by A. R. Moler
Mason knocked on the back door. He could see lights inside the long hallway that led away from the door, but no people. There had to be personnel inside; the EMS station was manned 24/7. He knocked again. Finally, a short man with a crew cut came down the hallway and opened the door.
“Can I help you?” the man said.
“My name’s Mason Flynn. I was sent here by DMAT for field training. I think I’m looking for a guy named Raj Malik. He’s a paramedic.”
“Oh, he’s in the kitchen. You an EMT?”
“Um, no,” said Mason. He knew full well there was usually rancor between the EMS people and most doctors. Mason followed the man up the hallway, through a common room containing a TV and several sofas, and into a large kitchen. There were a few people drinking coffee and chit-chatting. A stocky dark haired man of Indian descent was slouched in a chair at the table with a cup in front of him.
“Hey Raj, this guy said DMAT sent him to you for training,” said the man Mason had followed inside.
The dark haired man looked up. “Raj Malik,” he introduced himself. “So enlighten me, what does a surgeon want with EMS time?”
“Most of my experience is in a hospital setting. If I’m going to be of value to DMAT in crisis situations, I need more exposure to field scenarios.”
“You do realize you’re not in charge out here,” said Raj. There was a distinctly dubious look on his face.
“Yes,” Mason replied as evenly as possibly.
“You might want to give the guy a chance before you shoot him down in flames,” said a female voice. Mason glanced over his shoulder to see a slender blond woman. “Hi, I’m Ginny Burke.” She held out a hand to Mason and he shook it.
“Mason Flynn,” he introduced himself.
The PA system let out a loud tone and spouted off cryptic information about a call. In the span of a few seconds, Mason was in an ambulance heading out.
~
The morning was spent transporting an asthma patient, an elderly woman who had fallen and a teenager in need of stitches in his elbow after a bike accident. Nothing epic, nothing life threatening and Mason made sure to keep his mouth shut and his head down, doing exactly as he was told. Mason also didn’t use his healing Talent, except to check for signs of broken bones in the elderly woman.
An hour past lunch, things picked up with a shooting incident. Mason sat uncertainly in the ambulance with Raj and Ginny while they waited for the police to give the all clear at the site of the shooting. Mason hadn’t given much thought to the concept that incident scenes might be hazardous. Considering the couple of situations he had been involved in with Division P, he really ought to know better.
As Mason hopped down from the side door of the vehicle, he glanced at the victim lying in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. A steady drizzle had started and it was beginning to soak the pavement. The patient was a young black man in a heavy winter weight jacket and hugely oversized dark jeans. He was moaning faintly. Ginny headed toward the police to get some information.
“Let’s C-collar and backboard him and get him into the ambulance. Letting him get soaked is only going to make things worse,” said Raj. Mason nodded and circled around to the back of the ambulance to pull out the stretcher.
The victim was methodically secured and lifted onto the stretcher. Inside the ambulance, Raj took the victim’s pulse, while Mason got an oxygen mask over the patient’s face.
“I see an entrance wound,” said Raj. “Start cutting off his jacket. We need to find out if there’s an exit, too. I think there’s too much blood for the one hole.” Mason grabbed a pair of trauma shears and stuck the tip under the edge of the sleeve at the wrist and pushed. The material gave way with relative ease... releasing a large puff of flying feathers which promptly started sticking to anything damp. Mason froze for a moment. What the fuck ? God, the guy would have to be wearing a down coat.
“Keep cutting dude, we’ll clean up later,” said Raj, with a snicker. The paramedic was busy listening for breath sounds with his stethoscope. Mason kept cutting. The back of ambulance was swiftly looking like a pillow fight explosion had occurred. Mason used a mixture of touch and his psi senses to locate the exit wound.
“Found it,” Mason said. “Just below the armpit. I’m thinking he may have already been either falling or on the ground when he got shot.” Mason began ripping open dressings and pressing them to the wound to try to slow the blood loss. Use ten percent of your Talent, Peter had told him. Okay, here goes, Mason thought. He let just a trickle of energy flow through his fingers, constricting the blood vessels around each rib and around the chest cavity as he pressed the layers of gauze firmly to patient’s body. That should slow the bleeding. Then he gave another little nudge in the direction of sealing the wound in the lung.
“Okay, that’s a police problem, not ours. He’s definitely got diminished breath sounds on the left side. I’m thinking we’re going to have to do something about the pneumothorax before you put that line in.” Raj switched from listening to the man’s chest to taking the patient’s blood pressure. This was definitely far closer to Mason’s couple of experiences with trauma and disaster via Division P than his usual mode of surgery or office visits or even practice with Peter. “Got the chest seals taped down?”
