Chucklecut
01-21-10, 08:52 AM
Blood, Guts, & Glory
Name: Zachary Booth
Age: 25
Race: Human
Description: Standing 6'3", Zachary is thin and healthy, his body toned and strong thanks to the rigors of his profession. Black hair hangs around his eyes in what most would call an "emo" hair cut, his eyes brown. The ghost of a beard covers his chin and lip. Aside from these traits, he looks completely typical, though handsome.
History: Transit, from Hell to Here
"Shit!" His voice was panicked.
"What?" The driver yelled back. His voice was nearly lost in the crashing boom that followed.
"Either the storm is fucking with our machines, or this guy is in V-fib." Zachary's hand was on the patient's neck, trying to palpate a pulse. His stethoscope was useless; between the storm and the ambulance's screaming sirens, he'd hear nothing. A weak jittering was all he could feel, the pulse far too fast and erratic.
"Call the Mercy ER." Zach shouted above the thunder. It almost sounded like a drumline in one of Nightwish's more bombastic songs, or maybe the bass bursts of a hip-hop song turned to max volume. He felt like he was inside a concert speaker.
"What do I tell them?" James' accent turned it into 'Whuddoeye tell em?'
"Thirty-ish male, Tachycardic, internal injuries. Tell them he's really fucked up." He responded.
When the dispatcher's voice came over his radio, he'd known it would be bad. Rural Iowa, Saturday night, violent thunderstorm with a heavy downpour that would last the night. It was a recipe for death. And it was about to prove itself.
It was a car accident; alcohol involved. No surprise there. Most of these people had nothing better to do on the weekends than drink themselves, and anyone in their path, to death. He'd spun out on the long, lonely stretch of Highway six, somewhere between Adel and Waulkee. His truck had smashed into a tree with all the force that an uncontrolled, 105 mile per hour skid could produce. The laws of physics said this guy should be dead. And yet, here he was clinging to life. A part of Zachary, a very large part, wanted to simply stop what he was doing; to let this guy die. This time, it was a tree. The next time he decided to go joy riding, it could be a ten year old. Instead, he started CPR.
He knew the chances of successfully reviving the drunk with CPR was slim, but trying to shock him back to life here, with both of them covered in rain and blood, could be suicide.
The man would very likely die. Zachary stared at him as he worked chest compressions, only now really seeing. The man was a wreck. His clothing was in tatters, odd angles proof of broken bones. His right leg ended in a hastily tied tourniquet. Neither of the paramedics, or the police had been able to locate the man's foot. Zachary's grim satisfaction was unprofessional and probably morally fucked up, but he took comfort knowing that at least in the future, driving would be a challenge for him. Maybe he'd learn. Probably not though.
Blood covered Zachary's dark blue shirt in great swathes, and reached far past his sterile gloves, at least up to his elbows. His pants were similarly painted.
"Fuck, this is a waste of time. This guy is dead." Zachary broke off, bending down. He didn't even hesitate as his lips formed an unbroken seal over the man's bloody mouth. The mask was somewhere on the floor of the rig, lost to the high-speed turns. He knew he was taking a huge risk exposing himself to the man's blood, but he was used to it. This was his job. As he started to breathe, he scowled and sat back. No air was getting through. "Oh you've got to be fucking kidding."
"What now?" James called.
"This guy is a fucking train wreck." Zachary had titled the man's head back now and was looking down his throat with a penlight. "He has some kind of airway blockage. I can't fucking see anything."
The man's throat and mouth were filled with blood. The paramedic reached over and grabbed the suction hose from the wall of the rig, turning on the unit as he pulled away. Blood flowed quickly through the hose into the sealed inner chambers as he dipped it into the man's mouth. Even so, he still couldn't see much of anything.
"Tube him!" James called back.
"I can't fucking see anything!" Zachary repeated.
"Nothing to lose. He's fucking dead anyways!" James' called back.
Oh there is no fucking way this is happening, Zachary thought to himself as he cradled the man's head with his right hand, trying to give chest compressions with his left hand. Giving up on the chest compressions, he grabbed his nearby EMT bag. A flurry of movements and he tossed the bag back down beside him. The laryngoscope was in the man's mouth in a flash, holding down the tongue as the paramedic slid the endotracheal tube down in between the drunk's vocal cords and into his airway. Without taking the time to attach a breathing bag to the tube, Zach leaned forward and exhaled into the tube. The man's chest rose. The tube fogged quickly.
