The Camp (2 page)

Claire set the jump kit at the rear of the van and ran to the front. The engine was off and there was no smoke. The windshield lay to one side. The driver hung from the shoulder harness, unconscious, suspended inches above the driver’s side door. Draped over his inert form was a young girl. Reaching in through the hole made by the windshield, Claire came up short. She couldn’t reach the keys.

As she ran the length of the van, a quick assessment assured her that it was stable.

Picking up the jump kit, she stood between the double doors and peered down the length of the interior, noted how it seemed to close in, swallowed hard, ducked her head, and crawled into the van until she was kneeling behind the drivers seat.
 

No keys.

Blood was splattered across the dashboard, enough to completely cover the speedometer.

Reaching over, she grasped the grab handle in the roof just above the passenger seat and leveraged herself so that she was just above the driver and the little girl. It was immediately apparent from the gash in the man’s forehead that the blood hadn’t come from the child. She reached around to find the carotid artery, but jerked her hand back as if she’d been struck by a snake when the girl opened her eyes. Her second surprise was that the pre-teen didn’t attempt to move, in spite of her seemingly awkward position, stretched out over the driver.

“Don’t be frightened. My name is Claire, I’m an EMT here to help you.” No response. “Are you in pain?” No response. “Does anything hurt?” No response. “I’m going to lift you up and set you down behind the seat.”

Claire had to reach around with her right hand and grasp the tiny right shoulder, effectively rolling her over and toward her into her waiting left arm. Then she released her grip and slid her right arm under the girl’s spindly legs.

Her angle of lift and the fact that the victim weighted around 100 pounds put a strain on her back, so she was relieved when she could set her down.
 

The girl seemed to be taking it all in without making a sound or moving.

“Can you stand?”

Tiny hands
 
grasped the back of the drivers seat and shifted her feet slightly, not blinking in the process.

“What’s your name?”

Rye waited for traffic to stop and then, not trusting the other drivers, he made a dash for a girl that was staggering in ever-larger circles that would eventually lead her out into the fast lane.

He didn’t expect a response, but followed protocol. “My name’s Rye and I’m here to help you…” When he spotted an aging BMW bullying its way between cars and realized that he and the girl occupied the next available space, he snatched her into his arms and ran back to the ambulance.

Gasping from the exertion of carrying the girl at a run, he hastily placed her on the rear of the ambulance so that her feet were on the giant bumper. With hands on his knees, he bent over to catch his breath while he watched her for any response, any movement. Nothing. He waved his hand in front of her face. Nothing. When he reached up and sank the fingernail from his index finger and thumb into her ear lobe and she didn’t react, he was puzzled. This wasn’t shock. She was catatonic.

Claire retrieved the razor from her holster, and, one hand holding the driver in place against the steering wheel, sliced through the shoulder harness.
 

His hips sagged out of the seat belt and settled against the door.

Suddenly, he was awake and flailing the air.

“My name’s Claire…” She didn’t get a chance to finish.

His head turned side to side. “What about the girls. The girls—are they alright?”

An intermittent honking caught his attention. With a wave of his arm, he knocked Claire to the floor and began crawling over the dashboard and out of the hole made by the windshield. Claire pushed into a crouch, but suddenly the girl was fully awake. Not groggy or confused, and stronger then she looked, she pushed herself over backwards as she tried to rise. In an effort to stop the young victim Claire shot an arm out and grabbed her vest by the pocket. But in the scrabble it tore and released the girl, who ran out the back.

“Hey, come back!”

Lurching forward in an effort to stop the girl, Claire fell full length as the fabric tore and quickly threw her hand down.
 

Without losing a minute, she jumped to her feet and pulled herself up over the dashboard and out onto the hood.
 

“What the hell?”
 

The driver, blood covering one side of his face, was staggering like a drunken sailor across the shoulder, headed for a van in the fast lane that now had its side door open. There was a man in the van waving him on.

