Dead Man's Grip Read Online Free PDF

gauntlets.
    ‘ Fubar Bundy ,’ Phil Davidson whispered grimly.
    She nodded, swallowing acrid bile. It was a term she had heard before, at the fatal accident she had attended previously, only a short distance from this location. The gallows humour of the paramedics – one of their mental survival mechanisms for coping with horrific sights. It stood for: Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet.
    With internal organs exposed and on the tarmac, there was very little chance of the victim’s survival. Even if they got him to hospital still technically alive, infections would finish him off. She turned to her more experienced colleague for his guidance.
    ‘Pulse?’ he asked.
    ‘Faint radial,’ she replied. A radial pulse meant that he had enough blood pressure to maintain some of his organs.
    ‘ Stay and play ,’ he mouthed back, knowing they had no option, as they couldn’t move him because his leg was trapped in the wheel. ‘I’ll get the kit.’
    Stay and play was one step above Scoop and run . It meant that although the victim’s chances were slim, they would do all they could – try their best until he was dead and they could stop. Going through the motions, if nothing else.
    She was aware of the scream of an approaching siren getting louder. Then she heard Phil radioing for the fire brigade to bring lifting gear. She squeezed the young man’s hand. ‘Hang on in,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
    There was no response. The pulse was weakening. The siren was getting louder still. She looked at the stump of his severed leg. Almost no blood. That was the only positive at this moment. Human bodies were good at dealing with trauma. Capillaries shut down. It was like the accident she had attended two years ago, when one of the young lads was dying but was hardly bleeding at all. The body goes into shock. If they could get a tourniquet applied, and if she was careful with his intestines, then maybe there was a chance.
    She kept her fingers pressed hard on his radial artery. It was weakening by the second.
    ‘Hang in there,’ she said. ‘Just hang in there.’ She looked at his face. He was a good-looking kid. But he was turning increasingly paler by the second. ‘Please stay with me. You’re going to be OK.’
    The pulse was continuing to weaken.
    She moved her fingers, desperately searching for a beat. ‘You can make it,’ she whispered. ‘You can! Go for it! Go on, go for it!’
    It was personal now.
    For Phil he might be a Fubar Bundy , but for her he was a challenge. She wanted to visit him in hospital in two weeks’ time and see him sitting up, surrounded by cards and flowers. ‘Come on!’ she urged, glancing up at the dark underbelly of the lorry, at the mud-encrusted wheel arch, at the grimy girders of the chassis. ‘Hang on in there!’
    Phil was crawling back under the lorry with his red bag and his critical haemorrhage kit. Between them, they covered everything that modern medical technology could throw at a trauma victim. But even as Phil tugged the red bag open, displaying pockets filled with vials of life-saving drugs, apparatus and monitoring equipment, Vicky realized, in this particular situation, it was mere cosmetics. Window-dressing.
    The young man’s pulse was barely detectable now.
    She heard the whine of the EZ-10 bone drill, the fastest way to get the emergency cannula in. Every second was critical. She assisted Phil, locating the bone inside the flesh of the good leg, just below the knee, the professional in her kicking in, pushing all emotion aside. They had to keep trying. They would keep trying.
    ‘Stay with us!’ she urged.
    It was clear that the poor young man had been dragged right around the wheel arch after the wheel had gone over his midriff, crushing him and splitting him open. Phil Davidson was calculating the likely damage to his internal organs and bones as he worked. It looked as if one of the wheels had shattered his