BORN IN HELL and deemed the whisperer of beasts, a mutated cluster of horns was Asylis's demonic crown of chaos and glory.
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Visiting Earth, the portal between realms closing was the last of Asylis's expectations. She was forced to adjust to her...
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I WATCHED CHRISTOPHER GAG, his repulsion bringing a massive smirk to my face. "There's hard chunks. August, why are there chunks? Huge ass chunks. Does she not fucking chew? She had teeth, I learned that fast..." he bewildered with his Kentucky accent.
"Wait, why am I doing this? You know how much I hate dealing with puke. I'd rather deal with that guy who walked onto the subway tracks this morning again than this. You should have seen how I dodged her vomit though, didn't get a drop on me," Chris blabbed as he cleaned the truck's floor of sick from the drunk homeless woman we just transported to St. Peter's hospital.
"Ha! Really? Because I think I see some in your hair and beard," I teased.
"Ah hell naw. Ew!" he whined in between gagging more and rubbing a towel through his short, curly blond locks and facial hair.
"I'm just fuckin' with you Chrissy boy. And you're cleaning it because yesterday you made me clean up after Mr. Flent. Remember that elderly man with the stomach virus and very loose bowels?" I laughed while restocking a cabinet with IV supplies.
"Right," he drawled paired with an eye roll. He sighed, adjusting his duty belt. EMS dressed in body armor and carried tasers and restraints after years of getting killed and injured by patients. Particularly those with cybergear that had unnatural levels of strength.
Both of us got back in the ambulance. I took the driver's seat like always. I peeled off my respirator for fresh air. The heavy smog blanketing the compacted city forced anyone who spent time outside to wear one. We took at least a handful of people a day to the ER for breathing issues caused by the air quality. Luckily, cars and buildings were built with serious air filtration.
We groaned in sync as the tones dropped, beeping alarms filling the cabin. "Unit 4289—you have a 66-year-old male. Found unconscious by his daughter in the living room and appears to not be breathing," a dispatcher reported on the radio.
A transparent, paper-thin screen no bigger than a tablet popped out of the dash. It displayed the name and information of the patient the dispatcher sent over. The address automatically routed in the GSP for us.
"4289, will arrive in about five-ish minutes," I replied. The rig lifted off of the landing pad upon the engine coming to life. We exited the ambulance station. Hitting the lights and sirens, I maneuvered my way through New York's traffic and into the emergency express lane.
Chris tapped around on the screen to pull up a small panel of patient information and prior medical records. He carelessly smacked on leftover vegan chicken tenders we grabbed for lunch. I shook my head knowing he'd leave greasy little fingerprints all over it. I know he's not gonna clean it.
"Rob Yamen. No augmentations, major health issues, or a history of drugs, not listed that is. Probably a code. Welp, at least it's not more drunks, so I'm good as long as he doesn't puke," he remarked, dusting crumbs off of his navy blue uniform.
