"Station 51. Man trapped. Six miles off Verbena Overpass, Ramp 15 between the 17 and 45. Ambulance is responding. Time out 1327."
"Station 51."
"Oh man." John tipped his helmet back in dismay. He craned his head back as far as he could to consider the tan and white station wagon seesawing on the edge of the transition ramp. Even now, no wind in sight, it rocked, its front half hovering hundreds of feet above the grassy drop that stood between the 17 and 45. The wagon's crumpled bumper sneered down at the firemen.
"Witnesses say the car was fine but then it started swerving. It crashed through the guard rails and went right for the edge."
"Could be a cardiac," Roy murmured next to him. He passed a lifebelt to John.
John nodded. Luckily something must have caught under the car's undercarriage, stopping a fatal descent to the ground below. He strapped the belt on, his fingers easily finding the buckles. He kept his eyes on the car. The sun, now at its peak, glinted off the windshield and bounced back a white glare that was almost hurt his eyes to look at.
"Roy, I can't see how many people are in there," John said. "And Mike can't get the engine in close enough without adding too much weight on the ramp. You see anything?"
"No." Roy sounded as frustrated as John felt. "Sun's too bright. Might be able to get to the pedestrian side of the overpass behind us and get a look see, but..."
John's mouth twisted. There were already a bunch of cars stopped on one of the bisecting ramps, gawking at the scene across the system of overpasses and exits that crisscrossed high above the freeways.
"I'll see if I can get one of my guys over there to clear the area and take a look inside that car." Vince turned away and jogged back to his patrol car.
"Roy," John said as he pointed to the wagon. "You see that? I don't think we've got time to wait for Vince. Car's ready to tip over. We're gonna lose her."
As if to prove John's point, the car groaned, leaned and tilted forward a bit more. John could feel everyone tense around him. When the car tipped back though, no one really relaxed.
Cap was still talking low and urgent to the handie talkie he held close to his mouth. He sighed and pulled it away.
"Ladder's fifteen minutes away."
"Cap, I don't think whoever is in that car has fifteen minutes." Roy nodded to the car. "If we can get ropes on its rear bumper, I think it'll give us enough time to slide down the top of the vehicle and get whoever is inside out."
"I think it should be just one of us, Roy." John pressed his mouth thin, thinking. "Better be me." He flicked his eyes to Roy then back at the car, then at the drop. His stomach tightened. "Yeah, I think I should do it." Before Roy could protest—John could see it coming like a distant storm cloud—John added, "I'm lighter." He smirked.
Sure enough, Roy's mouth snapped shut and he scowled at John, but even with that, John could see from the furrow between Roy's brow, he wasn't fooled.
Cap looked at them both. He pursed his mouth, eyes darting between them before he grunted. "I'll radio Kelly and Lopez to anchor that car. Ambulance is already up there. Nice and slow, John, all right?"
John shifted from foot to foot. If he shimmied over the roof, he could probably go in through the passenger side door. Shoot, unless there was someone in there with the driver. He could try to go in through the rear window but breaking that glass could send the car over too. Maybe if Mike—
"All right, John?"
With a start, John realized both Cap and Roy were looking at him expectantly. He nodded quickly, too quickly judging how their frowns only deepened.
Cap looked like he was going to change his mind so John backed a step towards the incline that led up to the ramp.
"Come on, Roy," John muttered. He nodded again, slower this time as he grabbed the coil of rope Roy wordlessly gave him.
"Nice and slow, Cap," John promised. He looped the lines of rope over a shoulder. He jogged after Roy up the hill to the ramp. The car bobbed hello out of the corner of his eye as they reached its level.
John gulped. Yup, nice and slow.
Unless it really was a cardiac.
Please don't let it be a cardiac.
Roy watched from his position by the rear bumper as John cautiously slid on his rear across the roof. John wiggled forward inch by inch. His blue shirt was soaked through on the back by the time he'd made his way to the front. The car groaned when John tried to lean forward to peer through the windshield.
The lifeline John was tethered to, gripped tightly by Marco and tied to Big Red, appeared too thin, too inadequate as it trembled and shivered taut. Each time John asked for more slack, his words were tight, tossed over his shoulder, brisk and economical. And each time the line eased to give John the requested inches, Roy fought the urge to lunge for the line himself.
Roy's right foot bore all its weight on the rear bumper. His left heel dug into the soft dirt that lined the torn guardrail. He wrapped his right elbow around the frame of the shattered rear passenger side window.
Chet mirrored him on the other side with his left leg and arm. The look he gave to Roy across the shuddering car spoke volumes.
This wasn't going to be enough.
The car's heavy front half was completely off the ramp. The ramp hung over a drop of at least a hundred and fifty feet with nothing to offer below but hard ground with withered yellow grass.
