Setting: Sunday, just past midnight, January 1, 2006: Miami
Three cars and a pickup truck pulled up to the chaos of the multiple vehicle accident. All four had temporary emergency lights placed in their front windows, their lights flashing to warn traffic. Turning the flashing to steady headlights, adding more luminescence to the early morning scene, all four drivers quickly approached the mayhem.
Alexx's steps faltered at the mass of destruction, wondering if anyone could have lived through some of what she'd already seen. "Oh hell," she whispered. Her black ponytail extensions swished with her head shake, the pink half-veil pushed back so as not to block her vision. She hadn't had time to change before leaving her party in such a rush.
Officer Frank Tripp was also arrayed in costume, dressed as a cowboy, complete with ten-gallon hat, which he pushed back in true Texas country fashion. "Hell is right," he muttered, surveying the scene, mouth slightly open. Silently he sent a prayer of thanksgiving that his three kids were safely ensconced at Alexx's house for a sleepover.
Calleigh, dressed in navy slacks and white sweater, following right on their heels, stopped next to Alexx. Mentally, she said goodbye to the gift from Horatio; there was too much blood to hope she could save the new top. She let one hand flutter to cover her mouth, fighting the uprising of nausea as her stomach rebelled. It was close, but Calleigh won and slid the same hand back down to lightly cover her swollen belly.
Stopping just between the women, dressed in pajama bottoms, heavy sweater, dark red wind-breaker, and sturdy boots, Ryan looked like a mixed bag. He had obviously been pulled out of bed by the recall of all off-duty emergency personnel. The thin, brown-haired investigator turned to glance over Alexx, checking out her wispy outfit and exposed midriff. "Jeanie?"
She merely nodded and replied "we host a children's party every New Year's." Without looking at her friends and co-workers, Alexx walked towards the station wagons, both of which were crumpled into the wall of the museum grounds. She saw Speed, dressed in old jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, watching as fire rescue workers used the Jaws of Life on the front wagon. Detective McGuire stood a little away, photographing the same car.
Ryan glanced to his other side at the clean white sweater Calleigh sported. Without a word, he slipped out of his wind-breaker and held it out to her.
Calleigh looked at the jacket then up at the man. "Thanks, Ryan." She smiled softly and took the garment, slipping it on and zipping it over her protruding abdomen. It hung down her thighs.
His glance followed her hands and he frowned. "No lifting, Calleigh."
The blonde nodded and smiled up at him again. "No lifting, Ryan." She walked briskly towards the closest vehicle, a yellow pickup truck crushed head-first into the huge purple cab of the silvery eighteen-wheeler.
Ryan silently headed for the purple compact at the rear of the massive truck, watching ambulance workers crawling in and around the two occupants inside.
Horatio didn't bother to glance up as the rest of his team arrived. He merely stood patiently waiting as the driver of the big rig gulped down water like a dehydrated man. Like those members who had been on call, Horatio was dressed in his typical suit, though the redhead didn't begrudge the new arrivals their haphazard, unprofessional attire. No one had been given time to change; they had been ordered to grab their kits and report as soon as possible. More of the rescuers than CSI's were dressed for partying or sleep that cool January morning.
Finally, from his seat on the large step of his driver's side door, the trucker looked up and whispered, "I ran them over . . . I couldn't stop." He shuddered and turned to suddenly vomit up all the water he'd been gulping.
Patiently standing to one side, Horatio waited for the man to get back under control. He glanced momentarily over at Alexx, joining Speed at the front station wagon. The lead investigator hadn't yet gotten further than the truck so hadn't been able to take in the full extent of the accident scene. He had to trust his CSI's to cover it for him.
Nearby, their newest CSI of seven months, Rain McGuire, took pictures as quickly as she could, trying to capture the scene before too much became altered by the rescue attempts. The red-haired woman in the neat slacks suit and CSI vest ignored questions directed at her by shouting reporters outside the crime tape. They asked how many people had died and if the trucker really was drunk when he plowed through all those cars, but the part-Seminole Indian refused to be distracted or to speculate for the flock. She kept her back to them and continued silently working.
