THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: JOBS

I'll tell you, I've got stories that would turn your stomach. But the weirdest, most out-there patient I've ever had? That's not even a competition. It's fucking easy. Travis M. Cline, of Rosemont, New Mexico. Hands down. No question. The man died on his final trip to the hospital, but no one batted an eyelid at that.

I gotta explain some stuff first, though. See, I've been an EMT for going on 18 years. You don't do this job that long without seeing some truly horrific shit. I've picked up severed hands from the asphalt and tossed them aside like roadkill, not a second thought about it. I've listened for the thump of a heartbeat in a bloodied torso with no arms or legs. I've scraped what looked like a mishmash of pizza off the road, remnants of a child from a nasty wreck, and then had to ask a shell-shocked woman the kid's name.

You deal with that sort of madness, or you lose your mind and quit. I got a thick skin. I stuck around.

Then there was Travis.

Travis' last ride was a calm one, lights off. From the moment we got the call, we knew he wasn't going to make it. Wrecked kidneys. Dialysis. 79 years old with a history of heart issues and diabetes. His heart was all over the place. He'd taken a tumble in his kitchen and buzzed us with his med-alert.

We knew Travis. Not the first time we'd had to haul him in. Twice in the last 15 months. We got him settled in the ambulance, and I sat with him in the back. Got an drip going, tried to ease his nerves. Tommy, the driver, took his sweet time getting us to Clariet. We had time, me and Travis. He was always one for a chat.

Travis had a fondness for me. The time before last, he made a point to find out my name, and when he was back in the hospital for dialysis, he found me and thanked me. I told him it was no big deal. His calls were simple, and I knew they'd become even more so. The sirens were off, after all. Everyone knew — even Travis himself — that his time was almost up.

Travis had been an X-Ray tech in the 1970s and 80s. He could banter like any EMT, knew the lingo, and the lifestyle. He'd seen some things, or so he claimed, and I had no reason to doubt him. Anyone who's worked in medicine for any stretch of time will tell you the same thing: there's a lot of shit to see.

On his last ride, Travis said to me, muffled through his oxygen mask, "I'm glad it's you," and he held out his hand. There was a folded sheet of paper clutched in it, I took it but didn’t look at it. Then, with some effort, he yanked down his mask and looked me dead in the eyes. He said, "I killed 22 people."

It took me a beat to process that. A minute or two to finally say, "that's okay," but inside, I was thinking, what the ever-loving fuck?

Working as an EMT, you quickly learn to distinguish between truth and delusion. You understand when a patient is lying or when they're spouting nonsense. Travis, despite his deteriorating physical state, was lucid. He wasn't just mumbling. He was there, alive, and every bit aware. He wasn't just spitting out words, he was confessing.

"In the 1980s," he began, his voice trembling a bit, "some government outfit paid me good money to drive a van out, just me and a small crew. We would go to people's homes and zap them while they slept. From the street. Sometimes from their driveways. They had this X-Ray machine, but smaller, and real powerful. Like nothing I'd ever seen before. We called it...the bug-zapper. I didn't question it. The money was too good. And the victims... I don't even know-"

"That's okay, Mr. Cline. You just try to take it easy," I cut him off, trying to quiet him.

"I knew what we were doing. Two of them were just kids. Did I tell you that? I caused cancer. In two children. I chose to do that. I chose to kill them."

"Mr. Cline, you need to calm down," I tried to soothe him, though I could hardly calm my own racing thoughts.

He quieted down. Like I said, and died during that ride.

What? No. The man was dead, and he had no family that I knew of. Who was I to tell?

Three days after, men from the Department of Energy came. They questioned me for a couple of hours about Travis. I gave them every detail he had given me; I mean, every second in the back of the ambulance is recorded. They probably already knew everything from watching the video. All they did was jot down notes and thank me for my time. They never told me to keep quiet or anything.

What? Yeah, I handed them the paper. I never even got a chance to see what was written on it. I wasn't about to play detective; that's not my job.

You’re damn straight I believe Travis. I have no proof or understanding of who, why, or when, but I believe Travis. He had no reason to lie.

Bug-zapper. Crazy, right? Just fucking crazy.