8
Khimairal Ink
“91-74. Ten twenty two. Remain on station.” Voices always sound lonely off the loudhailer in the rain; hollow and apart. Mine was no exception. “Ten four.” I’d done good; found a spot where my body was more valuable than someone else’s whim. I had managed to buy myself a little peace. I glanced down the hill at the sound of a muffled shout. There were more cars below; a cruiser’s lights cutting through the mist in strobes of piercing white, red, and amber. The officer in the gap down there was yelling at the driver of a Honda. I could guess why. The airship sat forlorn and inanimate on the helipad not two hundred yards down slope of my own multi-hued flashers. I wished it on its way. Over the radio came one terse call. “Loading now.” There would be no response from those of us on perimeter. I turned back to face the cars lining the blocked lanes. The man in the Buick glared. There were now four other cars behind him, waiting. I scanned the cars lining the side of the road that faced onto the pool and park. The faces of little kids and some adults peered through the foggy glass to catch a glimpse of the scene below. There is excitement in their expressions. Their eyes are large with anticipation, with curiosity and questions. I know what they are seeing. I know what they can’t see. I can’t look at them for very long. It makes me think too much, and I don’t want to think. When I hear the whine of the turbine starting, when the pitch of that sound begins to both climb and deepen, I scan the perimeter to make sure no one on foot is getting close. The rain helps. They stay in their cars. In the window of a small Nissan is a young toddler, his face pressed against the glass as his pacifier is worked furiously between pudgy lips. His eyes are round and very blue. I look away. The rotors are whipping the air into a froth below and I can hear the change in the echo as the ship begins to lift and angle up and over the road, away from the buildings. Its path takes it over my shoulder and then in an arc north east. I look below. Law enforcement is moving toward their cruisers. “Med Flight1, dispatch. Off the deck with one for Regions @ 1123hrs. ETA,
twenty-seven minutes.” The words boomed out over the rain soaked intersection, the pilots’ report picked up as both the radio in the rig and on my hip scanned. There would be no catching the response from the dispatch in the cities: the distance too great for ground communications. I shook my head and shoulders as I reached for the door, water sheeting off me as more gathered. It was senseless, a way only to delay getting back into this rig and the stench of trauma that yet clung to it. I climbed into the cab and let the echo of blood and fear and loss wash over me because there was nothing else to do. The silence inside the cab was punctuated by the patter of rain and the soft flow of radio traffic as each unit went ten eight. I switched off the external speaker and glanced at the roadway. The old man in the Buick continued to glare. I put the rig into gear and rolled toward the ER entrance, shutting down the lights and calling in to dispatch to report this rig ten eight from traffic control/ten six at the ER. I still had paperwork to do and this rig wasn’t ready for service. The diesel’s clatter had a calming effect as I finished my three point turn and whipped tight around the corner toward the ER entrance. The high center of gravity made the van wallow like a galloping hippo in the tight turn, but there was no one in the back to worry about. There’s a difference in how you handle a rig when it’s loaded and when it’s not. A little kid waved, smiling shyly from a rain streaked window. I waved back. I think I smiled. Reflex. The bay area was full of vehicles, 270 was in the bay, doors wide, cot missing. I ran 271 up onto the side walk about twenty feet back and left it running. The route was clear for us to take 270 out if we needed. The big box was our primary rig, and closer into being in service than the van. 271 was our transfer rig, a van, sleeker, more fuel efficient, lighter and faster without the dualies or the interior room. They carried identical gear, were laid out much alike, 271 was just a tighter fit and took drifts better in blizzards. I’d spent what seemed like years of my life in both rigs: Ten years, to be precise. I’d seen different iterations of each rig, we were on our fifth version of 270, and third of 271, had a third rig at the base (272), and they were talking a