5

The call came in the instant Peter was about to take the first bite from his sandwich.

Rolling his eyes heavenward, he reached out for the mike to answer it, but Hesam stopped him with a meaningful glance, biting off a demonstrative mouthful of Italian B. M. T., then took the mike, and said, "Yef?" Peter was slightly shaking with silent laughter in the passenger seat, but both men became serious in an instant when they both heard the controller's voice, "Calling all available units. MVC on East River Drive, a quarter of a mile north of the corner of E 41st and E 42nd. Several casualties, at least three injured, one car gone into the river. Repeat, all available units."

Hesam swallowed his rather sizeable chunk of sandwich whole and reported back, in a rather hoarse tone, "This is specialist unit 5-9, we're three minutes out." Peter keyed the sirens and lights as he did so, and saw the cars ahead laboriously move aside to make way.

Hesam's estimate of three minutes proved accurate, almost miraculously, because of the greater width of the tunnel compared to others of its kind, which made it possible for the ambulance to pass through the middle of the double lane of cars. They were lucky to have been so close to the entrance already. If there had been a single truck ahead, Peter thought, he'd have been forced to pull off his spider-climbing trick again.

They were the first to arrive on scene, and the sight that presented itself to them was a nightmare.

A truck going south seemed to have lost control on the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive, swerved through the median onto the oncoming lanes, smashing into several vehicles and causing a Mitsubishi van to crash through the low barrier into the river, in an attempt to avoid collision. The truck stood diagonally across the north-bound lanes, blocking two of them. The driver looked dazed, but not seriously injured. The same could not be said about a woman in the driver seat of a compact which, in addition to being hit nearly head-on by the truck, had also been driven into another car. Several other vehicles were damaged.

Peter saw the lights of a second ambulance as well as a police car appearing from the northern lane as he jumped from his seat with his bright orange bag across his shoulders, but the most sickening view was the rear of the Mitsubishi, slowly dropping out of sight a hundred feet downriver, as the van sank into the East River and was dragged along at four and a half miles an hour.

Peter hesitated for no more than a second. Hesam and the other ambulance could deal with the injured, and would be joined by more ambulance crews shortly. The Mitsubishi was as good as gone from sight. If he didn't get there within the next two minutes, every help for the passengers would be too late.

Hesam, naturally, caught his intention almost instantly, and dragged him back from the barrier by the arm. "Peter, are you mad?" he shouted at him. "This is the East River! Are you an Olympic swimmer or something? You can't jump down there without a rope!"

Peter devoted approximately three seconds to the possibility to run back to the ambulance, get a rope, tie it to his waist, and find some place at the barrier to tie it to, and forewent the thought.

He shook himself loose from Hesam. "I'll be fine," he said, throwing down his bag and running along the barrier until he was level with the sinking van. Then he jumped.

He hadn't expected the water to be quite as cold. The air was driven from his lungs as he plunged into the river, treading water until he surfaced again, shaking his hair out of his eyes to see where he was.

He was twenty feet from the van, of which just a small stretch of silver still showed against the muddy water. The nose was pointing down, dragged down by the motor. If anyone in there survived that day, Peter thought as he started swimming, it would just be thanks to the fact that it was a sedan, which held the air in the passenger compartment for that much longer.

Using the strong current, he swam as fast as he could, and realised that without superhuman strength, he would never even have caught up with the car, which was being pushed down the river far faster than he was. He took a deep breath and dived, forcing himself to keep his eyes open.

Even ten inches below the water level and in broad daylight, the water was so muddy that it was hard to discern much. Peter managed to grasp hold of the back door of the Mitsubishi, and tried to tear it open. To his dismay, he had completely misjudged the way the masses of water were pressing the doors shut, and that his strength resulted only in breaking off the hard plastic handle.

He now dimly saw movement at the other side of the car window, and next, a pair of hands appeared at the driver's door to his left, slamming against the window. He swam up briefly, took a deep breath, held it, and then went down again.

Peter pulled himself to the front of the van, motioned the person on the other side to stay clear, and smashed in the window with his palm. He didn't hesitate for an instant, but reached through it, grasped the handhold, and ripped it out.

Inside, he now saw the driver, a black man in his late thirties, who did not try to scramble out of the car at once, but who kept looking at the back seats. There, Peter could make out a woman that must be his wife, her face nearly pressed against the ceiling at the back of the car where there was still some air left, holding up a small boy of no more than two years, while frantically struggling with the seatbelt of a pig-tailed little girl.

Peter shook the man's arm, and pointed up, then pointed at himself and the girl. He was starting to feel the lack of oxygen as he waited for the man to get his wife out, taking the little boy from her, and pushing away from the car. Peter pulled himself into the back, drew a hasty breath of very used-up air, just before the entire compartment filled up with water, and returned his attention to the girl in the back seat.

She had not been able to get to the air bubble at the ceiling, and she was unconscious, or worse. Peter didn't even wait to check for a pulse. Instead of trying to unlock the seatbelt, he took it between both hands and ripped it apart. Then he snatched the girl from her seat with both his arms locked under her armpits, kicked open the back door, and pushed away from the car as hard as he could.

With the last remnant of air gone from it, the car had begun to sink, and Peter found that even with super strength it took an incredible effort to get clear of the pull, especially without the help of his arms. His lungs were screaming for air by the time he finally felt his face push through the surface, and he drew in huge gulps, treading water, hoisting the girl up to keep her head clear of the water.

Only then did he look around for her parents and little brother; he finally saw them a hundred feet downriver. The man was frantically trying to hold on to both his wife and son; the little boy was hysterical, and was endangering both his parents.

Peter desperately looked around for anything that floated, but there was nothing there. Finally, he shifted the little girl on his back with her arms around his neck, holding both her little wrists with one hand, and started to swim.

