The Ride In: Wagon 29

“I took an oath many years before the bombs started to fall, and so did everyone else, but after the sky burned to the ground, and incinerated all that was around us, the few hundred who stayed behind are the only ones left upholding it. Our call sign is Wagon 29, but we are more popularly nicknamed as “the Bulletproof Crew,” by the other ambulances. Though, we are immortalized for going into places that no one else will, we are anything but eternal. We come out alive each time sporting our trademarked “don’t give a fuck” attitudes, and I guess that leaves an impression on people after a while, but it isn’t hard. We just have a “More action, less talking” outlook. We bottle that shit up, only to spit it back out at the city the next time we go in.”

“Perhaps believing that we are demigods, somehow makes them feel safer. They know we bleed, but they choose to ignore it. This delusional crumb of hope is magical to them, and has them thinking, if ’29 get home each night, they could too. But if magic does exist, it most certainly wouldn’t be a cute and fuzzy pulled out of a hat, instead it would be a slight of hand; A lure of cheese for all those field mice scurrying about, trying to find the scraps of life to hold onto just for another day or perhaps another nibble. Those are the ones who die first, because they don’t focus on the right things, and they have all the wrong motives. They-re selfish. The reality is that there is no hope strong enough to bring anyone home, not me, not you, and there certainly is no special wand to save your ass. Many more are gonna die, it’s a fact. There are piles of bodies lining those streets from those who already have, and every day they get higher. You got to accept the inevitable out here. Maybe today, a little girl with a 9mm picks you off while you are trying to resuscitate her mother, maybe it happens in a week. Maybe next year. We all do eventually, but the quicker you realize that, the quicker you can focus on the oath and not the other shit. That’s when real work gets done, and that’s when you become idolized like us.”

“The district already lost two guys this week in the suburbs just outside the city. One, was on the interstate heading back to the station. He was taken out by an alcoholic with a rifle who was just fucking around. The god-damned asshole was using the ambulance for target practice, while putting down his toilet wine. The other nicknamed “Tommy Gun,” from Wagon 47, was self-inflicted before his shift even started. I don’t blame him for it, cause this shit can get to you after a while, but if you’re gonna be on my crew, you gotta get past that emotional bullshit, stop looking at life as life, and humans as humans, then you can get to work without any fear.”

“The difference between them and us was how we look at our patients. Yesterday, Gary Andrews, of 3335 Cherrywood Ave, wasn’t Gary. He was a sucking chest wound that needed constant pressure, a plastic seal, 180cc’s of pure saline, and one hell of a lead foot to save his overdosed ass. They aren’t patients, they’re injuries. They’re body parts that are in the wrong places either needing re-alignment or a lot of fucking staples. You gotta take the human out of the humanity nowadays. Too much shit has happened for us to stop and think about it, now.”

I lean over to shake the hands of the new recruit sitting next to me, while I casually take my eyes of the road, and loosely steer us down the merge ramp onto the interstate.

“Enough of the pep talk, you ready for this shit kid? I’m Axel by the way, but everyone calls me Ax.”

His eyes were wide and full of uncertainty or regret, or both. He leaned against the door as if he was hopping it would open to save him. I didn’t know if he was more scared of me, or the stories of city we were soon driving into. With a soft, fresh out of medical camp-nod, he squeaks out.

“Ronnie, sir.” while loosely shaking my hand.

I have seen this look before, and it usually doesn’t end well, but hell we need people, and it takes balls to sign up, so, I will give him that. He gets brownies for the Sir too. I whip out of the merge lane onto the I-30 ramp on a direct path with Dallas. The skies ahead are crimson-black with its usual ongoing fire and thick smoke. The city was just the way I preferred it and the smell of danger was in the air.

“Get your gun ready kid, Today, we got some lives to save!”

As we approach the city at my usual warp-speed attempting to avoid as many stray bullets as I can, while the remaining ones ricochet off of us every few minutes, our radio sounds with our first call.

“Wagon 29, Dispatch.”

I reach for the radio, but Ronnie beats me to it. I shoot him a glare to warn him not to fuck it up, but nod with approval to continue on. He lacks confidence, and sounds questionable, but responds correctly; which is exactly how we all started out.

“Go for ’29?”

“We got a car accident just off exit forty-five Bravo, southbound on Riverfront. One victim, female, approximately thirty-eight years of age. Possible head-wound, and other injuries. Caller says she is bleeding bad and does not have much time. Over”

“Copy that, over”

The radio goes silent for a couple seconds, then sounds on to produce a constant flow scratchy airwaves, then clicks off. After a few moments it comes back on with the dispatcher’s voice again, but distressed.

“Ax?”

I immediately snatch the radio out of Ronnie's hand, slide my fingers onto the side button, and press it in.

“Go for Ax.”

There is a long pause again.

“Ax, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the victim is driving a Blue Colorado, license plate GXT 4598.” The radio clicks off for another moment, giving me time to comprehend the numbers, and the description. I twist my head in confusion, while an overwhelming flood of memories and heartache from the last four years rapidly begin to surface. The radio breaks through my thoughts, confirming my best and worst suspicions.

“Ax, I think we just found your wife…and I think she’s dying!”

--My foot welds the gas pedal to the floor.--