1.Unit 5-1
We were standing in line at the Chinese restaurant when a woman’s voice came over our radio:
"Unit 5-1, this is SWAT 6, requesting medical assistance at Cooperstone Street. Multiple victims with gunshot wounds. One subject is severely injured, condition critical. Requesting immediate medical backup. Please respond with your ETA. Over."
I take my radio out of my pocket. "Unit 5-1, on. SWAT 6, ETA in 7 minutes." We run to the ambulance, and Martha, my colleague and best friend, starts the engine. Sirens and blue lights blare as we drive through the night.
"Little men must have been arguing again, probably over money," says Martha, laughing.
"They're still injured, and we have to take good care of them," I reply.
"Then you'll have to stay here while I take a paramedic who knows something," she teases. I hit her lightly on the arm, and we both laugh ourselves to death.
We are best friends. We've only known each other since training, but neither of us thinks of it that way. We know each other very well. On the first day, when I saw Martha, I thought, "We could be best friends." And who doesn’t want a best gay friend?
From a distance, we can see the numerous police cars. "This is getting more serious than we thought," I say worriedly. Martha just shrugs. "I hope no civilians were hit," she responds, equally concerned. We can barely get through, so Martha honks the horn. When we finally arrive, we're already expected.
"Did you just request a unit?" I ask. "They’re either dead or only slightly injured. One person looks more seriously hurt, but I don’t know much about it. He looks like a civilian, so make the innocent man healthy again."
"We’ll try," I reply as we grab our gear and rush to the patients. Naturally, we go to the most seriously injured first—a man in his mid-20s, slim, and not breathing. I quickly attach an ECG. No heartbeat. I immediately begin chest compressions. Thirty compressions followed by two breaths using the oxygen mask. I pause briefly to let Martha insert the i-gel airway. After 15 more compressions, we take a short break to check for signs of circulation.
Martha doesn’t say anything. She just keeps performing CPR. This time, she does the chest compressions while I focus on ventilation. She’s already set up an intravenous line, so I just need to administer the adrenaline.
Forty minutes pass. We’re starting to lose hope; we had already given up on an older man. But finally, there’s a sign—ventricular fibrillation. We quickly grab the AED, apply the pads to the patient’s bare chest, and administer the first shock. The ventricular fibrillation persists, requiring further doses of amiodarone and electric shocks along with CPR.
Finally, the patient stabilizes enough for transport. I head back to the ambulance to grab the necessary supplies. Once I return to Martha and the patient, we load him up and head for the car. I don’t take a second look at the other wounded. Most of them have minor injuries or just grazing wounds.
"You could’ve taken them to the hospital a long time ago," I ask the police officer.
"We were ordered to wait for you," he replies. "Now, drive."
When I get back to the ambulance, I open the back door for you. Claire is there packing up the equipment again. We are not allowed to drive yet; the SWAT team needs to explore the area more thoroughly because a shot was heard. Since our patient is stable, we have to wait, she says. I sigh with relief. Only about 25 percent of resuscitations are successful, and I didn’t feel like having any more hearses today. Now we have some time and should check the patient again for wounds that we may have missed. Most of the injured have gunshot wounds, but why not him? "Yes, you can give him a quick check," I say. "I'll tidy up, and then we’ll drive to the nearest hospital. The patient will wake up soon too."
I run my hands along his body, feeling for any dangerous fractures that could cause an emergency during the journey. When I get to under his right hip, I feel something hard. I grab the scissors and cut open his trousers. I'm shocked, not just by the bulge in his underwear, but by a black handgun. It probably slipped down during transport or while resuscitating.
"Claire, come quickly!" I call out to her.
"What's wrong?" she asks, sticking her head through the door.
"Look what I’ve found," I say, showing her the gun.
"We have to report this to the police immediately," I say when I see her unshocked look.
"Firstly," she answers calmly, "what do you expect at a crime scene like this? Everyone has a gun. Even if the police officer thought he was a civilian, I knew he was part of it."
"But that’s the police's job, not mine. And secondly," she continues, "that’s his personal item. We’ll put it in a bag and just take it with us to the hospital."
"If you say so," I grumble.
A policeman knocks on the door. "Everything is safe; you can drive off now."
