章 71: Chapter 71: A good man
The radio crackles to life as you park the ambulance at the corner of Washington and 3rd, just down the street from the Schuman Health Care Center. "We have a report of a multi-vehicle collision at the intersection of Main and 7th. All units, respond."
You grip the steering wheel tighter, glancing over at Johnson. He nods, his no-nonsense demeanor as solid as ever. "Let's go, Scott."
You flick on the siren and pull away from the curb, weaving through the midday traffic. The city is a blur of motion and noise, but you focus on the task at hand. The chaos and the adrenaline are almost comforting, a reminder of your past life where every moment was a struggle for survival.
You arrive at the scene: two cars have collided head-on, and a third vehicle has spun out, hitting a pedestrian. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. You park the ambulance, and both of you rush out, medical bags in hand.
Johnson heads straight for the first car, where a woman is trapped behind the wheel. You follow his lead, assessing the situation quickly. "Her pulse is weak," he says, checking her wrist. "We need to get her out of here."
You grab the hydraulic spreader from the ambulance and start working on the door, prying it open with a groan of metal. The woman is semi-conscious, her head lolling to the side. "Stay with us," you say, your voice firm but reassuring.
Once the door is open, you and Johnson carefully extract her from the wreckage, stabilizing her neck and spine. You get her onto the stretcher and into the ambulance, Johnson already moving to the next victim – the pedestrian, who lies crumpled on the sidewalk, blood pooling beneath him.
"Massive head trauma," Johnson mutters, kneeling beside the man. "He's barely hanging on."
You administer a quick shot of epinephrine and start an IV, working in tandem with Johnson. The man's breathing stabilizes, but his condition is critical. "We need to move him, now," you say.
As you load the pedestrian into the ambulance, you catch sight of the third car. A small child is crying in the back seat, a deep gash on her forehead. Her father, in the driver's seat, is unconscious, his head resting on the steering wheel.
You rush over, feeling the urgency in your chest. "Hang in there, kid," you say, your hands steady as you work to free her. The door finally gives way, and you scoop her up, carrying her to the ambulance. She clings to you, her tiny body trembling with fear and pain.
"She's losing a lot of blood," you call to Johnson as you set the child on a second stretcher. "We need to get her to the hospital, fast."
Johnson nods, already prepping the ambulance for departure. "Let's go."
You climb into the back, checking vitals and administering aid as the ambulance speeds towards the hospital. The ride is a blur of sirens and flashing lights, your focus entirely on the patients. The woman's pulse strengthens, the child's bleeding slows, and the pedestrian's breathing stabilizes.
You turn your attention back to the child, her eyes wide with fear as tears stream down her cheeks. "It's okay, sweetie. You're going to be alright," you say, trying to keep your voice calm and soothing. You clean the wound on her forehead, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
"It hurts," she whimpers, her small hands clutching at your sleeve.
"I know it does," you reply gently. "But you're being very brave. We're almost at the hospital, and they'll make you feel better."
You keep talking to her, asking her about her favorite toys and cartoons, anything to keep her distracted. "Do you like dolls or cars?" you ask, trying to find something to engage her.
"Dolls," she says weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Dolls are great," you say with a smile. "Do you have a favorite one?"
"Yes... her name is Lucy," she replies, a tiny smile forming on her lips despite the pain.
"Lucy sounds lovely," you say, continuing to comfort her. You check her vitals again, relieved to see that her pulse is stabilizing and the bleeding has slowed.
The ambulance swerves through traffic, the siren blaring as you race towards the hospital. Johnson drives like a madman, but the drive is stable enough for the patients. The child clings to your hand, drawing strength from your presence. "You're doing so well, sweetie. Just a little bit longer," you say, keeping your voice steady and reassuring.
Finally, he pulls into the emergency bay, and the ER team rushes out to meet you. "Multiple traumas from a car accident," you report, detailing each patient's condition as they are wheeled inside. "The girl has a deep forehead laceration. She's lost a lot of blood but she's stable for now," you add, staying close as they transfer her to a gurney.
"Don't leave me," she pleads, her small hand reaching out for yours.
"I'll be right here, kiddo," you promise, squeezing her hand before the medical team takes over. You step back, watching as they rush her inside, your heart heavy but relieved knowing she's in good hands now.
The adrenaline begins to fade as you stand outside the hospital, catching your breath. Johnson claps you on the shoulder, a rare smile breaking through his tough exterior. "Good work, Scott. You handled that like a pro."
Just as you're about to respond, the radio crackles again. "All units, we have a gang shootout in progress at the corner of 8th and Jefferson. Haitians and Cubans, at each other's throats again. Multiple casualties reported. Approach with caution."
Johnson's smile disappears, replaced by a steely resolve. "No rest for the wicked," he mutters. "Let's roll."
