Shattered Highways

by Tara N Hathcock

  Quincy glanced back down at the girl. Up close, she looked much younger than Quincy had originally thought. Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. And then Quincy panicked. What was she doing? This little girl was bleeding to death under her hands. What did she know about treating gaping wounds and blood loss? It was so, so bad. Even without medical knowledge, everyone knew a torn carotid artery was bad. Like, fatally bad. And here she was, getting ready to push down on the poor girl’s neck. She blamed the foggy dream state that had washed over her when she saw the blood. It wasn’t the first time the misty, surreal aura had prompted her to act without any real thought and do something she had no idea how to do. Even yesterday, she thought, with the fiddle. All it led to was trouble. And she didn’t need any more trouble. But she couldn’t worry about trouble right then. She couldn’t worry about anything that wasn’t right in front of her.

  “Don’t worry,” she told the girl, and attempted a smile. “I need to push down on your neck to help stop the bleeding. It will probably hurt but I need you to hang on, okay?”

  The girl’s eyes had been half-closed until Quincy had spoken but she’d looked up at the sound of her voice and locked onto Quincy. Quincy folded the hoodie as tight as she could and then pressed it against the wound, lightly at first but gradually building pressure until her whole weight was pressing down. The girl flinched but otherwise didn’t react. She kept her eyes on Quincy, though, never looking away. Quincy felt like she was a lifeline. That as long as the girl was looking at her, she was still there. So Quincy looked back. She looked back and didn’t blink. She looked back until something warm and wet broke across her hands and when she finally looked away, she wished she hadn’t. The bleeding might have been slowed by the pressure bandage but not stopped. It had soaked through the shirt and was spilling out from under her hands. When Quincy looked back at the girl, her eyes had shut and Quincy felt it like a punch to the gut. She had looked away. She had broken the lifeline. Quincy could hear sirens in the distance. Help was coming but it was too far away. Much too far away. And now this little girl was dying under her hands. No. No, she wasn’t going to die. That wasn’t going to happen. Because Quincy knew what to do. She hadn’t even noticed the fog creeping back in but she didn’t fight it or even question it this time. She peeled the soaked shirt away from the girl’s neck and used it to wipe as much blood from the wound as possible. It wasn’t very effective, saturated as it already was, and as she looked up to ask for something else to use, the jerk who wasn’t actually a jerk was already reaching out with another shirt, this one a white, thin cotton, pulled from the bag laying open at his feet, odds and ins and a toothbrush scattered around on the floor around it. She didn’t have time to thank him but snatched it gratefully from his hands and sopped around the wound and, for the first time, saw the cut. It was a long, jagged tear that ran from the girl’s jaw to her collarbone. The edges of her skin were flayed open and pulsed as each beat of her heart pushed the wound open a little more.

  People are weird, Quincy thought blandly. Five minutes ago, no one could seem to look away from the train wreck of the dying girl on the floor, pushing in close enough to see it all play out. But getting a glimpse of the actual cause of death itself? When Quincy had cleaned the wound enough to be able to see it, she heard one of the women standing over them gag and the crowd seemed to move a couple steps away, like they were suddenly afraid of contamination. Or being asked to help. Her big, blustery helper had swayed a bit but was stalwart enough to stand his ground. Quincy actually wouldn’t have blamed him for moving away, especially when she used the thumb and finger of one hand to spread the gash open even more and reach in with the other to apply pressure directly to the artery itself. That was the last straw for someone, judging by the sound of vomit splattering across the floor behind her.

  Where was that ambulance? Her hands were only a poor, temporary fix. The medics would be able to use hemostats to clamp the artery so they could get the girl to the hospital. Without taking her eyes off her hands, she addressed the guy still kneeling anxiously beside her.

  “Could you wipe the blood away from my hands? I need to make sure I haven’t missed anything”.

  A second later, shaking hands reached around her and blotted the blood away from the makeshift surgical site. How many t-shirts does he have in there, she wondered vaguely as she watched the black cotton soak the blood up like a sponge. She watched as the white emblem on the front slowly became red and when he pulled back, only a little blood seeped from the wound. She looked up at the guy. He had helped save this girl’s life. If she survived. She might. But she might not. Quincy didn’t know. And the guy helping didn’t know either. But as he stared back at her, eyes watery and scared, she smiled, hoping he understood. And hoping everyone else around them did too. He was still too pale for his complexion but he shot a weak grin back.

  “Do you think she - ,” but he was cut off abruptly as the main doors to the station crashed open and two paramedics charged through the crowd of onlookers, followed closely by two police officers who immediately began establishing a perimeter around the injured girl.

  One of the paramedics, an older guy with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair and a thick beard, dropped down opposite Quincy and assessed the situation as his partner, a young guy with red hair who looked like he might be on his first run, started digging in his kit. The older guy, John according to his name tag, didn’t hesitate.

  “Get started on vitals,” he directed. “Get me a pulse rate and blood pressure. It’ll be low, but that’s normal after so much blood loss. I’ll get as many lines in as I can so we can push fluid on her fast, try to get her pressure back up to a decent level.”

