Emergency! Fic, part two:

[rabidsamfan]

Part One

Coda: Excerpt from Flange Magazine, Vol. 3, Issue 2, p.8ff “Not Just Routine”, by Christy Todd

It is dark by the time that the last few ambulances reach the hospital. No need of sirens and hurry for these victims, not anymore. In the break room the coffee pot is burbling softly, refilled by one of the paramedics who have accompanied the dead along the way, but the banter of the afternoon has faded into terse acknowledgements of the bitter truths. The H/T radios on the tables chatter softly to each other, but no alarms blare to summon the squads away, and the room grows warm as the paramedics nurse their empty cups and wait for the pot to heat.

Supplies are replaced, equipment retrieved, paperwork filled out, but still they linger, waiting for updates from the operating room where one of their own is in the hands of the surgeons.

Roy DeSoto is among them, dressed now in hospital whites and cleansed of the smoke and blood that clung to him when he first reached the hospital. Two other paramedics hustled him into the employees shower as soon as he arrived, and one of the men from Station 110 fetched a plate of sandwiches from the cafeteria to set at his elbow the moment he sat down. They take turns chivvying him into eating, and his is the first cup to be filled once the coffee is ready.

Squad 51 is the only one which hasn’t been reported ‘available’, and when I ask why I am bombarded with a tired pun about a “pair o’ medics” from half the room. But rescue squads have always had two men, they tell me, even when all the firemen could do was provide basic first aid. Without a partner, Roy has a breathing space, an unusual chance to eat without interruption. Paramedics are rare, despite the Fire Department’s efforts to provide classes and men. Someone will have to be found who is willing to do overtime.

Someone will be found, they are certain. It is impossible for them to imagine any paramedic in “the program” leaving the gap unfilled. Three years ago no one could have had a paramedic answer a call for rescue, but that was then, and this is now. Now, they tell me, they’re needed.

At last a surgeon in scrubs appears in the doorway with good news. Barring complications, John Gage will be fine. He’s in post-op now, with a pin in his knee and what will soon be another scar for the collection. The paramedics buffet DeSoto’s shoulders as if he were a new father, but he barely notices as he abandons coffee and sandwiches for the chance to go and see for himself.

In five minutes the room is empty, as the paramedics scatter back to their stations. In five more DeSoto and I are on are way back to Station 51. The engine crew are glad to see us, gladder still to hear the news about Gage. They ask after the child and the bomber, but don’t mention the last victim. Corpse retrieval is part of a fireman’s job, too, but not one that any of them feel like talking about tonight. I give them the details from the hospital when DeSoto excuses himself to change and they in turn introduce me to Charlie Wilson, one of the paramedics from “C” shift, who has come in to cover.

DeSoto comes back in the night uniform of a fireman, heavy suspendered trousers tucked into high boots, and a blue jacket zipped over a clean white t-shirt. As if that is a signal, Captain Stanley begins assigning the evening chores: this one to secure the equipment bay, those two to make sure that squad and engine have all the equipment replenished. They are tired, all of them, but they cannot go to sleep until they are certain that they are ready for another call.

The shift is only half over.