You jump back into the ambulance, the siren wailing as you speed through the city streets. The tension is palpable, a stark contrast to the brief moment of calm you just experienced. As you approach the scene, the sounds of gunfire and shouting grow louder, echoing off the buildings like a grim symphony. The streets are chaos, with people running for cover, some clutching their children, others shouting in panic. Abandoned cars are scattered haphazardly, doors flung open in the haste of escape, adding to the sense of disarray.
Broken glass litters the asphalt, glinting under the harsh streetlights, and smoke billows from a nearby overturned vehicle, the acrid smell filling the air. The flashing red and blue lights of police cars add to the pandemonium, their sirens blending with the cacophony. You can see the silhouettes of armed gang members ducking behind cover, exchanging fire with their rivals across the street.
"Shit, this is a war zone," you mutter, pulling the ambulance to a stop just out of the line of fire. The buildings around you are pockmarked with bullet holes, windows shattered and storefronts riddled with damage. A news helicopter hovers overhead, its spotlight casting an eerie glow over the scene, capturing every moment of the unfolding violence.
You quickly pull up your medic mask to cover your face, hoping it will help you stay under the cops' radar. The stench of blood and burning rubber assaults your senses as you step out of the ambulance.
Your eyes scanning the scene. The Haitians and the Cubans are engaged in a brutal firefight, bullets flying in every direction. The Haitians, in their distinctive purple shirts and bandanas, are entrenched on one side. Their dark skin and muscular builds make them look even more menacing in the chaos. Across from them, the Cubans, in their white tank tops and red headbands, return fire. They're leaner, but no less deadly.
Bodies lie on the pavement, some moving, others disturbingly still. The police are trying to control the situation, but it's clear they're outnumbered.
"Stay low and stay fast," Johnson instructs, grabbing the medical bags. "We need to get to those who are still alive."
You nod, your heart pounding as you step out of the ambulance. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood. You move quickly, crouching behind cover as you make your way to the nearest casualty – a young man clutching his stomach, blood oozing through his fingers.
"It's gonna be okay," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You press a bandage to his wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. "Just hold on."
"Please, I don't wanna die," he gasps, his eyes wide with fear. His snot and tears are all over his face.
"You won't," you assure him, glancing around to assess the situation. "Just stay with me."
Johnson is already working on another victim, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. "We need to get them out of here," he calls over the gunfire. "They won't make it if we stay in this war zone."
You manage to stabilize the young man enough to move him, dragging him behind a nearby car for cover. "Hang in there" you say, adrenaline surging through your veins. "We'll get you to safety."
As you work, you notice a small group of gang members closing in, their guns aimed at you. "Shit," you mutter, glancing around for an escape route. The tension is suffocating, every second feeling like an eternity.
Just then, a police officer arrives, taking cover next to you. "We've got your back," he says, his voice firm. "Get them to the ambulance. We'll cover you".
You nod, grateful for the support. "Johnson, let's move!" you shout, grabbing the young man's arm and hauling him towards the ambulance. Johnson follows, carrying another victim over his shoulder.
The officer and his team provide covering fire, holding off the gang members as you make a dash for the ambulance. Bullets zip past you, the sound deafening, but you push through, your focus on saving lives.
"Help me! Please!" another victim cries, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
You reach the ambulance, quickly loading the victims inside. "Drive, i will take care of them" Johnson screams and slams the doors shut, and you jump into the driver's seat, gunning the engine. "Hang on!" you shout, speeding away from the scene.
The ride to the hospital is a nerve-wracking sprint through the city, dodging traffic and praying you don't encounter any more gang members. The wounded in the back groan in pain, their blood staining the stretcher. Johnson works tirelessly, his hands stained with blood but his movements steady and sure.
You turn onto a main road, the hospital finally in sight. "Almost there," you mutter, your knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Just a little longer."
A sharp turn sends one of the victims sliding across the stretcher, crying out in agony. "I can't... I can't feel my legs," he moans, his face pale and sweaty.
"You're gonna be fine," Johnson says, his voice firm. "Stay with me."
You glance in the rearview mirror, your eyes catching the gruesome sight of blood pooling on the floor. "Hold on back there," you shout, pushing the ambulance to its limits.
As you pull up to the hospital, ER staff rush out to meet you, again, their faces masks of grim determination. "Gang shootout," you report, your voice hoarse. "Multiple gunshot wounds, critical condition."
The victims are wheeled inside, and you finally allow yourself to breathe. Johnson stands beside you, his face lined with exhaustion but his eyes still sharp. "Hell of a day," he says quietly.
You nod, the weight of the day's events settling on your shoulders. "Yeah. But we made a difference."
As you stand outside the hospital, the chaos of the city seems to fade away, replaced by a sense of purpose. You know the road ahead will be tough, but you're ready for whatever comes next.
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