I had the boots to match, more Myrddins, with a Rojas heel for a touch of class. They were comfortable enough for daily wear, and I frequently did. They weren’t ward appropriate though, so I’m glad I’d packed my trainers too.
As I pulled the sports bag onto my back, using the handles like a backpack’s, we gave each other one last hug, and said our goodbyes again.
‘You know where we are, when you change your mind.’ Laurel said.
‘Be safe.’ Dani echoed.
‘I’ll see you guys later.’ I told them, flashing a smile before I shut the front door behind me.
My bike was in the front garden, a pebbly bit of ground behind the fence. It didn’t completely hide the bike from view, but with the rain cover, her locking chain wound through a stake in the ground, and the tracking app on my phone, it was as secure as it was going to get. Having a garage to keep her in would have to wait until Kelly and I could get our own place.
I mean, I’d miss the girls, but when you’ve got to tape socks between your headboard and the wall, it’s time to start thinking about your own space.
I folded the cover and unlocked the chain, stowing them both in the saddlebags and retrieving my goggles and gloves. Walking her through the gate is always a little awkward, but I still consider it foreplay to the joy of riding. Kinda the equivalent of a lover fumbling with your bra. There might be some awkwardness but it won’t put either of you off.
I put my goggles on, followed by my helmet, making sure the chinstrap was secure. You might look cooler without it, but a broken jaw is no joke. Once my gloves were on, I kicked her into life and rumbled on down the way, out of our little street and onto the main roads.
Traffic was looking suspiciously light as I rode on towards the city centre – up a sweeping curve of suburban hillside, passing a couple of nice houses with nicer views – but as I neared the sharp bend at the top, I had to brake pretty hard. Once I’d come to a safe stop behind a little blue Corsair, I put my feet down and leaned over the handlebars to keep my weight forward.
At first, I just thought I’d hit the end of my green light streak and was planning my hillside take-off manoeuvres; first gear, rear brake, bring up the clutch and give her gas until she’s inching forwards.
After what might have been nearly a minute, I started looking around, trying to see what was up ahead. The three cars that’d gotten here before me were all occupied, engines on, waiting as I was. But when the light turned green, the car at the top didn’t set off straight away. After it got moving, the next one waited at the green, and a little white van came down the other side of the road instead. When it was my turn at the top of the hill, I saw why.
An armoured four by four was parked in the middle of the T- junction, with several soldiers in urban camouflage signalling for cars to come forward, stop, and wind down their windows.
‘How’re you doing today, ma’am?’ I heard one of the female soldiers ask the driver of a hockey-mom minibus. The ladies seemed to be dealing with lady drivers, the men with the men. I was watching a soldier look into the back seats of the minibus when I was signalled over.
‘Good morning ma’am!’ the soldier smiled, one hand signalling, the other hand on her hip, casually. She was dark skinned and powerfully built, with a rounded face a little too young for the uniform. ‘Where are you off to today?’
‘Working. County General, I’m an A&E nurse.’ I said, politely. This might have been disrupting my commute but I knew what they were doing, and knew it had to be done. I had a parking permit with ID in my pocket, so took off my helmet and pushed up my goggles so she could see my face, but in the end she didn’t ask for it.
‘Really?’ the Sydow soldier beamed, ‘We’re due there in a few hours. Getting re-tasked as part of your security force.’
‘Small world,’ I smiled, offering my gloved hand out. ‘Katy.’
‘Sergeant Bailey. Chantelle.’ She added, gripping, and giving a firm but not bone-crushing squeeze. ‘I’ll let you get on your way. Doubt you’d be riding if you had the sweats. Avoid Danecaster Road, by the way. Big accident, traffic’s backed up.’
I nodded. ‘Thanks, I know another way in. Guess I’ll see you later, Sergeant.’ I added with a brief smile, putting my helmet and goggles back in place.
She signalled me off and I carried on along my way, avoiding my usual route on the main road and taking an alternative through some residential areas to dodge the accident. It always pays to make friends.
