Chapter 2: The Price of Survival

My wife rushed over to block him:

"Please, just help us. My mother-in-law’s in the ambulance—she needs to get to the hospital. We can’t wait any longer."

Her voice trembled, but there was a steel edge underneath. She put herself between us, hands out, pleading and commanding at the same time.

The guard glared at me, then said to my wife:

"Ma’am, you’re reasonable. Look at him, what’s he saying? Your family’s sickness isn’t my fault. Why’s he acting so tough with me?"

He put on an air of being the victim, voice rising for the neighbors watching from their windows. The classic bully’s whine.

My wife shot me a look, and I got it—my mom’s life came first. Everything else could wait. If something happened to her, I’d be the one to lose.

Her eyes, always so gentle, were fierce with warning: Not now. Not here. I bit my tongue till I tasted copper.

I swallowed my anger and kept quiet.

Every muscle in my body screamed for action, but I forced myself to focus on Mom’s pale face inside the ambulance. The urge to lash out warred with the reality—this was life or death.

Seeing I wasn’t arguing anymore, the guard finally bent down and unlocked the rest.

He muttered under his breath, fiddling with each lock. Metal clanked on the asphalt, echoing off the faded brick walls of the complex. I counted every second.

My wife pulled me aside and whispered:

"This is a low-income housing complex. The old management company was driven out ages ago. The current one is run by the former town councilman. All the guards are local toughs. Don’t stoop to their level."

She squeezed my hand. "They’ve run things this way since before we moved here. No point fighting now. Let’s just get your mom out."

There was nothing we could do. Saving my mom was all that mattered. Arguing wouldn’t help if it delayed her treatment.

I nodded, feeling the weight of years of frustration and resignation in this community—a place where power came from who you knew, not what was right.

Finally, the guard finished unlocking all four wheels. The ambulance driver immediately jumped in, started the engine, and was ready to go.

He fired up the engine, hands trembling, flicked on the siren, and glanced back at me: "Let’s move."

But the guard stopped him:

"Not so fast. You parked illegally. Pay a $50 fine before you can leave."

He put a hand on the ambulance’s mirror, blocking the way. The demand hung in the air, bold as daylight.

The driver exploded. He’d already told me while the guard was unlocking that if it weren’t for the patient, he’d have decked this guy. Now, after all this, they wanted a fine too? He didn’t hold back:

"Who the hell do you think you are? Fine your own damn grandpa! Get lost and don’t block the way."

He leaned out the window, voice thunderous, finger jabbing at the guard. "You want a fight, bring it. I got a hospital run to make!"

Now that the boots were off, the driver wasn’t having any more of it. He got in, turned on the siren, and floored it. I honestly thought if the guard blocked him, the driver might really run him over.

The tires squealed on the asphalt, engine howling. For a split second, I thought this was it—the showdown. The guard stepped back, scowling, but not daring to push his luck any further.

The guard seemed to realize he’d pushed it too far and didn’t dare stand in the way.

He spat on the curb, muttering curses, but didn’t move an inch closer.

But as I closed the door, I saw him sneer at the ambulance:

"You think you can get away that easy?"

His words echoed behind us as we sped off, a threat lingering in the sticky summer air.

Hearing that, I wanted to jump out and beat him up, but my wife held me back.

Her grip was fierce, nails digging into my arm. "Don’t. Please. We need to save Mom."

"Don’t make things worse. Saving your mom comes first. We’ve already lost almost an hour."

Her voice shook, tears threatening. My chest burned—one hour lost to a bully’s game.

Seeing my mom sweating from pain in the ambulance, my anger only grew. If anything happened to her, I’d rip that bastard apart.

I watched the sweat bead on Mom’s brow, her breath shallow and ragged. I clenched my jaw, promising revenge in a silent prayer.

But I could only grit my teeth and hope we’d get to the hospital in time.

I stared at the blurry world outside the window, every red light another eternity.