At the front and right side of the truck, Eric Delko, dressed in slacks and a button down shirt along with his winter jacket, moved carefully around the smashed, unrecognizable heap of metal crushed between the yellow pickup and the tail end of a dark blue station wagon, as well as under the front passenger side of the eighteen-wheeler. Anyone in that vehicle had to be dead. The Cuban-Russian American wished he could go on to a different car, but everyone had claimed a vehicle in the beginning; he couldn't ask to swap now just because he wouldn't have the hope of a survivor to settle his roiling stomach. He glanced up as Calleigh approached, heading for the front of the pickup and its lone occupant, who had not moved in the last ten minutes: the driver had been checked and left by the first ambulance crew to arrive. Delko looked back into his vehicle, something flashy red, knowing that Calleigh wouldn't have the comfort of a survivor, either, and wondering if he should warn the pregnant woman away from what promised to be a gory view: the yellow pickup had been crushed almost as much as Speed's chosen dark blue station wagon.
Speed wasn't next to his chosen car. Rather he was with Rain's choice: the lighter colored lead station wagon. He'd gone to check his vehicle and seen no movement or signs of life, fighting the nausea at the sight of the four victims. It had already been deserted by the first responding EMT's. Speed didn't want anyone else to handle that car, but he got distracted when the little girl in the lead car woke up and started screaming. Now he watched as the emergency people worked furiously to free the heavily bleeding child, talking to her encouragingly despite her once more unconscious state.
Alexx stopped beside her friend. "Hey, Baby." She watched with a grimace for the screeching, twisted-metal noise of the machine doing its job. "Someone lived through that?"
Sighing Speed nodded, his stance tense. "The girl woke up when we got here. They're hoping she's still alive in there. No movement from the woman, though." He tried to keep his voice neutral, so intent on willing the kid to life, he hadn't realized that Alexx moved from his side and onto the darker station wagon behind this one.
When Alexx reached the heavily damaged car, its front end crumpled practically into the back seat, engine bay literally folded into the laps of the front occupants, she shivered. As she reached the door of the driver's side, Alexx jumped, hearing Speed's sudden, panic-filled scream, "No, wait, Alexx!" But his warning came too late. Her flashlight shone through the shattered window and on the crumpled African-American man dressed as Dracula then bounced over the blonde woman with dark wig askew.
Her skin paled to near cream color as the African-American medical examiner stiffened, her hands convulsing involuntarily. Her knees collapsed, lifeless beneath her, and a scream of pain and horror ripped from her throat. She hit her knees on the unforgiving asphalt, but never felt the pain of impact as her vision dimmed and her blood pulsed in a raging vortex in her head.
Skidding to a drop next to Alexx, Speed enveloped her in his arms, one strong hand firmly turning her face into his shoulder as she continued to scream. She began to tremble, her cries muffled by his shoulder, and Speed started rocking her gently, making nonsensical soothing noises but refusing to lie and say everything would be fine. He knew nothing would be fine for his best friend.
The rescue workers who weren't immediately saving lives hurried over closely following the CSI's. A swarm of loud questions rang out from the blocked reporters, none of whom could see what happened by the distant car. One woman reported "apparently another victim has woken up; one more survivor in this New Year's carnage." But for the most part, everyone ignored her while they tried to check on the collapsed, hysterical medical examiner.
Horatio slowed as he saw Alexx trembling against Speed, burrowing desperately into her friend. His eyes darted past the pair to the dark blue family car. A child's head lay against the bloody smashed rear window, a pirate hat crumpled against the shattered glass. Already pale skin turning nearly white, Horatio stepped purposefully forward as Speed looked up.
"No, H . . ." his voice sounded desperate but Horatio ignored the other man, lifting his flashlight to shine over the windows of the crushed vehicle. He willed himself to continue around the crumpled back of the car but was blocked by the red metal heap Delko had been investigating: it was pinned between the big rig and this station wagon. Moving in the other direction, towards the front end and the wall, Horatio again shone his light in, angling it to play over the small figure of the blue-gowned fairy princess in the far back seat.
A small hand convulsed, clutching at nothing, grasping at life, and Horatio shouted in stunned relief. "She's alive!" He began to crawl over the hood, ignoring any evidence he messed up, blocking thoughts of the other inhabitants of the car . . . of the lifeless boy in the back seat. "Over here!" he called as Delko and Ryan quickly followed him. "She's alive! Madison's alive!"