Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series)
Read Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series) Online
Authors: Bethany Hensel
UNSTOPPABLE
BOOK ONE IN THE TRUTH AND LOVE SERIES
BETHANY HENSEL
Copyright 2013 by Bethany Hensel.
Cover design by Caitlin McNulty.
Interior design and layout by Bethany Hensel
Edited by Kate Brauning, Alex Yuschik and Caitlin McNulty
My parents, my best friends.
My lodestars, my home.
This first one was always for you.
O, I am fortune's fool!
William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet"
DEREK
The gash in his abdomen is wide and deep. Dr. Aboud, one of the hospital’s best ER surgeons, cleaned the wound and controlled the bleeding. But for the last forty minutes, I’ve been painstakingly debriding and suturing the mess of his skin. Why this guy thought he could jump over a barbed wire fence, I’ll never know.
I don't roll my eyes.
I come close.
But I don't. I can't. After all, I'm being graded on this.
“Steady, Derek. Keep it steady,” Dr. Aboud says.
Of course, I recognize the man on the table. His face has been plastered over the internet and television for days. He robbed a bank on Fifth Avenue, escaping with barely four hundred dollars. Soldiers tracked him down and caught up with him two days later. There was a struggle, then a foot chase, and finally that fence. And now he's here, getting fixed up by yours truly.
I hold out my hand. The tweezers are replaced with needle and thread.
Someone coughs behind me. Metal clinks quietly. I know the sound; it’s unmistakable at this point: metal rifles briefly touching brass buttons. The Corps soldiers have been standing like sentinels behind me, watching my every move, as if I'll somehow magically make this guy stand up and do the twist. Or, y'know, escape.
I breathe out slow as I quickly move the needle in and out, threading the jagged skin together. Escape? Please. I just want to finish this surgery and get a high grade on it. It's the last thing standing between me and graduation.
I tie off the thread with a basic square knot. I extend my hand again. Like a well-choreographed dance, the needle and thread are exchanged for an antiseptic wipe. I clean the wound. I look up and check the heart rate monitor. I read his vitals.
“Okay,” I say. “Finished.”
The soldiers barely wait for me to move before they’re grabbing the narrow bed and rolling it from the operating room. None of them say a word. Just like that, they’re gone.
“Very good, Derek,” Dr. Aboud says as I peel off my gloves. “Calm, collected. You do well under pressure.”
“Thank you.”
“You have very neat, tight lines. There'll be hardly any scarring.”
I smile, barely refraining from snorting. Where this guy is going, scarring will be the least of his worries. I've fixed his body, but I have definitely not saved his life.
<><><>
It started with the aptitude test from hell. It lasted an entire week freshman year, and by the end of it, a handful of others and I were put on the career fast-track—meaning we didn’t waste time with phys ed or visual arts or any of those subjects where you wonder what the point is and how the hell they'll apply in real life.
No, my classes were a bit more targeted: microbiology, neuroscience, anatomy, medical ethics, and biochemistry, to name a few. It’s why, for my final, I wasn't asked to fill in multiple choice questions or write essays. I had to perform a surgery. As I wait for Dr. Aboud to sign off on the operating forms, I can only hope I get extra marks considering the soldiers in the room.
She hands me back the tablet with a smile. I accept it with a grin of my own and head down the corridor. I feel pretty good. My stitches are clean and tight, and I do do well under pressure. And now that I have the rest of the forms from Dr. Aboud, I can finally send in my application to Pitt Medical, the last in a short line of universities I have my heart set on going to. I discreetly tap the screen and skim the page, catching words like cool under pressure…steady hands…tunes out the peripheral…very focused. And most importantly, I see the grade at the bottom: 100%.
Life is good. No, it’s better than that. It's exactly as I predicted it would be. I studied hard, I worked hard, I was always where I was supposed to be and followed all the rules. This is my reward. I went through the battlefield of high school, played fair and square, and came out unscathed.
Well, maybe not totally unscathed.
I take my cell phone from my jeans pocket and turn it back on. Dr. Aboud would've flunked me on the spot if this thing rang. A chime sounds and a picture of me with the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen appears on the display. A girl much smarter and better than me, who one day decided to answer all of my prayers and say yes to my hardly-any-eye-contact, sweaty-palmed invitation to go to the movies. Victoria, the love of my life.
The proverbial bullet to my heart.
I slip the phone back in my pocket, brushing the small item already there. My stomach flips just a little as I do that—in a good way.
After handing the tablet over at the nurse’s station, I head to the vending machine for an apple. I push open the door that separates the ER rooms from the lobby. It’s funny; most nights, the place is like a petri dish of human pain and suffering. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s empty and quiet.
Just as I think it’s a sign, the universe’s personal way of telling me that my life will be smooth sailing from here, an ambulance siren stops me in my tracks. An explosion of red and white lights sends a not-too-familiar adrenaline rush through me—one I had better get used to if I’m ever going to get a job here. Four people burst out from the back. Two medics, a man on a gurney, and a girl. The medics are working on the supine man even as they rush toward the automatic glass doors I’m standing behind.
But it's the girl who's caught my attention. She has brown hair, milk chocolate brown eyes, and a small beauty mark on the curve of her shoulder I never forget to kiss.
The girl is Victoria. And the man on the gurney is her father.
