Cottonwood was roughly thirty kilometers south of Redding and with the highway linking the two locations, the drive should have taken no more than thirty minutes. That was assuming one discounted the typical conditions of the roads, littered clogged by vehicle carcasses and impromptu road blocks. The Fortress had already ploughed through two such obstacles with relatively minor damage but Robert cursed the fickle workings of fate as they came upon a third multi-car pile-up. Stealing a glance over his should, he could see Nastia standing over Natalie who was laid out across the dining table.

The decision of whether to go around the roadblock or through it had been made by Carmeron and he didn’t disagree with the decision. He floored the accelerator and double clutched his way through to the higher gears as their speed crept past seventy kilometers yet again.

Seated in his usual place in the front passenger seat, Cameron grabbed the dashboard and shouted, “Brace for impact!”

The warning was unnecessary as everyone had grabbed on to the nearest fixture the moment they had felt the vehicle pick up speed. The scream of metal on metal was ear piercing as vehicles wreck pin wheeled like leaves in a hurricane, glass crunching beneath the heavy tires like cereal as the vehicle as metal screamed in protest, tearing gouges in to the armored flanks of the fortress.

Cameron breathed a sigh of relief until he caught sight of Robert’s frown. Naval aviators, commercial airline and amateur pilots with sufficient flight time would have developed a “feel” for their craft, its controls becoming an extension of the pilots mind. The same held true for tank drivers and months at the wheel of the Fortress was essentially the same thing for Robert. He didn’t need to look to know something was wrong, “What?” asked Cameron.

“Left front tire took a hit and its leaking air. I give us two minutes before its flat and two minutes after that we’ll be dead in the water,” was the dark reply.

Cameron cursed something at odds with the existence of God and existence itself, “Get on the radio to Redding. See if they can send a fast convoy to take Natalie,” he paused, “and maybe some of our passengers.” Robert had just picked up the radio as Cameron threaded his way through the maze of feet and legs until he was standing alongside Nastia, “Give me the bullet!”

The bullet was not a firearm round but the paramedic bullet for giving the rapid summary of a patient’s condition, with the presentation of injuries and finished with treatment administered in chronological order, “Stab wound to the flank that has hit something. Secondary stab wound to the forearm. Third degree burns to thirty five percent body surface areas. Escharotomy performed to both legs and right forearm. Bilateral Tension pneumothorax relieved with needle thoracostomy. Crashed to bilateral hemopneumothorax. Two chest tubes in, total output seven hundred CCs of blood. Intubated to protect airway. Peritoneal lavage is positive. Ex-lap required. Pulse is weak and thready, blood pressure is low, and we don't have enough fluids to maintain volume and prevent blood pressure from bottoming out.”

Having been a fan of the now defunct television series “ER,” Cameron had a depressingly good understanding of everything he had just been told, a textbook illustration of an unstable patient sliding down a slippery slope towards death. For the moment the constant regular beating of the monitor was reassuring, “How long?”

“If we don't get her to a proper medical facility soon she won't make it till dawn.” Nastia shone a flashlight in to Natalie’s eyes and breathed a small sigh of relief, “Eyes still respond to light, indicating brain activity.” Her knuckles dug in to Natalie’s chest and she responded by trying to push Nastia away, “Weak response to painful stimuli. GCS one, two, two, totaling five.”

“Cameron, Redding says that they can dispatch ground transport but that would take twenty, maybe twenty five minutes,” reported Robert, “They could dispatch a chopper…”

“Get that chopper airborne, “Push as far as you can and then pop the floodlights!” The armory on the Fortress was kept well stocked and amongst its fully loaded arsenal were a trio of flare guns they had never used, “Nastia stay and pack whatever you might need and prepare to move her. Robert, give her a hand. Jaira,” he hesitated, “and any who want to lend a hand, get a gun and follow me.” Robert had allowed the vehicle to coast to a stop, and Cameron and Jaira had dismounted along with their scratch platoon of rescues, now volunteers.

