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HARTNUP’S TRANSITION ESTATE
“Give a hand!” Dez called, and two paramedics erupted from the back of their ambulance and sprinted to meet them. Dez knew them—Don and Joan. A male and female team who looked like they could have been siblings: they were both tattooed and muscular, neither had much of a neck, and they looked like they had bulldog genes somewhere in their DNA.
“Is that a throat wound?” Joan asked. She reached for Diviny, but Dez batted her hand away.
“Careful,” Dez warned, “he’s a biter … and he’s spitting some nasty black shit. ”
“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.
