Page 6 of Free to Fall

I spare a quick thought about my family history and easily fire back. “For me, becoming a doctor was never about becoming notorious.”

“Then what was it about?” he challenges.

“It was about saying thank you for being alive. Something we all should be grateful for.” Even as the words pass my lips, I immediately curtail the mental chaos he stirred in my mind as I race down the stairs and weave through a maze of hidden corridors to reach the ER. Taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I use my badge to gain entry to a whole different level of insanity.

Welcoming the burst of the doors opening and the shout of the charge nurse ordering, “Take him to trauma room two! Lockwood, this one is yours!”

I snatch up a paper gown and enter the room. “Someone run it down for me.”

“Eighteen-year-old, Caucasian. Hit and run ...”

Chapter

Two

It must be a full moon, though I wouldn’t know since I haven’t been outside long enough to look up at the sky and check.

The ER is wall-to-wall with bodies. I mentally cringe when I realize that’s true of both the dead ones as well as those still breathing. Still, instead of losing my cool over what I can’t control, I give my attention to the exhausted woman who’s running a slight fever with pain in her pelvic region. After the nurse and I step away, I order, “CBC, lytes, pregnancy, cultures for GC and chlamydia.”

“You think it’s pelvic inflammatory disease, not an ectopic pregnancy?” my on-shift head nurse, Karimat, questions.

“She has differential pain, but nothing that’s indicating an ectopic or even appendicitis. Before we slap her with a couple of thousand in imaging, I’d like to try to treat this medically.” I scribble some notes on the chart and hand it over. “Let me know the minute those labs are back in.”

She holds up the chart. “If you’re right?”

“We’ll treat her with Ceftriaxone and Zithromax.”

“And if not?”

I back away. “Then we’ll make her comfortable and prep her for surgery.”

“Will do, Gore.” Karimat walks straight to the computer to input my orders before she heads back to the patient we just left behind curtain eleven.

I stretch, feeling my lower back crack when the emergency room doors burst open. The EMTs race in calling, “Sixty-year-old gunshot wound victim. Problem.”

“Having been shot being the biggest one?”

“We can’t find any holes.”

“Are you kidding me?” I take off running, shouting for Karimat to follow. Unfortunately for the woman behind curtain eleven, she’s going to have to wait. Blood trumps infection in the ER. I order the EMTs, “Take him to trauma room one.”

“Will do, Gore,” one I recognize, Ostrowsky calls back.

As I lead the patient through the doors, Karimat asks, “What’s your name, sir?”

There’s nothing but a gurgle in response. I frown over the amount of blood as I’m quickly gowned up and the EMTs lock their stretcher in place. I bark, “On my count, one, two, three.”

I immediately spot the wound on the side of his neck buried beneath his black shirt. I demand, “Scissors.” They’re slapped in my hand and I cut away the wet black T-shirt, exposing a graze caused by a bullet wound. The problem is, after I examine the John Doe, there’s too much blood soaking his shirt for such a simple wound. “Where the hell is it coming from?” I mutter.

The patient grunts. I lean over so I’m the only face he sees. “I’m Dr. Lockwood. Can you tell us your name?”

To his credit, he tries. Gurgles just come out of his mouth. I hush him by smoothing a hand over his blood-soaked forehead and over his shoulder where there’s a very distinct pucker. Lifting my hand, I see it’s soaked in blood. “Shh. Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine.”

His eyes drift shut, acknowledging my words, giving me his trust. His faith.

I demand of my team, “Start two lines. Get a liter of saline running. Slap an O2 mask on him. Prep the O-neg. CBC type and cross match. Call the OR and tell them to prep a room. They may need to do a laparoscopy. It’s possible a piece of the bullet fragmented.”

Karimat slips the mask over his face before spinning like the most graceful of dancers to reach the in-house phone to react to my demands.

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