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Alabama Days: A Southern Saga

By Daphne Self

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The ambulance’s sirens grated against Scott Wilson’s ears. He grimaced and flung out his hand to catch the sliding clipboard as the vehicle careened around the sharp curve.

Scott glared at his partner. “Douglas! There’s gonna be need of a second ambulance if you don’t slow down.”

Douglas Tomlin shot a suave grin in his direction and turned his eyes back to the road.

“Relax, Scott. Not going as fast as you think.” He snatched the mike from the dashboard and chucked it in Scott’s lap. “We’re here.”

Scott grimaced again as he took in the scene ahead of them. Five-car pile-up. Some victims were mobile. Garrettville Fire Department on hand. Emergency responders triaging.

He pressed the button. “Dispatch, show Medic Two on scene.”

He kicked the door open and grabbed his red field bag as he leapt to the ground. Douglas veered to the right toward a group huddled around a black Ford pick-up. Scott took the left.

“Scott!” A firefighter waved him over to a smashed-in Chevy Cobalt.

The familiar little blue car sparkled in the bright sunlight. A little sapphire glinting against the coal black asphalt. The firefighter half-submerged himself inside the shattered back driver side window.

“Chief, whatcha got?” Scott pushed the older man out of the way with his shoulder as he slipped on his green nitrile gloves. They snapped against his wrist, sending a sharp sting down his hand.

He leaned in and swallowed the lump that crawled up his throat. Not good. Not good at all.

“He looks to be about three or four years old. We’ve managed to stabilize his head, but we don’t have a child’s collar. Used rolled towels instead. None of us can get an accurate reading on his vitals, but he’s falling fast. Boys are bringing Jaws to extract him…”

The chief’s voice faded away as Scott leaned into the cramped space. The towels provided little stability to the child’s head, but it would do until they got him out. He wormed his way further in and pressed his fingers against the white, soft skin of the little boy’s neck.

A thready, slow beat tapped against the pads of his fingers. He ran his hands down the small body still encased in the car seat. A pained moan, more of a whimper, issued from the unconscious child as Scott’s hand brushed against his legs.

“Scott! Hey, Scott!”

Hands pulled at his belt loops, hauling him out of the small space.
“Jaws is here, man.”

Scott stood back as a burly firefighter rammed the monster of a tool between the car door and its frame.

A screech fought against the symphony of sirens, yells, and sobs. Traumatic musical in B flat. Scott’s hand beat out a tempo against his thigh as the screeching came to a crescendo. Then silence descended upon him.

Mouths moved. Hands grabbed. Scott leapt forward. Another firefighter, smelling of burnt rubber, assisted him.

Scott grunted as they lowered the car seat to the asphalt. His scissors sliced through the belts of the seat. Blood pooled underneath his knees.

Pooled? Urgency hit him in the chest. His heart slammed heavily against his rib cage. “Give me the pads and tape!”

A gloved hand with a fistful of gauze and a roll of tape reached over his shoulder. He grabbed the materials, ripped the packet open, pressed the gauze tight against the open wound on the boy’s leg, and stripped a piece of tape off the roll.

One pass. Two.

He pressed it tight, staunching the flow.

He slid his hand behind the little neck, cradled the head, supporting it as he and a firefighter lifted and lowered the little boy to the backboard.
Scott ripped his stethoscope from his neck and pressed it against the boy’s chest. No heartbeat. No respiration.

The firefighter had the portable defibrillator out and prepped. Scott tore the child’s shirt in two. He slapped the pads against the pale skin.

One. Two.

“Charging.”

Another firefighter positioned an air bag over the child’s mouth and nose. One puff. Two puffs. Blood trickled from the child’s mouth.

A high-pitched beep shattered the silence.

“Clear!” Scott held out his hand; the air bag disappeared; and he pressed the button. The electric jolt caused the body to spasm. No beat.

“Again!”

The air bag resumed its rhythm. Scott pressed his fingers against the little chest and beat his own rhythm. Another high-pitched beep.

“Clear!”

Zap. Nothing. No beat. No count.

“Again!”

The air bag resumed. Scott pressed. A beep split the air.

“Clear!”

The body issued a spasm. Scott looked at the machine. Flat line. No beat. He ripped the leads off and pressed the chest again. “Bag him!”

The firefighter hesitated with the air bag. Scott shoved him away.
He bent down. Blood slicked his lips as he covered the little boy’s mouth and nose with his own mouth.

One. Two. Three. Back to the chest. Press. Press. Press.

Again.

One. Two. Three.

Press. Press. Press.

A hand landed on his arm and pulled him away.

Scott hurled a curse and lashed out. His hand slammed against the heavy material of the fire chief’s turnout jacket. One of the men lowered a thin sheet over the boy.

They had no right to make him stop. He would make this child live again. Just watch.

Scott threw the sheet aside and resumed his duty.

One. Two. Three.

He lowered his head to the chest. No beat. No rhythm.

One. Two. Three. Air inside the little lungs. One. Two. Three. Again. No beat. No rhythm.

The vaguest hint of a voice penetrated his head. “Scott! Stop. He’s gone.”

This time, gentle hands pulled him away.

Sounds rushed back into Scott.

Sirens wailed. Cries drifted across the hot, summer air. Yells from the firefighters clashed against the soft murmurs of the police officers taking statements.

Scott stood and stared at the surreal scene.

Billy lay at his feet, blood beneath his small body. The sheet, slowly sopping up the blood and bunched around Billy’s shoulders, looked like little, battered wings. An angel on a Christmas tree highlighted by the red Christmas lights.
He turned away as he wiped the blood from his lips. Inside the car sat Julie Bergmann. Dead. He glanced back at the little body of Billy Bergmann. Dead. Now the house down his street would be just as silent, just as dead.

If there was a heaven, then maybe he was there with his momma. He snarled. Heaven was a fairytale for the weak.

Scott pushed all thoughts away from him.

He snatched his bag off the ground and moved to the next victim. Again, silence descended upon him as he worked the next patient, assessing the wounds. His mind played his mantra. Quick. Precise. By the numbers.

One. Two. Three.

His hand trembled as he applied splints to the leg of the man before him. He cocked his head. In his silence, in his little bubble, a soft, childlike laughter echoed. Billy’s laughter during yesterday’s daycare field trip at the ER.

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