Critical Condition

by CJ Lyons

  “If you’re that worried, have your security guys detain him until I can verify his credentials. You can invoke privacy concerns or some other legal bullshit to keep him from wandering around the premises.”

  Better than nothing. “Call me as soon as you hear anything?”

  “I will. Gina, I have to go now.”

  Janet hung up and Gina slid her phone into her pocket. The ER was now completely empty, as dark and cold as the Titanic going under.

  She turned away from the corridor leading to radiology and headed back toward the nurses’ station. The security office adjoined the waiting room across from the nurses’ station and beside the ambulance entrance. It occurred to Gina that maybe she could use the hospital security cameras to find where Harris was.

  Okay, then. A plan. She stepped through the debris littering what was left of the nurses’ station and jogged down the hall to the security office. Inside, she found hospital CEO Oliver Tillman and three guards behind the counter at the monitors, thick binders of emergency procedures open before them.

  “We have three days of fuel for the emergency generator,” one guard was saying. “If we minimize consumption.”

  “I’ve ordered all ambulatory patients and nonessential personnel to the auditorium,” Tillman said. “We’ll consolidate all other patients and staff to the ICU floor. Make it easier for staff to rotate care.”

  “Good. We can cut back on electrical output and heat to the unoccupied parts of the hospital.”

  Another guard hung up a phone. “Pittsburgh EMS is diverting all ambulance traffic away from us. The police already have most of the roads closed.”

  “We’ve got more problems than just the weather and a power outage,” Gina told them.

  Tillman glanced up at her, scowling. “Dr. Freeman. I thought you would be tending to your mother.”

  “I would be. Except that I just spoke with Detective Kwon, and she suggested that the DEA agent named Harris be detained until she can verify his credentials. She’s concerned for patient safety. The ER staff reported that he was interfering with patient care.” It was stretching the truth, but Gina figured better safe than sorry. Especially when it involved Jerry’s safety.

  “Think he’s another hit man?” The security guard’s tone was one of excitement. He too was young, obviously new. Where was Tillman finding these guys? Gina wondered.

  “If he is, then he’s after Lydia Fiore and Jerry. He was asking about both of them.”

  Tillman’s scowl deepened. He reached for the phone. “Thank you, Dr. Freeman. We’ll deal with Harris once I’ve verified it. Please join the others in the auditorium.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Freeman.” Tillman’s expression turned glacial. “I have enough on my hands. Now, please go to the auditorium. I’m sure they need your help.” He turned his back on her and pointed to the security monitors. “Find me that man, Harris. We can’t let him go wandering the hospital until we double-check his credentials.”

  At least Tillman was working on the problem, even if he had summarily dismissed Gina. He was right, anyway; she would be more help in the auditorium with the others.

  Gina left the security office and went down to the ER locker room. There she grabbed her lab coat, pulling it on top of her sweater, and stuffed its pockets with supplies: two penlights, a pen and note cards, calculator, disposable scalpel, hemostats, gloves, trauma radio. The nurses would have pulled supply carts with other essentials like gauze, bandages, and medications.

  As the familiar weight of the jacket settled on her shoulders, for the first time since the shooting, she felt close to normal. If not for her worry about LaRose and concern about Harris roaming the hospital, the idea of practicing meatball medicine would be fun.

  On her way toward radiology, where LaRose was getting her CT scan, Gina took a route that led her back past the security office. She reached the devastated nurses’ station, picking her way through the debris littering the floor—no easy feat, since someone had turned all the lights off—when she spotted Harris talking to Tillman in the security office.

  Good. At least they knew where Harris was. They could verify his credentials, make sure he was no threat to Jerry.

  Then she froze, pressing her body deeper into the shadows. Harris was holding a gun to Tillman’s head.

  EIGHT

  A KNOCK SOUNDED ON LYDIA’S DRIVER’S DOOR, and then it opened, wind and snow blowing in at her. Trey Garrison was six feet tall, but his head was currently level with hers because of the way the SUV was elevated.

  “You’re jammed in good.” He grinned at her like she’d earned a gold star for her driving skills. That was Trey. Didn’t matter that they’d been arguing about the existence of God a few minutes earlier. Didn’t matter that they’d been arguing—well, she’d been arguing—all week. “Let’s get you out of there and I’ll take you home.”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I was headed over to Angels when you called—seems a car drove through the ER.”

  “What? Everyone all right?” she asked as he pushed the door into the snowbank, giving her more room to maneuver out of the SUV.

  “Said they had it under control when they canceled the rescue call. But they’re closing the ER, went on diversion. With the power out, I thought I’d check to see if they needed an extra pair of hands.”

  “The power’s out?”

  “Whole city.”

  Lydia twisted sideways, sheltering her arm in the cast by holding it against her chest, and slid out the door and into Trey’s arms. He held her steady, balancing on the uneven snow and ice as he walked backward to level ground and set her on her feet again. “You’re freezing. Can you walk okay?”

  She stomped the feeling back into her feet, her toes squishing the snow melted inside her boots, while Trey locked the SUV. He’d broken a path through the mound of snow leading out to the street, but his tracks were already filling in.

