Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Note: At the end of 'Act III' of The Birthday Present. It's Sponge's bunny, but this is the 'no room in the ambulance' version.

Thanks Owl, thanks Cheri.

Systems Failure

By L. M. Lewis

God, and Hardcastle, and him. And then into that momentarily silent space rushed people in uniforms: a bailiff, county cops. Lots of shouting, and then some barely-coordinated lifting and they had Hardcastle down on the floor in front of the bench. He'd supported a shoulder, lifted when someone said, 'Now', and somehow never let go of the hand.

A couple of paramedics carrying equipment and looking dispassionately competent. Good, they'll fix things. Though he could see things were rapidly moving past fixing. The judge's eyes weren't even shut now—just increasingly glazed and unfocused.

He was pushed back; his grasp on the man's hand parted.

"Give 'em some room to work," someone said, and someone else said asked "How old is he?" He must have answered. He heard the crackling hiss of the radiophone and information being conveyed. A little pressured—but even, very even: 'Sixty-eight-year-old white male, single gunshot wound, entry to the right of the sternum about the fourth rib. Breath sounds diminished on the right. Respiratory rate 35. BP 60 palp. Skin cool and clammy.' Information conveyed—calm, so damn calm—and instructions given, with the orders being carried out almost before they were spoken. All reflexes. The most important stuff was, he knew, and sometimes thinking just got in the way.

He felt weirdly detached, with nothing to do—shunted off to the side. Some small part of his mind realized the courtroom had been nearly emptied, only a handful of people left in the back, but he couldn't take his eyes off the man on the floor, glimpsed between shoulders now. Things being done without any visible reaction on Hardcastle's face, eyes now half-shuttered, skin slick with sweat, and a pallor verging on gray.

"Hold on, Judge, please, just hold on." The first time was a whisper, and then a little louder. He thought he'd seen the man's gaze drift slightly to the right. It might've been the poke of the second IV going in. Again he said it, louder still.

Lifting again, onto the gurney that had been wheeled in, folded nearly flat. He stepped forward to help but was a moment too late—his reflexes were off; the job was already done and the whole thing rose up. He heard the sharp snap of the latches on an equipment box being closed.

"St. Mary's," somebody said to somebody. Then the stretcher, its burden, and its cluster of competent attendants, were moving toward the door. He moved along in their wake, but already the gap was widening, and the number of people between him and the stretcher had increased.

He pushed forward, stuck in the cluster at the door that had parted and fallen back in after the gurney passed. He made it through. The ambulance was pulled up between the annex and that mockery of a judge's chambers. The back was open and the stretcher was already half inside. He couldn't see Hardcastle's face, couldn't see if he was still breathing, and the realization panicked him.

"Wait," he lunged forward again. Someone's arm blocked him.

"Family?" Someone said. Someone else had him by the shoulders—a bailiff, one he didn't know. He was looking past the face toward the rig, one door already closed.

"Let 'em do their job," the man said. "No room in there. You meet 'em at the hospital." The bailiff half-turned, looking over his own shoulder.

The paramedic said, "St. Mary's," brusquely, as he clambered in and shut the other door.

"St. Mary's," the bailiff turned back, facing McCormick again, repeating it slowly as though he might not have heard. "You can meet 'em."

The ambulance was pulling away, and he felt frozen, rooted to the spot, as though somehow he oughtn't take his eyes off it until the very last possible moment. Then it was gone, around the corner, sirens receding. The bailiff had let go of him, and was moving off, too.

There were people, a crowd, cops, babbling, nobody he knew. Not one familiar face. Not even Sandy, though he hadn't noticed where the man had gone. He still stood there, in the middle of all this pointless activity, feeling more alone than he'd felt in a long time, maybe ever.

Pull yourself together.

He tried to remember where Hardcastle had parked the truck, a lifetime ago this morning. It was back in the employees' lot, in the section reserved for judges. He started moving, a half-loping trot, and didn't realize, until he'd gotten there, that the keys weren't in his pocket. Lost. He looked back the way he'd come, no sight of anything on the ground, and, for once, maybe in deference to the dignity of the occasion, he'd left his other tools at home.

He felt the slipping away of minutes and turned toward the truck again, pounding both fists once in frustration on the window. He got a sudden, sharp look from the attendant, standing over by the entrance of the otherwise deserted lot, and for a moment McCormick thought that he was heading toward him. He thought he'd pound him, too, if he got within reach.

"Mark?" A voice startled him, sudden and directly behind him.

He spun and saw Charlie, the bailiff, an old poker buddy of Hardcastle's.

For one sinking moment, the deep-etched look of concern on the man's face convinced McCormick that he had come to tell him the worst, but, instead, Charlie rushed ahead, saying, "What the hell happened? We heard—"

"Shot." Mark said. "A hearing. Just a damn preliminary hearing. Shot in the chest." He couldn't catch his breath, though he'd been standing still for at least a minute now.

To Mark's infinite gratitude, Charlie asked no other questions, just took him by the elbow and said, firmly, "You're not driving. Come on. Mine's over here."

"St. Mary's," Mark said, letting himself be led.

"That's close," Charlie said, and then, "The chest, my God," and, as if recollecting himself, he added, "They're good."

The part of him that was standing aside, observing it all, was certain that everyone would be reassuring right up until the moment where reality collided with all their good intentions.

"The chest," he breathed. "I think it was a .38."

"He's tough," Charlie switched from the elbow to the shoulder, a grip and then a pat. "They don't come any tougher."

"He was awake," Mark said, but it sounded hollow. Falsely buoyant. Why should this time be any different than the rest? There was a car door open in front of him, and the hand on his shoulder was pushing down, a little firmer.

"Tough. Nobody like him. You'll see. They're good."

All kind words and Mark knew he ought to be grateful for them, but just lies, really, like the ones they told kids to keep them from giving up.

"Yeah, one bullet couldn't stop him," he said, knowing that's what he was supposed to say and saying it without letting himself believe it too much, and then, "Please, Charlie, just get me there."

That was really the only thing that mattered.