“Get the gurney,” Don said, and Joan peeled off back toward their vehicle. She pulled it out and began loading equipment onto it. JT and Dez held onto the squirming Andy as Don bent forward as close as he dared and lifted the edges of the Izzy to try to see the wound.
“What’s the nature of the wound?” demanded Don.
“Bite,” said Dez.
Don flicked a look at her. “What kind of bite?”
“Human.”
“Christ. Looks ragged as hell. But he hasn’t bled through the dressing, so I’m going to leave it in place. We need to get him to an ER stat.”
“That’s the plan,” Dez said between her teeth.
“Why’s he cuffed?” Don asked.
“He went crazy,” JT said. “Reason unknown. Killed at least two other officers, possibly three.”
The paramedic gaped at JT. “Bullshit! I know Andy and—”
“You ever known him to eat anyone?” Dez said sourly.
“You’re out of your mind, Dez, Dez…”
“Really? Take off the spit mask and bend a little closer,” she said. “After he’s done eating your face we can have this conversation again.”
Joan returned with the gurney and collapsed it down. “What’ve we got?” she asked Don.
“They said Andy lost it and started attacking people.”
“Killing people,” JT corrected. “Jeff Strauss, Mike Schneider, and maybe Natalie Shanahan.”
Joan’s face went white. “Oh my God!”
“I’m telling you,” insisted Don, “that’s impossi—”
Diviny surged forward so unexpectedly that Dez and JT almost lost their grip on him. The young officer’s teeth bit the air inches from Don’s nose.
“Holy rat fuck shit!” Don screamed as he fell backward against the gurney.
“Stop screwing around and get the backboard,” JT yelled as he and Dez wrestled Andy back down.
The paramedics were stunned for a moment. Dez saw the spark of disbelief flare in their eyes and knew exactly how they felt. Impossible. Every damn thing was impossible. Then they snapped back into the moment and went to work.
The backboard was a body-length piece of heavy-gauge plastic with holes along the edges that served as handholds or places where a patient could be secured. It took the four of them three minutes of sweating and cursing to force Andy Diviny onto the board, cuff his wrists to the sides, and secure his legs with duct tape. Better equipped departments had expensive strapping for these kinds of situations, but out here in the sticks duct tape was quick and durable and always available. Joan wrapped the tape around and around each shin. Then she repeated this around his midthighs and chest.
“You have a plastic bite mask?” asked Dez as she forced Diviny’s head down for the twentieth time.
“Philadelphia collar’s better,” said Don and he pulled one out of an equipment case. The device was a two- piece foam plastic cervical collar that fit together with Velcro and had an opening to allow access to the throat. It effectively kept Diviny from opening his jaws wide enough to bite, and nicely immobilized his head. They reinforced this by winding another turn of duct tape around his forehead, securing it to the backboard. Dez grabbed the tape from Joan and put a final loop around Diviny’s chest and shoulders.
Then Dez and JT sat back, drained and sweating. Don and Joan wavered with indecision.
“Is he safe?” JT asked.
Diviny moaned and snarled and thrashed.
“Can you give him something?” asked JT as he wiped sweat from his eyes. “Don’t you have some kind of chemical restraint? Valium or something?”
“We use Midazolam — Versed — these days,” Joan said, fishing in the trauma kit. She produced a hypodermic, removed the safety cap, shot a little into the air to remove bubbles. But she hesitated. “With him thrashing like that I could get this wrong, and I sure as hell don’t want to nail myself with an accidental needle stick.”
“Go intranasally,” suggested Don. “Doesn’t kick in as fast, but it’s a lot safer.”
Joan handed him the equipment and Don fitted a port into one of Diviny’s nostrils and attached the syringe to that. Once in place he pushed the plunger and the filter converted the liquid stream into a mist.
“Let’s get his vitals,” Don said, “and then get him the hell out of here.”
Joan clipped an oximetry monitor to the tip of Diviny’s right index finger while Don wrapped a pressure cuff around Diviny’s arm and began pumping the rubber bulb.
Joan keyed the portable radio and called the hospital. When an ER doctor came online she said, “We have a police officer down with trauma to the throat. Other officers think that it’s from a human bite. They applied an Izzy and the patient has been administered intranasal Midazolam. Taking vitals now. Patient’s skin is cold.” She took a digital thermometer and placed the tip in Diviny’s ear. “Whoa … temperature is eighty-eight point four. Pupils nonreactive. Not getting any pulse with the oximeter.” She dug her fingers into Diviny’s wrist, made an irritated face, tried again in a different spot. Tried again. Into the radio she said, “Doctor, I still can’t find a pulse. He’s in serious shock and—”
“BP is nonpalp. Zero over zero,” said Don as he began pumping the pressure cuff again. And again. “Damn cuff’s broken.”
“Forget this shit and let’s go!” urged Dez.
Don ignored her. He looped his stethoscope from around his neck and pressed the chestpiece against Diviny’s ribs. His face went from confused to blank. “No respiration. We need to intubate him.”
Diviny snapped and bared his teeth.
“Can’t intubate a biter,” Joan said.
“We’re losing him,” Don yelled, “he’s crashing…”
His words trailed off. Diviny wasn’t crashing. He continued to snarl and writhe and fight against the restraints.
“This doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“What doesn’t?” asked Dez.
Dez could hear the doctor yelling for information and clarification, and Joan picked up the mike. “We are unable to get reliable vitals at this time.”
She listened for a moment and then disconnected.
“He wants us to start an EKG as soon as we get him into the ambulance. And take a blood glucose reading. He’s prepping a room.”
The four of them stared at each other for a moment, and then looked down at Diviny.
“I don’t understand this,” said Joan in a distant voice. “He has no blood pressure, no pulse. He’s not breathing…”
“What are you saying?” asked Dez.
Joan almost said it, but didn’t. What she said was, “We can’t get any vitals from this patient.”
“It’s not the equipment,” added Don quietly. “We just … can’t get any vitals. He’s … he’s…” He shook his head.
Neither of them said the word.
Dez looked at JT, who was sweating as badly as if he stood next to an open fire.
“Let’s get him to the hospital,” Dez said quietly. “And I mean right fucking now.”
Without another word they hoisted the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Joan climbed in back but she sat on a metal fold-down stool as far away from Diviny as she could. JT climbed in with her and Don got behind the wheel. Dez ran to her unit, fired it up, and led the way through the maze of haphazardly parked vehicles. Another Bordentown unit was parked down by the road and the officer was erecting sawhorse barriers. Beyond his unit were a dozen cars and vans. The press had arrived, and once the true nature of this got out there would soon be more reporters than cops. Rubberneckers were walking along the highway and cutting through the woods, their cars parked on the shoulders of Doll Factory Road for half a mile in either direction.
As soon as they reached the blacktop Dez hit lights and sirens and kicked the pedal all the way down. The cruiser shot out onto the road and went screaming away from that place of death and mystery. The ambulance,