  The sky pressed down in a smothering, unrelenting blanket, feeling so close that Lydia thought she might be able to stretch up and touch the heavy steel-gray clouds. An eerie silence surrounded them and with the snowbank blocking the street and the falling snow blocking the sight of the training center buildings, it was as if they were marooned alone on a deserted polar ice cap.

  Despite her down parka—a Christmas gift from Trey—Lydia shivered. She’d be the first to admit that she had the personality of a hermit, wasn’t always suited for human company or socializing, but she was glad Trey was there. This isolation, this feeling of being stranded, cut off in every direction, was enough to make her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the ER.

  Trey took her hand and held it tightly, one arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her balanced as they followed his trail back out.

  “What the hell is that?” she asked when she saw the vehicle he’d arrived in. It was a puke-yellow box on wheels with a short snout attached to a small snowplow blade.

  “Hey, don’t make fun of Bessie. You’ll hurt her feelings.” Trey patted the ugly truck like it was Old Yeller. “She was one of the city’s first rescue vehicles. Doesn’t have all the bells and whistles of the new ones and she’s been retired for years, but on days like today she still comes in handy. Don’t ya, girl?”

  Trey helped Lydia climb into Bessie’s passenger seat. When his hand brushed against the Taurus holstered at her waistband he flinched as if she were contaminated, but without a word he closed her door for her, trudged through the snow to the driver’s side, and climbed in.

  “Do you need help with your seat belt?”

  “I got it.” Suddenly Lydia felt as isolated and alone as she had outside in the storm. Used to be that wouldn’t bother her—but now she hated it. Hated his disapproval.

  Trey stayed silent. The road was treacherous enough to demand all his attention, but Lydia caught him continuously glancing in her direction. Waiting for her to speak first.

  To say what? That she was sorry? Lydia c
ouldn’t help it if she didn’t feel that his presence alone was enough to guarantee their safety—that was a simple fact. Her choice to protect herself should have nothing to do with his pride or manliness or whatever macho crap was fueling his anger.

  In fact, he should apologize to her. For treating her like she didn’t have a brain or a clue about what danger lay out there waiting for them.

  Lydia’s fury built, going from simmer to full boil, and she opened her mouth to vent it—but Trey spoke first.

  “You know how you read about kids playing with guns and someone ends up dead? Ever wonder what happens to the other kid—the one who lived?”

  Trey’s voice was level, but when she turned to look at him, any hint of his usual good humor had vanished.

  “That was me.”

  His words immediately shamed her. She sucked her breath back in, swallowing her anger with it. She should never have underestimated him, assuming it was simple wounded male pride that had caused his anger about her carrying a gun. Lydia lay her hand on his thigh, unable to do more as he huddled forward over the steering wheel.

  “Tell me.” Then she added a word she knew she should use more often, especially with him. “Please.”

  The only sounds were the slush of the windshield wipers and the grind of the tires against the snow. The street was empty as far as she could see and unnaturally dark. She knew there was a streetlight ahead but couldn’t see anything through the blur of white that filled the view.

  “I was only eight,” he finally started. “School was out for the summer—” He yanked the wheel as a blur of green appeared from the side. “What the hell?”

  Bessie shuddered, then rolled to a stop, angled across the road. Brake lights flashed ahead of them from a green cargo van. It slid out of control, first going sideways, then headed toward them, then away but going the wrong direction down the street, and finally, in a gut-wrenching slow motion, careening further and further off its axles until it hit a utility pole, spun around it, and came to a rest driver’s side down facing away from them, wheels spinning in the air.

  The rear doors had sprung open somewhere midskid, momentum flinging small objects to scatter across the road behind the van. Trey slowly crept forward, keeping a light touch on the accelerator, as both he and Lydia craned to see through the windshield.

  There was no movement from the driver’s compartment. Trey halted Bessie about ten feet from the rear of the van and opened his door, hopping onto the running board to get a better look.

  “I don’t see any downed power lines,” he said. “Wait here while I check on the driver.”

  Lydia didn’t bother arguing with him. Instead she grabbed a flashlight from the dashboard charger and jumped out of the rescue truck, teeth smacking together as the impact rocked her arm in a less than gentle fashion. She’d taken two steps toward the van when a dark smudge in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

  She glanced that way only to see a black blur skid over the snowbank on the side of the road. Then a strange honking sound filled the air—no, not honking . . . quacking?

  JIM AND NORA HAD JUST WHEELED MARK BACK from X ray when the power went out. Mark had been only half right: He’d broken both bones of his lower leg. Nothing that he’d need surgery for, thank goodness, but still painful. Despite that, when the power went out and the emergency generator kicked in, he pushed himself up on his elbows and began barking orders.

  “Make sure everything is transferred to the red outlets,” he said, as if Nora didn’t already know the emergency protocols inside and out. “The backup power won’t go to the white ones. And charge everything with batteries—defibrillators, IV pumps, instruments.”

  “Already done,” she reassured him. “While you were in radiology we began preparations to evacuate the ER.”

  He shivered despite the three blankets Nora had draped over him. “They can’t fix the window?”

  “No. All the maintenance man could do was staple a plastic tarp over the hole. It’s fairly useless, already has tears ripped in it from the wind.”

