The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

spoke with your sister Alexandra on the phone and told her what’s happening. She told me she would alert the rest of your family. And she asked me to let you know that she and Dylan will be on their way here as soon as they can get a flight.”

I closed my eyes, relief flooding through me. Alexandra and Dylan were coming. Oh, dear God. I’d always been the one who went to my sisters when they needed help. I never realized how much I might need them.

And then I felt confused, torn because my sister was next door, in just as much danger, but Ray was right here in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go.

I couldn’t leave Jessica alone to deal with that on her own.

I turned towards the social worker. “I’m sorry ... I forgot your name.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “Michelle. Perfectly understandable.”

“Would it be all right if I checked in on Sarah and Jessica?”

“Of course ... come with me.”

At that moment the door slid open, and a man strode into the room. He wore surgical garb and had the arrogant look I’d learned to associate with the heads of academic departments. He marched over to the table and basically pushed his way in, starting at Ray’s feet, then working his way up to his head. Clearly he was someone in authority ... the doctors and nurses went quiet on his entry, continuing their work. He leaned close, shining a light at the top of Ray’s skull, peering in close.

“CT scan,” he ordered. “Then prep him for surgery, immediately. Head, and his left arm and leg.”

I swallowed. The man stood, then walked away from Ray toward the door. His examination had lasted maybe sixty seconds.

He paused as I stepped closer to the door, my arms crossed over my stomach.

“Are you the wife?” he asked, tonelessly.

I blinked. His tone was imperious, utterly sure of himself, and his wording was brusque. Any other time, I might have cared, but right now, I just wanted him to help Ray. He could be as rude as he wanted.

“Yes. I’m Carrie Sherman.”

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. “Your husband is in serious condition. If we don’t operate now, he’ll die. Do you understand?”

It was as if he’d walked up and punched me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think really, so I just nodded, trying to keep from crying.

“All right ... I want you to stay out of the way, let them prep him for surgery. Ms. Bilmes here will brief you in more detail about what’s going on, and you’ll need to sign some consent forms. Your husband is stabilized now, but he’s not out of danger, and we don’t know yet if he has any intracranial bleeding. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Hang in there. We’ll do our best for your husband.”

I nodded, trying to keep myself sane, and whispered, “Thank you.”

A dream? (Ray)

I watched Carrie as she talked to the surgeon, as the other doctors labored over my wasted body, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.

That’s not true. There were other times.

I felt this helpless the day Carrie walked out of the National Institute of Health, rage and shock and grief mixed on her face because of the accusations which had been laid against her, accusations which threatened everything she’d worked for. The rage had won out, her knuckles white against the steering wheel as she drove us home, her entire body shaking.

I felt that way about a year and a half ago, February of 2012. We’d been out on patrol all night, a nightmare patrol. Not because the insurgents were shooting at us, but because they weren’t. Is that crazy? Yeah, it’s crazy. But it was scary, too. Because the rule, in our little corner of hell, was that if you went outside the wire, the bad guys were going to hit us. Every time. Sometimes it was just a single sniper shot, or a roadside bomb. Sometimes it was hideous, like the grenade that killed Kowalski. But I couldn’t remember a single night we’d gone on patrol when we didn’t get hit. Not once.

But that night, we’d gone unnoticed, unchallenged, unrested. We were on our way back to the forward operating base when it happened. The irony is, we were only a quarter of a mile from the base, which meant someone hadn’t been paying attention, because the hajis were able to bury a big ass bomb in the dirt road without interference or observation. We didn’t even realize it, because the first three hummers rolled right over the bomb. Then the fourth hummer, with Dylan and Roberts ... that was the one that got hit.

The explosion hit under the driver’s side. We were right behind them, and I saw the hummer bounce into the air. Voices exploded over the radio, calling in the contact, and then I heard a loud crack, then another. Bullets hitting the side of my hummer, on the driver’s side.

This was normal routine. We all piled out of the hummers, took cover, and shot back. Once the heavy machine guns got trained on the bad guys, the fire was suppressed, the bad guys tried to move out, and our air assets went after them. I don’t know what happened after that with the insurgents, because I saw Dylan then, next to what was left of Roberts’ body, and his leg was ... destroyed. Blood leaking out everywhere. I yelled for a medic and started to wrap his leg with bandages, which were inadequate for the job, so I broke out the tourniquet and tied it off at his thigh. Dylan wasn’t screaming, but he was awake, staring at the sky.

“You’re gonna be all right,” I said, over and over again. He didn’t respond. And there we were, stuck, waiting for the medevac, which took forever. There was nothing I could do to help him