VICTORIA
Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God
This can't be happening
. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God. Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God please please please no no no no no no no no
I saw it happening
. No no no no. Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please no no I can't believe it happened. please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please. My father did not get shot. please please please please please please please please please.
He'll be fine
. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Finefinefinefinefine. Fine. please please please please please please please please. Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God.
He has to be fine
. please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please. God Oh God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God. He better be fine. Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God oh please please please
My father won't die
. Please please please please please please please please please please Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God. Please please please please please please please
My father can't die.
please please please please please please please please Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God.
Please don't let my father die.
Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please
DEREK
She digs her fingernails into me and tries to push me away. I don't budge. Her fists slam into my chest and shoulders, and it's like some weird dance to keep her away from the doors her father disappeared through. We spin and pivot and slide. We knock over a small table.
“Victoria, please. Listen to me.”
Her eyes are wide and crazed. Another desperate attempt to get past me. She makes it a few feet, but then I catch her wrist and haul her against me. I wrap both arms around her and pull her close, her head buried against my chest. A guttural, horrible scream of anguish escapes her. She curls her fingers in my shirt. Her struggles begin to weaken as I sway with her and whisper that it'll all be okay. Her dad will be okay. She will be okay.
I cup the back of her head and kiss her cheek, her ear, but then I feel something wet and sticky on my face. I pull back. It's blood.
I quickly take Victoria’s head in my hands and run them all over, feeling for a wound. I rub them up and down her arms, across her torso, down her back. My jaw clenches, my breathing comes out tight. I feel it now, blood soaking into my shirt, scalding my skin. I see it now on the fabric of her dress and the curve of her elbow. A rage so deep and penetrating flares up inside me that it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to scream. I want to kill whoever hurt her. But as my hands continue to move over her body in search for gashes or tears but finds none, relief floods through me. My knees almost buckle. But it's a short-lived, guilt-ridden moment of triumph, because just then the inescapable truth slams against me.
The blood is her father's.
Victoria's body deflates in the next instant, and I guide her to a chair and sit beside her. She leans against me, limp and heavy at the same time, like a rag doll that's been dragged through the ocean. She wraps her hands over mine, as if clinging to a lifeboat. Her fingers are ice cold. She’s shaking.
Corps vans begin to pull up outside. Their lights rip through the nighttime and it's as jarring as it is reassuring. These guys, after all, are the best bet for finding out why and how this happened. But my stomach still clenches a bit. It's practically Pavlovian now. Pennsylvania was one of the last states to lose its police force and have the Corps take over. Trust me when I say I’ve read enough articles and heard enough stories to know that the Corps law is the only law. There's no such thing as excessive force or brutality with them. In fact, it's why they're so effective, why a small army like the Corps can keep an entire city in line better than a whole battalion of police ever could. They're ruthless. And everyone knows it.
Six soldiers come in. They're dressed in standard uniform: black from head to toe—jacket, pants, hat, and boots that go up to the knee. A baton on the right hip, a Bowie on the other, and two guns tucked in holsters on the lower back finish the look.
The youngest of the soldiers comes toward Victoria and me. He looks like he's only twenty-five or thirty, but he is clearly in charge. Maybe it's the posture. He removes his hat as he pulls a chair over and sits in front of Victoria.
“My name is Captain Jace Pearce,” he says, the words in a clear English accent. I've never heard an English accent (or any other) before in real life, only in movies and those were years ago. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
Victoria says nothing. Her eyes well up, her nostrils flare out, and her mouth slashes in a severe frown.
“It's alright,” he says. “Take a breath.”
She tries once more to speak. Instead of words, however, she emits nothing but air—hard, quick, irregular puffs that turn her face a dark shade of red. Her body heaves and strains, and suddenly, she slaps her hands over her mouth and bolts out of her chair. She runs to the front doors, and I’m right beside her. The minute we hit the sidewalk, she hunches over and vomits.
I hold her hair back. I try not to look at the mess at our feet, but I see it in my peripheral vision. Grimacing slightly, I rub my hand in a slow, small circle between her shoulder blades, hoping it soothes her in some way.
“It's okay,” I whisper. “You'll be okay.”
She doesn't acknowledge me. I don't know if that's because she doesn't hear me, doesn't believe me, or just doesn't have the strength to respond. Either way, I keep rubbing her back, and I keep whispering that she'll be okay.
A line of spit falls from her lips. Mucus runs from her nose. I have no handkerchief or napkin or towel to offer her, and I feel like an idiot. I’m about to take off my shirt and let her use that when the doors behind me softly open. I don't know who it is until he extends a ball of clean, white tissue in front of Victoria's face. His wedding ring, even in the dark, still reflects some light. For a moment, I can't take my eyes off it.
Victoria takes the tissue from her brother's hand, blows her nose, and wipes her face. As she does that, I catch her brother's gaze. William King has the same brown hair and brown eyes as his sister, but unlike her, his face is dry and composed. He is standing as straight as the Corps soldiers.
Victoria spits one more time then straightens up slowly. We all turn back and head inside. I realize then how much colder the night has gotten. Dry and crisp, it feels more like fall than summer, and I hope the air is doing Victoria some good. Maybe clearing her head a bit, drying her eyes. I hope it gives her some strength. I have a horrible feeling she–and her father–are going to need it.
