Oh, shit! Lucky dashed around the desk before Walter hit the floor. They both crashed to the carpet, Lucky breaking Walter’s fall. Fuck! Walter easily made two or three Luckys.
“Bo! Bo!” Lucky screamed. Their cube wasn’t far away. Please let the man hear!
“Call nine-one-one,” Bo shouted to someone behind him, suddenly materializing in Lucky’s view.
Lucky struggled, trying to breathe. His recently healed side throbbed. Never having surgery again. Nope, nope, nope. He pushed his hands against Walter. With Bo’s help he squirmed out from under his boss.
Bo shook Walter’s shoulder. “Walter?” No response.
“Boss?” Lucky tried, resting a hand on Walter’s fleshy face. Cold. Clammy. Sweaty. No! He’d been fine a moment ago. Any minute now he should open his eyes and say, “Got’cha!” Only, Walter didn’t play practical jokes. Lucky’s heart pounded.
Blue tinged Walter’s lips. Bo raised an eyelid to reveal tiny pupils. Not good.
“Paramedics on their way,” Johnson said, dropping down beside them.
Walter’s pulse beat slow against Lucky’s fingers on his neck. Not breathing, as if the blue tinge of his skin didn’t shout the fact loud and clear.
Lucky laced his fingers, hovered over Walter, and began chanting, teeth clenched, matching his chest compressions to the beat he set. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, you, one thousand, ain’t, one thousand, gonna, one thousand, fucking, one thousand, die, one thousand, on, one thousand, me, one thousand, old, one thousand, man, one thousand.”
What was keeping the paramedics? Hell, they were only on the ground floor. If they didn’t get here soon, Lucky’d steal an ambulance and take Walter to the hospital himself.
The muscles in Lucky’s arms screamed. Should’ve only kicked two butts yesterday. Who knew he’d need the strength today?
“Here. Let me.” Bo picked up massaging Walter’s heart without missing a beat, singing and keeping time toStayin’ Aliveby the Bee Gees. His chest didn’t rise and fall on its own when Bo finished a set and sat back a moment.
“Breathe, damn it, breathe!” Lucky knelt by Walter’s head and swooped to give rescue breaths.
“No. That’s not current guidelines,” Bo said.
No, no, no, no, no! Walter couldn’t die. No fucking way.
“Fuck the guidelines.” Lucky gave Walter another breath.
“Chest compressions!” Bo ordered.
Lucky rushed to take Bo’s place. His arms could fall off for all he cared, as long as the effort helped Walter.
Johnson elbowed Lucky aside and picked up without missing a beat, panting out the words toI Will Surviveby Gloria Gaynor, to the perfect rhythm for CPR.
Apt songs.
God. Walter lay so still, skin a sickly shade of pale. Johnson pumping his heart might be the only thing keeping him alive.
“Please don’t let him die, please don’t let him die…”What happened to all the air in the room? Why did his heart stutter? Lucky braced a hand against Walter’s desk to keep from falling. Liquid heat slipped down his cheeks.
Who cared if Rett and Bo saw? A good man, a much better man than him, lay on the floor, fighting for life.
If he could take Walter’s place, he would.
Only…
Bo.
A gurney clattered into the room, pushed by two uniformed paramedics.
About time!
“What’s his condition?” one asked, sinking to his knees and taking over for Johnson.
