"Hey there, honey," I call down, trying to sound comforting. Not my strongest suit, being tender and comforting. "I'm coming down, okay?"
A low, coughing moan echoes in response. I tug my face mask into place against the swirling dust and examine the hole. Decent sized pocket created by the way the wreckage fell, just enough space for a little body. I won't fit, but I've got to find a way to get down there. I grip the edges of the opening, a jagged two-by-four, some cinderblocks, a scrap of tin roof, and lower myself down carefully. My feet touch something relatively solid, and I slowly let my weight down, making sure the heap won't shift or give. I have to crouch, as the space is maybe four feet high and less than three feet across. By a sheer miracle of luck, the tiny space protected this little girl. She's young. Five? Six? Fine blond hair, matted with blood, pale skin. Blue sundress with white flowers on it. Torn, dirty, bloody. One foot bare, one foot with a pink jelly shoe on. She's curled up, pinned under a slab of tin roof, the whole weight on her right arm and part of her right leg.
She's facing me. Curled oddly.
I crouch and shuffle closer to her, and brush the hair out of her eyes. Blue eyes, terrified, agonized, weak. Fluttering. Searching me.
"Hey, I'm Lock. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"
"Unnnhhh." She blinks hard, a tear trickles out. "Stuck...." She's so weak she can barely get the word out.
"I know. But I'm gonna get you free, okay? You'll be okay." I examine her more closely, looking closely at the rubble pinning her. "Can you wiggle your toes and fingers okay?"
She moves her fingers, and I watch her toes. No damage to her spine that I can see. I'm worried if I shift the pieces pinning the girl, the whole pile will shift with it. Burying us both, maybe. But she's fading fast so I have no choice.
I yell up to Bill who's standing at the opening looking down, helpless. With tacit understanding, I know he will stay there to assist any way he can. Not much for him to do, yet, though. This hole barely accommodates me.
I crouch over the girl, put my back against the tin, widen my stance, angle my toes out, rock back on my heels, spine straight--like I'm going to do a deadlift.
PUSH.
The heap on my back groans and grinds. It shifts slightly...but holds. The girl moans in agony as the weight eases off her, and she tries to move, but she's too weak. She can't move, and I can't hold the pile and grab her at the same time. I can't hold this for long, it's hundreds of pounds, probably more. I try to reach and stretch, while keeping the load steady on my back. Teeth clenched, I grunt as I manage to snag her sleeve, and get a grip on the fabric. I tug and, at the same time, push up as hard as I can to further reduce the load off her. She seems to understand what I'm trying to do, and using all her strength, she wiggles, scrabbles, crying, her right arm limp and mangled. God, my throat clenches. She's so little. But she's moving. Inch by inch.
"That's it, honey. A little more. Just a few more inches, okay? You can make it." I'm shaking with the effort of maintaining my stance and supporting the rubble. I hurt like hell.
She's got something clutched to her chest, but I can't see what it is. It looks like something she's protecting. I'm close to giving out, but then the girl is finally out far enough. I sink slowly to my knees, letting the load settle. I'm gasping for air, and the sweat is pouring off me in the darkness. But I can't allow myself to rest for long.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you out of here."
I scoop her up in my arms, mindful of her injuries. She wiggles in my hold. "Miss Molly!"
I glance down to where she'd been lying, and instead of what I expect to see--a doll or stuffed animal or something--there's a tiny ball of fur, a little calico kitten. Jesus. Cats. Fucking hate cats. But the girl is whining, reaching, and I need to get her out of here.
"I'll get Miss Molly," I promise the girl. "But I need to get you out of here right now. You need to see a doctor, okay? You're gonna go see my friend, Mr. Bill, okay?"
She nods weakly against my chest, going limp now that she's assured I'll rescue her kitten, too. Bill is at the hole opening, reaching down with both hands. He wraps his big paws around the little girl's waist and lifts her free. I hear and feel his weight sliding slowly down the pile outside. I scoop the kitten in my hands--still warm, thank god. It's shaking, curled into a tight ball, but she doesn't fight me, lets me set her outside the hole so I can climb free myself, and then I descend the heap with the kitten tucked under my arm.
