Afterlife: Reincarnation

36

August 4

LANE

Will positioned himself at the patients head, his arms braced on their side like a vice. Looking to those around him, he nodded.

"On the count of three...one...two...three...."

With the final call, everyone shifted, a smooth, easy transition to move the patient from the stretcher and onto the table. He called out in pain, his face grimacing, his arms reaching down to clutch at his leg.

Immediately, I stepped away, releasing the edge of the sheet that I had held. Moving back into the corner, I grabbed my camera, taking my spot in the background.

This had become my routine; helping transport, assisting with stabilizing, then retreating into the edges to observe and document. My fear, uncertainty and caution had long ago faded, replaced with familiarity and routine. I was comfortable here, I knew my job. I helped as I could, then returned to my true purpose.

Once the man was settled, the blood stained sheet opened to reveal his grievous wound, the medical team set to work. This was our third patient of the day, all of them being victims of yet another militia attack. They had been coming more frequently, forcing us to be called out to bring back victims for treatment several times over the last few weeks.

Another frightening aspect of this new trend, wasn't just the increase in frequency. It would seem, as noted by Smith while talking quietly with Rob, that their proximity to our site was also narrowing. We couldn't be sure if this was coincidence, or purposeful, but the fact they seemed to be moving on our direction was unnerving to all of us.

We knew we were safe within our compound, between the fences and our heavily armed comrades, it would take quite a force to breach our walls. But that didn't set aside our fears, knowing that even though unlikely, any attempt to converge on us would still cause harm. It was a frightening reality we all chose to ignore.

For right now, we had a job to do.

Our current patient, a man in his late thirties, had been the unfortunate victim of an attack by local rebels. Armed with only machetes, they had chosen to wound him rather than kill him. It was yet another theme I had noticed in recent victims, the tendency to use fear and scaring rather than death to make their case. I couldn't decide which was worse as I looked at this mans leg, knowing with almost complete certainty that he would lose it.

The wound was deep, the muscle in his lower thigh split in half. Beneath the surface, the clear, shiny white of bone was clear as day, bright against the mixture of blood and his dark skin. The flesh of the wound was ragged, the cut crude and unskilled.

So much like the scar on Harry. The mark that never left him.

Immediately, I pushed the thought from my mind. Now was definitely not the time to be distracted. I had to be on my toes, never knowing when I would have to discard my camera, and help pass equipment, or hold a hand. It was an easy trade off, feeling like I was doing my job, but also doing more.

"Sam, get the versed ready, please," Will called, pulling on a gown and sterile gloves. I watched as the team prepared, each individual fluid and easy, each knowing their role. I raised the camera to my eye, taking photo after photo.

From my corner, I took a shot of the team as a whole, each covered in the blue sterile gowns for our small, crude operating room. Their faces obscured, her eyes intent. The IV line in the patient showed the slow, steady flow of saline, replacing the blood lost, as well as administering the sedation he would need to get through the next several hours.

I had seen this procedure, or those similar, done more than once in recent months, and where it had originally frightened me and caused me to feel nauseous, now, it was like any other thing. No different than watching a show on TV, no different than Greys Anatomy. Only in this, when the camera lowered, it was a reality.