Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 13

The country boy's life lies against my tongue, but I cannot take the final pull. I will not be the extinguisher of his life, no matter how faintly it glows. I release him, resecure the tourniquet and, with his tattered jacket, wipe my face clean. He is now thoroughly unconscious but his heart beats faint and fast, sustained by the tenacity of youth.

"Rescue 1 to Central," I say. "I have one adult male trauma alert to Mission Hospital. Broken femur and lacerated femoral artery. Requesting air transport. LZ is Whisper Mountain helipad. Be advised, one fatality on scene." I switch over to simplex. "Dana, pull out the stretcher and backboard, then help me get him up this mountain." I don't need help, but I won't be able to explain carrying this strong young man all the way to the top on my own. I'll bring him up part of the way, though.

I pull him onto my shoulder, stand, and begin my climb toward the truck. Smoothly, I make my way up the mountain, weaving through naked trees, my breath steaming the chill air like a dragon with a heart full of fire. As I near the edge, I carefully set him down and call out to Dana.

"I'm coming," she says, crashing through the brush and slipping a few feet before regaining her footing. She slides to a stop beside me, panting, hair a tangle from the brush. Unlike me, she is wearing latex gloves and trauma sleeves.

"We need to backboard him," she says, indicating his broken leg.

"No time. Life over limb." I pick up his arm and pull it over my shoulder. "Grab the other."

She does so. Despite her femininity, she is strong. I've never seen her flinch when faced with blood or death. Together we pull the boy up through the brush toward the road.

Sirens grow louder and louder, a scream in the night.

As we reach the top, a squad car screeches to a stop. Santos. We lower the boy on the backboard. Dana is breathing hard and it doesn't take much effort to imitate her. Quickly, we package the patient and heave the board onto the stretcher.

Santos strides up. "What happened?"

"Looks like they were attacked by an animal," I say. "Not sure how he broke his leg. Maybe a hard fall."

"You called in a fatality?"

"An older male. His throat was torn open." Santos moves toward the lip of the mountain, his hand resting on his holster. I've carved a path of broken brush through the trees and Santos starts down it.

"Do you need help?" Dana asks me after the stretcher is loaded and I've climbed in the back.

I shake my head. "No time. Head to the LZ. I'll work him en route."

Under the bright lights of the truck's interior and stripped of his bulky clothing, the patient appears even younger than before. He's only a teenager, poised on the cusp of manhood. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead like damp straw and his skin has the unnatural pallor of shock. It is Night Walker white. He's on the edge of death, circling the drain, broken in my hands.

What was he doing hunting out of season?

I work fast. I do everything Dr. Webb has forbidden me to. From my own surgical kit, I remove a clamp and scalpel. I clamp his bleeding artery and perform a venous cut down on his other leg in order to start a large bore IV. He'll need blood immediately. I can't give it to him, but the flight crew can en route to Asheville's Trauma Center. There's no time to lose.

Dawn approaches. I feel it warming the frigid air, heating the entire truck. I'm running out of time. There's no way I can transfer the patient to the helicopter and make it back to the safety of my home before sunrise. Panic grips me. Dana was right; I should have let Rescue 7 take the call. I've cut it too close. I close the UV shades I've installed on the truck's windows. Even if I stay in the back, protected from the sun, its ultraviolet will penetrate the truck's skin, through my own and into my blood.

I look down at the young man and place my hand against his forehead. Bending to his ear, I whisper. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."

But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.