Page 37 of Bad Blood

I rub my fingers into my clammy palms as my mouth goes dry. I don’t quite succeed at convincing myself there’s a plausible reason the nurse is not where she’s supposed to be.

“Calm down.” I can’t believe I’m talking to myself. I creep around the side of the nurses’ station, listening for any sound I can make out above the uproar of the construction. “What is wrong with me?” I wipe my sweaty hands down the side of my scrubs and shake my head, trying not to freak out. An unnerving scraping from near the elevators is my breaking point. What was that? I race to the other side of the counter and duck next to a chair.

The sound of construction stops. Or is the pounding of my racing heart overriding it? Icy energy courses through my veins, lighting my skin on fire in a rush of cold flames. I wrap my hands over my mouth and pinch my eyes closed, gulping breaths to stay quiet.

I have no idea what to do, so I surrender to my instincts, but my mind can’t keep up. When I open my eyes, a shock of power pumps through my body, rushing to my fingertips. This is ridiculous. Why am I hiding? I stand on wobbly legs and examine my surroundings at warp speed. Everything is faster, clearer.

The sound of drills and hammers returns. Along with a constant thumping sound from behind me. A sound that is not my heart. A sound I’m petrified to investigate any further. The world slows to the point where I can feel my pulse thrumming through my veins. Everything has culminated to this point. My senses are magnified, sharpened into lethal blades of thought.

My fingers shake.

But not in fear.

I whirl around with a nervous laugh, “Oh,” I gasp, a hand on my thundering heart, “I wondered where you . . .”

But no one is there.

The sheer power of my adrenaline concentrates in my bloodstream. My hands are shaking. The icy-hot force I felt has evaporated into dread. I blink over and over, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing but not seeing.

There’s the ping of the elevator.

And a scratching that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Right after a thud.

But it is not coming from the elevator.

The door handle of the stairwell to the left of the elevator jiggles. Stops. I’m seeing things. My eyes bounce from the stairwell door to the elevator, to the hallway behind me, and back again. Where is it coming from? I cover my ears, rocking on my heels while I try to get my brain to focus.

It happens again.

“Hello?”

Please be the nurse. Please be the nurse.

The movement stops.

My heart thuds in my chest as I wait. And wait.

But no one comes.

I take a few hesitant steps toward the stairwell and reach for the handle as it twists and flies open with the weight of a body.

A crumpled, bleeding, gurgling body.

I barely miss the woman as she collapses past my flailing arms and onto the floor, clutching her side as she reaches for me. Blood pools under her as her terrified hazel eyes meet mine. I’m at her side, pulling her closer to me as I slip on the ruby-red liquid.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Can you talk to me? Who did this?” Crimson liquid bubbles from between her lips as she struggles to speak. “What happened? Stay with me.”

I can’t make sense of what she’s trying to say. “What was that? Stairs? Who’s on the stairs?”

I cradle her head in my lap, her brown hair splaying across my thighs. I search around in vain for something to press into the wound she’s clasping under her left breast. I waste precious seconds doubting myself and my abilities. Blood dribbles from between her fingers as her eyes roll back in her head, and she gasps for air.

“Hey, come on. You got this. Focus on me.” Shit. I need my phone. I reach for my bag, but my fingers graze the corner. My foot finds purchase against the wall, and I push the two of us closer. I snag the strap of my bag and start fumbling inside for my phone with one hand. Where the hell is it?

“Hello! Somebody? Anybody!” The elevator chimes, and I stare at it, praying the doors will hurry and open. Something hits my left thigh, and I glance over; the woman’s arm has fallen, and there is nothing putting pressure on her wound.

Her fucking gunshot wound.

I close my eyes and hope she’s lost consciousness, but when I hold two fingers to the side of her throat, I can’t find a pulse. I press my hands against her wound, but the blood stops pumping from between my fingers, and I start chest compressions. I haven’t seen this much blood since med school.

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