She coughs and almost collapses into his arms, but manages to keep herself up. "I'm okay," she says. "I'm okay. But the Admiral ..."
Together they go in and kneel beside him. He's breathing, but it's shallow and strained. "It's the heat!" says Connor, and orders the kids lingering at the door to swing open every hatch.
"It's not just the heat," says Risa. "Look at his lips—they're cyanotic. And his pressure is down to nothing."
Connor just stares at her, not comprehending.
"He's having a heart attack! I've been giving him CPR, but
I'm not a doctor. There's only so much I can do!"
"M . . . m. . . my fault," says the Admiral. "My fault . . ."
"Shh," says Connor. "You're going to be okay." But Connor knows, just as he knew when he said it to Cleaver, the chances of that are slim.
They carry the Admiral down the stairs, and as they do, the kids waiting outside back away, making room for him, as if it's already a coffin they're earning. They set him down in the shade of the wing.
Then kids around them begin to murmur.
"He killed the Goldens," someone says. "The old man deserves what he gets."
Connor boils, but he's gotten much better at keeping his anger in check. "Cleaver did it," Connor says forcefully enough for everyone to hear. That starts a murmur through the crowd, until someone says, "Yeah? Well, what about Emby?"
The Admiral's hand flutters up. "My . . . my son . . ."
"Emby's his son?" says one kid, and the rumor begins to spread through the crowd.
Whatever the Admiral meant, it's lost now in incoherence as he slips in and out of consciousness.
"If we don't get him to a hospital, he'll die," says Risa, giving him chest compressions once more.
Connor looks around, but the closest thing to a car on the Graveyard is the golf cart.
"There's the helicopter," says Hayden, "but considering the fact that the pilot's dead, I think we're screwed."
Risa looks at Connor. He doesn't need to read Risa for Morons to know what she's thinking. The pilot is dead—but Cleaver was training another one. "I know what to do," says Connor. "I'll take care of it."
Connor stands up and looks around him—the smoke-stained faces, the smoldering bonfires. After today nothing will be the same. "Hayden," he says, "you're in charge. Get even-thing under control."
"You're kidding me, right?"
Connor leaves Hayden to grapple with authority and finds three of the largest kids in his field of vision. "You, you and you," Connor says. "I need you to come with me to the FedEx jet."
The three kids step forward and Connor leads the way to Crate 2399, and Roland. This, Connor knows, will not be an easy conversation.
47 First-Year Residents
In her six months working in the emergency room, the young doctor has seen enough strange things to fill her own medical school textbook, but this is the first time someone has crash-landed a helicopter in the hospital parking lot.
She races out with a team of nurses, orderlies, and other doctors. It's a small private craft—four-seater, maybe. It's in one piece, and its blades are still spinning. It missed hitting a parked car by half a yard. Someone's losing their flying license.
Two kids get out, carrying an older man in bad shape. There's already a gurney rolling out to meet them.
"We have a rooftop helipad, you know,"
"He didn't think he'd be able to land on it," says the girl.
When the doctor looks at the pilot, still sitting behind the controls, she realizes that losing his license is not an issue. The kid at the controls can't be any older than seventeen. She hurries to the old man. A stethoscope brings barely a sound from his chest cavity. Turning to the medical staff around her, she says, "Stabilize him, and prep him for transplant." Then she turns back to the kids. "You're lucky you landed at a hospital with a heart bank, or we'd end up having to medevac him across town."