***
Driving to the scene of the accident, I can tell it’s going to be total chaos. There are fire trucks flying past me, and ambulances every which way, and miles ahead, smoke is rising above. I mentally prepare myself for the carnage that will take place as I pull onto the shoulder, passing the stopped traffic. I get as close as I can to the scene and park. Getting out, I pull my supply bag from the back seat. I reach in and grab my gloves, placing them on my hands for protection. It’s then that I hear it. The distraught screaming from the wounded; doctors yelling orders, and sirens from emergency vehicles sounding in the background. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and head toward it all.
When I round the yellow tape surrounding the large scene, my heart stops. There are cars turned over with mangled bodies hanging halfway out. Trucks are piled on top of trucks with blood staining the pavement.
I look down at my bag and realize I need more supplies, a lot more. I turn on the heel of my foot and all but sprint back to my Jeep. I dig in the glove box and find more gauze and antibacterial wipes. I grab anything I can find, including pens. They can be a great tool when you are left with nothing else. I throw it all in my bag and jog back to the scene as quickly as I can. I’m suddenly pulled back by dainty little fingers just feet from the yellow tape, causing me to nearly trip on debris scattering the ground.
“Ma’am, can you tell us what you are seeing on the other side of the wrecked cars? How many injuries do you suspect? How many fatalities? Can you tell us anything?” a reporter quizzes frantically, waving a camera in my face. I turn trying to hide my face, not wanting the exposure.
“Dr. Wren, over here!” Is yelled at me from the other side of the tape. I yank my arm free from the reporter and make my way toward Doctor Meldon who is standing above someone trapped under a car. Doctor Shane Meldon recently transferred from a hospital in New York. We seem to be on the same shift together often. He is all right, but is persistent in asking me out on a date. I just tell him I don’t date those who I work with. But in all honesty, he has Stage Five Clinger written all over him.
Bobby
I watch the reporter frantically going on about how a truck driver caused the accident during rush-hour traffic.
I start picking at the bar’s loose wood grain, listening to the reporter ramble on about how it’s the worst wreck this state has seen in years.
“Ma’am, can you tell us what you are seeing on the other side of the wrecked cars? How many injuries do you suspect? How many fatalities? Can you tell us anything?”
I look up after nothing but silence follows the reporter’s sudden questions, and I find a stunned Jessica. Her round cheeks flush, and her pink lips part as she stares at the camera. God, she is beautiful. I haven’t seen her in weeks. She’s avoiding me; avoiding is what she does best. My chest tightens as I stare at the scared look on Jessica’s face, my fist clenching with the urge to protect her.
A loud crash sounds from outside the club, grabbing everyone’s attention from the TV to the front door.
“What the fuck was that?” I question, standing up from the bar.
“I’m not sure,” Bull drawls, eyeing the door.
I head to the entry and see Tom Cat on the ground, his bike laid over, knocking a couple bikes over in a domino effect.
“Oh, shit!” I curse, running out to him.
He is mumbling in pain, and his body is trembling.
“What the hell happened?” I question, squatting next to him.
He rolls his body just slightly, his leg standing out, resembling raw ground-up meat. His pants leg is ripped and tattered up to his thigh, with grooves and chunks slicing through his leg. Little hues of pink dot the top of the knee, deepening into red further down his leg. The red is so dark; it looks black in the fattier part rounding the calf. It’s road rash. I’ve gotten it before after taking a corner too fast and dropping my bike. I know what that shit looks, and feels like.
“Fuck,” I mutter, eyeing his torn-up leg.
“What happened?” Shadow asks, slipping his arm under Tom’s arms to lift him from the ground. I didn’t even notice Shadow followed me; I was so focused on Tom’s leg. I move around Shadow and wrap my arm around Tom’s waist to help carry him into the club. Tom was patched in a few months ago. Now Shadow has been dubbed Vice President, Tom is busy learning the reins of Sergeant At Arms, Shadow’s old position.
“Fucking wreck on the freeway,” Tom grits, his body wracking from the pain. We get him in the club and lay him on the couch.
“What did you do? Wreck and decide to drive here?” I question with a hint of humor.
“I wasn’t fucking staying around all that. People were screaming.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”