That pleasant daydream lasted exactly as long as it took for the helo to take off and for Roy to start gasping like he was choking to death.
The hospital corpsmen shoved DJ aside so they could cluster even closer around Roy.
“Tension pneumothorax,” one of the corpsmen said. “Give me the fourteen-gauge needle.”
As the corpsman drove the huge needle into his chest, Roy’s eyes opened.
“It’s all right,” DJ called out, but he could see that Roy was in no condition to hear or understand. He started struggling wildly, but was pinned by the straps around the stretcher.
Roy abruptly stopped fighting, his blood-smeared face taut with rage and fear. All his muscles tensed at once.
Oh, shit, DJ thought.
The air shimmered over the stretcher, and a huge white wolf lay where Roy had been, panting and bloody, glistening fangs bared.
DJ threw himself forward, trying to block the view, yelling, “Change back, change back!”
He opened himself to the pack sense and slapped his hand down on Roy’s haunch, sending, calm, safety, friends, pack.
The air shimmered again, and the wolf was gone. And just in time, too: Roy’s gray eyes looked into DJ’s, confused and frightened, and then he passed out again.
The corpsmen were as still as if they were caught in a freeze-frame.
“What the fuck is going on back there?” yelled the pilot.
That seemed to set everyone in motion again.
“He’s not breathing!” a corpsman called.
DJ could do nothing but watch, paralyzed with fear, as the corpsman shoved a tube down Roy’s throat and attached it to some machine.
It wasn’t until he saw Roy’s chest rising and falling with mechanical regularity that he realized that even if Roy survived, he’d be royally fucked if he was revealed as a werewolf. DJ had to do something to distract the corpsmen so memorably that by the time they even recalled the wolf, they’d decide that they’d been so tired and stressed and sleep-deprived that they’d imagined it.
DJ was so tired and stressed and sleep-deprived himself that the only thing that came to mind was faking a combat stress reaction. He’d seen enough of those to do a convincing one. Unfortunately, they mostly weren’t that dramatic. No one would notice if he talked too much or stared into space for hours or got jumpy or became depressed or—
“Did you see—” one of the corpsmen began.
—or got extremely angry for no good reason.
“What the fuck is wrong with you motherfucking assholes?” DJ yelled at the top of his lungs.
That got the attention of the corpsmen. Most of them glanced up, then, to DJ’s relief, continued working on Roy. He didn’t want to distract them from that.
“Cool it,” one of them said. “We’re doing the best we can for your buddy.”
“Fuck your fucking best!” DJ shouted. He banged his fist on the floor, careful not to dent the metal. “It took you fucking hours to get here! My buddy could’ve fucking died! Fuck you all! Who needs terrorists when we’ve got incompetent motherfuckers like you? Fuck—”
A sharp pain stung his arm. He glanced over, and caught a corpsman withdrawing an empty syringe.
I guess I overdid it, DJ thought. Sorry, Roy. I hope I didn’t fuck things up for you again.
“What was that?” He already felt dizzy.
“Just a mild sedative,” the corpsman replied warily.
“Mild, my ass,” said DJ, right before everything went black.
***