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............Part
Two........,
With shrieking sirens and flashing lights, the squad and engine threaded their way as swiftly as possible through the snarled traffic clotting the freeway. When the crew reached the accident scene, every man inwardly steeled himself against the grisly sights that awaited them. There was no way this accident was going to be anything but gut-wrenching to deal with.
Two cars were involved in the collision. The first, a late-model Mustang, had flipped, probably several times. The roof was crushed to the level of the door ledges, as if it had been run through a wrecking yard's crusher.
The other car, an old Bel Air, had smashed side-long into a retaining wall. The momentum had carried it up onto the wall far enough to send it rolling as well, it appeared. The heavy, crumpled vehicle had somehow landed back onto its blown-out tires. The driver's arm dangled with macabre casualness from the window.
The scene reminded Gage of one he'd witnessed on closed circuit tv, watching a stock car race in Darlington. That one had turned him off of autoracing for quite a while.
He bailed out of the Squad as soon as the tires slowed, and darted to the Mustang. He managed to work himself inside, through what used to be the windshield opening, just enough to check the driver's vitals. Or more precisely, the bloodied, mangled young woman's lack of them. No carotid pulse. No respirations. No pupillary response.
"Damn!" Johnny muttered under his breath. He was still sickened by the useless waste of a life, despite how much of it he had seen in his profession. He wormed back out of the vehicle, careful now of the shards of glass he'd ignored before.
"CAP!" he called over to Captain Stanley, "This one's a Code F!"
Hank nodded, and motioned him towards the other vehicle. Johnny was already on his way. The dead could wait.
It took quite a while to free the second driver. To everyone's amazement, including the victim's, the man's most serious injury appeared to be a badly dislocated shoulder. That didn't make the process of being extricated from the car any more pleasant for the injured man, however. He alternately yelled in agony, and cursed softly but quite creatively, as the firemen cut and bent away the metal encasing him.
All concerned were profoundly relieved when the man was extricated, packaged onto a backboard, and loaded into an ambulance. Roy rode in with him. Johnny thumped the back of the ambulance, and drew a few long breaths. It was the way he signaled his body to cut off the adrenaline, to reset all systems back to ready status.
When he started back to the Squad, his pulse and respiration were almost as calm as if he'd never left the station. Unfortunately, his pain threshold had dropped back to normal, as well. He winced, tried to walk weightlessly. Apparently, some of the blisters on the bottoms of his feet had broken, and the tender abraded skin was screaming about the abuse he'd given it during the rescue.
If it were possible to limp on both feet, he did it. He dropped into the cab of the Squad with an almost whimpered sigh of relief. He started the engine, and followed in the wake of the ambulance carrying Roy and the victim to Rampart.
To take his mind off his barking dogs, Johnny decided to think about Alica. In his present state of mind, however, what his mind presented him with was Brice. Mr. Perfect Paramedic. The Marathon Man. Pacing alongside of a smiling Alica like a greyhound, not even breathing hard. Making time with her, while he, John Gage, winced along on blistered feet.
He snarled and slapped the wheel in irritation. "Dammit, Gage, get a grip!" he muttered to himself. Just because he showed up at the track with Alica doesn't mean a thing. She likes you.
He grinned wolfishly. Brice, you try to horn in on my girl, and you'll find yourself run into the dirt. Just how he intended to make good on his threat, on his raw-meat-for-feet, his mind conveniently glossed over.
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