As I rode through the inner-city slice of suburbia, I saw signs of people’s worries. One man was unloading a huge amount of shopping bags from the back of his sedan, packed to the roof with more boxes and bundles of toilet paper. He clearly planned to be staying, while down the street, another family were sliding suitcases into the back of their car, obviously hoping to get out of the city before it was too late.
I didn’t know what to think – or rather, I did, but didn’t like where that train of thought led. If we could keep a handle on the quarantine, I knew we’d be okay. I knew how big of a task that’d be though, but if the hospitals fell, the infection would run rampant through the city. That’s exactly why I had to go and do my part.
I wasn’t from here, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t my home now. I loved Greenfield, and the life I had here felt more like home than Linkoln ever had.
Back with my parents, I could have had everything. Nice clothes, fancy car, a job that didn’t involve washing other people’s piss off my hands. But that wouldn’t have been me, wouldn’t have been my life. I made something here, I didn’t have it handed to me.
County General was just outside the city centre’s busiest areas, out in the student quarter, and right next to the Engineering Department. As I rode through the streets, lined with academic buildings and neat green lawns, I caught a glimpse of blue flashing lights ahead, just before a police cruiser turned sharply onto the road. I steered a little to the side as it sped past me.
Before I made it to the parking lot, I had to stop at a little blockade, formed of a police car and a wooden sawhorse barrier. A crowd had gathered on the pavement to either side, but they didn’t look to be harassing the uniformed officers leaning against their car. That was a good start to the working day, at least we weren’t facing a riot. Just a small, rather polite mob.
As I pulled closer and indicated I was turning into the hospital, the police took notice and stepped forward with their hands out to halt me. At the same time, the people on the pavement turned to me, and put up the small signs they’d made.
Please help my son. My mom. My husband is sick. Help.
‘You cannot park here today miss,’ the dark haired officer of the pair said, ‘the hospital is closing to visitors to enforce the quarantine.’
I stopped my bike and took off a glove, making it easier to dig my parking permit from my jacket pocket.
‘Hang on a sec…there. Sorry. I’m an A&E nurse, called in on Trip-C. Crisis Code.’ I added in case he was unfamiliar with the acronym.
I passed the permit to him. It was a laminated card, meant to go on your dashboard. As I lacked one of those, I either handed it to the parking warden, or they just let me in if they recognised me.
With the revelation that I was a nurse, the families with the signs advanced on me, shouting questions and pleading for information. I couldn’t pick out anything specific, but the officer didn’t let them get more than a few steps before he took his attention from me, and put it on them.
‘Listen, please!’ he shouted, firmly, but without threat. When he was sure he had their attention, his voice softened. ‘This lady is here to help the sick. The people you care about. She cannot do that if you do not let her. If you will not go home, you will at the very least be patient, and be civil. When there is news, someone from the hospital will give it to you.’
His voice was rich, and slightly accented, somewhere south and across the sea. A little Rojas charm maybe. Either way, it seemed to do the trick. The crowd was s
lowly milling back to their original position, awaiting news.
‘Thanks, officer.’ I said, taking back the permit as he offered it. ‘Been like this all morning?’
‘Since six a.m.’ he nodded, voice going quieter, so not to be overheard.
‘You worried it’ll turn into a riot, like at Mercy?’ I asked.
‘Extremely.’ He nodded again. ‘But there is a SWAT team here, and Sydow Security. The hospitals are probably the safest places to be at this moment. I would not like to be the one who starts trouble here.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked him.
‘Lethal force.’ He replied, scratching the back of his head, as if embarrassed to be saying it. ‘We have been told to use any means to secure the hospital.’ He leaned in on my bike slightly, and dropped his voice to an even lower level. ‘We will try not to, of course. But even now, there is a man from Sydow Security on the roof, watching the crowd.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ I blurted, louder than intended, as the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up.
‘Not at all.’ the officer said.
‘Fuck.’