She looked over her shoulder and watched for a minute as the girl scampered toward the ambulance, then turned back to locate the driver.
 

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been forced to tackle an accident victim. During the first year when she'd teamed up with Rye, back when they were Mad Dash ambulance, they responded to a house fire. There were victims on the front lawn. Rye went directly to the children, while she sought out the mother, who she found sitting glassy-eyed, wrapped in a wool blanket. When Claire approached, the woman threw off the blanket and, totally naked, took off at a run across several neighbors’ yards. In the report, Claire referred to it as ‘running shock.’

Giving a quick look down the slow lane as she crossed the shoulder, she spotted a single vehicle next to the ambulance, not moving.

Claire broke into a sprint. Two steps on the asphalt and she knew that in another three, she’d have the driver. That’s when a single chirp from the ambulance turned her head. Rye had used this as a signal before to get her attention: she felt like she was in a cartoon where the roadrunner sees the falling rock and has to stop in time.

The aging BMW cut within inches of her path and slammed into the driver, launching him twenty feet. Claire stopped and stared in disbelief, fully expecting the driver to skid to a stop. When he didn’t even slow down, she looked for a license number, but the plate was gone. In another minute, so was the car.

Rye looked on in relief. This was the difficult part of operating an ambulance search and rescue service with his wife. He wanted to run to her side, express his concern, and swear her to caution. But there would be none of that. He waited until they locked eyes and then gave her a wave. When she returned the wave, he spun around and checked on the victim sitting in the back of the ambulance. She hadn’t moved, so he ran to the next victim.

There had to be a faster way to gather them up, to get them out of the line of traffic, out of harm’s way.
 

The van that had honked accelerated away, but not before Claire caught sight of the man that had been standing in the opened side door. He wore a ski mask.

When she reached the driver, he lay twisted on top of his right leg. One touch of the carotid artery and she knew he was dead. So she went running past the hulk of the crashed van, the same way the girl had gone.

For a moment, she was distracted watching Rye attempt to gather up the victims. It was all so overwhelming.

“Shit.”

This was insane. They’d have to call in at least four ambulances to transport everyone.
 

Most victims of auto accidents lay as still as possible in an attempt to minimize pain. Some call out in delirium, others lay unconscious. Only the victim of a house fire had ever run. Claire nodded her head as she watched some of the girls walking in circles.
 

“Running shock. Yeah, has to be.”

She watched as her husband walked, a girl on each arm, across the interstate. Four girls huddled near the rear of the ambulance, six remained to be rounded up. She headed for the ambulance at a run.

Rye greeted her with a lopsided smile. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He walked the two girls over to the others and stepped back. “They don’t seem to wander.”

He gave his wife a ‘let’s get to it’ look, then tugged her arm, and headed back out onto the Interstate at a jog.

The problem was that none of the girls moved faster then a slow walk.
 

They had just rounded up the last two when Medford ambulance, several police cruisers, and a fire engine pulled up.

Claire watched the arrival with a smirk. “Better late then never.”
 

Rye laughed. “Odd. How hard can it be to locate an accident on the I-5?”

Chapter Three

Ellen Stulov leaned against the tree at the corner of the parking lot across from Ashland High School, nervously rubbing her thumb along the edge of her cell phone. She was facing the school so she would see Steven step out of the crowd after the last bell.

Her breasts were high on her chest and made her look taller then she was. At five foot eight inches, she was tall for sixteen, for a junior. Auburn hair hung long to the middle of her back and nicely framed her oval face. Her arms were proportionate to her long legs and she looked athletic.

She turned heads when she entered a classroom or moved down the hall. The boys ogled her and stared when she walked past. Teachers, however, were perplexed. She always seemed to be waiting for a bell to ring, staring at the ground. Her head always down. On campus, her arms were always crossed over her chest. She rarely spoke.

Then it all changed.

One day while in a hurry, she was walking across the senior parking lot when Steven, the school’s first-string senior quarterback, recognized her as a junior on senior turf.