"Fine, after Mom’s treatment, I’ll come back for him."

The words came out low, more to myself than anyone else. My wife shot me a worried look but said nothing.

Just as I said that, we reached the community gate.

The familiar brick pillars and faded sign welcomed us with indifference. Relief flickered for a second—almost out.

That’s when I understood what the guard meant by “you can’t get away”—the main gate was locked.

Heavy chains and a padlock glinted in the late sunlight, barring our path. My stomach turned to ice.

The gate guard spoke into his walkie-talkie:

"They’re here. I’ve stopped them."

His voice was flat, almost bored. I caught his reflection in the booth window—a college kid, face half-hidden by a baseball cap.

I was about to lose it.

I slammed my palm against the glass. "Open the gate! There’s a patient in the ambulance who needs to get to the hospital!"

The guard didn’t even look at us:

"Pay the fine and you can leave. Fifty bucks. Venmo or cash?"

He kept scrolling his phone, thumb flicking up a TikTok video. The indifference was like a slap.

The driver was so angry he started cursing:

"I’ve driven ambulances for over ten years and never seen anyone block the way like this. Open the gate now or I’ll ram it. I run red lights for emergencies, you think I won’t smash your lousy gate?"

His fists pounded the steering wheel. "If you’re gonna play hardball, I’m ready to play."

The guard just pointed at the chained iron gate:

"Go ahead, try if you dare."

He took a long sip from his gas station coffee, eyes on us but unmoved.

Then he went back into his booth to drink coffee.

His chair creaked as he sat, feet up on the counter, flipping through his phone. I could almost smell the burnt coffee and stale donut glaze from where I stood.

I quickly calmed the driver down. That iron gate was solid; ramming it would only make things worse.

I put a hand on his arm. "Not worth it, man. We need the hospital, not a jail cell."

My wife pulled out fifty bucks to pay, but I stopped her:

"They’re bullying us, and you still want to pay?"

The bills shook in her hand, knuckles white with frustration.

My wife burst out, almost in tears:

"What else can I do? Can’t you see Mom’s already fainted from pain?"

Her voice cracked, tears running down her cheeks. I felt the anger in my chest split open into helplessness.

The nurse was anxious too:

"We need to get to the hospital for emergency treatment. Every second counts."

She pressed the oxygen mask tighter to Mom’s face, voice urgent. "Please, sir. She’s crashing."

Right then, I finally understood what it meant to swallow your anger.

I felt my pride shrivel, the fire replaced by cold, bitter reality. Some fights, you lose so you don’t lose everything.

Seeing the unlocking guard slowly ride over on his bike, I really wanted to throw the car in reverse and flatten him. But seeing my mom half-unconscious from pain, I held back.

He coasted in slow, savoring the moment. Every muscle in my body screamed for revenge, but I stayed rooted to the spot.

He walked up and took the fifty from my wife:

"Told you, you couldn’t get away, and you still tried to play games with me."

He flashed a shark’s grin, tucking the cash in his pocket. The other guards leaned in the shadows, watching and snickering.

"Cut the crap, open the gate!"

I spat the words, voice raw from holding back too long.

Before he even got to the gate, I heard my wife wail in the ambulance:

"Mom! What’s wrong? Wake up!"

Her scream cut through me. I spun around, blood pounding in my ears. The EMT lunged for the monitor.

Then came the sharp beeping of the monitor.

A shrill, unrelenting alarm. Time seemed to slow, every second carving a deeper hole in my chest.

The guard finally looked a little nervous. As he opened the gate, he shouted:

"This has nothing to do with me, don’t try to blame me!"

His bravado slipped. For the first time, he looked scared.

I rushed over, kicked the gate open, and jumped in the car.

My foot slammed the gate open, hinges screaming. I dove into the ambulance beside my wife, hands shaking.

The driver floored it, racing to the hospital.

The engine howled, tires screeching as we tore down the county road, siren wailing into the dying light.