Bill has the girl in his arms. She's tinier than belief can credit, especially in Bill's burly, brawny embrace. She's blinking, fighting to stay conscious. There's blood caked on her temple, and I'm worried about a concussion, or worse.
"Hey, look who I have." I lift the kitten in front of the girl's face. "Miss Molly, safe and sound."
"Molly..." Shit, her voice is so weak. So weak. My gut is twisting. I glance at Bill, whose expression is tight, pinched.
"What's your name, honey? Can you stay awake and tell me?" I nod at Bill, and we move as fast as we dare toward the klieg lights.
"T-Tori," she murmurs.
"We've got doctors real close, okay? I just need you to keep your eyes open for me. Just stay awake a little longer. Can you do that for me?"
"I'm tired."
"I know. You'll get to rest soon, I promise. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine."
"Hurts." She says this with tears in her eyes. "It hurts lots."
"I know, sweetie. We'll fix that, too."
Bill is nearly running, now. Long strides across lawns and parking lots, and over parking pylons and between heaps of rubble. I keep pace, and keep a running dialogue with the girl, asking questions, trying to keep her talking but only getting weak, monosyllabic answers. The kitten is curled in the crook of my arm like a tiny, furry football.
And then we're on the main road, Bill, Utah, and me, crossing the street, jogging toward the welter of activity and the glare of lights that is the HQ. There are half a dozen tents, now. Generators clatter with the rumble of diesel motors. Voices shout, orders are called out. It's controlled pandemonium. There are moans of pain. People in camo, civilians in jeans and T-shirts, nurses in scrubs, doctors in aprons.
Utah peels away from me, finds my truck where it's parked in the grass, hops up into the bed, curls up, head on her paws, and falls asleep immediately. She's earned it, that dog has.
It takes me less than ten seconds to find Niall in the midst of the madness. Her hair is tied back in a thick braid, but many wisps have escaped to paste against her cheek and temple. She's still wearing her cut-off jean shorts, the ends frayed into white strings and the orange tank top she'd been wearing when she stumbled into the gas station. At some point she found or was given a pair of white Keds. Once-white Keds, that is. They're now filthy from the churned-up grass and dirt under foot, and stained reddish-brown. She's got an apron on, the kind line cooks wear, looped over her neck and tied around her waist. It's covered in red, layers of shades of red ranging from dark old rust to bright new crimson. Her forearms are stained red, as well. Her hands are clean, but I see she's pulling a new pair of rubber gloves from her back pocket, snapping them on with expert, experienced speed. She's bending over a table, speaking in low, quick tones to the paramedic beside her. They're hovering over an older man with white hair. He's bleeding from the stomach, and a gash to his thigh.
Niall presses a wadded-up bed sheet against the man's stomach, and the white cloth quickly soaks up the gore and turns red. The paramedic is suturing the man's thigh wound with unbelievable speed. Niall pulls the sheet away, tosses it to the ground at her feet. The paramedic jabs an ampoule into the patient's uninjured thigh, quieting his screams of pain. I'd barely registered the screams, honestly. There's so much noise, so many cries of pain and groans of agony that one more sound didn't register.
But now it does.
And it's gut-wrenching.
We move through the crowd, dodging people.
A paramedic stops us. "O
ver there. There's an open table." He points to the other side of the tent.
We get the girl onto the table and lay her down carefully. The paramedic is already at work, shining a penlight into her eyes, examining her head wound, her leg, her arm. He raises a hand without looking away from the girl.
"ASSIST!" he shouts, and another man, this one dressed in the camo of a National Guard corpsman, jogs over.
We're shoved aside, Bill and I, as the medics go to work.
Neither of us seems inclined to move away. We just watch as the two men converse while dressing wounds, spitting medical terminology and orders at each other, working in practiced concert. Someone appears beside the table with an IV line and a bag of clear fluid. The corpsman inserts the needle in Tori's left arm, tapes it in place, holds the bag up, but seems to need both hands, looking around for someone to take the bag. I step in, take the bag, hold it up, and the corpsman goes back to working on Tori's right leg.