I knew whoever was on that roof was only there in case something serious kicked off, and I knew he was on our side – if you could split sides between the concerned public and the emergency services – but even so. Knowing I was probably in the sights of a concealed sniper gave me chills.
‘And now you know how I feel.’ The officer said, with an apologetic half-shrug. ‘I’ll see you inside, Nurse Cox.’
Once I’d got my glove back on and regained a little composure, I pulled into the parking lot at the front of the hospital, a monolithic C-shaped concrete block that’d been designed in the height of brutalist architecture.
The parking lot was usually busy, with spaces near the front reserved for doctors and specialists, most of the visitors had to use a nearby multi-storey parking garage. But with the visitors being turned away completely, parking had been made a lot easier, even though some of the vehicles present couldn’t actually fit within the lines.
There were at least a dozen police cruisers, an armoured SWAT truck, a mobile command centre about the size of a super-fancy RV, several high-vis touring motorcycles…and that was just Greenfield Police. Sydow Security had brought a pair of their carrier busses, three or four large canvas-backed trucks and a handful of four by fours, the ones with the holes in the top where you stick a guy with one of those really big machineguns.
Some of our vehicles were there too – a couple of the ambulances, call-out cars for non-emergency responses, and the all-terrain ambulance for when there was trouble out in the countryside.
I found a place near the front, separated from all the bulky law enforcement vehicles with drivers who probably didn’t use their mirrors much. I debated chaining and covering my Victorious, but a shitty little thought managed to shove its way to the front of my head.
‘What if you need to get out quick?’ it asked.
I didn’t have all day to debate with myself, so I let that one slide, tucked my helmet and goggles under my arm, and then set off around the side of the building. My bike wasn’t going to go missing with all these cops around.
I walked close to the wall of the ambulance’s little run to the A&E doors, just in case anyone drove up behind me. It was wide enough that two ambos could pass each other by, but better safe than splattered.
The big sign over the doors read “A&E Department”, but where I’d first done my training it was called the ER – emergency rooms. It was one of those regional differences you get used to after a while.
One rather harassed looking doctor was standing outside, and appeared to have just lit a cigarette.
‘Morning Katy.’ He said, sweeping an arm at the automatic doors so they opened for me. ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’
Four
White coats are a symbol of medical authority. If you see someone with a white coat and a stethoscope, then you’re in no doubt of their doctoral credentials. You look the part, and the old patients in particular, expect you to look the part. They’re also too hot, impractical in an emergency and a terrible colour for the work being done.
A mainly office based consultant might wear one all day, as might the pharmacist. But a busy doctor’s going to keep his on for all of five seconds before he’s dripping with sweat, covered in vomit and got it trapped in the elevator doors.
So when I walked into the triage area – also known as the madhouse when someone from departmental standards wasn’t around – there weren’t a lot of white coats still on.
They were here and there, but the majority of the bustling horde of medical staff wore blue, black, green or red scrubs, with a variety of undershirts, bandannas, gloves, masks and pull-over sterile booties. In some hospitals there’d be a code to the scrub colours like uniforms in a sci-fi show, but County didn’t work on those lines. To look at one person or another, only the name tag would be helpful as to whether they were a doctor, nurse, orderly, or starship captain.
Stethoscopes hung around a few necks here and there, otoscopes stuck up from top pockets, and folks were pushing carts of less portable equipment from corridor to corridor. In the middle of it all, beyond the easy-clean chairs of the waiting Triage area, stood the nurse’s station, with Jerry co-ordinating the chaos, rising above it like a lighthouse in a stormy sea.
He stood a clear head above everyone else, a towering man with a full beard, broad shoulders, and a perfect, booming voice, easily capable of cutting through the din created by so many busy bees.
‘Where? Paeds. McGann! They need you in Trauma. No, I said they’re from Fracture, and they’re going to Paeds. McGann – that means now!’ he seemed to be giving out at least two different sets of instructions at once, but McGann tore himself away from his conversation with another masked-up set of scrubs and took off down a corridor at pace.
