by Emily Ford
CHAPTER ONE: KATRINA
“Clear!” The young African-American doctor applies the paddles of the defibrillation device to the chest of a teen boy on the table before him. His handsome features are strained and he’s oblivious to the bead of sweat that rolls down his forehead and into his eye. A nurse works hurriedly to prepare a breathing tube for insertion into the patient’s throat. The temporarily audible pulse of electricity accompanies the steady long beep of the heart rate monitor as it flat lines. Controlled but rushed communication flows between doctors and nurses inside the overwhelmed emergency room.
Outside the hospital, Hurricane Katrina rages without mercy, destroying buildings and drowning its terrified victims. The hospital lights pulse and flicker despite being on a generator system separate from the city’s devastated power grid. The Classical Mozart music playing over the speakers has more of a haunting effect than a soothing one. Walls and windows bang and creak as the beastly wind screeches and howls. The hospital staff struggles desperately to keep up with the increasing number of injured patients pouring in from the catastrophe.
The young man’s body doesn’t respond to the electric shocks. His heart has flat lined and his breathing has stopped. His hair and clothing are still soaked from ocean water, and his face is badly burned. He’s been clinically dead for nearly five minutes.
“Clear!” The doctor yells again, applying the paddles to the young man again. The body arches beneath them, but the heart monitor still sings its flat line song. “Come on, kid!”
His staff exchange disheartened looks. “Doctor,” the nurse says solemnly, shaking her head. “He’s gone.”
The doctor’s heart pounds in his chest. “Get me another epinephrine shot.” He glances up when his staff hesitates. “Now!”
“Doctor, you gave him two already. He’s gone!” the nurse protests.
“Get me the shot, Jane, please.”
Relenting, she unlocks the medicine cabinet and retrieves the syringe. She hands it to the doctor and watches as he injects this the third shot of adrenaline into the young man’s dead body.
The doctor watches the monitor as he injects the solution into the IV. No response. He picks up the defibrillator paddles again and charges them.
“Clear!” The charge surges through the young man’s body. The doctor remains poised, ready to charge and apply the paddles again.
The faintest agitation disrupts the terse flat line on the monitor. The staff gasps collectively. Fearing it is a random anomaly, the doctor raises the paddles and prepares to send another charge into the boy’s body.
Another agitation, followed by a stronger but irregular staccato pattern, hops on the screen.
“Wait!” the nurse cries.
Holding his breath, the doctor watches as a faint but steady rhythm begins to course on the monitor.
“He’s alive!” Another staff member verifies.
The doctor numbly returns the paddles to the machine and checks the other vitals. Blood pressure returning. Temperature normalizing. Breathing slow but steady. The young man is coming back to life. But in what mental condition? Deprived of oxygen for over five minutes, it’s possible his brain won’t recover the way his body is.
The doctor takes his penlight and opens the young man’s eyelids to check the pupils. The right eye responds normally; the whites of the eye are clear and the iris is a warm brown. He may not have brain damage after all, he thinks to himself. But then as he opens the left eye, he balks.
Noticing the doctor’s unusual flinch, the nurse grows closer. “What is it, Doctor?”
“This is really odd,” the doctor says, shining the light into the young man’s left eye. “Am I seeing this right?”
The nurse peers over his shoulder and gasps. “What is that?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this. The entire iris is white!”
A hospital aid peeks around the curtain from the hallway. “Doctor? The young man’s friends are asking about him. Is there a status update?”
Puzzling over the change in the boy’s eye color, the doctor releases the eyelid and lets it close. He verifies the vitals again to be sure the teen is recovering. “I’ll come out and speak with them,” he answers finally. He turns to his nurse. “Let’s keep him here for a half hour, then we’ll transfer him to ICU.”
The hospital aid leads the doctor to the young man’s friends in the overcrowded emergency room lobby, which has reached a state of chaos. The police are just arriving to help maintain order in the hospital, and the doctor watches them infiltrate the room and begin to calm the agitated mass. Hospital staff members are passing out blankets to the wet, panicked masses crowding every inch of the hallways and waiting rooms.
The strained faces of a group of disheveled boys in their late teens light up hopefully as the doctor approaches them. Having the appearance of stressed out drowned rats, they’ve obviously been battling it out with the wind and floodwaters. Draped over their shoulders are colored hospital blankets.
“How’s our friend? Is he okay?” The one with the royal blue blanket asks anxiously. He’s tall with dark hair and a tortured look in his dark blue eyes. Beneath the blanket, his clothes are a bit torn but he appears to be injury free.
“I’m Dr. Percy. Are you his friends?” the doctor asks.
Wrapped in a mustard-gold blanket, the taller of the two young blonde men steps up. “I’m Harry, this is my brother Eric, and this is Johnny.”
Dr. Percy nods. “Your friend was out for quite a while. He’s stable now. He’s breathing and we’re watching him closely.” He glances around at the boys, certain that they’ve just been through hell. “Do you boys know where his family is?”
The young men look at each other grimly. “He just watched his mother die,” Eric replies, pulling the blood red blanket around him tighter. “We all were-”
Harry’s fist flies out from beneath his gold blanket and socks his younger brother in the arm. He glares at him, silently ordering him to shut up. There’s an odd silence among the young men. Johnny appears to be lost in thought and stares down at his feet. Are they in shock? Or are they hiding something?
“Are you boys okay?” Dr. Percy inquires. After a long silent moment, he tries another angle. “Your friend will need to stay here for a while. If you boys aren’t able to get home, I suggest you stay here for the time being. This hospital is a storm shelter. You’ll be safe here.” Assuming things don’t get worse, he added silently.
A riot breaks out at the entrance of the emergency room as police struggle to maintain order. The sick and injured alike battle desperately for the hospital staff’s attention, the floor squeaking beneath them as wet shoes shuffle and stumble on the bare waxed floor.
The doctor withdraws a set of keys from his pocket. He flips through the keys and stops at a large gold one. “Here. Take these. Go to the third floor, room 325. That’s my office. You boys go in there, and take it easy for a while. There are vending machines down the hall from there, too. I’ll have someone come find you when we have any updates on your friend, okay?”
Harry takes the keys and thanks him. They file into a line and head towards the elevators.
“Oh, boys, one more thing,” Dr. Percy calls after them. “Are your friend’s eyes different colors? Or does he wear colored lenses?”
The puzzled look on their faces gives the doctor his answer. “No,” Johnny says slowly. “Why do you ask?”
Not wanting to worry the boys more than they already are, the doctor smiles and shakes his head. He turns to walk back to the emergency room. “It’s nothing. Go on upstairs.”
