*
I’m waiting for the elevator to take me back up to the TICU when the call comes over the hospital intercom: “Dr. Dillinger, Newborn Nursery. Dr. Dillinger, Newborn Nursery. Dr. Dillinger, Newborn Nursery.”
It’s a joke, right? That’s my first thought. I think of all the little babies wrapped in receiving blankets nestled in their mothers’ arms. But the blue alarm lights are flashing and my blood freezes cold. Dr. Dillinger is our code word for a shooter on the loose. We have been preparing for this for months and even though we have a bunch of armed guards all over the hospital, shooters will always have the advantage of surprise. We have a metal detector, sure, but not at every door. There are so many ways to get into and out of this hospital, the Emergency Department being the most straightforward -- but a shooter in Newborn Nursery? What kind of sicko would do that?
I know the drill. We are to report to battle stations immediately; we’re on automatic lockdown. This is the Alamo, this is Desert Storm, this is World War Three. This is why I carry a gun -- to protect myself and my patients -- this is my duty. But if I had my car keys in my pocket instead of upstairs in my locker, I know where I would be heading right now. My kids need me too. If I had my keys on me, I would be out the fire exit, I would be gone. But I don’t so I will do my duty.
The elevators are inoperable; I have to go up five flights of stairs. Drawing my firearm, I run down the hall to the stairwell, put my ear against the door to listen for footsteps coming down. All quiet. With a burst of adrenalin I pull open the door and lunge in, my piece held straight out in front of me. Just like on TV, I make a sweep with my eyes and my gun. Seeing nothing – nobody – I bound up the stairs two at a time, my heart is a jackhammer. On the third floor landing I have to stop for breath, I can’t catch my breath. But third floor is Newborn Nursery, that’s where the shooter is. Look! The door’s opening! Oh shit! Point the gun, my finger on the trigger but the gun is shaking and I’m peeing my pants, I feel the warm rush of liquid down both legs. There he is -- squeeze the trigger – kill that son-of-a-bitch!
Oh my God, it’s Colt Rankin, one of the L & D interns. I would have shot him, I would have killed him dead -- except I forgot to release the safety. Thank you sweet Jesus! What a blazing idiot, I would have been a murderer. Now he sees me – oh no! He’s going for his piece, he’s --
“Don’t shoot! Dr. Rankin, don’t shoot me. I’m a nurse, I’m Kit, from TICU! I’m a nurse!”
He leans against the door. “Sweet Jesus.”
“What happened? What’s going on?”
Rankin’s a mess, he’s shaking, he can’t seem to find the words. He retches but nothing comes out, just a little stream of bile. “Dr. Rankin, are you OK? Are there casualties?”
His eyes are vacant holes. “They’re – God.” He gasps and gags again, like a cat trying to rid itself of a hairball. “They’re all – it’s.” I see spatters of blood on his lab coat and somehow I know they aren’t from delivering a baby. His hands are bloody, he’s got blood on his glasses and in his hair.
“Look, Dr. Rankin, I have to get to my station, to TICU. Stay here ‘til the cops come. Guard the door!” I leave him there, huddled in the corner. I hope he’s not hurt, I didn’t even stop to check. I put my pistol back in the holster and call nine-eleven on my cell phone, but dispatch says they’ve already got the call a hundred times over. They’re on it, take cover. Help is on the way.
I pocket my cell phone and bound up the stairs. At the door to the fourth floor I stop again, put my ear against it and listen carefully. On the other side I hear voices shouting, I hear crying. But I’ve got to get to my post.
The operator’s voice, pinched and tight, comes over the loudspeaker. Dr. Dillinger, Labor and Delivery. Dr. Dillinger, Labor and Delivery. Dr. Dil – “The Operator’s voice sounds like glass breaking. Who -- where -- is this monster? L and D now? Are there more than one?
Gunshots from above -- bipbipbipbip. Somebody’s coming down the steps, they’re above me. Heavy footsteps. I’m shaking, I’m shaking, pistol in hand, I’m crouching down, I am trying not to lose it. Footsteps louder, the jingling of keys. It’s a cop -- no -- it’s one of our security guards. Or is it somebody dressed in a security guard’s uniform? How do I know this isn’t the killer?
“Stop! Hands in the air!” I yell, letting out a big fart, it sounds like a gun shot.
The man in the guard uniform stops and looks up, sees me with the bead on him. “I’m a nurse, TCIU! Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a Security Guard! Put that damn thing down before you kill me.” He comes up to the landing next to me, huffing and puffing. “Just take cover, OK? We don’t need any more shootings. We don’t need any more dead. My partner’s dead, he’s dead, and I’m trying to secure the floor, somebody’s shot out the monitors.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some psycho, an ex-boyfriend of one of the nurses. Marta. She called dispatch just before he blew her away. She had time to give us his name. Said he used to work here. They’re running a background check on him.” The guard is still trying to catch his breath. Beneath the bill of his hat, his forehead is dotted with sweat. “So we’ve got to assume he knows the hospital, he knows every door, every linen closet, every hiding place there is.”
“What’s he want?”
“What do any of them want? A first class ticket to hell. This nutter must’ve brought in his whole armory. He’s shooting up babies and mothers and nurses, he’s making his way through the hospital, and the collateral damage is bad – employees are shooting each other, stray bullets killing family members. I’d advise you to hide yourself until the SWAT team gets here.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to protect my patients. What’s this guy look like?”
“That’s the problem. He’s wearing a lab coat. He looks like any one of you-all. He used to be one of you-all.” He says that like he thinks we all have the potential to turn into monsters.