“Yes,” Mason answered
“Good,” replied the paramedic. “Find me a 14 gauge needle so I can deal with this.”
Mason had to wipe damp goose down off the glass front of the cabinet built into the inside of the ambulance to see if he could find the box with the bigger needles in it.
“I think I’m in the mood for Beach Bully. That sound good to you? We missed lunch transporting the bike accident guy. What are you in the mood for? We’ll take a meal break after we’re done with this one,” said Raj.
Mason was startled. Okay, he was hungry, but they were in the middle of a call. What the fuck? Why was this guy worrying about food?
While Raj stabbed the large needle into the appropriate spot on the patient’s chest, Mason grabbed a 16 gauge needle and concentrated on getting the IV started.
“IV”s in,” said Mason. He heard the door slam as Ginny got in the front to drive.
“We good to go?” she called.
“Yeah, tell ‘em we’re in transit and should be there in about ten minutes,” said Raj. The ambulance rocked a little as it pulled back onto the street. “His pressure’s dropping. See if you can get a second line in.”
Mason nodded and started ripping open the packages for another IV. He did however hesitate just a little as he hunted for a useable vein. Gloved fingertips on skin, Mason coaxed the blood vessels in the nearest gun shot wound area to shut down and limit the blood flow. His Talent suggested something more, the developing connection between him and critically injured man was strengthening. Mason blinked and swallowed hard. Fight the connection, he told himself.
When they arrived at the hospital, they were met by one of the ER doctors and a nurse, who guided them swiftly into one of the nearest available trauma bay. Raj lingered for a few minutes to hand off what information they had on the patient. Mason glanced back in the direction of the door, he saw a trail of blood, mud, rain, and feathers. Raj grinned at him.
“I think we made quite an entrance,” the paramedic laughed. Mason had to chuckle a little too at the sheer magnitude of the mess. “Hey, I’m sorry if I weirded you out with the food questions. It’s a paramedic thing, you’ll get used to it.”
~
The hospice ward was a quiet place. Mason had just finished checking on Jason Ambers. The “checking” part involved pouring energy into Jason's failing body and reinforcing the pain dampening effects of the morphine IV so the child could have some hours of relative alertness. Time was running out for Jason.
Mason went to the chapel, because it was a quiet place and no one was likely to ask questions he didn’t want to answer if he sat there with his head down for a while. He was doing all he could, and it wasn’t enough. It woul
d never be enough. The child’s remaining lifespan was down to being counted in days at this point.
~
Tonight, patience wasn’t his strong suit. Cam paced the floor of Mason’s house for a while, tried to watch TV, raided the refrigerator and checked his email on Mason’s computer. He wanted to hear how the day with the EMS people had gone. Multiple times he thought about calling Mason and decided that was stupid. At eight o’clock, he settled for a simple text message of
WHERE R U?
There had been no response. Cam was about ready to go get on his bike and find his lover when he heard the door open. Mason shuffled through the door, looking dead exhausted. Cam met him two steps into the den, and wrapped his arms around Mason.
“I was getting worried about you,” Cam said.
“Sorry, I was at the hospice unit.”
“You eat yet?”
“No.” Mason’s answered was muffled by the fact his face was leaning down against Cam’s shoulder.
Cam could feel the bone weary misery seeping from his partner. He placed a kiss against Mason’s temple.
“This’d be a good night for pizza and beer,” he suggested. He pushed Mason in the direction of the sofa and pulled out his cell to call for delivery. Mason sat on the sofa unlacing his shoes. When he was done, he slumped against Cam. “Do I dare ask how the paramedic thing went?” said Cam. He stroked his fingers through Mason’s hair.
“That? Oh, um, that went okay. I didn’t get as much flack as I expected, but then again I tried really hard to keep my mouth shut.”
Cam noticed several tiny downy feathers in Mason’s hair. “You get in a pillow fight? You’re wearing feathers.”
This drew a low chuckle from Mason. “It’s not really funny, because it involves a guy who got shot. But it was one of those ridiculous things you just can’t hardly believe while it’s happening.” Mason told Cam the tale of the victim with the down jacket.
After food, the two of them continued to sit on the sofa. The TV was on, and Cam was sort of halfway watching a rather lame action movie. Mason leaned against him, head on Cam’s shoulder. It was comfortable, and it felt like home. Mason’s head weighed heavier as his lover began to doze off. Cam eased him down, so Mason’s head lay on his lap, and let his hands rub gently across his lover’s shoulders.
