Short story - Ambo kid
The Australian Writers Centre holds their Furious Fiction competition every month. The criteria are handed out on a Friday night and the clock starts ticking. You have 50 hours to write a 500-word story. On this particular weekend:
Each story had to begin at sunrise.
Each story had to use the words SIGNATURE, PATIENT, BICYCLE. (Longer variations were permitted.)
Each story had to include a character who has to make a CHOICE.
I wasn’t placed, but I had a lot of fun writing this one!
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The rocks would be treacherous under Dustbag’s galloping hooves, but Travis had had no choice. A bicycle couldn’t make it down the ravine. Golden spears of light shot between the pine trees and turned the dew to diamonds – but he didn’t notice. He flashed by the exuberant sign, “Days since an accident: Twenty!!” They’d have to change that back to zero.
Dustbag’s breath streamed away over his shoulder as they topped the ridge. The land fell steeply into deep shadow, where the hydroelectricity plant squatted at the bottom of the dam wall. If only the ambulance hadn’t broken down. Lucky it had been right outside their farm gate. Unlucky that his folks were away with the station wagon.
“Sorry kid,” the paramedic had said, stuffing bandages and antivenom into a backpack. “He needs treatment now and I can’t ride.”
Two minutes later Travis was galloping away. The ambulance driver was following, taking the long road down on Travis’ family’s tractor.
Dustbag’s forelegs propped in short, jarring strides down the twisting track. Travis rode quietly. He could trust Dustbag’s instincts. If only he could trust his own. Now was his chance to test them. Every time he’d seen an ambo he’d turned the idea over in mental defiance of the never-ending questions - “what’ll you do after school, Trav, you can’t stick around like everyone else in your class,” and he hadn’t had the guts to say what he wanted. Or to consider what might happen one day if things went wrong, if he lost a patient. He shivered. That secret form at home with the line demanding his signature still lay blank, stashed in his top drawer. Today would decide whether he’d sign or burn it.
*
Peter was sweating. He’d never asked to be in charge of an injured worker. The sooner that ambulance arrived the better; it only took half an hour for an untreated snakebite to kill. Did bandaging count as treatment? He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes left. He strained his ears over the roar of turbines and water. Something was coming.
Hoofbeats, at a gallop.
A wiry mountain pony burst from the trees. The rider – a boy – dropped to the ground with a backpack. A Red Cross backpack. They were using kids these days?
The kid drew out a syringe.
Peter stepped back, wordless. The kid knelt by the worker, murmuring. He tore open a tiny sachet, swabbed the worker’s skin and inserted the needle. No hesitation, no hurry. The worker relaxed.
The kid inspected the bandages and took the worker’s pulse. Peter started explaining – excusing – but the kid cut him short. “Good job,” he said simply. “He’ll be fine. The paramedic will be here in a minute.”
Peter grunted, but the worker was looking better already. Less stressed.
A moment of silence - but not a terrified silence. The kid must be older than he looked, with the way he’d taken calm control. “You’re with the ambos?” Peter asked cautiously.
The kid looked up and smiled. “Yep.”