B-Careful
The B-More Careful Prequel
Shannon Holmes
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thank You
Kingston Imperial
Kingston Imperial
B Careful: The B-More Careful Prequel Copyright © 2020 by Shannon Holmes
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Kingston Imperial 2, LLC
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Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the library of Congress
ISBN 9781733304146 (Trade Paperback)
1
The ambulance darted in and out of traffic, racing through the streets of Baltimore. Bright flashing red lights doused everything in its path, cars, trees, buildings and pedestrians, with the color red. Accompanying the frantic display of lights was a loud, ear-piercing siren that invaded the thin night air. The frantic display of lights alerted anyone within earshot that there was a medical emergency, and to please get out of the way.
Behind the wheel of the ambulance was a young, clean-cut, white male named Brett Anderson. The rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, from driving at this high rate of speed caused the Caucasian paramedic to grip the steering wheel so tightly until there was a slight discoloration in his knuckles. He ran every red light and stop sign in route to his destination; maneuvering the large vehicle with the ease that only comes from years of experience. Somehow as an ambulance driver, he had always seemed to find the correct balance of driving recklessly and safely.
Nevertheless, he knew that this was a matter of urgency, one of the highest medical emergencies that he'd dealt with all year. His skillful yet reckless driving reflected that. He knew time was of the essence. Every passing second was crucial. The high speed at which he traveled was a grim indicator that the potential for loss of life was high. Still, if he could help it, this patient wouldn’t be Dead on Arrival.
Countless times he had made trips like this to a multitude of hospitals from different neighborhoods in Baltimore city, wherever the need to transport severely injured victims or patients had arisen. He transported people from car accidents, house fires and violent crime scenes. Every call that he responded to was almost always critical in nature. The driver understood that his current trip was always the most important one. He understood that his aggressive driving could possibly save someone’s life.
At the moment, the patient’s poor condition conveyed the seriousness and the urgency of the situation.
As the paramedic gunned the engine and raced down Eutaw Street toward the emergency room at the University of Maryland Medical Center, everything became a blur. It was as if everything was at a standstill except his vehicle. Other automobiles moved out of the way, pulling over, allowing him to pass. Those that didn’t, he sped around them, weaving in and out of the traffic lanes.
At these high speeds, the driver ceased being able to make out the makes or models of cars, or even see pedestrian faces as he blew past. Instead he was focused on one thing, and one thing only, getting his patient the medical treatment she so desperately needed. The young lady was already on basic life support.
While concentrating on the road, he couldn’t help but think of the patient in his ambulance that his partner worked on feverishly, and what terrible condition they had found her in. She was badly beaten and lying in a pool of her own blood when her body was discovered in a downtown hotel.
“Hold on baby,” the female paramedic mused as she continued to monitor the patient’s vital signs. Her pulse was weak, but in this battered condition, she was fortunate to have one at all. Her vital signs teetered on life and death.
Although she had no previous connection with this stranger, the paramedic was sympathetic toward her grave situation. Her emotional support didn’t just stem from them both being of the same race, African American. It was deeper than just that. It was a maternal instinct the paramedic felt toward her and the condition that she was in.
The middle-aged paramedic had a daughter of her own around the patient’s age. Maybe, just maybe, this could have been her child. In spite of the fact that this wasn’t her own flesh and blood, it was still somebody’s daughter; so she was going to care for this young lady to the best of her ability.
In her fifteen years on the job, Pamela Jones struggled with the emotional toll of being a first responder. In her line of work it was hard to cope with the trauma she witnessed on a daily basis, as she watched life and death play out right before her eyes.
Day in and day out, the pressure was on her to perform life saving techniques under some of the most pressure packed situations. She suffered in silence, finding no one, outside of her co-workers, who could identify with the atrocities she had seen, while dealing with every medical condition known to man; heart attacks, strokes and drug overdoses. She also witnessed the aftermath of fatal car crashes and the carnage of murder. On a lower level, she also had to deal with trauma victims, gunshot wounds and victims of stabbings and domestic violence. It never ceased to amaze her what human beings would do to themselves and others.
Years on the job had done nothing to insulate her from the catastrophes she witnessed. Somehow, she had learned to emotionally distance herself from her job.
However, it was when tragedies or accidents afflicted the young that it bothered her the most. She hated to see