Inside, a discordant note sounded and Nastia blanched at the sound, “Robert!” she shouted as she placed the protective pads on Natalie’s chest and ribs. She thrust the ambu-bag in to Robert’s hands, “Squeeze once every three seconds. When I say “clear,” lift the mask and don’t touch her or you’ll be blown across the room.” The defibrillator gave off a high pitch whine as it charged, “In that red box, find me the phial marked Atropine.” The unit beeped its readiness, ““Clear!”

Natalie jerked as the electric current passed through her body and Robert instinctively checked for a pulse, “Weak pulse,” he squeezed the bag and the digital readout normalized, “How long?” asked Robert as he squeezed again.

The look on her face contrasted markedly with Natalie almost peaceful expression as Nastia ran through the motions yet again, “GCS, one, one, two… four.”

“What’s a GCS?” asked a bewildered Robert.

“Glasgow Coma Scale. Three tests for eye movement, verbal communication and motor skills. The maximum scores are four, five and six,” she hesitated, “Four out of a total of fifteen…” her voice trailed off, and even Robert knew that was bad.

Outside, the patience of the sentries was rewarded, the dull sound of rotor blades cutting through the night. Cameron cocked the gun and fired, the flare streaked upwards on a tongue of flame popping with dazzling brilliance overhead. Natalie was already half out of the Fortress, strapped to the backboard, watching as the chopper came in low and disgorged four armed passengers. Peter was the first to step in to the light and given the circumstances dispensed with the pleasantries, “Your medic and I ride back with Natalie!”

Cameron hesitated, torn between his numerous responsibilities and finally nodded, “We’ll get to Redding as soon as we can. Make sure your people are ready to treat eight women of varying ages, malnourished and victims of abuse.”

Peter paused as the stretchered Natalie was carried towards the waiting chopper with Nastia alongside. Cameron slapped him on the shoulder, “Go!” before turning his attention to the Fortress’s shredded tire.

The chopper lifted off and vanished in to the night, their volunteer sentries closing ranks around the vehicle as the three full time members of the crew turned to affect the necessary repairs to the shredded tire. In the past many truckers would have opted to save money by purchasing repaired or patched tires that would often shred under a heavy load, but they went with only the best. Working quickly they undid the screws and lifted the hinged armor plating before sliding under to position the jack to raise the cab.

In Redding, the chopper had landed on the hospital’s roof and Natalie on to a gurney when the worst occurred, “Asystole!” Nastia was pushed back as a doctor and a pair of nurses worked frantically and succeeded in restoring a stable heart rhythm. The elevator was crowded with activity and Nastia breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator doors closed, leaving them alone on the roof. She needed the solitude, as she stared at the powered down chopper, the pilot running through his post flight checklists. “Please God,” she whispered, “Let everyone get here soon.”

The bolts were tight on the tire and it took several blows using a wrench and hammer in concert to pop them free. The ruined tire was discarded and a new one mounted and secured. The entire process had taken too long. Throwing the last of the tools in to the external locker, Cameron hammered the side of the Fortress and they returned to the road, plowing through another pair of roadblocks before Redding’s watchtowers appeared out of the darkness, lit by moonlight.

Spotlights lit them up as they drew closer to the wall and they passed through the gates only to find themselves waiting as the guards conducted their usual through, time consuming sweep of the vehicle. But they were greeted by an open top jeep, the driver making good times through Redding’s twisted streets to Mercy Medical Center. The tall building was shrouded in shadow except for the glow of florescent lighting spilling out through the doors.

“Elevators on the left, third floor, first right turn to the surgery waiting room,” said their driver. Nobody thanked him, but he understood the hell of waiting ahead of them. Peter and Nastia were seated in the waiting room, doing exactly that and there was nothing anyone could do but join them. The seconds ticked by with unnerving slowness. Cameron searched through his pockets muttering under his breath. Jaira reached in to one of her own and pulled out a pack. She tapped it for several long moments, almost unaware that everyone’s eyes were upon her as she ripped through the plastic wrap and then the paper tab to pull a cigarette before sliding the pack across the table.

