someone alive until the paramedics showed up. None were going to be coming in this case… or at least not in time.
Seeing that he had no choice, Peter slung Harry over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Taking two quick steps, he fired a webline upward and bounded to the top of a building. He needed height, he needed to be able to see what was in the vicinity. The instant he hit the roof, he fired another webline and started swinging.
Uptown, head uptown
, he frantically told himself. He knew uptown better than he did downtown, and besides, downtown tended to be more deserted at this hour.
Peter had never moved with less consideration for his own safety. Even with the web-slinging skills he had developed, swinging one-handed was remarkably dangerous. Rather than alternate arms, he would fire a webline, swing to its apex, release, fire another one, and keep moving. The advantage was that it resulted in great, distance-eating arcs. The disadvantage was that if he miscalculated, he could wind up smeared all over a building or on the side of an ill-timed passing truck.
As he swung, he scrambled to recall everything he'd read about brain damage that could set in from lack of oxygen. What was it? Three minutes? Five minutes? How long before irreparable harm was done? How long before, even if Harry were brought back to full respiration, he would wind up being a vegetable?
Peter spotted a huge red cross six blocks west. Instantly he headed in that direction. Time had slowed to a crawl, even though he was moving faster than anything else in Manhattan. In seconds, he was within sight of the emergency room, taking only the time required to yank the rest of the Goblin armor off Harry. Thank heavens there were passable street clothes underneath. Peter just didn't feel the need to answer certain questions right then.
Peter dropped to the street a block from the hospital and sprinted the rest of the way. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since Harry had been injured. He wasn't even sure if the tortured young man slung over his shoulder was still alive. But he had no choice. He couldn't let Harry die. And if, despite his best efforts, Harry didn't make it…
Don't think about it. You always get in trouble when you think about things. Just run. Running, you're good at.
He was moving so quickly that the automatic doors to the emergency room almost didn't open in time. Peter charged in, shouting for help, and a nurse and some guys in green shirts came running toward him. Part of him was surprised that it was really just like what one sees on television. Within seconds, Harry was being loaded onto a gurney and the doctors were doing triage. Peter was so numb that he didn't even remember Harry being lifted off his shoulder.
He watched as they shoved the gurney through a large set of double doors. They were shouting complicated medical terms, all at the same time, and it was so fast and loud that Peter couldn't follow any of it. But none of it sounded good. He took a step toward Harry, and then his way was blocked by a doctor or orderly or paramedic or someone who was shouting into his face, "What happened? Tell us what happened!"
Peter said the first words that came to mind: "Hit and run." Miraculously, that seemed to satisfy the person who'd been demanding answers. Either that or Peter looked and sounded so much like someone in shock that they simply figured they weren't going to get any better answers out of him.
"In shock" would have been the correct diagnosis for Peter. He was still processing that Harry had followed his father's path so completely, all driven by a desire to kill Peter, and hadn't quite made it to the notion that Harry might not survive the night.
The inquiring someone had vanished, and Peter—moving like a sleepwalker or a man in a trance—walked through the double doors. Harry was lying on the gurney a few feet away. They had yanked out the defibrillator paddles from a crash cart and positioned them on
Seeing that he had no choice, Peter slung Harry over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Taking two quick steps, he fired a webline upward and bounded to the top of a building. He needed height, he needed to be able to see what was in the vicinity. The instant he hit the roof, he fired another webline and started swinging.
Uptown, head uptown
, he frantically told himself. He knew uptown better than he did downtown, and besides, downtown tended to be more deserted at this hour.
Peter had never moved with less consideration for his own safety. Even with the web-slinging skills he had developed, swinging one-handed was remarkably dangerous. Rather than alternate arms, he would fire a webline, swing to its apex, release, fire another one, and keep moving. The advantage was that it resulted in great, distance-eating arcs. The disadvantage was that if he miscalculated, he could wind up smeared all over a building or on the side of an ill-timed passing truck.
As he swung, he scrambled to recall everything he'd read about brain damage that could set in from lack of oxygen. What was it? Three minutes? Five minutes? How long before irreparable harm was done? How long before, even if Harry were brought back to full respiration, he would wind up being a vegetable?
Peter spotted a huge red cross six blocks west. Instantly he headed in that direction. Time had slowed to a crawl, even though he was moving faster than anything else in Manhattan. In seconds, he was within sight of the emergency room, taking only the time required to yank the rest of the Goblin armor off Harry. Thank heavens there were passable street clothes underneath. Peter just didn't feel the need to answer certain questions right then.
Peter dropped to the street a block from the hospital and sprinted the rest of the way. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since Harry had been injured. He wasn't even sure if the tortured young man slung over his shoulder was still alive. But he had no choice. He couldn't let Harry die. And if, despite his best efforts, Harry didn't make it…
Don't think about it. You always get in trouble when you think about things. Just run. Running, you're good at.
He was moving so quickly that the automatic doors to the emergency room almost didn't open in time. Peter charged in, shouting for help, and a nurse and some guys in green shirts came running toward him. Part of him was surprised that it was really just like what one sees on television. Within seconds, Harry was being loaded onto a gurney and the doctors were doing triage. Peter was so numb that he didn't even remember Harry being lifted off his shoulder.
He watched as they shoved the gurney through a large set of double doors. They were shouting complicated medical terms, all at the same time, and it was so fast and loud that Peter couldn't follow any of it. But none of it sounded good. He took a step toward Harry, and then his way was blocked by a doctor or orderly or paramedic or someone who was shouting into his face, "What happened? Tell us what happened!"
Peter said the first words that came to mind: "Hit and run." Miraculously, that seemed to satisfy the person who'd been demanding answers. Either that or Peter looked and sounded so much like someone in shock that they simply figured they weren't going to get any better answers out of him.
"In shock" would have been the correct diagnosis for Peter. He was still processing that Harry had followed his father's path so completely, all driven by a desire to kill Peter, and hadn't quite made it to the notion that Harry might not survive the night.
The inquiring someone had vanished, and Peter—moving like a sleepwalker or a man in a trance—walked through the double doors. Harry was lying on the gurney a few feet away. They had yanked out the defibrillator paddles from a crash cart and positioned them on
Similar Books
