Hardcasual.net: “This Attack Copter’s Autocannons Are Really Crimping My Style,” Says Local Helicopter Paramedic
Fire Captain Bob Cassavetes and his troop of paramedics perch on the ledge of an Ozark cliff. The 50 ft. limestone drop is pocked with the debris of a crumpled Honda Civic, which sits precariously balanced at the bottom of this cliff and the top of another. Inside the vehicle, wrapped like leftovers in tinfoil, the reclining, beaten bodies of four bloodied teenagers.
“They’re alive,” barks a paramedic from behind binoculars, “but they’re way too far down for us to reach. Not safely, at least.” Cassavetes think, then radios in the county’s emergency room helicopter.
The chopper is elegant and small against the cloudy sky, lowering slowly like a toe into cold water. “We’re saved,” shouts one of the teens as bullet zips through his forehead, splintering it like a plank of wood.
Ratatatatatatatatatatatata
Casssavetes takes a breath then looks down. His eyes trace a line from the bouncing artillery shells on the car’s hood up to the chopper’s machine guns.
“My bad,” shouts Bob, “I called in the attack copter.” explain
This is Bob’s third slipup in a week that’s cost the county 14 lives and $728 in jet fuel.
“I use my cell phone to call the paramedic chopper and this red switch for the attack copter,” explains Bob, in some ways explaining it again to himself. “I mean, I don’t even really know why I have this second one.”
And before anyone can think to start a long, sticky cleanup procces, another call comes in: motorcycle collision under the Springfield I-70 overpass. We pull up to the scene. One rider’s iced onto the cement, long gone, but the other, an EMT tells me, could survive if we act fast.
Bob reaches for the red switch, catches himself, then dials his cell. No service.
He looks back at his switch, maybe this time it won’t be…and he remembers his laptop’s wireless card. He can reach the hospital by e-mail – maybe! The cell’s still at no bars. E-mails his only shot. He runs to the computer, boots it up and a missile whistles down from the sky, decimating a nearby office complex.
“Wait, this isn’t my laptop,” mumbles Bob. “It’s a predator missile.”
