Jill Sorenson - Aftershock

His chest was molded to her back, his strong thighs bracing hers. He had a taut, well-muscled physique. His stomach was flat and tight, his crotch nestled against her bottom. That, and the feel of his biceps framing her upper arms, made her shiver.

He even smelled manly, like motor oil and hard work.

Eventually the shaking stopped. The car alarm went quiet. They stayed still, making sure it was safe. His breath fanned the hair at the nape of her neck and his heartbeat thudded between her shoulder blades.

This was one of her favorite positions.

She shifted beneath him, embarrassed. What an inappropriate time to think about sex! Too late, she realized that the way she’d lifted her bottom against his fly could be interpreted as an invitation.

He rolled away from her and she scrambled upright. His gaze scanned her flushed face. She wiped the dirt off her cheek, swallowing hard.

A muscle in his jaw flexed and he looked away. “Sorry,” he muttered. “If you get hurt, we’re all screwed.”

It took her a few seconds to understand what he meant. He was apologizing for jumping on her. As if she’d be offended by his gallant attempt to keep her safe. “It’s okay,” she said, moistening her lips. Her voice sounded husky.

“Everyone all right out there?” Don called from the RV.

Garrett answered with an affirmative, and Lauren pulled herself together. She should be worrying about her patients, not her libido. Thankfully, none of the debris had tumbled their way. A few IV bags had been knocked loose. She was already running low on supplies, but she worked with what she had, and cared for the victims as well as she could.

Around noon, one of her patients began to experience severe respiratory distress. Lauren was aware that he had broken ribs. When she listened to his chest sounds again, it became clear that one of the splinters had punctured his lung.

“Oh no,” she breathed, noting his rapid pulse and low blood pressure. He’d been semiconscious; now he was completely out, his skin turning blue. His carotid artery and jugular vein were distended, screaming for oxygen.

“What is it?” Garrett asked.

“His lung collapsed,” she said, trying to stay calm. This was a life-threatening emergency. Placing the oxygen mask over his face, she increased the output levels. Then she searched her supplies for a large needle and a syringe. Cutting away the front of his shirt, she found the intercostal space above his third rib.

She tore an alcohol swab open and wiped the spot. Working quickly, she stabbed the needle straight down into his chest.

It was a clean strike, sinking into his pleural cavity. She drew back the plunger and watched the syringe fill up with blood.

Damn.

A collapsed lung failed to function properly because of excess air or fluid in the cavity. If the problem was too much air, the lung couldn’t contract on its own, but she could do needle decompressions to release tension. Although excess blood could also be removed, she wouldn’t be able to stanch the flow.

Dealing with severe internal bleeding was beyond her capabilities. Beyond the abilities of any paramedic under these circumstances. A patient with this kind of chest trauma was doomed unless he made it to a surgeon’s table.

But Lauren couldn’t just stand there and watch the man die, so she extracted as much blood from the lung cavity as possible. It was like trying to put her finger on the dam. Her patient expired within minutes.

Shaken, she set the syringe aside and picked up her stethoscope, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing. She pronounced him dead at 12:22 p.m.

He wasn’t the first person she’d lost, and he wouldn’t be the last. Emergency services personnel couldn’t afford to dwell on disappointments like this; they had to move on quickly. Lauren was good at that. Paramedics and EMTs didn’t do follow-up. Their focus was safe transport, not long-term care.

Despite her vast experience with death, this one wasn’t easy. They were trapped under several layers of freeway, so safe transport was out. She didn’t have the resources or the expertise for ongoing critical care.

Although Garrett had jumped to protect her during the aftershock, he made no attempt to comfort her now. He stayed back and gave her space. She appreciated his reserve; if he’d shown a hint of compassion, she might have fallen apart.

Letting out a slow breath, she covered the dead man with a towel. Her remaining patients were unconscious, but stable.

“Can you come with me to check on the others?” Garrett asked quietly.

“Sure,” she said, rising to her feet.

She donned her hard hat and accompanied Garrett on a final sweep of the cavern. He couldn’t evaluate the wounded as well as she could. Several people were suffering, but as he’d said, they probably wouldn’t survive being moved.

Lauren had never witnessed so much devastation. She prayed for her friends and colleagues, many of whom had families in San Diego. All Lauren’s relatives, including her mother, lived far away.

After six years as a paramedic, she knew how to hold herself at an emotional distance, but she wasn’t made of stone. Her heart ached for the victims. Thankfully, most of them were already dead, not writhing in agony.

She trudged alongside Garrett like an automaton, her eyes dry.

Lauren assumed that the destruction outside was far worse. The freeway sections had collapsed in layers, blocking all sides. During the short interim between the first quake and the initial aftershock, many motorists had been able to escape. Some on foot, perhaps. The massive pileups of cars were beyond the concrete walls, not within them.

“You need something to eat and drink,” Garrett said.

If anyone required sustenance, it was him. He’d been searching through the rubble and lifting heavy objects for hours. She took two bottles of vitamin water out of her pack, giving him one and drinking the other.

“Is there food in the RV?” she asked.

“Yes, but it won’t last more than a few days.”

She didn’t want to consider the implication of those words. Surely they wouldn’t be trapped here long enough to worry about starvation. Humans could survive for weeks without food. If they weren’t rescued within twenty-four hours, however, those with the most critical injuries would pass away.

Water was the larger concern for the survivors. It was hot and dusty inside the cavern. They needed a lot of fluids to stay hydrated. Ten gallons wouldn’t go far.

“We should search the cars.”

“I plan to,” he said.

As they reached the northeast corner of the structure, where she’d first met Garrett, she was struck by grief. The mangled half ambulance lay on its side, contents gutted. Joe’s body was buried beneath the broken wall. He’d been her partner for three years, but she hadn’t paused to mourn him. Guilt and sadness overwhelmed her.

She struggled to control her emotions, but it was a losing battle. After inhaling several ragged breaths, she burst into tears.

Garrett kept his gaze averted and his hands to himself. He didn’t offer her any comfort or tell her not to cry. She knew she wasn’t a dignified weeper. There was nothing pretty about a red face and runny nose.

He offered her a tissue from a box he found in the back of the ambulance. She thanked him in a strangled voice, drying her eyes.

“I’m wasting water,” she said. “The Fremen would be appalled.”

“Good thing we’re not on Dune.”

She smiled through her tears, pleased that he’d understood the literary reference. Joe had been a hardcore sci-fi fan. They’d discussed the Frank Herbert novel, and its classic movie adaptation, to exhaustion.

“My coworker...didn’t make it,” she said.