"Fuck yes!" He yelled, then started CPR anew.
After he had passed the standard routine once through, fifteen compressions followed by two breaths, he leaned down. Once more trying to palpate a pulse from the patient's neck, he cursed and moved toward the defibrillator.
"Zach, no. Don't even try!" James yelled, his eyes flashing in the rear view mirror.
"No choice!" He yelled back. He placed the pads on the man's chest and hit the button. The world turned white and faded away.
---
He woke covered in blood, a dead man on his back. When he was able to pry his eyes open, his field of vision supplied him with two sights: a mutilated pit that was once a face, and further away, the ambulance doors. One was thrown wide, the other still closed, sunshine flowing in between them. The ground was beneath the open door. They'd turned over.
Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Zachary shrugged the dead man's body off of him. Guess that's why they say to always make time to buckle them down.
With numb fingers, Zachary reached up to click the send button of his shoulder-mounted radio. "Dispatch, we have a problem here."
Static was all that came back. "Dispatch?" Still nothing.
Standing, his head hunched down to avoid the roof, he bent to pick up his paramedic bag. There was only one reason he would wake up on his own in this situation. Gritting his teeth grimly, he made his way out of the capsized ambulance. One look through the shattered cab was all he needed.
"Ah, James. Fuck." He was undoubtedly dead. Unless it was possible to spend several hours in multiple pieces.
Forcing back tears, Zachary dug the cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. He dialed the station number and waited. And waited. When nothing came back, even a busy tone, he pulled the phone down and looked at it. Searching... no signal.
"Fuck... my life."
The man sat down hard. Staring out over the unfamiliar landscape, he distantly noted the absence of any roadway in sight. Listening carefully, he heard nothing but the calm breeze that rippled through the waist high grass. No sounds of cars. Nothing. Highway six had disappeared. With hands covered in blood, Zachary lit a cigarette.
Skills:
Emergency Medical Technician knowledge at an EMT-I/99 level.
Equipment:
EMT Bag with general instruments and a few drug vials.
Name: Zachary Booth
Age: 25
Race: Human
Description: Standing 6'3", Zachary is thin and healthy, his body toned and strong thanks to the rigors of his profession. Black hair hangs around his eyes in what most would call an "emo" hair cut, his eyes brown. The ghost of a beard covers his chin and lip. Aside from these traits, he looks completely typical, though handsome.
History: Transit, from Hell to Here
"Shit!" His voice was panicked.
"What?" The driver yelled back. His voice was nearly lost in the crashing boom that followed.
"Either the storm is fucking with our machines, or this guy is in V-fib." Zachary's hand was on the patient's neck, trying to palpate a pulse. His stethoscope was useless; between the storm and the ambulance's screaming sirens, he'd hear nothing. A weak jittering was all he could feel, the pulse far too fast and erratic.
"Call the Mercy ER." Zach shouted above the thunder. It almost sounded like a drumline in one of Nightwish's more bombastic songs, or maybe the bass bursts of a hip-hop song turned to max volume. He felt like he was inside a concert speaker.
"What do I tell them?" James' accent turned it into 'Whuddoeye tell em?'
"Thirty-ish male, Tachycardic, internal injuries. Tell them he's really fucked up." He responded.
When the dispatcher's voice came over his radio, he'd known it would be bad. Rural Iowa, Saturday night, violent thunderstorm with a heavy downpour that would last the night. It was a recipe for death. And it was about to prove itself.
It was a car accident; alcohol involved. No surprise there. Most of these people had nothing better to do on the weekends than drink themselves, and anyone in their path, to death. He'd spun out on the long, lonely stretch of Highway six, somewhere between Adel and Waulkee. His truck had smashed into a tree with all the force that an uncontrolled, 105 mile per hour skid could produce. The laws of physics said this guy should be dead. And yet, here he was clinging to life. A part of Zachary, a very large part, wanted to simply stop what he was doing; to let this guy die. This time, it was a tree. The next time he decided to go joy riding, it could be a ten year old. Instead, he started CPR.
He knew the chances of successfully reviving the drunk with CPR was slim, but trying to shock him back to life here, with both of them covered in rain and blood, could be suicide.
