of my hand. Her skin was smooth, her face warm. I eased her head back against the padding of the seat and felt for a pulse: faint and racing, fluttering under the soft flesh of her jawline.
“She’s alive,” I declared. “But I need you out of here so I can help her. Understand?”
The man nodded again – this time very carefully. I heaved myself back out of the mangled wreckage and the man reached for my shoulder to support his weight. He groaned painfully, and I felt his big fingers dig into the muscles of my forearm. I reached out with my free hand to help him and he came out of the helicopter into the pouring rain on shaky, unsteady legs.
I left him.
I leaned back into the helicopter and perched myself awkwardly on the narrow bench seat beside the girl. I was soaking wet. Rain dripped from my hair and my face, and my fingers were stiff and trembling from the cold. She was dressed in jeans and a dark sweater. I reached for the girl’s arms and moved them slowly and carefully. Then I ran my hands all the way down to her wrists, feeling for anything that might be broken. She was wearing some kind of a chunky, decorative bracelet. I saw her eyelids flutter. I reached for her legs and felt from her ankle to her knee, squeezing each one gently and watching the girl’s face for a reaction.
Nothing.
In hindsight, I was probably doing all the things that would have given any medical man worth his salt convulsions of alarm, but I simply didn’t know what else to do. From my rudimentary inspection, the girl seemed to have no obvious broken bones – and that was a good thing.
I felt the back of her neck, and then ran my fingers lightly across her forehead and temple. I could feel no bumps, and sensed no bleeding. I slid the heavy bracelet up her arm a little and checked the pulse at her wrist. It was still erratic – and then I heard a gunshot.
My head snapped round and I stared out through the opening of the cabin. The man and Harrigan were standing in the way so I couldn’t see much past their big frames. I sensed the line of undead was gathering itself like a mighty wave that curls over bathers at the instant before it breaks, and pounds them under the crushing impact.
I turned back – and got the shock of my life. The girl’s eyes were open and she was staring at me. Staring at me like I was some fascinating specimen at a zoo. Her eyes were enormous dark, dazed pools, set against the drawn pale complexion of her face. Her lips moved – she opened her mouth and exhaled a ragged uncertain breath.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, inflected with neither fear or alarm – merely idle curiosity, as though she had just woken from a deep sleep and enquired about the weather.
“I’m Mitch,” I said gently. “I’m here to help you.”
I sensed the doorway behind me darkening, and I glanced over my shoulder. The man was standing there, blocking out the fiery glow of the night, his suit already soaked and clinging to the silhouette of his muscled frame.
“Millie’s my daughter,” the man said – and again I noticed how unnaturally loud his voice was, and how pointed his tone. I wondered absently if he had suffered damage to his hearing in the crash and that perhaps the sounds around him were somehow muted so that he felt forced to speak so loudly – like someone singing with headphones always sings louder than they realize. But I had no time then to ponder the problem. I leaned over the girl and gently wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “We have to get you out of here,” I said, and then, like a fool, I added, “there are undead zombies close by, and there is a fuel leak. The helicopter might explode at any moment.”
I regretted my words instantly. The girl went from dazed and relaxed and compliant, to near hysterical with fear. She threw herself at me, flailing arms and hands and knees in a desperate attempt to get out of the helicopter. I tried to help, but
“She’s alive,” I declared. “But I need you out of here so I can help her. Understand?”
The man nodded again – this time very carefully. I heaved myself back out of the mangled wreckage and the man reached for my shoulder to support his weight. He groaned painfully, and I felt his big fingers dig into the muscles of my forearm. I reached out with my free hand to help him and he came out of the helicopter into the pouring rain on shaky, unsteady legs.
I left him.
I leaned back into the helicopter and perched myself awkwardly on the narrow bench seat beside the girl. I was soaking wet. Rain dripped from my hair and my face, and my fingers were stiff and trembling from the cold. She was dressed in jeans and a dark sweater. I reached for the girl’s arms and moved them slowly and carefully. Then I ran my hands all the way down to her wrists, feeling for anything that might be broken. She was wearing some kind of a chunky, decorative bracelet. I saw her eyelids flutter. I reached for her legs and felt from her ankle to her knee, squeezing each one gently and watching the girl’s face for a reaction.
Nothing.
In hindsight, I was probably doing all the things that would have given any medical man worth his salt convulsions of alarm, but I simply didn’t know what else to do. From my rudimentary inspection, the girl seemed to have no obvious broken bones – and that was a good thing.
I felt the back of her neck, and then ran my fingers lightly across her forehead and temple. I could feel no bumps, and sensed no bleeding. I slid the heavy bracelet up her arm a little and checked the pulse at her wrist. It was still erratic – and then I heard a gunshot.
My head snapped round and I stared out through the opening of the cabin. The man and Harrigan were standing in the way so I couldn’t see much past their big frames. I sensed the line of undead was gathering itself like a mighty wave that curls over bathers at the instant before it breaks, and pounds them under the crushing impact.
I turned back – and got the shock of my life. The girl’s eyes were open and she was staring at me. Staring at me like I was some fascinating specimen at a zoo. Her eyes were enormous dark, dazed pools, set against the drawn pale complexion of her face. Her lips moved – she opened her mouth and exhaled a ragged uncertain breath.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, inflected with neither fear or alarm – merely idle curiosity, as though she had just woken from a deep sleep and enquired about the weather.
“I’m Mitch,” I said gently. “I’m here to help you.”
I sensed the doorway behind me darkening, and I glanced over my shoulder. The man was standing there, blocking out the fiery glow of the night, his suit already soaked and clinging to the silhouette of his muscled frame.
“Millie’s my daughter,” the man said – and again I noticed how unnaturally loud his voice was, and how pointed his tone. I wondered absently if he had suffered damage to his hearing in the crash and that perhaps the sounds around him were somehow muted so that he felt forced to speak so loudly – like someone singing with headphones always sings louder than they realize. But I had no time then to ponder the problem. I leaned over the girl and gently wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “We have to get you out of here,” I said, and then, like a fool, I added, “there are undead zombies close by, and there is a fuel leak. The helicopter might explode at any moment.”
I regretted my words instantly. The girl went from dazed and relaxed and compliant, to near hysterical with fear. She threw herself at me, flailing arms and hands and knees in a desperate attempt to get out of the helicopter. I tried to help, but
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