“Don’t shoot Dr. Rankin, he’s down there on the third floor landing.” Leaving the guard in the stair well, I open the fifth floor door and run down the hallway that leads to TICU, my gun drawn. Run past the waiting room, where the lights are off but the television set is on and kids are crying. I burst through the double doors, ready to fire, but where is everybody?
Zip – blat! A bullet rushes past my head, strikes the wall behind me. Who’s shooting? Is it friendly fire? One of my co-workers? Or is it the killer? I duck into Sobee’s room and take cover behind the ventilator. Ooh pah, ooh pah, the machine breathes away sounding like Darth Vader. Mozart is still playing on the stereo, a woodwind concerto, music from another century. Just stay calm, I tell myself. Then somebody’s alarm go off, it’s a heart rate alarm, but it’s not my patient, it’s Cid’s patient, it’s Mr. Anderson. My phone app shows me his monitor. He’s tachycardic, heart rate of 182, which is what mine feels like right now. Another round of shots, and I hear an explosion, like a bullet hit a ventilator or an oxygen pipe in the wall. Looking out the glass doors I see the surgical resident crouching behind the COR cart, she’s got her gun drawn, she’s ready.
Oh God, it’s him, he’s here, he’s in TICU! Shots sound like popcorn in the microwave. But Cid’s patient is in trouble, he needs help, where the fuck is Cid? And what am I doing? Am I a nurse or a vigilante? I should go to Mr. Anderson’s room, I should back up Cid, her patient needs me. But my legs are numb, my gun is suddenly too heavy to lift, it’s like I’m frozen. I’ve spent all my adrenalin, all that’s left is fear. My pants are wet and all I can do is peek out from behind the ventilator. It’s all I can do, just to watch. I want to cover my head, close my eyes and listen to Mozart, still playing. A beautiful concerto from another century playing in the middle of madness, it’s like a time warp.
He’s standing in front of this room, Mr. Sobee’s room, he’s looking in. A little man, not big at all, not like I imagined. He’s dressed in surgical scrubs, complete with mask and booties, he’s
wearing a white lab coat. In his hands, a reliable old AK-47. A common household weapon. Who would have thought? Something startles him. He spins around and empties a clip into the nurses’ station. I can’t see who he’s firing at – I can’t see if anybody’s hit -- but I see Tonto coming up behind him. Tonto’s unarmed but he’s got a high velocity foam fire extinguisher. He cracks the shooter on the back of the head, dropping him to his knees with a grunt. The weapon falls out of his hands and Shanna’s mother comes running out of the room to grab it.
But the killer isn’t finished, no sir. He’s come prepared. Plenty more where that came from and he’s going down in a blaze of rage. Now he’s reaching for a something under his lab coat, a handgun. Tonto sees him, he’s quick. He pulls the pin of the fire extinguisher and blasts him in the face with a stream of potassium acetate, covering him from head to toe with white foam. Blinded, howling, the shooter gropes under his lab coat and pulls out a pistol -- a Glock 17 -- but before he can blow anybody away Tonto jumps on top of him, pins him to the floor. With a blood-curdling war cry he jams a needle into his jugular vein and drives the plunger home. I don’t know what was in that syringe but the shooter is twitching like he’s dangling from the end of the rope, his eyes blood red, he’s in a full tonic-clonic seizure; snorting, foaming at the mouth and looking like the devil himself. And then he collapses, he’s limp on the floor. Unconscious. Or maybe he’s dead, I don’t know.
“Got you, you crazy sick bastard,” says Tonto, tying the man’s hands behind his back with a roll of surgical tape. He hobbles his ankles too, like a roped calf at the Western Stock Show.
One by one we come creeping out from our hiding places to stare at the carnage. Tonto’s talking on his cell phone, his voice is calm, like he’s ordering a pizza. He’s talking to the police, giving his location, and when he’s finished he puts it in his pocket. He starts doing his Native American prayer dance, wailing in some ancient language as he hops on one foot then the other in his beaded deerskin moccasins.
Something’s burning, it’s not sage, it smells like an electrical fire. Somebody’s pulled the red handle, the overhead sprinklers are raining down, white lights are flashing, an alarm sounds.
Another alarm sounds, the cardiac monitor alarm. It’s Cid’s patient, Mr. Anderson, he’s flat-lined, he’s in full cardiac arrest. I dash to his room, slip-sliding on blood, water and foam, and I mash on the magic red button, wondering if anybody will respond to the code. Grab the paddles, charge the defibrillator, I’m ready to deliver the shock. But where is everybody? Where’s the rest of the lifesaving team?
My coworkers are out in the nurses’ station, they’re gathered around Cid. Our very own Wonder Woman is lying face down in a pool of blood. Her stethoscope’s still wrapped around her neck, her pistol still clenched in her hand.
My God, what have we done? What have we become?
Tonto is still dancing, his arms raised to the sky. High above the cry of alarms and the wail of sirens, I hear his voice; a coyote’s thin howl.
-end-
About the author
In one of her parallel lives, Linda Collison worked for more than a decade as a registered nurse in acute care settings – on the night shift, of course. Besides short stories, she writes contemporary and historical novels, nonfiction, and other random stuff. Her first novel, Star-Crossed (Knopf; 2006), was chosen by the New York Public Library to be among the Books for the Teen Age –2007. The cover art (by Cheryl Griesbach and Stanley Martucci) was included in Spectrum 14, an annual collection of the best in contemporary fantastic art. Albert Roberts created the cover for Collison’s latest contemporary, coming-of-age novel, Looking for Redfeather (Fiction House, Ltd; 2013). Roberts is also credited with the cover art for Friday Night Knife and Gun Club, one story in a collection of nurse noir and dystopian fiction to be published in 2014.
www.lindacollison.com.
Friday Night Knife and Gun Club Page 5
