“We’re out, doctor,” came the beleaguered reply. “I’ve got a few doses of codeine.”
“I’ll take it,” the doctor hissed. She grumbled unintelligibly under her mask as the nurse handed her the alternate drug.
“A pregnant woman and her husband were brought in a few minutes ago,” Cassandra said to a frazzled ER clerk. “Do you know how she’s doing?”
“Look, lady—oh!” The skinny clerk straightened, cleared his throat, and pushed up his glasses. “Lady Cade, I beg your pardon. It’s just, we’re swamped in here. Nobody’s gone home in over forty-eight hours. We’re all doing the best we can.”
“I understand.” She smiled empathetically and nodded. “Can you give me a guess as to how many patients occupy the hospital?”
He grimaced and glanced around, rubbing his hands together. “Maybe twelve hundred? We started keeping records, but then everyone was rushed in so fast.”
“No pressure,” Cassandra said. “Tell everyone on staff they’re doing a commendable job.”
A frantic woman rushed to the desk. “My son! Is he here? I can’t find him. Please help me!”
From beyond the desk came more voices. “Prep this man for emergency surgery.” “Get me a crash cart. Stat.” “Her airway’s blocked. I need an intubation tray.”
Cassandra’s heart ached for the many whose lives were in jeopardy and the anxious family members in doubt and despair. But she wasn’t a medical professional. There was nothing else she could do here. Deciding her time would be better spent locating more residents and moving them to safety, she left with her guards.
As Cassandra exited the front doors, Sergeant Sutter and his recruits sat beneath a magnolia on benches and patches of grass, taking a moment to relax. Sutter leaped up, squaring his shoulders, ready for duty.
“Lady Cade,” he said, waving his squad up. They brushed dust from their uniforms, straightened hats, and came to attention.
Still standing in the shade of the awning, Cassandra felt a pulse—the slightest shift in the air. A screaming whistle. Sutter’s face blanched. He raced to her, yanking her arm with tremendous force. Something thrust them through the air. Then she was face down in the dirt, the weight of his body on top of hers. The thunderous boom deafened her as the ground shook. Feet stampeded. Mouths opened in screams she couldn’t hear. The weight crushing her chest left her barely able to breathe. Dirt and grass in her mouth. Smoke and dust up her nose.
She blinked. Someone else lay a few feet away. Denzel, one of her guards. Blood on his head. His eyes fixed and dull. Dead?
Realization pierced the haze and muffled sounds around her. General Garcia hadn’t kept to his schedule. He’d started the bombardment early. Hit the hospital.Oh God, no!
With hundreds of kilograms pressing down on her, she couldn’t speak or call out. Panic surged, driving her to break free. She wiggled her fingers, dirt scraping under her nails, and waved a hand. Feet clambered around her. Relief at last as bit by bit the weight lifted from her back. Last to go was Sutter. The fire chief and one of the sergeant’s recruits lifted his body, freeing her.
She rolled onto her side and sat up, trying to get her bearings. She caught blurred images and muted sounds as if she were deep underwater.
“My Lady, we must get you to the basement across the street,” the fire chief insisted. “There’s no time.”
“Sergeant Sutter?” She blinked, craning her neck to see. Memorial Hospital had been reduced to a crater with brick and steel spires clustered around it like a morbid crown. The magnolia tree lay snapped in half like a matchstick.
“He’s alive, but unresponsive,” said a medic who’d been assisting her with the rescues. The young man’s expression was one of anguish.
“Bring him,” she yelled, barely able to hear herself. “Let’s get into that basement while we can.” Someone helped her to her feet. She glanced back at Denzel’s body, crushed under a piece of the fractured wall. To one side lay a pile of bricks and concrete chunks. Was that what had been on top of them? Weak and wobbly, she held onto the chief, watched soldiers stretch Sergeant Sutteronto a plank of wood and lift him. She recognized one of the medics who’d been with them during the search at his side.
He saved my life.
“Hurry, my lady,” the fire chief urged. They dashed across the street. The smoking tail of another rocket trailed overhead. She stumbled. His firm grip kept her on her feet.
“All those people,” Cassandra whispered. “Just gone.” She glanced over her shoulder at the scene, horror-stricken.
“This way.” The chief moved with purpose, led them into a building, and down the stairs to a dark room. Someone flicked on a flashlight. It looked like a laundry, with large round tubs and cords strung across rafters for drying. Dusty storage shelves lined the walls. The concussion of another impact shook the basement. The last man closed the door at the top of the stairs.
Cassandra glanced around at perhaps sixteen men and women who’d escaped the hospital’s destruction—some bleeding, all traumatized. Something warm and thick rolled into her eye. She wiped the blood away and leaned against a post.
“Lady Cade,” said the medic, rushing to her side. “Let me tend your wounds.”
She shook her head, her gaze on where the sergeant lay. “Sutter is the priority. Help him.”
The medic, a Black man about her size and age, steadied her as she crossed to the unconscious man who’d shielded her from the blast. “He has a head injury and was crushed under piles of rubble. Probably internal bleeding. I’m only a medic, not a surgeon. I’ve done all I can for him. When this bombardment ends, we’ll get him to the base infirmary—provided it hasn’t been leveled as well.”
Cassandra stared into Sutter’s tan face, covered in brick dust, blood, and grime. “He saw the missile coming. Reacted. Saved me.” She lifted her gaze to the medic. “Now we must save him.”