I didn’t exactly understand Jerry’s job description. On paper I think they call him the A&E Department Administrative Manager, but he also seems to co-ordinate the rotas, order all our equipment and generally handle the non-medical paperwork the senior doctors should be doing. Whether or not he’s supposed to do all of that stuff, I have no idea, but I don’t think anyone told him he shouldn’t.
‘Katy!’ he shouted, his voice a subtle octave different from the order-barking, moving up into friendly-barking. ‘Grab your gear, caffeinate on the move, and drop your kit in room three.’
It was jarring compared to his almost jovial tone on the phone. That was much more like his normal self, but I guess the situation was getting to him.
He thrust my plastic cup out to me, identifiable by the blue and green floral print design, with a large K in permanent marker. Jerry’s introduction of thermos cups to the staff room has saved many a drink from going cold. I had to wait for an empty gurney to wheel by before I could dart up and get it from him – and as I did, the smell hit me.
‘How much did they send?’ I asked, eyes going wide at the tray of delights Jerry had hidden beside his keyboard.
‘All of them, I think.’ He said, passing me a set of pressed scrubs with a paper bag on top. He then rolled his eyes at me, and put a phone to his ear before the first ring had even finished. ‘A&E!’ he announced.
Fresher’s Sandwiches makes the best pork, apple sauce and stuffing you’ve ever had, and does so well from hospital trade that we get the occasional care package as a thank you. Under Jerry’s watchful gaze, rows of sandwiches stood up in their individual dividers, ready to be administered to so many doctors and nurses like a strong analgesic.
‘I hope they get better. Yeah. I’ll ask, but I doubt it. Man down! Anyone free to work the pharmacy counter?!’ Jerry asked the whole department and possibly the next one over. ‘Negative. Sorry.’ He added, putting the receiver down and taking a bite from his sandwich.
‘Thanks Jerry! Where’ve you got me first today?’
‘Quarantine. Look fer Doc Lines, CDC.’ He chewed.
> ‘Any chance of knowing when my break is ahead of time?’
He gave me the kind of sassy look that only large, bearded men can give.
I set off for the bunks, going right, towards A&E’s little paediatrics corner. In times of not-crisis, these rooms were for families to get some sleep if their loved ones were in critical condition and they didn’t want to leave the hospital. Most often they don’t even want to leave the bedside, so they tend to get more use from desperately tired hospital staff working weird shifts.
Tucked away down a little corridor were eight pokey rooms, just broad enough for the bunk beds and a potted plant. An even pokier room with a shower cubicle and vaguely prison-like toilet and sink combo was on your left as soon as you came in.
I dumped my bag beside the bunks, and began to strip out of my leathers, hanging them up on the row of hooks, stuffing my gloves and goggles into the jacket pockets. Between articles of clothing, I wolfed down great chunks of my sandwich, which sat on a tiny desk beneath a tiny mirror, beside a tiny kettle and tiny tea tray. Like in a tiny hotel room.
Then I got changed into my scrubs. There actually wasn’t any legislation against taking your scrubs home to wash unless you worked on a biohazardous ward, and around the hospital you often saw people nipping out for lunch in their scrubs, if they were clean. Since the first news of the outbreak however, we’d gone into full bio-awareness mode. Scrubs did not leave the premises, and the army of orderlies saw to the laundry with meticulous efficiency.
Once I was in my more comfortable trainers and fresh blue scrubs, I took my toiletry bag into the bathroom and removed my nose stud, putting it in its little keep-clean pot. I often “forgot” to take it out, but today seemed like a day for doing things by the book, so I took all my rings off too.
I hesitated at the last ring, the one from Kelly. It was my engagement ring, intended for my index finger. I’d lost the ring that used to live there, and had been lazy looking for a replacement. I wasn’t sure if Kelly had stolen the missing ring to measure from, or if he’d just made a lucky guess on ring size. Either way, I didn’t want it getting lost today, so kept it with the rest.
The Suburban Dead (Book 2): Emergency Page 3
