Chapter 2 - The Rhythm of Life
The concrete reality of chest compressions is something Hollywood films always manage to sanitize. It is not graceful; it is brutal, mechanical, and exhausting.
"One, two, three, four, five..." Ethan counted aloud, his voice straining, his small frame throwing his entire body weight downward with every push. He could feel the old man’s ribs cracking beneath his palms—a sickening, popping sensation that sent electric shocks of adrenaline up his forearms.
Around them, the circle of spectators had expanded, but instead of helping, they formed a gawking ring of voyeurism. Cell phone lenses pointed like black gun barrels at the scene. "Look at the kid go," a man sneered, sipping an iced latte. "Bet he breaks the old guy's ribs." "He's probably violating health codes touching him without gloves," a woman in a designer tracksuit muttered, pulling her rolling suitcase away.
Marcus Vance stood directly over them, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face twisted into an ugly, triumphant sneer. He had already pulled out his own company phone, aggressively tapping out an email to regional HR. Subject: Immediate Termination - Ethan Carter (ID #4492). Body: Employee abandoned assigned post in Sector Three at 16:48. Refused direct managerial orders. Fired on the spot for gross insubordination and breach of contract.
Marcus hit send with an aggressive jab of his thumb, looking down at Ethan with pure malice. "Enjoy your unemployment, Carter. When security escorts you out of this terminal in five minutes, don't bother coming back for your jacket. You're blacklisted from every aviation contractor from here to O'Hare cargo."
Ethan didn't look up. Sweat was pouring down his temples, stinging his eyes, dripping onto the old man’s gray cheeks. His arms were burning, his muscles screaming from lactic acid buildup, but he refused to stop. He remembered his grandfather passing away from a sudden stroke while waiting for an ambulance that took twenty minutes too long. He wasn't going to let another human being slip away while cowards watched.
"Thirty!" Ethan gasped, tilting the old man's chin upward, pinching his nose, and sealing his mouth over the stranger's cold lips to deliver two steady rescue breaths.
Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.
"Come on, stay with me," Ethan whispered fiercely between compressions, pushing down again with rhythmic agony. "One, two, three, four..."
The crowd began to murmur uneasily. The voyeuristic excitement was wearing off, replaced by the grim reality of a dying human being on a dirty floor.
Then, faint and distant, the wail of approaching airport emergency sirens cut through the terminal exterior walls, echoing up the access ramps. Blue and red flashing lights began to paint the soaring glass ceiling in strobing, frantic streaks.
"Where is medical?!" Ethan yelled up at Marcus, his voice cracking with raw desperation. "He's going into ventricular fibrillation! We need an AED!"
"Not my problem," Marcus sneered, turning his back on them and walking toward the information desk to sip a cup of complimentary water, washing his hands entirely of the situation.
Two more agonizing minutes ticked by like hours. Ethan’s arms felt like lead weights; his hands were shaking violently from exhaustion. Just as black spots began to dance across his vision from oxygen deprivation, the heavy double doors near Gate B20 burst open.
Three airport paramedics—wearing bright orange high-visibility jackets and hauling heavy medical gear—sprinted down the moving walkway, led by a seasoned paramedic captain named Sarah Vance (no relation to Marcus).
"Clear the area! Move back, everyone, pull those phones down or I'll have airport police confiscate them!" Captain Vance barked, dropping to her knees beside Ethan with a heavy metal kit.
"I've been doing continuous CPR for four minutes!" Ethan panted, stepping back just enough to give them space, his hands slick with sweat and blood. "He lost his pulse right away! He was cyanotic!"
Captain Vance didn't waste a breath. She slapped the adhesive pads of an automated external defibrillator onto the old man’s bare, frail chest. The machine whined, analyzing the heart rhythm with a high-pitched electronic tone.
“Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch the patient.”
The terminal fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. Even the cell phone cameras lowered for a fraction of a second.
“Shock advised. Stand clear.”
"Clear!" Captain Vance shouted, pressing the discharge button.
The old man’s body violently arched off the terrazzo floor as forty joules of electrical current surged through his heart, before dropping back down like a stone.
Captain Vance immediately resumed chest compressions, while her partner readied a manual resuscitator bag and oxygen tank.
"Charge him again if we have to," Ethan muttered, his voice trembling as he wiped his bloody hands on his uniform trousers.
Before the AED could initiate a second analysis, a deep, rattling gasp echoed from the old man’s throat. It sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement. His eyelids violently fluttered open, revealing pale, watery blue eyes that rolled wildly before focusing with startling, razor-sharp intensity.
The old man sucked in a massive, ragged lungful of air, coughing violently as color slowly rushed back into his pale cheeks.
"He's back in sinus rhythm! We have a pulse! Strong and steady!" Captain Vance shouted, relief flooding her weather-beaten face. She looked up at Ethan, her eyes wide with undisguised respect. "Damn it, kid. You kept him oxygenated long enough for the shock to take. If you had hesitated another thirty seconds, he’d be brain-dead."
The crowd of travelers let out a collective, nervous sigh, some offering a hesitant, scattered round of applause.
The old man—Richard Bennett—slowly turned his head on the medical padding. His gaze locked onto Ethan, who was quietly standing in his torn, blood-stained Apex janitorial uniform, wiping his face with a paper towel.
May you like
Richard Bennett’s lips parted, moving weakly as he tried to speak.
Before he could utter a single word, Marcus Vance pushed his way back through the circle of paramedics, flashing an oily, corporate smile, trying to bask in the reflected glory of the rescue.