The back of the wagon balanced on the soft dirt that was still dissolving and the edge of the ramp. Going through the rear window was not an option now.
Roy and Chet's combined weight added the necessary stability six ropes on the rear bumper couldn't provide. Still, Roy could feel the car rocking like a boat on the sea, its rear wheels briefly touching the ground before bouncing gently back up again.
"More slack," John bit out. "Almost there."
The car shifted. Metal keened as the remaining pieces of guardrail buckled little by little, unable to bear the weight.
John kept freezing, his limbs locked in place in a way that reminded Roy of his kids playing Red Light, Green Light in the back yard. But here, no one was laughing.
Abruptly, John leaned over the roof to peer upside down into the driver's side window. Roy's warning shout lodged in his throat.
"Geez, Gage!" Chet didn't seem to have the same problem. "Take it easy, will you?"
"It's just the driver," reported John. He sounded breathless. "He's slumped over the wheel."
Roy gritted his teeth as the car swayed too far forward under John's weight. His left knee ached, his leg stiff in position as he dug his heel deeper into the wet slush of dirt and sand.
"Can you get a carotid?" Roy asked between his teeth.
John straightened. He had one hand flat over the top of his helmet, one hand curled on the roof edge. He was flushed from hanging upside down.
"Nah." John looked grim. "Window's shut. I can't get a carotid. Breathing looks to be labored." He cautiously set both palms on the roof and inched closer to the other side.
"Roy, she's slipping," Chet ground out. "Whatever you guys are gonna do, do it now."
"You think you can get in through the windshield?" Roy shouted.
The car groaned and lurched. Roy found himself skidding forward. Damn it!
John's eyes were huge, his arms straight as he grabbed the roof on both sides.
"No way. If I get down there, it'll go over for sure." John swallowed as he eyed the left side of the roof.
"I'm gonna try to get in through the passenger's side. Backseat looks clear. Maybe we can risk putting him on a backboard and slide him out the—Whoa!"
There was a tiny ping that was almost drowned out by the crackling sound of the windshield shattering. Chet yelped when the rear windshield exploded simultaneously. Glass splintered. Roy felt the heat of a flying shard slicing over his cheek, missing his left eye.
John barely had time to yell before he slipped completely off the car.
Nice and slow, Gage. Nice and slow.
As John made his way to the front of the car, he caught a glimpse of all the cars stopped on the overpass across from them. He screwed up his face. Great. At least the bystanders were too far away to be in the way this time. He sort of understood the fascination, yet it bugged him how often they had to veer around people with no sense to stay back.
John had been tempted before to give them a wave, but that thought was only fleeting as he crawled to the front. The news wasn't good. And they were running out of time. He could tell from Roy's clipped response and how the car still bobbed despite the ropes.
There was no other way; they couldn't wait for the ladder. The driver became his patient the moment John sighted him. John's gone this far. He wasn't about to leave his patient now.
Teeth clenched, John eased his way to the other side of the car. The car began to rock not up and down, but side to side.
John's left boot skidded constantly on the roof, but his toecap would catch itself on the top of the windshield. John didn't think it was worth mentioning it though. Roy sounded like he was on the car and the last thing his partner needed to worry about (besides the whole 'there's a mysterious unscrupulous killer out there to get you') was the fact that John's boots felt like they were standing on oil right now. Roy was having a bad enough day.
Marco was being stingy about the slack he gave John's line. A few tugs got barely an inch from him. For Pete's sake, how was he gonna get to the other side like this? John told Roy his plan, was about to gripe to Marco to give him more than an inch of slack each time when his darn left foot slipped again.
Out of nowhere, there was a thin whine, like someone had tore a sheet of metal by his ear. John jolted.
The front windshield under his foot was suddenly...not there.
John heard glass breaking.
John heard Roy shouting.
John heard the car groaning as it tipped crookedly to his right. He tumbled off the roof and rolled off the hood.
Did he yell? It felt like he did. John's throat felt scraped raw, dry and strained as he felt the lifeline he was hooked to snap taut.
John yelped when he slammed into the front bumper.
His helmet tipped, banged against the hood of the car then flew off his head. Shoot. There went another one.
There were shards of glass raining down on him.
Chet was hollering something that didn't sound polite.
The ramp underneath the car groaned. The rail made an ear-piercing scratching noise as it clawed the car's belly. Concrete crackled like popcorn as it crumbled and fell.
The car crunched and the hood he had just rolled off of popped open with a screech.
And Roy was still shouting.
So much for nice and slow!
John grunted. His hands whipped out to grab anything and got a grip of the grill and the license plate. He hooked a leg on a piece of rail that had gotten dragged into the car's undercarriage. Just in time. The license plate popped out of its screws, it sliced across his right glove before spinning down below.
"Johnny!" It wasn't clear who shouted. John could barely hear it past the roaring in his ears.
