Zombie Wake by Storm J. Helicer Page B

all over the
embankment. The bus itself stopped short of going over the edge. But two sedans
plunged twenty feet into the creek, which flowed fast with fresh mountain rain.
I was the first on scene.
    I don't know if you need a certain
personality type to deal with these situations, or if the training we receive
teaches the detachment needed to get through them. Or if, eventually, there
will be some kind of ramification. Either way, I went into the deliberate mode
that I’ve also heard other peace officers speak about.
    Bodies spilled out of the vehicle,
some on the ground and some partway through the window, with muddy skid marks
pointing over a twenty-foot drop, all reflected in the blue/red strobing lights of my patrol truck. Into the radio I said,
“R1122 on scene. I have an incident involving a full bus. It is a multiple
victim incident. We need expanded response, multiple AMR response. Call out
L855 for aquatic rescue. Begin critical incident notifications. I'm going to begin
triage and will provide updates as possible.” I heard the female voice respond
with a tone equally flat, “R1122, I copy. I will relay by landline to county.”
    Feeling the rain on my head start
to run down the back of my neck under my green rain gear, I made a conscious
effort to keep my hands from flipping my hood over my head. I couldn’t spare
time. Instead, I unzipped the red first aid bag sitting in the backseat of my
truck, pulled two latex gloves over my wet hands and grabbed a handful of tags:
green, yellow, red and black.
    By the time I heard Dylan's voice,
I had tagged everyone on the freeway and had scrambled down the embankment into
the creek. I was sliding knee deep in mud, looking down the creek where the
beam of my flashlight had fallen on a large woman's naked body half submerged
and pinned against tree roots when I heard a shout in the distance, “Storm.”
Slowing my forward movement, I grabbed a sapling and turned. Seeing that Dylan
and Joe were suited in their swift water gear jolted me back into my thinking
head. I wondered if I was going to let myself step into the water, a maneuver
that could be devastating and something I knew better than to attempt. But the
motion my hand made, reminded me of my current objective. “R1122” I said into the
radio. Dispatch didn't echo.
    Reception was unreliable near the
tunnel and in the creek there was none. I started to reach for my cell phone
then turned toward Joe and Dylan, who were following a line, making their way
down. I could see the reflection of the bag, the source of the rope, which had
been thrown to a position in front of a large boulder nearly twenty yards from
me. Aside from their reflective yellow vests and helmets, they resembled
burglars with their dark wetsuits and booties. Waving to them with my
flashlight, I motioned up stream.
    By this point I was amazed to see a
survivor. Up on the road, every person I evaluated was a black tag. Blood, and
grey fluid oozed from heads and noses. Two victims of the bunch appeared
completely intact but their pulseless necks secured
them the dark label. I spent too long searching one woman’s soft neck. Through
my gloves, the skin felt unusually warm—though my hands were icy cold.
She was one of the few remaining in the vehicle, buckled into the dark vinyl seats,
the backrest high enough to minimize neck injury. In that compartment's dome
lighting, her face looked too alive. I have heard of situations where the
physical impact of the accident is enough to sheer the aortic valve from the
heart leading to instantaneous, mark-free death. I wondered if this was the
case. Then reminded myself that I'm not a doctor, that my job is to show the
EMT which victims to start with, which victims have a chance. But there was
something about the lady that made me linger. Moving her hair from her neck, I
noticed that she had what appeared to be a reverse dye job, the roots were
black for inches, then the remainder of the hair, grey. After