Grumbles and mumbles tumbled from the mouths of tired men already moving at a break-neck pace. The alarm had sounded. They were needed. They must go. They rushed into the night without a thought of their bodies’ needs, of their families needs, or of their individual lives. Not when they were on duty. They must heed the alarm.
Cindy Johnson, the 911 operator, logged the call while the men donned the protective gear firefighters wore season in and season out. Only the EMTs, Randy Phillips and Mark Goulding, were spared the heavy gear that shielded the men from the dangers they raced to face.
“Sorry guys,” she said when they reached the bay.
The call was for a heart attack—not a fire. Not this time. The firemen could go back to their blankets. Red and white lights fanned across the darkened Fayetteville streets. The sirens skipped over the dry asphalt and vibrated in the alleys between businesses.
Inside the ambulance, Randy kept shaking his head to clear the remnants of sleep and steel his emotions in order to face what lay ahead. Would they arrive in time? Or would they be too late? If they didn’t get there fast enough, if too much time passed, too much damage could be done. They had to hurry; they had to go faster.
Mark turned on the dome light while he interpreted the squeaks and squawks blaring through the radio. Thirty miles outside the city limits. Past the sleeping little towns of Black Oak, Silence, and Dunbar. After Itaska, the road wound down the mountainside toward Hog Hollow at the base. A man in his 60s. Found slumped over a midnight snack of vanilla ice cream by a hysterical wife.
Double trouble.
No other medical history available at the moment.
Randy stole a quick glance at his wristwatch. 3 a.m. Only two hours earlier he and Mark had climbed into their cots after spending what seemed a lifetime untangling four teenagers from a crumpled sedan on the mountain’s other side. When they had arrived, the combination of speed and alcohol was dancing a delicate step with death, despair, and destruction. The score so far tonight was Death, 4, Life, 0.
The radio squawked again. Smoker. Overweight.
The ambulance roared down Highway 11, its wails waking sleeping hunters, babies, farmers, and animals. The rosary, dangling from the rear view mirror, swayed violently as the ambulance lurched through the night. Ahead, the two-lane road curved into a sharp goose-neck. Randy and Mark were familiar with this section of road. Locals called is Dead Man’s Curve. Not original, but appropriate. There weren’t enough fingers and toes between the two men to count the number of accidents they had witnessed on that dark stretch of asphalt.
Randy felt lucky tonight. The heavy, soaking rains that had been predicted had not materialized on this half of the mountain, leaving the road dry for the tires to hug. The ambulance veered as it reached the first curve, slightly crossing the white line, gazing the gravel shoulder. He guided the vehicle back onto the smooth surface and pressing harder on the gas pedal. Too much time was passing.
Mark donned latex gloves. He threw a pair into the Randy’s lap. Randy flicked his eyes on the gloves.
The road curved again. The ambulance didn’t. It went straight. Off the road. Smashing through pine trees and undergrowth. Down the mountainside, the ambulance rolled end over end . . . .
Mark flew through the windshield. His body was crushed when the vehicle landed on him and continued to roll end over end over end over end down the mountain’s side.
Inside the ambulance, papers, medical paraphernalia, and Randy were tossed like fall leaves in a tornado. Randy’s ribs broke when he bounced onto the steering wheel for the fourth time. His sternum cracked like pencil on the fifth bounce. His head busted what was left of the windshield, adding his blood to flying whirlpool.
It was dark on the mountainside. The lights had been ripped from the roof on the fifth bounce. The siren was but a low wail whimpering across the needled ground of the dark forest. The ambulance came to rest on its nose; its rear tires spun madly in the pine limbs.


Julie Failla Earhart is an internationally published, award-winning fiction and non-fiction writer. She has a bachelor's degree in journalistic and creative writing and a master of fine arts degree from the University of Missouri-St. Louis.


Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

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