Cameron snatched one and then started searching his pockets for something to light it with. Jaira shook her head and tossed her matches across the table to him, “Blew up a kitchen.”

He grunted and lit up, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of tainted smoke. Peter studied the pair for a moment, and then reached for one himself. His first drag made him splutter, but he took a second and then a third, “When you need it most,” he said to no one in particular. They seemed to take turns staring at the double doors and the red backlit words that made it clear surgery was in progress.

It felt like hours, and it was hours later when a doctor finally stepped out from behind those doors, and to Cameron, there was doom in her stride, as she gave them all the details, “Natalie suffered severe blunt and penetrating trauma. We’ve repaired the injuries to her liver, spleen and the punctured lung but there is nothing that we can do for the bruising to her heart and lungs. But she’s made it through surgery. The burns I’m glad to say are not as severe as originally thought, mostly third degree that will heal, but scar. Barring any complications she should make a full recovery with time.”

The relief was palpable, the tension and worry draining away, a weight of their minds, “She going to be asleep for a few hours and then very sleep due to general anesthesia. We’ll move her to Recovery and you can visit her when she wakes.”

They resumed their vigil but were more relaxed and it showed. Somebody had thoughtfully brought in snacks and they had helped themselves to everything. They drank and talked until their cigarette butts overflowed several of their impromptu ashtrays. In their fugue state, it took them several moments to realize that a doctor had rushed past them in to the ward. Collectively, their hearts did what Natalie’s had done seconds before and stopped.

The more religious mumbled a prayer as they watched, spectators silenced with fear. The fight was one sided and lasted half an hour until the doctors and nurses were forced to concede defeat. They did whatever they could in the ensuing minutes to cope. Turning to their closest friends and cry as Cameron stood on leaden legs to face the doctor, “We believe that she developed a pulmonary embolism… a blood clot that travelled…”

Whatever else she said was lost to Cameron, who barely nodded, unable to take it all in. Jaira held his hand and gently pulled him in to the seat next to her, and did what she knew he couldn’t and cried for them both. Others could fall to pieces but he couldn’t. Somebody had to be the cold hearted one, the anchor for the rest of his team, his crew… her friends, and help them say goodbye.

Cameron led them to her bedside and whispered his good bye before stepping back to give the others the opportunity to say farewell. Peter hadn’t even stepped in to the room, seemingly stuck in the doorway and when Cameron met the man’s gaze. There was too much pain and anguish in those eyes, for him to be mourning the loss of just a friend. He gave the faintest of nods to Peter, gathered his still grieving comrades and left, leaving Peter to his grief.

Robert's raised eyebrow asked the question on everyone's mind and Cameron answered, “Our farewell party.” The world they had inherited was one where relationships formed regardless of the challenges and distances involved. The fact of having someone to hold, even some of the time was more than many could claim. Cameron seemed almost robotic, pulling Jaira close to him, but he softened, as he held her tight, knowing just how lucky they were.

Peter found it hard to take another step in to the room, as he stared at her face. Her eyes were closed and if it were not for the blood that flecked her face, she could have been asleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching under the sheets until he found her hand and he held on to it, kissing the back of her hand gently. The footsteps were quiet, unobtrusive and Peter looked up and surprise marred his features as he took in the black fabric, the stiff high collar and the emblazoned cross “Father Arkwright,” said Peter in greeting.

He lay a hand upon Peter’s trembling shoulder, “Peter, may we proceed?” Peter nodded, without looking up or letting go of her hand. “My sister in faith, I entrust you to God who created you. My sister in faith, may you return to the one who formed you from the dust of this earth. Our Father, thou art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done….” A single tear rolled down Peter’s check.

It wasn’t necessary even but Cameron blocked the corridor, “He needs some time alone to deal with whatever he needs to do.” He hastily wiped his eyes, staring up at the ceiling for a moment to regain his composure, “Right now, we need to arrange a funeral for a member of the Oregon National Guard.”