Free Voracious by Wrath James White Page A

down, okay?” the mousy little meth addict said. Her breath was rancid, like she’d been on a strict diet of Twinkies and road kill.
    “No, I’m okay. You just take care of that guy up there.” Angel leaned against the cruiser while the EMTs jogged over to the vehicle and went to work. It was hot as hell out, at least one hundred degrees with 60 percent humidity. Too fucking hot to be screwing around in traffic.
    The EMTs were fast and efficient. They already had the guy out of the Yukon and onto the gurney and were frantically administering CPR as they raced him back to the ambulance.
    “Is he gonna make it?” Angel asked as they passed him.
    The big linebacker of an ambulance driver looked at him and shook his head. “At least he was an organ donor,” he said, handing Angel the guy’s wallet.
    Angel flipped it open.
    Brian Wubbenna, Austin, Texas, age thirty-seven. In the bottom corner was a little red heart designating him as an organ donor. Damn. Thirty-seven was too damn young to die. What the fuck was this guy thinking pulling out in front of me like that? At least his organs will do some good. Maybe save some other poor bastard’s life.

 
     
     
    13
     
     
    Wednesday, 9:52 a.m.
    “We’ve got a donor! There was an accident on I-35 this morning. The guy died instantly. His heart is in excellent condition. They’re rushing it over to us now. We need to get you prepped for immediate surgery.”
    Anthony Berkley had been born with a congenital heart valve defect. He had his first heart attack in the middle of a college basketball game while charging up the court for a lay-up. Since then, he’d had two more and was informed he’d be dead in a year unless he received a transplant. He was only twenty-two, six foot eight, 265 pounds, good-looking, clean-cut, had his entire life ahead of him, but his failing heart made him doubt if that life would account for more than twenty-four years. He was on the top of the donors’ list, but that didn’t mean a damn thing if they couldn’t find him a heart, and it had begun to look like that would never happen. Anthony had already given up hope when the doctor came in with the good news.
    “Who was he? The donor, I mean?”
    “He HeHHe was thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Not an ounce of excess body fat on this guy from what they tell me. You lucked out.”
    ***
    Wednesday, 10:31 a.m.
    Nurses surrounded Anthony, shaving his chest and washing it with a special antiseptic cleaning solution. The anesthesiologist attached heart and blood pressure monitors to his arms, head, and ribs and then began an IV fentanyl drip.
    “Okay, I need you to count backwards from fifty,” the doctor said.
    “Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven…”
    He was unconscious before he could get to forty-six.
    ***
    Wednesday, 5:40 p.m.
    Anthony woke from surgery in recovery, and for the first time in months he didn’t feel out of breath. He was woozy from the drugs and his throat felt dry and scratchy from the air tube they’d shoved down his throat during the procedure, but other than that, he felt pretty damn good.
    “How are you feeling?”
    “Pretty good. My throat hurts. Did everything go okay?”
    The doctor nodded. “It went perfectly. The sore throat is normal. The nurse will bring you something to drink.”
    “No ice cream? I thought you were supposed to get ice cream after surgery.”
    “If you like,” the doctor answered, still studying Anthony’s chart, checking the EKG.
    “I think I do. I’m hungry as hell for some reason.”
    “That’s normal after surgery. You’ve essentially been fasting for twenty-four hours.”
    Anthony put his hand over the sutures in his chest. “It feels funny. Like it’s about to beat right out of my chest.”
    The doctor nodded. “That’s normal too. Because the nerves leading to the heart are cut during the operation, your new heart beats faster than a normal heart, about a hundred to a hundred and ten