Page 70 of Spike's Perdition
“Ivory!” I shout, trying to be heard over the music. “Where ya at, babe?”
My eyes take in the same boxes that were already packed when I left yesterday, and I frown.
Maybe she’s taking a bath.
I weave my way through the mess of the living room toward the kitchen to grab a drink before I head to the bathroom. The moment my foot settles on the tile floor, my heart cracks, and my stomach bottoms out.
“Ivory!”
Rushing forward, I take in the sight before me. Ivory is tied to the kitchen table with rope at her wrists and ankles, and she’s bleeding heavily. The puddle of crimson on the floor beneath her sends my fear into overdrive.
“Ivory, baby, wake up,” I cajole, tapping her cheek and shifting my gaze to her stomach. There’s a long jagged incision, and tissue is exposed.
The baby!
I whip out my cell and dial nine-one-one, my mind racing.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a female answers.
“I need an ambulance,” I snap and rattle off Ivory’s address. “She’s bleeding heavily, and it looks like…” I swallow the bile creeping up the back of my throat.
“Sir? What does it look like?”
“Fucking hell, it looks like our baby was cut out of her.”
I’m not an emotional man, and it usually takes a lot for me to be truly terrified. Right now, I’m both.
“Did you say a baby was cut out of her?” the operator asks.
“Yes!” I shout. “Get a fucking ambulance here!”
Not waiting for a response, I disconnect the call and dial Soul’s number.
“Yo, brot?—”
“I need you, Abyss, and whoever else you can manage to meet me at the hospital closest to Ivory’s address,” I spit out.
“What the fuck?” Prez asks. “What’s going on?”
“C’mon, Ivory, baby,” I plead, squeezing her hand. “Ivory’s bleeding out,” I tell Soul. “The baby’s gone, man.” Tears spill onto my cheeks, and I swipe them away before disconnecting the call.
I toss my phone onto the floor and begin CPR. The chances of Ivory living through this are surely next to zero, but I have to do everything I can to save her.
And your son.
Sirens wail in the distance, and I count out my compressions. She has a faint pulse which gives me hope, but I remind myself that life is an evil bitch and likes to kick me in the balls.
Footsteps penetrate the fog of autopilot, and I glance over my shoulder to see paramedics rushing toward us.
“Sir, I need you to step back so we can work,” the older one tells me.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“You don’t have to leave,” he says. “But you do need to give us space.”
When I don’t move, the younger one forcibly removes me from the kitchen and pushes me into the living room. I watch helplessly as they work to get an IV started.
“Pulse is weak and thready,” one of them says. “Based on the amount of blood, I think this is as stable as we’re gonna get her here. Let’s get a move on and get her to the hospital.”
