“The sandwich will keep,” Brendan said.
“Maybe.”
The job of a first responder never guaranteed set meal breaks. Brendan had been assigned to the Medic 2 bus out of Station 2 for the past three years, though he’d been working for Washington, D.C.’s Fire and Emergency Medical Services for much longer. At twenty-eight years old, Brendan had learned years ago to stash snacks in the glove compartment of their bus to get through a long twenty-four-hour shift.
Unlike his fellow firefighters, Brendan didn’t need to haul on protective gear for firefighting. He had the training to assist in firefighting, as most paramedics and first responders assigned to DC FEMS did, but his job was to care for the injured, not fight fires unless absolutely necessary.
Erin got behind the wheel of their ambulance as the doors to the truck bay slid open. The tiller truck parked beside their bus rumbled to life, the red and white lights flashing on. Brendan buckled up as the truck switched on its sirens, the piercing sound white noise to him these days. Erin switched on their lights and sirens as they let the truck drive out of the bay first. Brendan half-listened as the truck’s driver acknowledged dispatch’s request for help over the comms.
“Truck 2, Medic 2, be advised the bomb squad is on-site,” the woman handling dispatch on their line informed them. “Requesting Station 3 assist.”
Brendan shared a quick, wide-eyed look with Erin. He tried to ignore the way his heart rate ratcheted up at the news of the bomb. He swallowed nervously but couldn’t hear the sound over the noise of the sirens. He could feel the hard pressure in his throat though, and he nearly choked.
Like everyone else in his firehouse, Brendan had been present and on the scene during the terrorist attack back in April. Unlike everyone else in his firehouse, Brendan had been caught in the crossfire between the police and an embedded group of Sons of Adam terrorists near the National Mall. At the time, he’d had no intention of leaving the two toddlers strapped in their car seats in the back seat of an SUV, their mother dead behind the steering wheel.
He still had nightmares about being held at gunpoint by a terrorist, shielding the youngest toddler with his body, before the guy had been taken out by a forward push of officers. Most of Brendan’s large family—immediate and extended—were police officers. He’d grown up around guns all his life and knew how to shoot. Staring down the barrel of a pistol with his life on the line was different though, and that experience had left a clawing fear deep inside he’d refused to acknowledge since the attack.
Brendan was aware that he probably had PTSD from that night, but it hadn’t affected his job yet, so he was studiously ignoring it.
“If it was a bomb, I wonder why they didn’t call in a mass casualty assist,” Erin mused as they drove after the truck, barreling through intersections.
“Now you’ve jinxed us,” Brendan said.
All skyscrapers, whether commercial or residential, were equipped with state-of-the-art fire suppression systems. A bomb going off probably disrupted that, so requesting two stations for the structure fire was probably a good thing.
“What if it was Splice?”
Brendan reached across the space between them to smack her on the shoulder. “Quit fucking jinxing us!”
“Ow,” she whined. “Look, it’s a valid question!”
Splice chemical bombs were a horror they’d managed to escape during the attack. Brendan had been one of the lucky ones who hadn’t lost a single member of his family who’d worn a uniform that hellish night. Others hadn’t been so fortunate, and he’d stood vigil at too many funerals in the weeks following the attack.
Summer might be turning into autumn, but the megacity was still recovering. Damaged buildings and streets were still present, and detours were still embedded in their GPS. Construction seemed never-ending in areas, but the end was in sight if one believed the updates coming out of City Hall. Even with a reroute or two in place, they managed to get to the damaged structure in record time.
While the truck drove as close as it could to the apartment building to get set up and attach lines to fire hydrants, Erin parked their bus near a couple of squad cars. They got out and went to the rear of the ambulance, opening up the double doors so they could haul out the hovergurney and their med-kits.
Brendan squinted up at the building where hints of flame licked at the ruined windows of an apartment on the fifth floor. The residential building was only ten stories tall, still within the boundaries of D.C.’s low-height zoning requirements. Other than the windows, the exterior of the building seemed mostly intact, but that wasn’t a guarantee of solidity.
“Hey, over here!” someone called out.
Brendan looked over at the police officer waving to get their attention. He hooked a hand around the railing of the hovergurney and guided it toward where a couple of officers were gathered around a prone figure lying on the street.
“What do we got?” Erin called out as they jogged over.
“Female, mid-twenties, victim of assault and possibly targeted for murder,” the police officer said, jerking his thumb at the building. “Her RealIdent chip lists the bombed-out apartment as her place of residence.”
The officers moved out of the way now that Brendan and Erin were on the scene. Brendan studied their unconscious patient, noting the severe bruising and lacerations to her face, the dimpled areas in her skin that spoke of shattered facial bones. Defensive wounds on her hands and fingers—some of which were broken—showed she’d tried to fight back. Her shirt was ripped, and the imprint of a boot stood out starkly in the swollen, bruised skin of her abdomen.
“If her apartment was blown up, where’d you find her?” Erin asked as she guided the hovergurney to the ground.
Brendan listened with half an ear to the officer’s explanation, more focused on pulling out the portable scanner to get a field reading on the woman’s injuries and vitals. The mini scanner, set into a portable drone, lifted off his hand to hover at the woman’s feet before initiating its multitude of scans on her body.
“Found her in the hallway. She somehow dragged herself out. Running theory is the bomb was on a delayed timer while the person or people who did this left the premises,” the officer said.
“Positive on internal injuries,” Brendan reported, taking in the results that synced to his med-glove on his right arm. “She’s going to need an operation or a regen regime.”
“I’ll notify Lafayette Hospital. They can process her insurance and figure out which treatment she’ll get,” Erin said.
