Doc Wagner pulled up on his motorcycle and jumped off, running to his assigned position in the main clearing room inside the hospital. At the same time, he saw his dentist come running up the street from his office, carrying a precious jar of ether in one hand and a medical bag in the other, sprinting into the hospital to join Wagner.
Makala looked at the crowd of onlookers who were gathering in the park across the street but—as had been drilled again and again—were keeping clear. In the parking lot outside the town hall and fire station, troops were falling into place, having responded to the siren but not sure yet if this was a call for military action or not.
John caught the eye of Grace Freeman, the second in command of the campus company, as she came running down the slope from the town hall, seeking orders. He shouted for her to order all medics down to the hospital and for half the troops to deploy along the road and form a cordon to hold onlookers back, with Ed helping to take charge of that detail.
Makala was already calling for volunteers as stretcher teams, and several dozen citizens responded to her cry, being directed into the hospital and coming out a moment later carrying litters.
“Listen, people!” Makala shouted. “I want a medic to check each casualty before you try to get them on the stretcher. Any suspected back injuries, I want fully trained medical assistants to handle moving them onto a backboard rather than a stretcher. Now move it!”
John went up to the first vehicle and leaned in. “Come on, Forrest, let’s get you inside.”
Forrest smiled weakly. “Hey, Colonel, or whatever the hell you are now. Good officers go last, remember?”
John swallowed hard and took his hand again, noticing how the bandage was soaking wet with blood that was obviously still leaking out of his wound. He debated for a few seconds whether to just override Burnett and call that they had a priority two and move him now. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Makala and her assistant were at work, the first stretcher case coming up. As she had done at the battle with the Posse and had not done since, she was back into the most dreadful of roles—deciding who would receive immediate treatment, who would have to wait because their wounds were not life threatening, and who would be set aside to die because the time spent to try to save them could save half a dozen others instead or because they were simply too far gone for any help in this world other than a prayer from Reverend Black.
The triage bag held several old-fashioned tubes of lipstick. Makala pulled one out and opened it up. The first stretcher case was a girl of eight or so, stoically silent but clutching a blood-soaked bandage just below the knee, right leg leaning out at a drunken angle with a shard of bone visible.
She wrote the number two on the child’s forehead, immediate priority to ensure no arterial bleeding. With what they had available for orthopedic reconstruction, chances were the child would have to endure an amputation later on.
Next one up was a girl in her twenties, broken arm dangling but with very little blood. Makala offered a few words of solace. The young woman grimaced and nodded, and Makala wrote the number one on her forehead. She would have to wait perhaps hours before someone would actually treat her, but she was in no danger of bleeding out or dying of shock.
On another stretcher was a young boy, naked, curled up nearly fetal and crying like an injured kitten as Makala gently tried to pry his hands free from his wound, calling on a couple of the nurses who had just come running in to help her. She gazed silently for a few seconds and then kissed the boy on the forehead, telling him that they would soon make him well, and then John saw her write the number three on his forehead. He was beyond help. What meager supply of painkillers and anesthesia they had on hand would have to go for the number twos facing surgery. She stood back up, wiping tears from her face and motioning for the next case, again a number one.
Then came the boy that John had seen in the back of the pickup truck, the toddler hanging limp in his arms. All those around them and those gathered across the street fell silent at the sight of him as he stoically walked up to Makala, and all could hear his appeal.
“Lady, it’s my little sister. She’s all I got. Rest of my kin are dead. Please make her better.”
Makala knelt down by his side and made a gesture of looking at the toddler, taking off the scarf she had been wearing, opening it up and starting to cover the terrifying, gaping wound in the little girl’s side. She had bled out long ago and had died, her features a ghastly gray.
“Can I hold her for a second and check her?” Makala whispered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Makala took the body, cradled it, and then went through the motions of acting like she was checking her as she wrapped her scarf around the child’s torso to cover the wound. “I think she’s a real special case. What’s your name, son?”
“Vincent McNeill, ma’am.”
“Vincent, let me take your sister to the doctor as a special case so he can help her now. Is that okay?”
He looked at her wide eyed. “Really? Will she be okay? She got real still as we were driving over the mountains.”
“We’ll treat her special, and you are a very brave young man. Now follow my friend inside, and the doctor will help you with your arm.” Makala looked at her assistant. “Two, and S for shock. Put him to the front of the line. We still have a few valiums. Get one in him.”
The young woman, another of John’s old students, fought back tears as she tried to lead the boy inside, but he suddenly turned to look back. Makala was drawing her scarf up to cover the little girl’s pain-distorted features in a desperate attempt to conceal the ravages inflicted on the little body of his sister.
“No!” Vincent screamed, and then he collapsed, sobbing.
“Get him inside now!” Makala cried.
Several from the crowd broke through the barrier line to rush over and help pick him up. Makala stood silent, clutching the child, breaking down sobbing and then looking at all who were staring at her.
“Is this child our enemy?” she screamed. “God forgive us. Dear God!” She sobbed as hugged the dead child.
John let go of Burnett’s hand and ran over to her. Reverend Black was by her side, and after a brief struggle, the minister relieved Makala of the burden she was holding, John kneeling down to embrace her as she sobbed uncontrollably, pulling her in tightly into a soothing embrace.
Black, holding the child, looked about at the gathering. “I beg each of you to pray. Pray for these people, and pray that this type of madness ends.” He slowly walked into the hospital carrying the dead child. John held Makala tightly.
“Oh, God, John, I thought of our Jennifer. That boy had the same look in his eyes that you did when she died. Why did they do this to these people?”
He looked up. The stretcher cases were lining up, waiting, wounded crying, while across the street, many were openly crying, as well, many on their knees in prayer. It was as if a vast wave of empathy had enveloped the town, and the pain of those viewed just hours earlier as foes had become their pain and source of anguish, as well.
“Makala, you have to get back to it,” he whispered soothingly, rocking her back and forth as if comforting a child. “You are trained for this. I’m not.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Help me get back to my feet, John,” she whispered. She stood up, took a deep, shuddering breath, nodded, and then pushed him away. The assistant who had helped the boy into the hospital was back out, sobbing.
“Focus, Gina. You got to focus on the moment,” Makala implored her. “Now help me.”
John stepped back as Makala picked up the lipstick tube she had dropped and walked up to the next stretcher, leaning over. “Two. Try to get blood type.” The next one was walking wounded, an elderly man, his skull cracked so wide open that John could actually see his brains. Makala wrote a three on his forehead and motioned for someone to guide him inside. The next case was a near-skeletal man in his twenties, gut shot and unconscious, obviously a three. The next case was another two; someone had roughly stitched up the carotid artery, but it was leaking blood and appeared ready to burst. The next one… then the next one… and the next one.