  Quincy watched the kid, or Mike according to his name tag, calming slightly as his more-experienced partner took control with ease, seeming unruffled as he leaned casually over the girl and examined Quincy’s makeshift patch job.

  “Nice work kid,” he said, referring to her now. “Not just anyone would have known to clamp the artery, let alone know how”. He looked like he wanted to ask more, but after a slight hesitation, he looked back down. “Mike, hand me the hemostats.”

  John took the proffered clamps. “How’re we doing on vitals?” he asked, going to work as Mike rattled them off.

  “BP is really low, 70/40. Pulse is 130.”

  “Right you are,” said John. “Go ahead and start working on lines while I get this artery clamped off nice and tight and then we can get some fluid going. I’d like to see that BP come up a bit before we transport.”

  Then John looked back up at her. “Okay kid, I want you to keep the laceration open but when I say so, move your right hand off the artery so I can clamp it off, okay?”

  Quincy nodded, just noticing the cramps running through both of her hands, ready to let go. “Okay then. On three.”

  When John hit three, Quincy pushed the cut open as wide as she could with her left hand and pulled her right all the way out, giving John as much space as possible. The black t-shirt was suddenly back in front of her, the hands a little steadier this time, mopping at the fresh flow of blood so John could have a clear view.

  “Got it,” he said. He pulled a package of gauze from his kit and packed it in around the wound to stabilize it, then turned and started setting up an i.v. Mike already had two lines in place and was working on getting the fluid running.

  Finding herself suddenly free, Quincy slid away from the scene, putting as much distance between herself and the drama as possible. Now that her part was done, reality was setting in. She hadn’t only been part of the show, she had had a starring role. Survival wasn’t being front and center of the spectacle, it was turning your back and walking away from it. And she hadn’t done that. All eyes were still on the paramedics, working purposefully on their patient. She managed to slip to the back of the crowd without being noticed, where she stood rubbing at her stiff hands. She was exhausted but she couldn’t rest yet. She had to get out of here fast. Hopefully everyone
in the station had been too focused on the gory sight in front of them to remember the face of the girl with her hands inside the victim. She quietly backed up to the restroom directly behind her and then stepped inside. She needed to clean up and get as much of the blood off as she could.

  It took some scrubbing but eventually most of the blood came off her hands. It was still caked under her nails but luckily she had a sweatshirt in her backpack that would cover her ruined shirt and that she could tuck her hands inside. A pair of “in case of emergency” glasses and a ball cap over her braided hair and she looked like a new person. As she left the bathroom the ambulance was pulling away, lights on and sirens blaring. Which meant the patient was still alive, still had a chance to pull through. But no one was leaving. Instead, the police were lining everyone up to take statements. A major crime had been committed, that much was obvious. There was no way that kind of injury was accidental. Quincy knew that trying to leave would only attract more attention so she swallowed her nerves and allowed herself to be corralled with the other onlookers, even though it went against every survival instinct she had.

  But just because the police had questions, it didn’t mean she would be seen. She peeked up from under her hat when the policeman got to her but he barely even looked at her. When he started throwing out the same standard questions he was asking everyone - What did you see? Where were you when you first noticed the victim? Had you been anywhere near the north restrooms or exits? - Quincy answered the questions patiently, tearfully, trying to fit in with the other witnesses. It looked like the woman came from the north hallway. She was sitting on a bench near the west ticket counter when she first noticed her. No, she had never gone near the north exits. Was she going to be okay? She managed to burst into tears at one point and the harried police officer, looking extremely uncomfortable with her hysterics, patted her awkwardly on the back, thanked her for her statement, and sent her on her way. One thing she had learned in her years of running and hiding was that tears almost always worked. She kept her face down, hidden in a tissue, and almost smiled as she walked slowly and unsuspiciously towards the door. No one had asked about the woman who had stepped in to help. And no one seemed to recognize her as she walked away. So maybe she was in the clear after all.

  Chapter 18

  The Colonel

  The call came just as he finished packing. He’d been expecting it for a couple of days, really, and was annoyed it had taken so long.

  “Well?” he asked curtly. He didn’t appreciate having to wait.

  “I have confirmation,” his associate said without hesitation.

  “Finally,” the Colonel snapped. “It certainly took long enough.”

  His associate did hesitate then. “I’m sorry sir,” the tinny voice sounded over the line. “I didn’t want to make any mistakes.”

  “And what did you confirm, exactly?” he asked.

  He listened quietly over the line, taking in the report. “I concur,” he finally said. Silence stretched between them as he considered what the next move should be.

  There were two options - only two. But which was the better course?

  “What are my orders sir?” his associate finally asked, either unwilling or unable to let the silence linger any longer. He took in a breath and exhaled slowly.

  “Terminate,” he finally said. “Quickly. Quietly.”

  That really was the smart option. Better to bring in a dead specimen than allow her to rabbit again. Each time she disappeared, she got better at staying gone and he didn’t want to risk losing her again. The situation might be different if he were there in person instead of this mewling nitwit that was fast coming to the end of his usefulness. Better to trust him with an assassination than a kidnapping. Kidnapping victims could talk. The dead tell no tales.

