Friday, February 2, 2018

Story Challenge- 999 words or less. "The Gift."

My friend Mel gave me a writing challenge.  999 words max.  The story has "feature a jacket in the plot", as well as an "unattainable deadline.".

998 words (not counting the picture caption).  I call it The Gift.

Comments welcome.

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Got the coat in 1984.  It’s electric blue satin, button up, with a white stenciled Star of Life on the front left breast.  The people from my rescue squad bought it for me when I passed the Emergency Medical Technician exam in January. I was seventeen years old, and a high school senior.

I wore it to school for the rest of the winter.  It was flashy and stood out (remember this was the 80s) and, best of all, I’d earned it.  In my rural school, it REALLY stood out, but it meant (I thought) that I was a hero.  I was a volunteer on the ambulance and rescue squad, and I saved lives.

I found out later that the other kids thought it was extremely dorky, but that’s not the point.

I stopped wearing it when I went to college.  I volunteered at the ambulance company in the college town as well.  While I was there, earning my teaching degree, I also took the Paramedic course and passed that.  Soon after graduation, I took and passed the Paramedic II course. 

I moved to another rural community, and started teaching history at the local high school.  While there, I also volunteered with the ambulance and rescue squad.  When I started, the school was small and underfunded, as was the emergency services. 

Eventually though, new highways opened up the area to the city, and the population exploded. 

In the mid-90s, I was on a call for a bad car accident involving an elderly couple.  I ended up saving the old lady’s life, while her husband was out cold.  Both survived. 

Couple months later, that old guy showed up at the rescue squad building, carrying a large paper shopping bag.   Turns out he was an army medic in World War II.  Fought in Europe.  France, Belgium, Germany.  Made it out without a scratch.  In the bag, was his old medical gear- a couple bags, pouches, all on a harness to carry it all.  The equipment was mostly still in it- forceps, hemostats, some bandages and stuff.  He gave it to me, telling me how much he was grateful for me saving his wife.  “One medic to another.”  

We talked  maybe an hour or so, and I asked him how he managed to get through all that shit without getting hurt.  He reached into the bag to something wrapped in a black cloth.
 
It was a knife.  Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, he said.  While in France, he saved some guy from the French Resistance who was bleeding out after losing an arm at the elbow.  Tourniquet.  The guy’s buddy gave him this knife to thank him.  French resistance fighting knife.  Big.  Still sharp.  The medic said that it was good luck charm.  He carried it through the war, and it kept him from being hurt.  Through Korea too, he said.  And now, he was giving it to me.  His most prized possession. 

“One medic to another.”

“Take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”


Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, WWII


Saw a couple months later that he died.  Heart attack in his sleep.  Widow maker.  He never felt a thing.  I went to his funeral.  Full military honors.

I kept the knife with me whenever I went on a call.  Late 90s, there was a house fire.  I was one of three guys who put on air packs and went in looking for a mother and little daughter who we could hear inside.  We found them just as the floor above them collapsed, burying them in flaming debris.  I could hear them screaming, even over all the noise and gear.  Tried.  Couldn’t get to them.  Other two guys, they pulled me out because our tanks all started ringing, meaning our air tanks were almost empty.  I didn’t want to go. 

Hours later, after the fire was out, we were digging through the debris with the fire inspectors, looking for the bodies.  Found them after a bit.  Floor was unstable, but we still managed to get them out after taking pictures and measurements.  They were both burned to charcoal, and fell apart when we tried to move them.

Mom was twenty two.  Girl was five.  The mom’s boyfriend set the fire hoping to collect on insurance.  He didn’t know they were in there, waiting to surprise him.  You see, she was pregnant again.  Just found out.  Their first kid together. Were gonna surprise him.

Dead.  Charcoal. 

Me?  Not a scratch. 

Year or so lately, wife left me.  I was drinking too much and not talking to her.  All I could hear were the screams of those two whenever it was quiet. 

Now I’m in my fifties.  The rescue squad and ambulance are all “paid professionals.”  I retired from teaching after twenty five years.  Wife remarried.  I now work on the ambulance, usually driving.

So today, I decided to wear my Blue satin EMT jacket.  Got it out of storage.  It’s a little small.  Little frayed.  Still shiny.  Brandon and Ashley, the crew I’m with today, they laughed and teased me.  I just smiled.  They’re just kids.  Early twenties.  Probably same age that little girl would be now. 

Right now, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of the ambulance.  Those two are in the Applebees getting lunch.  I said I’d wait out here.  Not hungry. 

I pulled out the knife.  Still sharp after over eighty years.  It’s quiet, and I hear the screams.  Still.  Twenty years later to the day.  The screams of those I couldn’t save.

Took the knife and jammed it into my spleen.  Twisted it.  It really fucking hurt.  Screams died out.   I’ll bleed out within a minute if that.

That’s when over the radio, the tones dropped- cardiac arrest.  Maybe a few miles away.  Rule of thumb said the victim only had a few minutes before he would be beyond help.  The kids would be here in seconds. 

They’ll be too late. 

Poor victim.  I don’t think they’ll make it to him in time. 

 


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