"Marco, do you still have his line?"
"I got it but I can't seem to pull it up. It's caught on something!"
In front of him, John could make out his line, blurry even though it was just off his nose, snarled around the wheel axle. Dimly, he knew he should call out, say something, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the rope.
"Johnny!"
"What the hell happe—Roy, she's going!"
John felt the car bow as it slid lower. He found himself staring at the bottom of the ramp. His right foot dangled until he swung it up and braced it into the crazy jumble of guardrail, steel and shredded car.
"Mike! Back her up!"
John grimaced. He could hear the muffler and the axle grinding against the dirt and concrete. Sparks spit angrily as metal scraped metal. Screws snapped. The car seesawed wildly. He swallowed. Oh no. He was getting seasick.
"Stop! Stop!" Roy sounded frantic. "We're just ripping the rear bumper off!"
Boy, John thought dazedly, those guys across from him were probably getting a real good show right now. He pulled himself up a bit more. He froze when he felt the railing his legs were wrapped around start to shift.
"Johnny! Johnny!" Roy was getting hoarse. "Marco, tie his line down and get mine."
That spurred him to speak. John coughed, pulled himself higher. He grimaced when he felt the grill shake. One of the screws was spinning out of its hole. He gulped.
"Roy?" John rasped. He started when he saw Roy's head poke out from the edge of the ramp. Roy didn't seem to notice (or care) the car was groaning and shaking by his ear.
"You all right?" Roy didn't even flinch when the car sank deeper into the dirt. He stuck his hand out but he was a foot short of even brushing against John's hair.
"Yea," John managed. He pulled up and managed to look over the front bumper, into the exposed engine when a loud creak vibrated through the car and into his legs.
"Roy, get back!" Cap barked out. Roy disappeared briefly after a couple of hands grabbed Roy by the shoulders.
"I can climb back up!" John shouted to be heard above Roy's "Let me go after him!" "Roy, get the guy! Window's busted. We should be able to slide him out of the back now! I—"
The car dipped, like those martial arts guys he'd seen in movies, bowing (kow kow—towing they called it) and John found himself staring at the undercarriage of the car again.
"Marco!" John yelled as he dug his fingers into the front grill. He jerked his head when a screw broke free and flew past his face. "Marco, throw me another line! I'm gonna cut the other one!"
"You're gonna what?" Chet butted in and hollering for some reason, drowning out whatever Marco was about to say.
"It's caught in the tires!" John spat. Mud kept sprinkling down his face. "I can't untangle it! Just throw me another line before this one bre—"
There was that weird sound again: short and shrill, like tearing metal and the rope around the wheel snapped.
Marco grunted, having fallen back like he was at the losing end of a tug-a-war.
"Johnny!" Again, John couldn't make out who it was yelling past the noise in his ears.
"I'm all right!" John eyed the grill's second screw slowly winding out of its hole. "But hurry!"
The new lifeline sailed over high, bounced off John's head and nearly poked him in the eye.
John was never so glad to see it!
Legs wrapped around the mangled mess of metal, one hand digging into the gap the front bumper made with the car, John knotted the line through the hook on his lifebelt one handed, tugged it tight with his teeth and thought to himself he really, really hoped that would be good enough.
"Alright!" John wondered if they could hear him; the car was grumbling as it kept slipping forward. The hood slammed down by itself as the car dipped.
"Heave!" Cap said. "Come on, heave!"
With jerks, John could feel himself being pulled over the hood. His boots caught briefly on the windshield frame, but it also gave John a glimpse of the empty car. Good. They'd got the victim out.
With a hard yank John was unprepared for; he was dragged halfway across the roof in one abrupt move. For one nutty moment, he wondered if this was how a caught trout felt. Then he yelped when another pull dragged him across the rest of the way.
Hands grabbed the back of his trousers, harder than he would have figured necessary. He tumbled, unable to catch his footing and crashed into Chet and Marco. They all fell in a tangle of limbs.
John lifted himself up on his elbows. He wiped the mud off his face with a sleeve just as muddy. "What's the big idea—"
With a roar, the car nearly folded as it edged closer over the ramp.
"Get down!" Cap shoved their heads down just as the anchoring ropes snapped.
The car seemed to hang there in mid-air for a second, before it completely tipped over.
It fell.
John didn't look, still lying there on his belly, gaping at the space where the car used to be. He heard a distant explosion down below. Cars below the ramp honked, a fire engine rumbled and there was the vague indistinct warbling of a police bullhorn but that was it.
"You were saying?" Chet asked archly. He sat there in his mud streaked turnout coat, his face smudged as if with soot.
John blinked at the open sky, across to the other overpass currently being emptied of onlookers by the police then back at Chet and Marco.
"Nice catch," John managed.