"She's lost too much blood," the paramedic says.
I want to argue, but don't.
I just hold the bag and meet Tori's glazed gaze. "Tori, honey. How old is Miss Molly?"
"T-t-t-ten....weeks."
The corpsman eyes me. "Keep her talkin', man. Keep her fightin'."
I stand there, asking any question I can think of--except questions about her family. I don't know the situation there; don't know if I want to know.
Then, I feel her. Niall. Moving in beside the paramedic standing at Tori's head. She examines the head wound. Glancing at me. Calling for an IV pole. Ignoring me as she looks over Tori's leg and arm. They aren't good. I know that much. I haven't looked too closely, but I know there are breaks in the bones.
I don't know how long Niall, the corpsman, and the paramedic work, or how long I remain, even after the IV pole arrives and I don't need to stand there anymore. I pulled Tori out of the wreckage. I know her name. I know she loves kitties and puppies, but kitties even more. I know she's six years old, and in first grade. Her favorite color is pink. Her favorite show is something called P.J. Masks. She likes macaroni and cheese, and PB and J. I know she knows how to ride a bike, but only with training wheels.
My throat is thick. My chest aches. My eyes burn.
I feel a hand on my arm. I look away from Tori and find Niall staring up at me.
"We've done all we can," she murmurs. "Now she has to do the rest on her own."
"Will she...will she be okay?" I hear myself ask.
Niall nods. "I think so. The wound to her head is pretty bad, but you kept her awake, so I'm not as worried about the concussion. She's lost a lot of blood, that's what's most worrying. But I think she'll make it."
"Good," I manage. But that's all I can get out.
Embarrassingly, I feel close to a nervous, weepy breakdown. I'm about to start bawling like a little baby.
I clear my throat, blink hard--against both the tears and the visions of the bodies I've seen today. "Good work. I--shit."
I have to turn away, and get out of the tent, out from under the blaze of the kliegs. Into the shadows. Find some wreckage, shelter in the lee of a still-standing wall. Sit on a pile of rubble and shake. Tremble. Feel vomit surge against my teeth, hot, bitter, acidic. My eyes burn, leaking hot salty tears. Fucking crying. Jesus. But I can't stop it. My shoulders heave, and I'm fighting the breakdown with everything I have. I can't keep the bile back, and I bend at the waist, head between my knees, and let it stream out between my lips into the dirt at my feet. I spit. Gasp for air.
I feel her again. Sitting beside me, hand on my back. "Quit fighting it, Lock. After a day like today, you've earned it. Nothing wrong with letting it out. No one will think less of you for it, I swear. Least of all me."
I can't fight it. My shoulders shake, and I'm crying silently. Niall just smooths her hand in circles on my back, pulls my hair loose of the ponytail and strokes her fingers through it. She doesn't say anything, because she knows from experience there's nothing to say.
When I'm finally able to exert some control, able to breathe and sit up and wipe my eyes, I turn to look at Niall. She's filthy. Still wearing the blood-covered apron. Clean hands, rubber gloves abandoned. Pale. Circles under her eyes, staring skyward at the stars. Into the distance, into memory.
"You used to do this every day, didn't you?" I ask.
She has her knees drawn up, arms crossed on her kneecaps. She drops her head between her arms, nodding sluggishly. "Worse than this."
I can't even fathom what could be worse. "How could it get worse than this?"
She looks up and laughs a bitter bark. "This was a natural disaster. No one did this. It was quick, a few minutes of Mother Nature's violence, and then it's over and you clean up. Tend to the wounded, sort the dead, and start organizing the mess. Not minimizing the horror of this, but...compared to what I've seen? This was..." She shakes her head, trailing off, hangs her head once more. Raises her head, passes a hand over her face.