The woman and man had seen him, and he heard the woman shouting, "Abbie, Abbie!" as she recognized her daughter. Both she and her husband, who was now holding the thrashing little boy, made a valiant effort to battle the current and swim back to him. Even Peter was beginning to feel light-headed by the time he finally reached them.

"Is she okay?" the mother gasped at Peter.

"I d-don't know," he answered truthfully. His teeth were chattering, which seemed completely incongruous considering he had pulled melted chocolate bars from a glove compartment back in the ambulance just three-quarters of an hour ago. "She's g-got a chance." He remembered stories of a little girl who had survived seventy minutes in water, although that had been much colder water. Let her hold on for ten, he thought fiercely, just ten. Help must long be on its way. There was nothing Peter could do for the girl here, except get her to shore safely, and try to revive her.

The little boy seemed to have spent himself; he was clinging to his father's neck now, whimpering. Peter reached out to grasp hold of the man, who was in turn holding on to his wife, so they wouldn't lose each other.

"How… d-d'we get… out of the river?" he man panted, and Peter had to admire his pragmatic outlook. But he conceded that, after having been through what they just had, there was nothing left but pragmatics.

"That's tough," he answered. They were two hundred feet from the bank – or rather, from the smooth wall that lined the river in this place. He probably could have climbed it, but none of the others would, and he strongly doubted he could still carry them. Even with his new ability, his strength was still limited, and he felt he had used up most of it.

"Nearly imp-possible to climb out," he finally went on, panting. "B-but that's the Skyport Marina over there – look!"

From the brightly colourful building located on an outcropping in the river, Peter saw the most welcome thing he could have envisioned at that instant – a red-hulled coast guard vessel approaching them fast.

Minutes later, they were pulled from the water, Peter doing his best first to help placing the children in the rescue basket lowered to them, then assisting the two adults before allowing himself to be hoisted up. His legs felt like rubber as he collapsed on deck; gratefully, he accepted a blanket being passed to him and saw that a PHSCC Medical Officer was already performing CPR on the little girl, Abbie. Her mother and father, and her brother, who was sobbing more loudly again, were huddled next to that. It was a small boat; with the five people rescued from the river, the Medical Officer, and another man from the crew, the deck was already crowded.

"Mr Petrelli?"

Peter looked around to see a woman in her forties emerging from the small cabin, smiling, hand extended. "Master Chief Petty Officer Carol Hansen. Your partner back there on the FDR Drive told us what happened. That was a pretty amazing rescue for one man."

"Thanks," Peter murmured, getting to his feet and shaking her hand. "Is – the girl – Abbie – gonna be O. K.?"

"She's alive. Senior Assistant Young is doing all he can." She looked down. "We'll do something about your hand in a minute. Are you O. K. otherwise?"

"My—" Peter followed her glance to see that his hand, as well as hers now, was bloody. It took him a while to figure out that he must have cut himself when he had smashed in the car window.

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm fine."

She motioned to the colourful building on the shore. "We're going to drop you off at the Marina, the police has a couple of questions – and then they'll probably hand you over to the press. New York loves its heroes." Her smile was genuine and just a little mischievous, but Peter found the prospect somewhat daunting. He turned again to see what the Medical Officer was doing, just in time to hear him announce that his little patient was breathing. Her mother sobbed with joy, hugging her son and telling him, over and over, that everything was going to be O. K. now. Peter was in a daze, feeling like a watcher of the scene before him rather than like a participant. Still, despite the cold, despite the tiredness, there was a glowing sensation located somewhere in his stomach – the knowledge that he had, possibly for the first time, used his abilities to save lives, and not just one, but four.

The man he had pulled from the car now got unsteadily to his feet, looking around for Peter, and walked over to him. "I can't believe we all got out of that alive," he said, his voice shaky, grasping Peter's hand and clapping him on the shoulder. "Without you, my children, my wife… we'd all be dead now."

Peter gave him a weak smile. "Just doin' my job."

.

He was back at the hospital two hours later, an hour before the end of his shift, and changed into a spare uniform, but turned around when he heard a sound behind him. Hesam was standing at the door to the locker room, shaking his head. Peter wasn't sure what to make of the Iranian's stare.

"Peter, you gotta be one of the craziest sons of a bitch I've ever seen in this place," Hesam finally said, his face splitting into a broad grin as he clapped his partner on the back.

Peter grinned back, but didn't reply.

"Admit it, you just did that to leave me with all the paperwork." Hesam's smile faded. "And the cleanup. It wasn't pretty."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Hesam shook his head, as if to chase away an unwanted thought. "Never mind. That was amazing, dude. And you probably got the worse end with all those reporter people anyway. You've earned yourself a break. Hey, let's go celebrate after shift, O. K.? It's just another hour. What'ya say?"

It was a tempting thought. And yet, he couldn't.

"Jackson just signed me up for another shift," he said. "Sorry. Maybe tomorrow."

"Another shift? Can't that man give you a break after today?"

Peter shrugged. "He asked around who could take it, and I said I could."

Hesam threw him a glance that clearly said he wasn't quite right in the head.

"Correction," he said, shaking his head, "You're the craziest son of a bitch I've ever seen in this place."

Peter grinned as they walked back to the ambulance, his shoes still squeaking slightly with every step.

What he didn't tell Hesam was that he wasn't sure he would be able to join the guys the next day. He knew he'd have to sleep sometime, but the idea of missing a shift he could have taken, and failing to save someone's life that only he could have saved, was unbearable.

It wasn't a narcissistic thought. At least he didn't see it that way. It was completely reasonable. Sure, it would have been nice if there had been other paramedics in the city who had superhuman abilities, but as it happened, he was the only one. Which meant that he would have to do all he could.

And make up for everything.