Marco snorted and chucked some mud at him.
"Charging at 400…"
"…run an IV of…"
"...good sinus rhythm, 51..."
Roy's hands were steady when he popped the ampules, sure and direct when he stabbed the syringe where it needed to be.
"Readings look good over here, 51. Transport immediately..."
His voice was clear when he had first called Rampart. Doctor Brackett answered when Roy radioed. He agreed with Roy about the v-fib; his voice brisk when he told Roy what was needed. Doctor Brackett was calm. Of course, he was. Why wouldn't he be?
Two lines. IV push. Ten milligrams. Charging at four hundred. Again. Sodium bi-carb. Again. Lidocane. Roy did everything as the training had taught him. But the whole time, from flat line to decent sinus rhythm, all Roy could tell himself, in-between performing the lifegiving instructions, was 'They got him. They got him.'
Roy trusted his station. He fought fires, ate smoke with those guys. He trusted those guys with his life.
Johnny was going to be okay. Roy wasn't going to consider anything else; they weren't going to allow anything else.
Still though...
They got him. They got him.
"Roy, what do we got?"
There was a steel thread that held up his spine the entire time he was with the patient. It kept his head bowed, shoulders turned away from the precariously balanced death trap.
That steel vanished as soon as John crouched down on one knee over their patient, penlight in his scraped hand.
Roy found himself suddenly lightheaded. He fought to keep his voice even. "Hey."
John looked up, quirked a smile at Roy and went back to business. He blinked away trickles of sweat so he could have a better look at the pupils.
"Uneven and sluggish," John murmured, his brow knitted together. "Roy, how many times you had to za—" He blinked when he raised his head. "Roy?"
Roy cleared his throat. "Three times. At four hundred." He motioned to the attendants pulling the stretcher along. "You alright?"
A pen was clamped between John's teeth as he flipped through his notepad for a clean sheet. "Yea," he mumbled around it. "How many times you said? Two?"
"Three." Roy gave John a scan up and down.
Pages crinkled as John flipped to a new sheet.
"Did Rampart okay for an IV with—"
Roy didn't wait for John to finish. They never have to with each other. "Yeah. Twenty milligrams."
John didn't ask for clarification or even the drug; he nodded as he scribbled.
Roy narrowed his eyes at John's bowed head. Aside from being covered head to toe in mud, spotted with chalky white concrete sand on his hair and pants, John looked relatively okay. Nevertheless, Roy's insides were knotted up as he tallied up the damage he did see.
"You sure you're okay?" Roy said. He kept one eye on his patient as they lifted him onto the stretcher.
John nodded, impatiently waving Roy off as he tucked the IV bag under the patient's shoulder and settled the heart monitor between his legs. They followed the stretcher to the ambulance.
"You hit that car pretty hard before."
"I'm alright. I'm alright...Well, er, except..."
Roy stiffened. "What?"
Sighing loudly, John pivoted around, walked backwards as he gestured towards his head. "I lost another helmet, Roy. And..." He pulled off his right glove with his teeth. He made a face. "Ugh. Mud. Look!"
Roy wasn't sure if he was relieved or wanted to haul his partner into the ambulance by his collar. "Again?"
"This is one expensive shift," mourned John. "My coat, my gloves, my helmet—"
"Looked like you got a rip in your pants too, Gage. Left side," Chet pointed out as he went by. "Ladder's here, Cap."
Cap grunted. "Good, they can put out the fire."
Roy patted John on the shoulder as John sputtered, glaring at the lower part of his dark trousers.
"Wha...do you believe this, Roy?"
Roy climbed into the ambulance, accepting the Biophone John passed him. "You okay to drive, partner? I mean, you practically got nothing on!"
"Now there's a scary image," Marco quipped behind them as he wound up the lines they used for the rescue.
John shot Marco and a snickering Chet a glower as he jogged to the squad. "I can drive. See you at Rampart!"
Roy could only afford a smile, a wave, his focus back on his patient as Cap shut the ambulance doors for him, a meaty slap on them to tell the ambulance it was good to go.
As the ambulance wailed into motion, Roy absently wondered what could have made that odd little round hole in Johnny's pants.
Dear Readers: (Yeesh, Sorry! I'm taking up valuable space here) I got your various PMs about what was said in the Reviews. Yikes! To confirm, yes, the story on Audrey's site and AO3 are mine and yes, I asked myself permission to post.
See? This is what happens with crossposting! LOL.
No harm done. Two betas and one proofer can pretty much back me up if necessary but truly, guys, I strongly think this was an honest mistake. It is one of the fears I had with posting everywhere. Deja Vu is right! :)
Now save your fingers. No need to PM me about this anymore. This is a non-issue, but bless you all for giving me the heads up. Go on, sit back, read and save me a cookie!
Touched,
Yuma
