Free The Last Run: A Novella by Stephen Knight

while the unit recharged from its internal battery. After three seconds, the button illuminated and held steady. Mulligan pressed it, and Peter spasmed once more. He repeated the process two more times, and by then, the AED was useless, its battery exhausted.
    Mulligan started administering CPR, compressing the center of Peter’s chest thirty times, as he’d been taught, alternating with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He kept it up for five minutes straight, but Peter’s status did not change. Mulligan kept at it, even though the actions caused his own agony to increase.
    Come on, man, come on—!
    After another five minutes of compressions and assisted breathing, it became clear that Peter was dead—perhaps he could have been saved at Harmony, where there were surgeons and a vast array of medical equipment tailored for such an event, but the SCEV’s offerings were just too Spartan to be effective in treating his injuries. Mulligan looked down at his friend, and was surprised he felt a vague, misplaced anger.
    Why weren’t you strapped in? Why didn’t you let me drop you off?
    From up front, CJ whispered, “Scott…”
    Mulligan turned toward the cockpit. He heard CJ fighting to breathe, so he returned to the medical locker and pulled out a bottle of oxygen. The O2 might come in handy. Laboriously, he returned to the cockpit, finding he had a remarkable amount of difficulty stepping over Peter’s body. Later, he would move him to the sleeping area in the back.
    “I’m here,” he said to CJ as he reentered the cockpit. She was still slumped against the right side of the chamber, head lolling, staring out through the viewports at a vista she couldn’t see—a towering mushroom cloud that emitted copious amounts of radioactive waste.
    “Peter,” she said again.
    Mulligan debated on what to say as he fumbled with the oxygen mask. He turned the knob at the top of the green tank, and air whistled slightly as it surged out of the tank and into the small facemask. He gently slipped the mask over CJ’s face and tightened the elastic strap around her head, ensuring the plastic cover was properly positioned over her nose and mouth.
    “Here, this should help,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s oxygen. You relax, there.”
    “What…about…Peter,” she said, the words muffled by the mask and the soft hiss of rushing gas.
    “I’m sorry, hon. Peter’s dead,” Mulligan said, wishing there was a way to soften the words so they didn’t sound so harsh. But standing in the shadow of a growing, radioactive giant, he found he had no skill for that at the moment.
    CJ closed her eyes in response and said nothing.
    “I’m going to release your harness and straighten you out in your seat,” he told her. “Then, I’m going to go back to the medical locker and get a cervical collar for you. I’m not sure, but I think you’re neck might be broken. Can you move at all? Your hands, your toes, anything?” When she didn’t answer, Mulligan leaned closer to her. He smelled the sharp tang of urine, then. CJ had wet herself, apparently without knowing. Or caring.
    “CJ!” he said, louder.
    “No,” she said after a long moment. “Can’t…move.”
    Placing a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place, Mulligan released the safety harness. One strap retracted, while the one that had failed just hung there, fouled in its gravity reel. He put the oxygen tank in her damp lap and straightened out the kinks in the plastic hose, then gently eased her back into the seat. CJ lay there like a rag doll, almost lifeless except for the sounds of her breathing. Tears seeped out from beneath her eyelids.
    “I’ll be right back,” Mulligan said. When she didn’t respond, Mulligan grabbed a handhold and slowly pulled himself upright. He returned to the second compartment and stepped over Peter’s body as he had his way back to the medical locker. He rummaged through it, looking for what he might need. He removed the hard plastic