"I was stationed in Africa. The Central African Republic. There was a civil war. One tribe against another. Nothing new, but messy as hell all the same. That was...god...so fucking awful. We'd get trucks full of bodies. Two-tons, like those the guardsmen came in, but piled with bodies. Missing limbs, stomachs ripped open, guts falling out. Brains leaking out of bullet holes. Just...bodies. And it's not just the bodies that's so terrible, it's knowing people are doing this to each other... on purpose. Over a difference in beliefs. Gunning each other down. Setting off car bombs. Pipe bombs. Leveling entire villages. Killing pregnant women and children. Raping and slaughtering everyone. Just...massacre. And we'd get them all, half-dead, already dead, dying. We'd spend thirty, forty hours at a time, tending to them. Truckload after truckload of bodies to fix."
"Jesus Christ, Niall." I'm speechless, trying and failing to understand what she's witnessed.
A shrug. "It's what I was good at. I never froze, never panicked, never puked. It helped that I was an ER nurse in LA first. I had experience with that kind of scenario. But nothing can really prepare you for dealing with the massacre of an entire village." A deep breath. "I had Ollie. He was my rock. No matter how gnarly it got, he was there. He was strong. I could just...look at him, and know it was going to be okay. Even when it wasn't okay, it'd be okay. As long as Ollie was there." She sniffles. Coughs. Breathes in deeply, lets it out with a shudder. "Today was...the hardest thing I've ever done. Doing it without Ollie...I kept looking for him. I kept seeing him. It's the first time since he died that I've done trauma work."
The only thing I can do is wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer to me. She hisses as I tug at her, wincing away from my hand. It's not as if she doesn't want me to touch her, but more as if she's hurting.
"What's wrong?" I ask. "Are you hurt?"
She seems to realize for the first time that she's still wearing the apron. She unties it, tosses it aside. Then she lifts her shirt up, revealing her ribs, baring the bottom edge of her bra...and a wicked bruise along her side, along with a wide, deep cut across the edge of her ribcage, crusted over with dried, scabbing blood.
"Holy shit, Niall! When the hell did that happen?"
She drops the shirt, twists, rotates, stretches. "When the two-by-four went through the windshield, it didn't entirely miss me."
I feel faint with...a complicated mix of emotions. Don't know what they are, or what their names are, but they are unpleasant, and powerful. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"
I get a glare from Niall. "What could you have done? I'm a trained medical professional, Lock. I knew I was fine. It hurt, but I was fine, and there's not much to be done for this kind of thing anyway. And if I'd told you about it, you'd have gotten all macho-overprotective and tried to make me stay in the truck or some shit. I didn't have time to be hurt. I had a job to do, so I did it. That's why I didn't tell you."
I waver, hesitate. She's right. I would have...well, done exactly what she said. And now, looking back, I'm realizing how incredibly tough she is
. She worked, god, I don't even know how many hours nonstop, on her feet, with a nasty injury. Never said a word, just dealt with it, and got the job done.
I feel so inadequate around her, sometimes. She's just so damn...tough.
"Fuck." I wipe my face with both hands. "You're something else, Niall."
"Not really."
I take her hand. Squeeze. "Yes, you are. You never hesitated. Even hurt, you dove in and took charge. Fixed everyone who came through that tent. You're amazing."
She eyes me. "You did the same thing, Lock. You stepped up. You saved that little girl. I heard about what you did. Went into that hole after her, got her free, and even saved her cat."
"I just did what had to be done."
"That's all heroism is, Lock. Doing what has to be done."
I shake my head forcefully. "Don't say that. Not about me. I'm not...that. I don't even want to say the word. You're a hero. Oliver was a hero. Me? I'm...not. Don't know what I am, but I'm not...that."
She turns toward me, her knees bumping mine. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Lock. You're a better, stronger man than you think you are."
I don't know how to answer that. "I don't feel like it. I just...don't see it. At no point in my life have I ever been strong. Or courageous. I was selfish. Afraid. Not of dying, because that was inevitable. Or maybe I was afraid. I don't know. Maybe I was afraid of dying, even if I'd accepted it. But I wasn't strong or courageous about it. I ran from it. Lived on my sailboat and drank to get away from it. Did crazy shit, because I didn't care if I died in the process. I was gonna die anyway, so why not go skydiving or cliff diving? Why not race motorcycles and...all the crazy shit I did."