As gunfire blazed and cars raced across the TV screen, Cam sat worrying about the man sleeping on his legs. Mason pushed himself so hard and this thing with the cancer patient was just tearing him up. It was an evil bad karma thought, but Cam hoped that it would be over soon. Watching Mason’s near constant self-torture regarding his inability to save the little boy was hard. Wasn’t there some prayer about changing the stuff you could and accepting the stuff you couldn’t? Mason could be bull headed about not wanting to accept some of those impossible things. How did you convince someone who already seemed to defy the laws of reality that they couldn't save the world?
~
Waking up with your face buried against your lover’s fly was disorienting. Funny but still slightly weird. Mason rolled his head back and blinked. He had fallen asleep with his head in Cam’s lap, while they watched TV. Okay, to be more correct, while Cam watched TV. There was some infomercial thing playing now and Cam’s head was tipped against the back of the sofa, his lover snoring slightly.
This was just the epitome of romance. Pizza, beer and falling asleep on the sofa, he thought wryly. Except he wasn’t exactly wrong. It was coming home to someone who cared. Cam made sure that he ate, even if it wasn’t the height of good nutrition, and got some rest, and listened to what he had done all day. If they had been a hetero couple, Mason was sure someone would have accused them of acting like they were married.
~
For the next week, work and other responsibilities were so overwhelming, Cam and Mason barely saw each other.
Chapter 2
Tuesday’s EMS shift began with three cardiac patients, and a child with an asthma attack. It was nothing life threatening, just time consuming, but Mason felt distracted and out of sorts without knowing why. There was a blissful gap of dead time for nearly three hours before traffic, stupidity and bad luck intervened. The call from the dispatcher said MVC with injuries, involving two vehicles and an entrapment. MVC translated to motor vehicle collision. The next portion of information then informed them that a police car was involved.
An ambulance, a zone car and a rescue truck were dispatched with a moderate amount of scrambling by the personnel. At the scene, Mason was impressed by the amount of damage. A small pickup truck lay on its side in the middle of the roadway. A police car was almost literally wrapped around a telephone pole. The entire front of the car scrunched around the post, light bar shattered, glass, parts and various debris flung out a dozen feet around the vehicle. One police officer was standing a few feet way from the wrecked car, hands shoved in his pockets, as another officer talked to him, a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder.
The throaty grumble of the large rescue truck drew Mason’s attention. People in turnout gear were examining the overturned pickup, trying to ascertain the best way to get the driver out.
“Hey Flynn, go talk to the cop. I see he’s out of the car and up walking around. Make sure he’s okay,” ordered Raj. Mason noticed chocks and stabilizers being put under the edges of the pickup. A couple of the rescue guys were making some preliminary pries at the windshield area.
Mason walked toward the pair of policemen. “Hi, I’m Mason. Did you get out of the car by yourself?” he asked the one with the dusty uniform, and flecks of broken glass in his hair.
“Yeah. Well more or less. The door was kind of jammed and Justin helped me get it open,” the officer answered. Mason looked at the name plate on his uniform. It said Donnelly. Looking past the two cops, Mason could see the limp remains of the airbag draped down over the steering wheel.
“Did you lose consciousness when you hit the pole?” Mason asked.
“I don’t think so. I just... I guess I was dazed for a minute,” Donnelly replied. ”I called it in myself. Radioed for EMS and backup.”
“Considering just what a mess that car is, I think it would be a good idea for you to let me have a look at you,” suggested Mason. He gently took hold of Donnelly’s arm and guided him over toward the ambulance. There was something not quite right about the officer’s movements. He gestured for the man to sit on the bumper of the open back of the ambulance.
“Got a first name, Officer Donnelly?”
“Mark.”
Mason pulled out a penlight and checked the cop’s pupils. No obvious problems. “Anything hurt?”
“My wrist, just a little. I think I slammed it into the computer.” Mason unbuttoned the cuff of Mark’s uniform and examined his arm. There was the blue-purple shadow of a fresh bruise along the outside edge of his wrist. Mason also used the contact to drop his shields and do a hasty scan of the man with his Talent. There was something subtly wrong and Mason couldn’t quite figure out what without dropping his shields entirely, not something he really wanted to do on a street now full of police, EMS and fire department personnel.
“Can you wiggle your fingers?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only a little, I don’t think I broke it or anything like that.”
Mason squatted down in front of the cop and checked his blood pressure. 150/90. A touch high but considering the accident had been about fifteen minutes ago, it wasn’t unreasonable. Mason mentally fished again. The guy was a little nervous and fidgety. Nothing surprising about that either. Mason stood up and gazed down at Donnelly, thinking about some discussions he had had with Peter about body language. The man’s shoulders were slightly hunched, curling him just slightly forward. How much was an unconscious reflex based on the crash and how much was indication that something hurt and Mark hadn’t noticed it yet?
