Hope is a Four Letter Word - Complete

Chapter Eight

Stan Alto's first thought was how beautiful Rose looked. Almost ethereal. While it wasn't a thought he allowed himself to pursue when thinking about his students, she was undeniably a beautiful girl. Woman, now, he supposed.

Lying on her jacket in the snow, her long dark hair fanned out around her, wearing a thin cotton oversized, faded workout shirt with Cyrillic writing and a pair of bike shorts. Her skin was uncharacteristically pale; her eyes closed, a ghost of a smile on her face. Her arms on either side of her as she lay on her back, she looked like a sleeping angel.

Fuck!

He lurched forward across the ward line, trying to rouse her, checking for a pulse. Nothing! There had to be something?! He'd patrolled near here fifteen minutes ago? Surely it took more than fifteen minutes for someone to strip down and freeze to death? And she was on the tarp – only her arms and her lower legs were touching the snow? She still felt warmish to the touch. Did that count for anything?!

Giving up on finding a pulse at her wrist or neck, Stan wrenched her top up and put his head against her chest. And there, oh so faintly under her crop top bra, he heard the beat of her heart.

Thank the Lord!

But then he saw three empty pill jars clutched in her cold fingers, and an empty bottle of vodka beside her.

No... This couldn't be happening! He'd seen her drinking from a bottle from a distance, but he hadn't recognized it as liquor. She'd been sitting wearing her jeans and jacket sitting on a travel tarp. She sat out here all the time, these days, so he hadn't paid too much attention, other than to note she was there.

Reaching for his lapel communicator, he activated it, barking instructions not taking the time to respond to the shocked and distressed comments and questions fired back at him. He picked Rose up, surprised by how heavy she was. She was a small thing. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds, but she felt heavier. Then he remembered about 'dead weight' and how it was all to do with the center of gravity and weight distribution of an unconscious person. Prying the pill bottles from her fingers and putting them in his top pocket, he carried her bridal style across his chest, running in the most direct line to the infirmary.

He'd hoped the jostling would rouse her, but it didn't appear to have any effect. She lay in his arms, as cold and silent as the grave. He silently apologized to her as he started shouting, warning people out of the way as he ran towards the infirmary; right through the packed Commons. He knew that it really might come down to saving her dignity or saving her life. There was no way to hide something like this on a campus this small; if she lived everyone would know anyway, so he wasn't going to waste time by going the longer way skirting the commons.

At 8 am on a Sunday night, it was packed. The St Vladimir's weekly Sunday night roast dinner was in full swing, and the area was filled. Alto was vaguely conscious of startled looks and stares as he ran at full speed through the crowded area bellowing "MOVE! Medic!", Rose's hair, arms, and legs dangling loose as he ran.

Guardian Townsend had evidently caught Stan's radio call and was running towards them. "I'll take her," he said, grabbing Rose from the flagging Alto and continuing without pause onwards towards the infirmary. Alto stopped for a moment to draw a ragged breath as Alberta came towards him.

"What was it?" she asked urgently, knowing from his call Rose was unconscious and barely had a pulse.

"Pills and vodka. There's an empty liquor bottle at the site," he gasped quietly so they wouldn't be overheard, pressing the empty pill bottles into the panicked woman's hand. She nodded, taking off following Townsend post haste. While she wasn't tall and was in her fifties, Alberta could still move when she needed to.