Rob Horner [Horner - Night Zero

NIGHT ZERO

Rob Horner

Copyright 2019 Rob Horner

All rights reserved.

Background cover art by Engin Akyurt

To my four girls: Jill, Savanna, Caitlin, & Sophia

And my two boys: Connor & Ryan

Your support means the world to me

Other titles by Rob Horner

Darkness & Light: The Richards Saga

Brightness (available now)

Into Darkness (coming 2020)

The Chosen Cycle

Waking Light (available now)

Surrogacy (coming Summer 2019)

The Dungeon (summer 2019)

The Fall of Icarus (coming 2020)

NIGHT ZERO

Rob Horner

Chapter 1

Bad things dont happen in daylight.

Bad things especially dont happen on the sidewalks of the popular and well-populated Outlet Mall in Gaffney, South Carolina.

There shouldnt be any bad on a ninety-degree, early summer day under a cloudless blue sky, not with a parking lot full of Nissans, Toyotas, Dodge Rams, and Hondas which collectively transported the thousand or so shoppers to the mall-wide summer fashion sale.

Last, but not least, bad things didnt happen to Joseph Davis, Buck to his friends. He wasnt Buck until the last year of high school, when a two-hundred-pound strong safety thought to stop him on the one-yard line, with time expired and his hometown Gaffney Indians trailing the visiting Spartanburg Vikings 40-35. Head lowered, smelling the game-winning touchdown, Joe never saw the safety plant himself like a human wall, arms out to wrap him up and pull him down. He may have bowed under the sudden pressure, but he didnt drop. His knee didnt go down. Instead, he pushed up, somehow bucking the safety sideways, before gaining that last, precious yard.

His back ached for a week after, but he graduated a hero with a new nickname. Joseph Buck Daniels, the tight end who saved a perfect season.

That was the first time Tiffany Richards let him slip a hand inside her underwear. It was also the last time, because the next day she caught him slipping a lot more than a hand into Naomi OConnor.

He didnt complain. Naomi was prettier, more experienced and, most importantly, not one to tease or lead him on. Hed scored a touchdown one night and a home run the next.

Meatloaf would be proud.

No, bad luck stayed away from Buck. He was big and likable, the kind of guy you wanted to go drinking with and who didnt make an ass of himself so you regretted it. He made it out of high school with a diploma, without an arrest record, and without getting anyone pregnant. For a black guy in South Carolina, those were all things to celebrate, please and thank you.

Everybody knew Buck and he knew just about everyone. If it wasnt from his youth in the area, or his time as a local newspaper herohe still had the full-page Gazette cover photo hanging on the wall, bent almost double with another man trying to climb his back like a confused drunk at a gay barit was because of his job.

Buck was a paramedic who responded to calls throughout the county. His big smile was often the first one seen by people having the worst day of their lives, his deep voice resonating with concern and reassurance in equal measure. He never lost his cool, whether dealing with a cardiac arrest or trying to talk someone down from a methamphetamine high.

Even on a day like this, saddled with a fresh EMT trainee caught between fear of touching a living patient and goggle-eyed wonder at the ease and efficiency with which Buck tackled the job, he still maintained his calm.

Truck One, on scene at the Outlet Mall, Buck called in to the station.

Roger that. South side near the Interstate. Caucasian male, mid-thirties, DFO in the parking lot.

D.F.O.? the rookie mouthed.

Buck ignored him. If the rookie lasted a month, the numerous acronyms would become second-nature, from the official ones like ACLS (Advanced Cardiac Life Support) to the more colloquial DFO (Done Fell Out) to the colorful FOS (Full of Shit).

Expect a crowd on scene, the dispatcher continued. John Doe was raising a fuss before he collapsed.

Any other vics?

Zero collateral. Plenty of witnesses though.

Any back up?

GPD just arrived and are establishing a perimeter. Theyve confirmed life, patient breathing but unresponsive.

Roger that, Buck said, turning left into the Outlet Mall parking area. A feeder lane ran from the north lots to the south, passing a Tommy Hilfiger anchor. The south lots stretched from the back-side storefronts a hundred yards or more to the Frontage Road that paralleled this stretch of Interstate 85 between exits 90 and 92.

Turning right, Buck cruised past the southern stores, mostly shoe outlets like Reebok, Nike, and Adidas, giving little chirps of the siren whenever a car looked likely to pull out of the lots, or before a pedestrian could step off the sidewalk. There were more people like that lately, rushing out of a store with bags in one hand and a smartphone in the other, oblivious to the world around them because of a phone conversation that couldnt wait.

Buck hated those phones. Every advancement in technology was accompanied by an equal increase in motor vehicle accidents, falls down a set of stairs or, as made famous by a viral YouTube video, people tripping into mall water fountains.

It had gotten so bad that he recently responded to a 9-1-1 call placed by a pissed off phone owner whose service was cut off due to non-payment. 9-1-1 still worked though, so the guy called, hoping whoever showed up could get his phone working again. When Buck tried to lecture the guy about what a paramedic could and could not help with, the man complained that someone had to help him, because not having access to a certain social media app was causing him to have chest pain.

The flashing lights of the Gaffney Police Department cruiser guided them the last fifty feet, one of the uniforms waving his arms, exhorting the crowd of rubbernecking shoppers to back up, open a hole, let the ambulance through. Easing the truck as close as he dared, Buck lay on the horn and sirens for a full five seconds, rending the air with a full-volume blast that got asses moving aside a lot faster than the cop could manage.

The crowd was a mixed lot; morbid curiosity affected everyone regardless of age or station--families consisting of haggard adults escorting hordes of chattering children, businessmen stopped for a peek outside the Rockport store, and tweens dressed in strategically ripped jeans or scandalously skimpy blouses and skirts.

The road was a two-lane, allowing traffic to weave in and out of the parking aisles. After easing through the crowd, Buck pulled the truck at an angle to the left, taking up most of a handicapped spot and a good bit of the left side of the road, but placing him and his partner in a great position to aid the victim.

Slipping the gearshift into park, Buck and the rookie jumped out of the cab. Grab one of the blue bags, Buck said. There were two of the small blue basic bags in the back of the ambulance, packed with identical equipment and good for most EMS calls. There was also a red bag, which contained a battery-powered Lifepac defibrillator and all the drugs and access devices necessary for a field cardiac resuscitation, a to-go crash cart.

Rounding the truck, Buck got his first look at the victim.

Laid out supine ( supine, on the spine ), the man looked like he was simply sleeping off a good drunk or was caught in the middle of a heroin high. Approximately thirty-five, with a days growth of gray-speckled brown facial hair that matched the untidy mop on his head, the man wore a maroon Polo-style shirt half-tucked into khaki cargo shorts. Both shirt and shorts looked like they hadnt been worn too many times, if color and texture were any indication, but showed signs of recent hard work. Dark sweat circles stained the armpits, and darker-than-the-fabric splotches stained the shirt around the three-button collar, smaller spots like dripped grease tracking over the abdomen, collecting at the waistband of the shorts, where it took on a decidedly rusty color. There was no visible blood on any of the exposed skin, but long years on the job told Buck there werent many other liquids that could create such a stain.