I was shot and died nine times. My mysterious attacker disappeared in the wilderness…until Christmas five years later

I was told that I shouldn’t be alive.

While working as a state ranger on the patrol in southeast Utah, I was ambushed, shot nine times in 40 caliber hollow rounds, and died in the desert.

That night, as I slipped in and out of consciousness, I lost a lot of blood, and then some blood.

I was in a coma for three and a half weeks and hid in the pregnant ward under the pseudonym. The media is ruthless, and if the shooter returns or other attackers, some protection is made.

That night in November 2010 was a “warm before the storm”.

I was working overtime, looking for underage children who illegally gathered in the high desert areas around Moab, while my lieutenant broke up with me looking for a party bonfire.

Drive into the parking lot of the Poison Spider’s countertop at around 8:30 pm and I noticed a man sleeping in the back seat of the Pontiac Big AM.

After knocking on the window several times, the man sat up and opened his car door. I told him he couldn’t sleep there, took him to some alternatives and started back to my truck.

Young’s patrol truck on the poisonous spider Mesa Trailhead

Young is patrolling the remote desert area of ​​Canyon National Park

The next few seconds then changed.

Just before I reached the door, a shot rang out and a sl shot through the left arm under my shoulder to tear it, blowing the humeral bone into a piece of fragments.

The power of that bullet rotated 180 degrees. Looking back at my right shoulder, I saw him walking towards me, his progress illuminated by repeated muzzle flashes.

Three other shots hit me.

The bulletproof vest is part of my uniform.

A detective later told me that the three shots formed a “tight pattern” on my back.

A bullet passed through the vest and ended up leaning against the vertebrae in my waist area.

That fusillade knocked me to the ground. Time slows down.

The shooter kept moving forward and leaning down until he stood on me, still shooting.

After feeling a few eternities, the shooting ceased. The desert is quiet.

He turned back to his car and let me die. He fired 15 rounds and hit me with nine, not including the lugs embedded in my wallet, hidden as usual in the correct bag of goods in my uniform pants, where it gave it life to save my femur.

Everything in my life depends on the choices I make the next moment.

I can let go and check out. I mean, I’m as good as I’m leaving, right? There is certainly no one who can blame me if I choose, and then tie the flesh of the broken corpse to the next realm – to everything stored for us in the end of this life.

The driver’s side of the Young Truck was on November 19, 2010. That night he lost almost all his blood

When he was in a coma for three weeks, his family and doctors were unsure if he would survive

Young’s chest x-ray – he still has bullet fragments inside. One man cleared his left ventricle, and the other pierced his left lung

Or, I can object to such a sad fate and see what happened.

It takes about half the decision.

At that moment, I saw another chance to see sunrise really didn’t look good. This gunman, whoever he is, may end up taking my life, but I won’t walk quietly.

When he walked away, I stocked up. I didn’t know I was shot by a hollow dot warhead, aiming to expand the impact and cause more tissue damage, and now I carry shrapnel in the liver, small intestine, groin, arm and right hip.

A bullet passed through the left ventricle of my heart. Another pierced the lower lobe of my left lung.

There is sl in the L2 area of ​​my spine.

I knew I had been shot and my left arm was beating in pain, but I didn’t realize I was in such a bad state. But I could move, and found-I could sit up and walk.

So, to my surprise and disappointment, I did it. Well, I didn’t walk like I was drunk, but I hang out, but I stood up and moved. I’m alive.

Then he returned to the truck and planned, I guess, to let me get out.

My training has begun. I covered the other side of the Ford F-150. I’m not sure if he knows it, but I also have a gun. So I reached for my service weapon. I reached for it again.

I reached for the third time, but my left arm no longer asked from my brain. As the humeral bones broke, the arm turned into a swaying, useless flesh socks, waving around his will. It even swayed at a time and hit me in the face.

That was my day. After trying to draw with your left hand a few times, I had an epiphany, “Your idiot, use the other hand. You’ve trained to do this.

In the process, I shot him and hurt him. I never found any degree. I’ve run out of adrenaline and I’m in a coma. I believe he thought I was dead, so he left.

Soon after, I woke up and found the power to climb onto my truck and asked for help on the radio.

I lay there for 12 minutes until the help arrived.

I was transported to Moab by ambulance. Then, with death and the last two bags of life-saving blood on my chest, I was intubated by the helicopter and flew towards Big Junction.

After three and a half weeks of unconsciousness, I was consumed by anxiety and fear. I can’t fall asleep and can’t see clearly. I can’t talk to a tracheotomy. I was trapped.

Young’s wife and three children move to Colorado, he lies in hospital to resume shooting

He returned to work as a park ranger in Utah and gave motivational speeches nationwide

So I beg God to help me find peace. To my surprise he delivered it. But first, I have to find forgiveness.

We all have the option to interact with people who cross the road. That night, my family and I chose a choice – in the weeks, months and years that followed, either living in fear and hatred, or forgive and find happiness.

Recovery is difficult.

I spent nearly a year on physical therapy and to this day I still live in the bullet fragments inside my body.

In the end, I made progress. I even returned to work during the State Rangers.

But those feelings of anxiety and fear towards my attackers? They dissipated early, laying the foundation for clear thinking and focused recovery.

I never had a chance to forgive my killer. He disappeared into the desert and on Christmas Eve, hikers found his sun-breaking bones in a nearby cave.

I’m not sure it’s important, but I hope he has the opportunity to tell him that he will accept my forgiveness. Being forgiven is a gift, but accepting and forgiveing ​​oneself is a greater and more difficult virtue.

Nine Miracles: Brode Book Group was published on June 10 when Brody Young and Austin Murphy took the upper hand. Brody Young wrote as a park ranger, a lieutenant in Utah and has delivered inspiring speeches about his incredible survival stories across the country.