  “And if you can’t do that…”

  “I understand sir,” his subordinate rasped out. “Consider it done.”

  The Colonel ended the call, no more pacified than when he’d answered. He glanced down at his open suitcase, waffling for the briefest of moments, before slamming it closed and swinging it off the bed. His car would be here shortly anyway. He might as well continue with his plans. If all went well, his subordinate would never even know he’d been there. And if it didn’t, well, at least he was that much closer to the fire.

  Chapter 19

  “To die, to sleep…’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.” William Shakespeare

  The question is not easily answered.

  Death...death could be silent. Death could be peaceful. Death could be better. Death could also be angry. Death could be nothing but noise and pain and terror. Death could be more of the same.

  Death could be better. But it could also be worse.

  * * *

  Quincy

  Or maybe not, Quincy thought the next day. She had barely made it home from the train station the day before when another massive migraine blew in from out of nowhere and left her stranded in the middle of her small living room floor. She spent the rest of the day and the night there, actually, just barely managing to drag herself up in time to shower and make it to class on-time. She couldn’t remember ever having two migraines in the span of as many days and this one had been so much worse than even the usual torture. It was lucky she’d made it home when she did. It usually is, she reminded herself. But this one, it had been bad. And it had lasted so much longer than the others. It hadn’t just felt long; when Quincy had cracked her swollen, bleary eyes open at the sound of her alarm this morning, the pain was still present. It was manageable now, but still, it was there. She’d tried to sit up and the nausea that had been roiling just below the surface surged, forcing her back to the floor. Her neck and shoulders felt like they’d been battered by a baseball bat and her legs felt so weak and exhausted that she wasn’t sure if walking was even an option, let alone running.

  As she lay there, swallowed in misery, she couldn’t help but wonder why. These moments seemed to be happening more and more frequently lately and they were taking a toll. How long before reading and running gave way as her stop-gap for dealing with the noise and the exhaustion and the pain? How would she even function? Her head was blissfully silent at the moment, the noise muted while her brain recovered from this latest attack. But it would be back. And then the cycle would begin again - noise, exhaustion, pain, and, finally, sleep. Not enough sleep of course. Just enough to get her back up on her feet so she could do it all over again. Quincy felt her eyes, swollen, red, and bleary, tear up at the weight of that thought. She reached up and wiped at the wetness, surprised and a little afraid of it. The last time she’d cried had been….she couldn’t remember, actually. She wasn’t a crier, not by any means, but she should be able to remember crying at least once in her life, right? But it just wasn’t there. Which made the tears come in earnest. What was wrong with her? She threw her arms across her face, grinding the palms of her hands into her eyes with fury. It was all pointless, wasn’t it? This struggle. The exhaustion. The pain. That noise that she couldn’t escape. Was any of it worthwhile? Wouldn’t it be better to just close her eyes and then, nothing? Surely death was quiet. Surely she would be able to rest. She would never have to know why she didn’t remember the last time she’d had a good cry. Or how she could play a musical instrument she’d never picked up with ease. Or how she’d performed surgery in the middle of a rundown, dingy train station. She wouldn’t have to know any of those things. She wouldn’t be dogged by questions and doubts. No more keeping people at a distance and lying to those who snuck in close enough to see. It would just be silent. Wouldn’t it?

  That last question drew Quincy up short. Maybe death would be better. But maybe it wouldn’t. She couldn’t know that. No one could. Despite the hell her life had become, it was a hell she knew. It was familiar, comforting in a way that was di
fficult to explain, even to herself. She began to calm, the tears slowing, as the old, familiar buzzing began to make itself known. Quincy squeezed her eyes shut and wiped the tears away, steeling herself to do what she had to do. And what she had to do right then was haul herself up off the floor, shower, and go to class. There was really no reason she couldn’t skip a day. She wasn’t even officially on the roster. But she had never missed before and any break from the routine made you stand out, even to people who had never noticed you before. And Professor Michaels had definitely noticed her. Besides, falling back into her pattern would only serve to settle her nerves sooner.

  All of which was explanation enough for why the excited chatter of the other students caught her off-guard when she tossed herself down into her usual seat in the lecture hall.

  “I heard it was a bloodbath,” one student said behind her, causing Quincy to snap to attention in the middle of digging her textbook out of her bag.

  “It was,” her friend replied. “I saw pictures of it posted online. There was blood everywhere.”

  “I wonder what happened? Do the police know anything?” the first girl asked her friend.

  “No,” the girl answered. “The news just said a girl was attacked and they were investigating.”

  “So weird.”

  “No doubt.”

  Yeah. No doubt, Quincy thought wryly. Instead of sounding horrified by such a violent attack on someone in their own town, the two girls sounded excited. Curious. Almost in wonder. Sensationalism at its finest, Quincy thought again, shaking her head. Professor Michaels came in and she was hoping that would be the end of it. But instead of getting into his lecture, he broached the subject himself.