The man would very likely die. Zachary stared at him as he worked chest compressions, only now really seeing. The man was a wreck. His clothing was in tatters, odd angles proof of broken bones. His right leg ended in a hastily tied tourniquet. Neither of the paramedics, or the police had been able to locate the man's foot. Zachary's grim satisfaction was unprofessional and probably morally fucked up, but he took comfort knowing that at least in the future, driving would be a challenge for him. Maybe he'd learn. Probably not though.
Blood covered Zachary's dark blue shirt in great swathes, and reached far past his sterile gloves, at least up to his elbows. His pants were similarly painted.
"Fuck, this is a waste of time. This guy is dead." Zachary broke off, bending down. He didn't even hesitate as his lips formed an unbroken seal over the man's bloody mouth. The mask was somewhere on the floor of the rig, lost to the high-speed turns. He knew he was taking a huge risk exposing himself to the man's blood, but he was used to it. This was his job. As he started to breathe, he scowled and sat back. No air was getting through. "Oh you've got to be fucking kidding."
"What now?" James called.
"This guy is a fucking train wreck." Zachary had titled the man's head back now and was looking down his throat with a penlight. "He has some kind of airway blockage. I can't fucking see anything."
The man's throat and mouth were filled with blood. The paramedic reached over and grabbed the suction hose from the wall of the rig, turning on the unit as he pulled away. Blood flowed quickly through the hose into the sealed inner chambers as he dipped it into the man's mouth. Even so, he still couldn't see much of anything.
"Tube him!" James called back.
"I can't fucking see anything!" Zachary repeated.
"Nothing to lose. He's fucking dead anyways!" James' called back.
Oh there is no fucking way this is happening, Zachary thought to himself as he cradled the man's head with his right hand, trying to give chest compressions with his left hand. Giving up on the chest compressions, he grabbed his nearby EMT bag. A flurry of movements and he tossed the bag back down beside him. The laryngoscope was in the man's mouth in a flash, holding down the tongue as the paramedic slid the endotracheal tube down in between the drunk's vocal cords and into his airway. Without taking the time to attach a breathing bag to the tube, Zach leaned forward and exhaled into the tube. The man's chest rose. The tube fogged quickly.
"Fuck yes!" He yelled, then started CPR anew.
After he had passed the standard routine once through, fifteen compressions followed by two breaths, he leaned down. Once more trying to palpate a pulse from the patient's neck, he cursed and moved toward the defibrillator.
"Zach, no. Don't even try!" James yelled, his eyes flashing in the rear view mirror.
"No choice!" He yelled back. He placed the pads on the man's chest and hit the button. The world turned white and faded away.
---
He woke covered in blood, a dead man on his back. When he was able to pry his eyes open, his field of vision supplied him with two sights: a mutilated pit that was once a face, and further away, the ambulance doors. One was thrown wide, the other still closed, sunshine flowing in between them. The ground was beneath the open door. They'd turned over.
Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Zachary shrugged the dead man's body off of him. Guess that's why they say to always make time to buckle them down.
With numb fingers, Zachary reached up to click the send button of his shoulder-mounted radio. "Dispatch, we have a problem here."
Static was all that came back. "Dispatch?" Still nothing.
Standing, his head hunched down to avoid the roof, he bent to pick up his paramedic bag. There was only one reason he would wake up on his own in this situation. Gritting his teeth grimly, he made his way out of the capsized ambulance. One look through the shattered cab was all he needed.
"Ah, James. Fuck." He was undoubtedly dead. Unless it was possible to spend several hours in multiple pieces.
Forcing back tears, Zachary dug the cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. He dialed the station number and waited. And waited. When nothing came back, even a busy tone, he pulled the phone down and looked at it. Searching... no signal.
"Fuck... my life."
The man sat down hard. Staring out over the unfamiliar landscape, he distantly noted the absence of any roadway in sight. Listening carefully, he heard nothing but the calm breeze that rippled through the waist high grass. No sounds of cars. Nothing. Highway six had disappeared. With hands covered in blood, Zachary lit a cigarette.
Skills:
Emergency Medical Technician knowledge at an EMT-I/99 level.
Equipment:
EMT Bag with general instruments and a few drug vials.