  “Turn off everything electric and unplug everything,” he ordered. “If snow gets into any outlets or lights and melts—”

  “Exactly. I’ve got the lights off, we’ve moved all portable electronics to a back room, and everything else is shut down. In fact, you’re the last patient we need to evacuate. But I didn’t want to do it without your permission.”

  “I feel like the captain of the Titanic,” he muttered. “Let’s do it. Let’s bug out.”

  “Don’t you want me to splint your leg first?” Jim asked. He had all the splinting materials ready to go on a small cart. “It will help the pain once we immobilize your leg.”

  “Everyone else is already in the auditorium?”

  “Yes,” Nora said.

  Mark gritted his teeth. “I’ll wait until we’re there. Let’s go.”

  Jim and Nora pushed the stretcher out. The ER was dark, only emergency lighting, and the hallway acted as a wind tunnel, amplifying the sounds of the storm. They went down the back hallway, through the double doors, and into the corridor leading to the auditorium. With some help from the rest of the staff waiting there, they got Mark situated on the stage.

  “I thought we’d have nonambulatory patients up here where the lighting is better,” Nora told him. “I know the original plans called for using the cafeteria and its tables, but there are too many windows. It will get too cold in there if we lose the backup generator.”

  “We should have enough fuel for a few days.”

  “That’s without a big hole in the front of the hospital sucking heat out. Tillman said to consolidate patients as much as possible.” As they spoke, nurses ushered in a group of patients from pediatrics and the med-surg floors. Most had family with them.

  “Ambulatory patients,” she told Mark, nodding to the new group, “will be in the seating area, each group with a team of staff members assigned to them. And we’ll move more cots up here for sleeping shifts for staff and patients—we can close the curtains for privacy.”

  “Lavatory facilities?”

  “There are two large ones across the lobby, but I’m afraid it will be either sponge baths or taking people back to the ER staff locker rooms for showers. We may need to improvise some there if we’re stuck here for any length of time.”

  “Could use the big sprayers from the kitchen sinks.”

  “Good idea. And the kitchen will stay warm enough since they’ll continue providing food for everyone.”

  “What about the nonambulatory and critical patients? OB, for example?”

  “Obstetrics patients are staying on their floor—they have their own OR staffed in case anyone needs an emergency c-section. The other nonambulatory patients are being moved to the ICU floor. If anyone takes a turn for the worse, they’ll be in an area with dedicated staffing, the ORs, and all the supplies they’ll need. The nurses, ancillary staff, residents, and surgeons are staying up there in the call rooms. I can rotate additional staff up to help if we stay quiet down here—most of our patients here are people who were discharged but unable to leave because of the snow.”

  “What kind of numbers we talking about?”

  “Patients and staff down here? Looks like around seventy. Plus family members and visitors trapped by the storm. I’ll get a final head count once everyone’s here.”

  “And what if someone tries to come to the ER?”

  “We’re on diversion. Security placed a roadblock at the entrance, but it doesn’t matter—the entire city is shut down, nothing’s moving out there.”

  “Sounds like you have it all in hand.”

  Nora grimaced. “Don’t jinx us now. Hopefully you’ll remain our sickest patient. How about some morphine and we’ll let Jim splint your leg?”

  “I left the splinting stuff back in the ER,” Jim said.

  Nora resisted the urge to lash out at the intern—he could have gone back and gotten it while she and Mark were talking. Inste
ad he had just stood there listening, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to curry favor with his boss.

  “I’ll go back and get it,” she said. “I can double-check that we’ve everything else we need. And that will give the morphine time to work,” she assured Mark.

  “Good.” He lay back on the stretcher. “Wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of all these people.”

  GINA HUDDLED IN THE SHADOWS AT THE CORNER of the nurses’ station, trying to blend into the darkness, watching through the window in the security office’s door. Harris lined up the three security guards, kneeling against the far wall. The closed door did little to muffle the sounds of the gunshots that followed.

  She jerked with each shot. Three men dead in less than three seconds.

  Tillman was shouting, but Gina couldn’t distinguish his words through the terror screeching through her brain.

  The ambulance bay doors down the hallway alongside the security office slid open, groaning against the weight of wind and snow. The sound of more men’s voices came from outside.

  Hide, she had to hide. Gina felt hopelessly exposed; there was no time to make it across the debris and out the doors to the elevator lobby or back down the open hallway to an exam room or the rear corridor. The destruction of the nurses’ station had eliminated any dark corners beneath desks or countertops that she could use for cover. She got down on her hands and knees and crawled, hugging the shadows.

  Her mother’s destroyed car—no one would look there. It was her only hope.

  Ignoring the broken glass scattered around her feet, Gina shimmied through the BMW’s passenger window again. She flung herself facedown across the driver’s seat just as she heard the men’s footsteps reach the former nurses’ station. Inhaling the grainy scent of high-end car leather, she fought not to move, not to cry, not to breathe.

  “What the hell, Harris?” a man with a South African accent said. There was the sound of stomping feet, more men following him in. “Thought this was meant to be a soft extraction. Now suddenly, we’ve a trail of bodies?”