bag, Ryan listened to breath sounds.

“Sounds good,” Ryan confirmed, and looked at the cardiac monitor. “You’ve got a good capnograph tracing too. Exhaled CO2 is…twenty-six and rising. It’s in.”

“Strap it down for me before you go,” David requested. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

“No problem,” Ryan shrugged as he backed out of the rig. “I’m sending an extra set of hands in with you.” He tapped a firefighter on the arm and gestured for him to climb aboard. Once he was in, Ryan slammed the rear doors, and clapped Joanna Bradford affectionately on the back. “He’s ready to roll, Jo. Tell him I said y’all done good.”

At the base of the exit ramp, Steve and Ryan found two Oneida firefighters loading the last patient into their rig. “Need somebody to ride in?” the captain asked.

“No thanks guys, we got it.” Ryan answered. “Thanks for everything.”

He climbed into the back of the rig and maneuvered forward gingerly, holding onto the overhead rail as Steve pulled off the concrete median and merged into traffic on Tarleton Avenue.

“I was beginning to think you had abandoned us,” came a chuckle from the stretcher.

“Why hello, Andrea!” Ryan grinned. “What, no faith in me? I told you I’d be back. You’d rather have someone else?”

“Well now that you mention it, one of those cute firemen would have been nice…”

“Sorry ladies, but if anyone gets to cut your clothes off and palpate you, it’s gonna be me.”

Without further ado, Ryan performed a quick but thorough assessment of both women. As he suspected, neither was seriously injured. He settled into the captain’s chair and managed to complete the bulk of his reports by the time they arrived at St. Matthew’s ER.

As Steve wheeled Andrea inside on the stretcher, Ryan waited in the rig with her friend. He surreptitiously checked his watch.

Forty minutes to shift change. Hurry up, Steve.

**********

Fifteen minutes later, he and Steve had transferred care of both women to the ER staff, given report, and marked their unit back in service. On their way back to the station, the radio crackled again.

“Control to 306.”

“306, go ahead,” Steve answered, groaning and rolling his eyes.

“Priority One call, Oneida Kidney Center. Patient going back to St. Mary’s Nursing Home in Fort Sperry.”

“Goddamnit!” Ryan exploded, punching the dash. That miserable fucking whore!”

“Shut up!” Steve snapped, and keyed the radio. “Uhhh, Control? You realize that our shift ends in twenty minutes?”

“Contact dispatch by phone, 306,” came the terse reply.

Ryan had the phone in hand before Steve could reply. Glaring at him and holding up a warning finger, Steve snatched the phone from his hand and dialed. “Yeah Martha, it’s Steve on 306,” he said pleasantly. “Why are we catching this transfer at twenty minutes to shift change?”

Whatever the answer was, Steve didn’t like it. “Gimme the phone!” Ryan mouthed, reaching for the handset. Steve slapped his hand and switched the phone to the other ear.

“Come on, Martha!” Steve pleaded. “That’s bullshit and you know it…yes, I know that once a Priority Three call stays in queue for thirty minutes, it automatically becomes a Priority One call…but it’s a Goddamned transfer, Martha! It can’t wait twenty more minutes for the next…no, I am not refusing the call!” Furiously, he thumbed the END button and pitched the phone to the floor. “Goddamnit!”

“Told you she’s punking us,” Ryan informed him. “She’s playing the fucking system.”

“No, she’s punking you,” Steve flared angrily, “And I just get fucked by being your partner!”
Shamed, Ryan leaned back against the seat and said nothing else for the rest of the call.

********

Steve and Ryan spent the next ninety minutes in uneasy silence. They went through the motions, smiled and bantered with the patient and her nurses, but barely said a word to each other. After dropping their patient off at the nursing home, they found themselves ten miles outside of Oneida, stopped behind a long string of cars on the two-lane highway. The area was on was the outskirts of Oneida Parish, where the suburbs and bedroom communities merge into the rural farmlands and timber tracts of Audubon Parish.

“Wonder if there’s a wreck up there,” Ryan ventured hesitantly.

“Could be.”

“Wanna call the dispatcher? Maybe they’ve copied some radio traffic on it.”

“No.”

He’s really pissed. Shit, he has a right to be. I haven’t exactly been a good partner lately. And damn it, Steve’s not just my partner, he’s my best friend. He’s had my back from the first day we worked together. Aside from Jeff Layton, he’s the only person I trust.

Steve grunted as the traffic started to move. A mile ahead, they spotted the deep ruts leading off the road and down the steep embankment, abruptly ending at a huge, scarred oak tree. Ryan craned his neck, looking over his shoulder as they passed the wreck scene.

“Somebody died in that one,” Ryan mused, looking back at the ruts in the mirror. “Looks like they crossed the road and hit the tree head-on.”

Steve didn’t reply.

“Wonder who worked it?” Ryan ventured. “Are we still in Audubon Parish?”

“Yep.”

“Still, it’d be closer for one of our rigs than it would be for Collins to work it. I mean, it’s right across the line. We post a rig not five miles from here.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, maybe we can watch it on the news tonight. That’s our friend from Headline News up there. I’m sure they’ll have plenty of gory details.”

“I suppose.”

“Hey Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, bro. I’ve been an ass lately. You don’t deserve to catch all this shit because of me.”

Steven Hatfield did not reply.

**********

An hour later, Ryan Pierce was tying off his runabout and lugging groceries aboard his houseboat. He flicked on Ecnalubma’s lights, pulled off his muddy boots and dropped them on the deck outside the door. Groaning and massaging his lower back, he left the groceries on the counter, shoved the case of Heineken in the fridge, and opened a bottle.

Sighing, he flopped into his recliner, thumbed the television remote and tuned to Headline News. He sipped his beer and watched absentmindedly, paying little attention to the talking heads doling out their daily dose of carefully filtered and slanted opinion masquerading as journalism.

He had almost decided he had missed the story when the screen showed Connie Mitchell, Headline News reporter, standing in a disposable raincoat on the shoulder of Highway 74, gesturing to the wreck scene behind her. He stopped drinking when he saw the wreckage of the Collins Ambulance and the two body bags.