On the field, Steven Huff was aggressive, fast, and sure of himself. On campus and off, however, he was mild-mannered, known for his even temper.

Ellen froze as he approached, realizing her transgression. Steven hustled her into his car with the excuse of getting her out of harm’s way before the other seniors arrived. From that moment on, they seemed inseparable. She could be seen wearing his letterman jacket at every game.

She still had a couple minutes before the last bell, so she lifted her phone to read Steven’s text for the tenth time.
 

No FB prct must talk snr pk lt.
 

Something was wrong.

No football practice. Must talk. Senior parking lot. He'd spelled out ‘must talk.’ Maybe he'd been kicked off the team. Or his parents were punishing him for some imaginary transgression that only they were aware of.

She squatted, dropped her cell in the big pocket of her pack, and checked her watch. She stared at the buildings that made up Ashland High School, knowing that at any minute, students would crowd out the doors and head off in a thousand directions. It always reminded her of bees leaving a hive.

The final bell brought her up and alert. She nervously checked her watch again

At six foot one, Steven was tall enough that she spotted him by his haystack of blonde hair before she could see his face.

Something was definitely wrong. His broad shoulders were slightly forward and there was no sign of swagger in his walk. When she waved, he didn't return the gesture with a smile as was his habit.
 

When he reached her side, he didn’t touch her, take her arm, or embrace her. Instead, he looked around nervously.

“Let's go over here.” He indicated the direction with a nod of his head.

She looked over at the lot. They were moving away from his old Subaru.

He finally stopped at the far corner of the senior lot by the hedge. He stepped around so her back was to the lot. He seemed to be waiting for something.
 

She could hear the distant chatter, slamming of doors, the starting of engines. Throughout all of the hubbub, Steven never looked up. Then, when the parking lot was quiet, he looked her squarely in the eye.
 

Oh god. She could feel her dread rising as he squirmed and shoved his hands in his pockets. She couldn't stand it any longer.

“Steven, what is it?”

It was as though he was waiting for the verbal cue. “I need to break it off.”

He danced around like he had to go to the bathroom.
 

She couldn't believe what he was saying. Need to. I need to. He needs to?

She crossed her arms over her chest. He wasn't looking anyway, and she knew it was something he enjoyed. “Need to? Steven, what are you saying? What do you mean you ‘need to?’ Is this something to do with your parents?” She clutched her pack to her chest and could feel her heart pounding with adrenaline and fear.

“It’s just that I'm a senior and have to focus on my football career.”

Funny, last night in the car, he was focused on his dick. Oh my god.

He was dumping her because of last night. He enjoyed her breasts and she offered them freely. That wasn't enough and she knew it.

“Steven.” She softened her voice, rolled the words the way he liked. “If it's about last night…” She dropped her eyes to his crotch.

“That's not it.” He kept his hands in his pockets. “I need my jacket back.”

This was it. He was dumping her. She dropped her pack and peeled off his jacket, thrusting it out at him.

“Why? I just need to know why.”

He hooked the jacket over a thumb, tossed it over his shoulder, and walked straight past her to his car. She turned and was about to call his name when she spotted a teacher watching them from across the street and bit her tongue.

How could he do this to her?

The next day passed in a daze. Her route home would take her past all their old haunts, for the last time.

The miles whirred by as a litany of losses danced through her head. Holding hands, the feel of his closeness on the drive home, texting. Gone, gone, gone. Riding in cool cars, sharing senior talk, cuddling. All gone.
 

Ellen stopped. Sounds of the creek invaded. The musty scent of cattails carried by a gentle breeze brought her around. Images of kissing filled her with loss. She squatted by the running water and closed her eyes, felt his touch, sensed her passion. Sensed his passion.

She had to get him back. She shrugged out of her pack and fished around the big pocket until she felt the hard, rounded side of her cell phone. She couldn’t read his text one more time but had to send him a message—maybe a picture. She had to get him back.