Sheriff Mobley noticed the hood wasn’t completely closed, and knew he had the right truck. He pulled his tactical flashlight from his utility belt and illuminated it. Despite it being midmorning, the interior of the truck was dark. Ochoa, as she’d done before, tried the door handles first, and then she scraped the ice off the driver’s window with her handcuffs.
The sheriff shined the light through the hole in the icy exterior and peered inside. “Looks empty,” he muttered.
Ochoa began to scrape away the ice from the rear windows of the two-door classic Bronco. Without saying a word, she began to do so more frantically. She rubbed the window with her gloved hands.
“I see a body! Wait, no. There are two!”
Simultaneously, Sheriff Mobley began pounding on the hood of the truck while Ochoa smacked the window.
“Hey! Are you guys okay?” she shouted.
“Sheriff’s department. Open up!” ordered Sheriff Mobley.
“I’ve got movement, Sheriff! I swear one of them moved.”
“Stand aside,” he instructed his deputy. He pulled his new service weapon and turned it around to be used like a hammer. He struck the driver’s side window with the pistol grip until it cracked. Then he turned sideways and drove his elbow into the breach, causing the glass to break before falling inside. He didn’t hesitate to pull up the door lock.
“Are you okay?” Ochoa shouted her question again.
Nobody responded.
Sheriff Mobley struggled to open the driver’s side door, which had frozen shut. He placed his boot on the truck’s nerf bar, the shiny steel tubular bars that served the purpose of a running board on older trucks. He grunted as he pulled on the door handle. It flew open, causing him to lose his balance temporarily. The sheriff caught himself before falling, and Ochoa quickly moved in to pull the driver’s seat forward. She raised the seat back to give her access to the rear passengers.
Despite her hyperactive state of mind, she slowed her approach to the two people curled up together in the back seat. If they were armed, she didn’t want to startle them into shooting her. She found a teenage boy on the edge of the seat, bundled up in winter gear. His face was barely visible through the hood of his jacket, which was secured around him with a drawstring.
She leaned in further and placed her ear next to his mouth. She managed a smile as she crawled backwards out of the truck. She made eye contact with Sheriff Mobley.
“He’s alive. There’s another person crammed in the seat under a pile of clothing and blankets. We gotta pull the boy out first.”
“I’ll get the Jeep and call it in.”
While Sheriff Mobley pulled the Jeep closer, Ochoa tried to revive the young man. For a brief moment he regained consciousness.
“Hey, buddy,” she began. “Take it easy, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”
The young man tried to speak to her, but his mouth barely moved. Air exited his mouth; however, his words were stifled by his weakened condition.
“That’s okay. You don’t need to talk. Let me help you out.”
“Dad,” he said, the word barely audible but discernible by Ochoa.
“Your dad? Is that your father behind you?” She tried to reach under his arms to pull him out, but she couldn’t leverage his weight. Sheriff Mobley joined her side to assist.
The young man mouthed the words and spoke whisper soft. “My mom. Dad went for …” His voice trailed off.
Sheriff Mobley gently nudged Ochoa out of the way and asked, “Is his name Owen?”
Tucker McDowell nodded and then passed out.
The Otero County sheriff’s department sprang into action. While Sheriff Mobley and Deputy Ochoa raced back to the medical center with Tucker and Lacey, the other deputies gathered up the parked Jeep. Then they worked together to tow the abandoned McDowells’ vintage Ford Bronco to the sheriff’s department. Once it had arrived, they were able to confirm the family’s identity and provided the information to the medical staff.
As the day progressed, the McDowell family occupied three spots in the small hospital’s intensive care unit. Despite being exhausted, Sheriff Mobley remained in the lobby to keep tabs on the California family he and his deputies had rescued. They’d given the young family a chance to live, and he wanted to see their care through to the end.
The attending physician, an acquaintance of the sheriff’s, had just completed his rounds and approached to provide an update.
“Shawn, you really oughta go home and get some rest. These folks are in good hands.”
“What’s the prognosis?” asked the sheriff without addressing the doctor’s concerns for his well-being.
The doctor sighed and sat on a chair across from the sheriff. He loosened his tie, one of the few physicians who continued to maintain a higher standard of dress during the apocalypse. His white physician’s jacket, however, was soiled from inadequate washing. His shirt was no longer pressed. But he still donned a tie out of respect for those he treated. They deserved professionalism, he’d told his wife the first day after the EMP destroyed the power grid. He’d worked countless hours daily ever since.
“Not good for the father and only slightly better for the other two. Shawn, they’re suffering from the worst cases of hypothermia I’ve ever seen. You know how it is around here; we get cases every winter. You warn people on Facebook and do the PSA radio spots, but they don’t listen. They think they can endure what mother nature has to offer.”
“This was some kind of freak storm, Doc,” interrupted Sheriff Mobley. “The western part of the county got the worst of it. We’re lucky your hospital isn’t wall-to-wall with these patients.”
“It’s a good thing, too,”
