Page 51 of Stone Vows

“Of course,” she says, looking concerned. “Go.”

I run into Gina at the elevator. I can see it on her face, the same expression that I know is on mine. We don’t know whether to be excited or saddened that there has been some kind of mass casualty event. As ER doctors, we live for this shit. The blood. The carnage. The trauma cases that we hope we can help.

But as human beings, we know this page most likely means death and destruction.

A few others pile into the elevator.

“I heard it was a building collapse,” someone says.

“My cousin just texted me about a huge fire,” says another.

When the doors open, we can already hear the commotion coming from the ER. We run around the corner and are met with nurses handing us gowns and gloves. People are pushing gurneys, lining them up along walls in preparation. Nurses are wheeling carts heavy with procedure trays, and techs are bringing massive quantities of blood.

Gina and I are told to join the other residents over by curtain one. Dr. Neill, one of the supervising residents, is already addressing the others when we join in.

“There was a fire in a clothing factory. Early reports from FDNY say chemicals were present that accelerated the spread, causing major structural damage and partial collapse of the building. Prepare yourselves, people. There are a lot of casualties. Some children even. Mostly immigrants. Remember your trauma protocol. Each arrival will have been tagged by EMTs in the field. We’re the closest hospital, so we’re getting the majority of the critical cases.”

Gina grabs my hand in fear and we look at each other knowing what’s about to happen. Knowing we are about to witness people dying in one of the most horrible ways.

“Your first priority as residents is to help clear out existing patients to make room for the incoming ones. After that, it’s all hands on deck. Make yourselves useful wherever you can.”

He throws a couple small vials of Vicks rub to some of the residents. “Put this under your nose. The smell of burnt flesh can be nauseating,” Dr. Neill says, heading for the ambulance bay doors. “Remember your training, doctors. And good luck to us all.”

We silently pass around the container, each putting a dab under our nostrils.

This is going to be bad. This is going to be very bad.

Chapter Twenty-three

We quickly clear the waiting room of non-emergent cases. Then we help the nurses move existing patients into the outpatient and ambulatory wings. Anyone who can be admitted, is done so swiftly, and anyone who can be referred to another hospital or clinic, is asked to leave to make room for the trauma cases headed our way.

Within fifteen minutes, everything is cleared out and ready. We worked like a well-oiled machine. And now we all stand here, gowned and gloved in the calm before the storm. We look at each other, knowing full well we will lose patients today. We look at each other knowing some of us may be changed forever by what we’re about to experience.

Gina grabs my hand again. “We’ll get each other through this,” she says. “We always do.”

I walk out to the ambulance bay expecting to hear sirens. But—nothing. I look around at the other residents and attendings who are all standing at the ready. We quietly wait for the shitstorm we know is coming.

The charge nurse pushes out through the double doors, carrying her emergency radio. She shakes her head. “Many of the injuries were fatal,” she says, clearly feeling emotional pain. “They are still pulling people out, but I was just told not to expect more than two dozen or so.”

Faint sirens in the background get louder and overtake the collective gasps and cries of everyone absorbing the nurse’s words.

“Okay, people,” Dr. Manning says, shouting over the sirens and sad murmurs. “We still have twenty-four people who need our help. Let’s not let this tragedy take any more than necessary. Deal with your emotions later.”

Three ambulances pull up one after the other. “Nelson, Jameson, and Stone, you’re with me,” Dr. Neill says, opening the back of the third one.

There is a rush of acrid smell. Burning hair and flesh that even the Vicks can’t mask.

I’ve smelled minor burns before; and in surgery, they sometimes use electrocautery to cut tissue, but it’s nothing like this. It’s not like burnt pork or beef as most people imagine, it’s a charcoal-like smell with a sulfurous odor that has a fog of humanity to it. And because you know it’s human flesh, it’s haunting. The smell is so overwhelming I know it will be burned into my memory forever.

Craig Nelson, a first-year intern, runs to the outer wall of the ambulance bay, bracing himself with his hands as he vomits onto the concrete.

My own stomach turns due to the vile smell, not to mention the horror of what we’re seeing. I can’t even tell if our patient is a man or a woman due to the extensive burns. But as we wheel the gurney through the doors, I can see long hair matted against the shoulder of what I assume is a woman’s body. The other half of her hair is gone, burned off along with much of the skin on her scalp.

The entire left side of her body is charred, her clothes having melted right into her flesh. She’s conscious and in pain, but probably not in excruciating pain. Not from the burns anyway. Her nerve endings are mostly likely deadened.

She reaches up with her good arm and grabs onto me, her eyes filled with fear.

One of the EMTs briefs us on her condition as the charge nurse directs us to an open room. As I listen to the EMT describe her injuries, I once again feel ill. He estimates third-degree burns over seventy percent of her body. He shakes his head at us.

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