Dreams by Holly "Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?" "Go ahead, 51." "Rampart, we've got a male half-elf, age approximately 150, with a broadsword slash across the front portion of his thigh, an arrow wound in the back of the left shoulder, and he's been hit with a sleep spell. He is presently unconscious. Stand by for vitals." "Standing by, 51." "Rampart, BP is 110 over 70, respirations are 30 and shallow, pulse is 60 and regular, and pupils are equal and reactive. Also, bleeding is minimal from the two wounds I mentioned." "So one can assume no arteries are damaged?" "Affirmative, Rampart." "Start an IV D5W TKO and apply pressure bandages to both wounds. Transport as soon as possible." "Uh...Rampart, we are presently in a fantasy world where technology approximates 12th-century earth. Motorized vehicles have not yet been invented." "Say again, 51?" "Rampart, we're in a world with a 12th-century technology. There are no ambulances." "Squad 51...your transmission is breaking up. Please repeat." "Rampart, this world has technology that is no more advanced than our 12th-century! There is no way to...." "SQUAD 51...WOMAN DOWN...11253 HILLTOP...ONE ONE TWO FIVE THREE HILLTOP...CROSS STREET BRADLEY...AMBULANCE IS RESPONDING." He sat upright on his bunk. The alarm and the sudden bright lights washed most of the dream out of his head instantly. He pulled on his turnout pants and jogged to the passenger's side of the squad, and as Captain Stanley handed the address on a slip of paper in through the window, all he could remember was that the dream had something to do with a newly published game that Chet, ever the science-fiction and fantasy fan, introduced to the guys after supper that evening. |