Chapter Two
Another industrial development, a large glittery sign clashes with a utilitarian building hosting offices and a mechanical bay. The LCD sign spells out the company name letter by letter, “M… E… D… I… C… T… R… A… N… S.” A bright flash reveals the slogan, “Southern Nevada’s Choice for Ambulance Services and Non-Emergency Transport.” Rinse. Repeat.
Employee cars line the side of the lot. One lonely ambulance waits for its crew.
Alastair leaves the office with Wes Jeffries. Even though a decade has passed since he was high school linebacker of the year, his caramel skin still caresses a powerfully muscular physique. Wes’s tough game face dissolves to kindness the moment he smiles.
Wes eyes his new partner curiously, “Your name’s really Alastair?”
A wary Alastair responds, “Yes.”
Wes continues, unabated, “Your folks must’ve been old school.”
Alastair loosens up. “You could say that. I usually go by Al.”
Wes nods. They reach their unit. Wes and Al check their supplies, making sure they’re ready to roll.
Changing the subject, Alastair says, “Thanks for agreeing to a non-standard shift.” As the words slide from this mouth, he wonders why first shift chit chat has to be so awkward.
“The medic course I need is only offered during the day. I was afraid I’d be back on non-emergency runs.” Wes takes another shot at a personal question. “They say you have some kind of extreme allergy to sunlight, what’s the deal?”
They take their seats in the passenger compartment. Wes settles in, Alastair squirms. Before Alastair can say anything the dispatch computer lights up with a call. Wes checks it out.
Wes reports. “Twelve-car clusterfuck on I-15 northbound.”
They shut the doors and hit the road.
***
The ambulance rushes away from the bright lights of The Strip. Traffic slams to a halt as they near the accident scene. Wes pushes the ambulance hard, cutting through lanes until he reaches the shoulder. The ambulance crawls through three miles of backed up traffic until they reach the scene.
Less damaged cars on the periphery of the accident quickly give way to a mosaic of blood, metal and fear.
A few cops work to control the scene. The go-to guy Lieutenant Nathan Preston is surrounded by other officers looking for direction. Nathan guides the ambulance a makeshift parking area. The medics get out of their ride. Looking for direction they join the group in front of Nathan.
Nathan looks at Wes and Alastair, “Finally.”
“We’re the first?” Alastair’s genuinely surprised.
Nathan’s frustration shows, “They’re all stuck in traffic on the Strip.”
“Ready for triage?” asks Wes.
“Always.” Alastair’s sudden confidence buoys Wes.
They return to their vehicle for med kits before splitting up. Nathan turns his attention to directing an incoming fire truck.
Alastair approaches the remains of a boxy car designed for the youth market. The front crumple zones have collapsed leaving the vehicle bulldog-faced. Alastair manages to force the driver’s side door open revealing a skinny young man in his late teens. The accident victim’s left leg is pinned in the wreckage, struggling for freedom throws him into panic.
The medic watches the young man as he flails helplessly in the driver’s seat. Alastair’s thirst turns his face into a hard, predatory mask. The accident victim doesn’t see the danger that stands right in front of him; they never do until it’s too late. All they ever notice is the uniform.
The siren from another fire truck jolts Alastair back to reality.
The young man speaks up, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be.” Alastair softens.
The accident victim races through his words, still panicked. “My mom’s gonna kill me. She fucking loves this car.”
Alastair smiles, “She’ll just be happy you’re alive.”
The young man renews his attempts to free his leg. Alastair looks him in the eyes, “Stop fighting. Relax.”
The kid obeys, surrendering to a will greater than his own.
“That’s better.” Alastair turns all of his attention to the trapped leg. With one hand he pulls a heavy piece of debris gently out of the way. His other hand guides the young man’s broken leg free.
“Wow.” The victim lets out a dazed whimper.
Alastair does his best to reassure, “Your leg will need surgery, but you’ll recover. Do me a favor and stay as still as you can, until a medic can take you to the hospital.” The young man stares in awe as Alastair walks away.
Returning his attention to the accident scene, another ambulance has finally arrived. Wes is three lanes away working on a man who is rapidly bleeding through his bandages, a firefighter provides an assist.
Alastair’s next stop is a vintage luxury car near the center of the pileup. Getting into the car isn’t a problem; the passenger side door is nowhere to be seen. A young beauty queen and her sugar daddy take their last joyride, he’s dead, and she’s dying. Neither of them have their seatbelts on.
Her torso is twisted lengthwise along the floor, the right side of her body shattered by the collision. She struggles for air as she coughs up blood. Her unmoving legs are pinned between the body of her now deceased lover and the steering wheel.
The medic examines the beauty queen; her broken body has only the slimmest chance of recovery. As she fights for air, her dance with death seduces Alastair. He looks over his shoulder checking to see that no other emergency crews are nearby.
Alastair whispers, “They say, your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die. I see that, and remember.”
He moves in, opening his mouth. His canine teeth are a bit sharper than normal, a little long, but not so much that they’d attract undue attention. She’s bleeding so profusely there’s no need to open a wound. He kisses her, pulling the blood from her shattered lungs.
***
For Alastair blood is a conduit, carrying her mental energy into his body. A chaotic, unordered, stream of thoughts flashes through Alastair’s mind as he feeds.
Moments before the accident as the car speeds along the freeway, the beauty queen reclines seductively in the passenger seat. She lets out a naughty laugh as she kicks her shoes off and slides her legs onto the sugar daddy’s lap. He keeps one hand on the wheel; his other hand hungrily caresses her legs.
A seven year old version of the beauty queen hides in a bathroom stall, her long legs cramped in the tight space. Footsteps, as a group of kids shuffle in. One of the kids taunts, “Its giraffe hunting season.”
Shopping is war at a super couture sale. The beauty queen fights for the perfect red dress.
Wearing the dress onstage, another beautiful woman approaches carrying an enormous rhinestone crown in her arms.
Playing hooky from high school, hanging on to the back of an ancient van as it speeds down a street, the beauty queen’s hat flies off her head. An adrenaline junkie football player hoists her on to the roof. As she reaches the roof she spies something that looks like a cop car.
She screams, “Turn, turn, turn!” Filled with exhilaration and fear, she wraps an arm around the football player, planting a passionate kiss on his lips.
***
The beauty queen’s struggle for breath is over. He comes out of it running a finger along his lips, echoing the sensation of the kiss. Pleasure fades quickly; he focuses, wiping a trace of blood from his mouth. He’s always careful to keep his uniform clean.
Just in the nick of time. Wes walks up behind him. “What’s the deal?”
“They’re done.” Alastair responds.
Wes sees that something isn’t quite right, but the chaos of the scene calls him back before he can name what’s off. “C’mon. Keep moving.”
Wes and Alastair’s path is blocked by Chuck and Bill, another medic team.
Chuck would be handsome if he lost the expression of disgust on his face, he looks like there’s shit under his nose. His muscular body ripples with tension.
Bill is the kind of guy who’ll laugh at any joke, as long as it’s not at his expense.
Chuck tries to dig into Wes. “I didn’t realize the night shift was on duty.”
Wes tries to keep the conversation on business. Alastair stands back, carefully watching the dynamic.
“We’re just finishing triage.” Wes replies.
Chuck’s resentment is clear. “You might even have time for a couple of transports before you’re off shift.”
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
