The Coming Storm

I awoke to the sound of the ambulance doors whooshing open to the chaos in front; the porter expertly manoeuvred the stretcher I lay upon down the narrow corridor. Wrought, iron beds littered every hall, each with a writhing, moaning soldier laying on them, nurses in blood-stained scrubs scrambled from patient to patient, assessing the worst cases and screaming for doctors. Burnt clothing and bloody bandages were ripped and torn away from zombie-like bodies. Blood trickled onto the dirty tiled floor, filling in the cracks and crevices.

I looked around the corridor, my eyesight hay and unsteady from the loss of blood. The porter looked down at me, his lips thinned, fear reflecting from his pale, blue eyes.

Every corner we turned down, the hospital grew darker and the pained whimpers louder. The porter stopped moving the stretcher and he started shouting as he looked around for some help and assistance.

"Bad neck wound! Bad neck wound!" he hollered. A young, frazzled nurse came out of a metal surgery door and rushed over, she inspected my ravaged neck and pressed the stained cloth at my neck, harder against the gushing wound.

"Move!" She shouted as more and more stretchers with broken men on filled the crowded corridor. "Try and put him one of the surgeries," She told the porter. The porters face went grim as the smell of burnt skin and rotting flesh wafted in the air. The porter pushed the stretcher into an already crowded surgery room and quickly cleared a metal medical table, pushing off all the appliances. The porter and nurse came to each side of the stretcher and grabbed handfuls of my flesh, they hurled my exhausted body onto  the table. I groaned in pain and black dots danced in front of my eyes as one of them touched my broken rib.

The porter scurried out of the surgery, trailing the bloody stretcher behind him. I was left with the young nurse, her sweaty hands pushing back her unruly brown hair. My back  arched off the table as the pain became unbearable, the table started shaking uncontrollably as my body trembled with such force I thought I was going to fall off. Looking around wildly, I asked the question that had been plaguing my exhausted mind.

"Am...am I gonna' die?" I croaked out as a coppery, metallic liquid filled my dry mouth, clenching my teeth together I let out a strangled, gurgling  sound. Couching madly I turned my head to the side just as a what felt like a wave of blood came sputtering out of my mouth, slipping down my chin.

"Doctor! What do I need?" The nurse shrieked as she watched my clammy face go pale.

"Take the cloth off his neck, stitch the wound and give him morphine!" A distant voice shouted.

Pulling off the blood soaked cloth off my neck, I watched in horror as a thick, cherry red substance squirted onto the nurses hands and apron. Swallowing, she turned around she fumbled around in a tall, mahogany cupboard, she turned back and produced a string and needle, pushing my head to the side for better access of my wounded neck she held down my thrashing arms, but momentarily paused.

"Doctor, I can't stitch the wound. It's too deep," She cried.

"Just...just leave him then, there's nothing you can do. Give him the morphine," The voice called back. From her apron pocket the nurse pulled out a syringe of clear liquid and quickly and precisely pushed it into my antecubital fossa vein, I clenched my eyes shut and let my lips fall open in a silent hiss of pain.

Then suddenly the noises became quiet and I was left looking into the eyes of the young nurse, her big brown eyes filled up with tears that threatened to overflow, she stroked my black, sweat drenched hair from my sweaty forehead.

"I...I never caught your name," She murmured.

"Noah. Noah Riddle," I croaked out, the nurse halted and looked down at me with realisation dawning on her pretty face as she guessed who I was; Noah Riddle, the son of Robert Riddle the mayor of Auwedlanton. Slowly my mind went black and darkness filled my eyes and the world went black....