“Dr. Tao has some questions to answer,” Dr. Sopori says, turning the patient’s chart around so Sandra can see the notes. “Ampenthadazanol. What the hell is he doing giving that to someone with a history of allergies?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sandra says, relieved they’ve saved the man’s life. She’ll leave the arm wrestling with Dr. Tao to Dr. Sopori.
It’s several hours before Sandra’s shift ends. She types up an emergency intervention report, wanting to capture all the details while they’re fresh in her mind. The teen is transferred to the ICU as a precaution, but he’s sitting up and chatting as he leaves.
It’s just after ten in the evening when Sandra walks out of ER. Her shoulders are stooped. Her keys hang from her hand. She wants nothing more than to collapse on her bed. Dinner can wait for breakfast. Her son had better be home. She does not need any of his shit tonight.
There’s a chill in the air, but the stars are out, competing with the flickering, failing lights in the staff car park. Sandra drops her keys. She’s drained. They feel like lead weights as she picks them up.
Sandra starts her old convertible. For once, the engine immediately roars to life. It’s as though it fears her wrath.
It’s a beautiful night in South Carolina. The flick of a switch on the dash causes the soft-top to fold backward into a compartment hidden above the trunk. The mechanism squeaks, but she ignores that. Although her convertible is second-hand and eight years old, the soft-top is more than a gimmick to her. After an intense shift, she needs to relax. She pulls her hair back into a low ponytail so it doesn’t catch in the wind and zips up her jacket. Sure, it’ll be cool on the highway, but the feeling of freedom is worth it. Her little car, with dents in the fender and rust coming through the bottom of the passenger’s door, is a work of art. To her, it’s a Lamborghini.
Sandra turns on the radio.
“…clogged with traffic as people flee metropolitan areas.”
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” she says, realizing this is a report on the UFO. For her, that dumb thing ceased to exist as soon as bed seven went blue. After what Sandra’s been through tonight, she has neither the time nor the patience for unhinged paranoia. Too many people have been watching too many dumbass alien invasion movies. Sandra’s lived through disasters before. COVID. Atlantic storms. Forest fires. The solution is always the same. Don’t panic. If you haven’t been told to evacuate, stay off the roads. Hunker down. Stay home. Get some sleep. You’ll need your strength on the other side. She’d love to have the microphone in that radio station. She’d tell everyone to chill out.
The reporter is happy to inflame things further.
“Hysteria has gripped the nation. We have reports of sightings along the East Coast. At the moment, they’re unsubstantiated, but they’re coming in fast.”
“Oh, please,” she says to no one but the radio. “If they’re unsubstantiated, what the hell are you reporting?”
Sandra turns on the sat-nav in her car. Red lines sprawl across the map around her. “Great. That’s just great. It’s Sunday night, people. Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
Sandra sighs. She turns toward an old country road that bypasses the highway.
“What is wrong with you people?” she mumbles, turning off the radio.
The wind whips over the windshield as she races along. Loose strands of hair dance around her face, but they don’t bother her. There are no streetlights. On either side of the road, trees hide the stars from view, darkening the night. High above, though, a thin speckle of stars shine down upon her. They’re beautiful.
After a few minutes, Sandra reaches open farmland. The road is raised above the surrounding fields. The stars are brilliant. They’re so close she could reach out and touch them. Her convertible has never felt so small. She doesn’t care. The magnificence of the entire universe is out there, just beyond the reach of her headlights.
A fighter jet races overhead.
Although it’s probably over a hundred feet in the air, it feels as though it scrapes the distant treetops. The roar of the engine is deafening. The aircraft came from behind her, out to her right. It banks as it cuts across the road and rises into the night. Wings tilt as the craft turns. Tiny navigation lights blink. Twin engines glow in the darkness.
“What the hell?” she mutters, gripping the steering wheel. Her eyes follow the dark silhouette as it gains altitude.
Thunder breaks around her again. One, two, three, four fighter jets scream across the farmland in front of her, trailing each other. They’re separated by less than a second. As Sandra’s further down the road, they’re so close the jet-wash buffets her car. Turbulent, swirling air rocks the open cab of her convertible. The wind lifts junk food wrappers from behind the front seats.
“Sweet Jesus,” she says, hunching over the steering wheel. To her, it feels as though the planes could have clipped her car. They were probably still well above the road, but damn that felt close.
She yells in anger. “I hope you guys are having fun!”
The aircraft bank as they race into the distance, peeling to one side and climbing high into the night. The roar of jet engines lingers long after the fighters are a mere smudge against the stars.
“Not cool,” Sandra says, shaking her head. “Seriously, that’s not funny. Go scare someone else.”
Bugs splatter on her windshield, being attracted by her oncoming headlights. The highway would have been a cleaner ride.
Sandra’s still annoyed at being buzzed by a bunch of flyboy adrenaline-junkies. She eases off the gas and adjusts her rearview mirror, leaving it angled to one side. If there are any more aircraft, she wants some warning.
Floodlights illuminate her car from directly overhead. Unlike those of an intersection or a rural town, they move with her rather than simply passing beside her. The intensity grows, blinding her with a blue/white light. The night turns to day.
Sandra slows her car to a crawl. She flicks the switch on the dash to raise the soft-top. Nothing happens. Her car engine splutters. Gravel crunches beneath her tires as she trundles along at ten miles an hour, hugging the shoulder of the road. Sandra doesn’t dare stop. The light is so bright she can barely see beyond the hood of her car. Is this like a police helicopter or something? She’s waiting for someone to call out to her over a bullhorn. What is this? Prank-a-nurse day? Maybe they’re looking for an escaped criminal. But why the jets? She’s confused, but she knows she needs to drive out the other side of the light.
There are vehicles ahead. They’ve stopped. If she squints, she can make them out—a pickup truck and a luxury car. Sandra doesn’t know the makes and models, but they’ve been in an accident. Probably after being distracted by the low flying fighters. Perhaps this is what the helicopter’s looking for. The chopper must be a paramedic flight responding to a 911 call. Being on the scene already, she can help.
The luxury car has a distinct, deep burgundy paint job. The hood is crumpled. It has popped open, obscuring the occupants in the front seats. Steam rises from the radiator. Fluid leaks onto the road.
The pickup is lying on its side. Gasoline drips onto the brightly lit concrete. The front windshield has shattered. The glass is a spider web of cracks and splinters. It’s hanging from the rubber seals surrounding the metal frame of the cab. A child wanders into the middle of the road. She looks dazed. Her arms hang limp by her side.
“Get her,” Sandra yells at Nick, pulling over on the side of the road. “She’s in shock.”
What?
Nick?
Gravel skids beneath her tires as she hits the brakes too hard, bringing the car to an abrupt halt. She throws the shifter into park and pulls on the handbrake. She wants to ask Nick, ‘How did you get here?’ But people are hurting. Sandra turns on the hazard lights.
Blood drips from Nick’s fingers. Sandra notices, but she’s distracted. Too much is happening at once. Her mind is already responding to the emergency in front of her.
She has her seatbelt off and the door open. One foot is already out on the gravel by the time her mind has registered that Nick is there with her. She’s moving on instinct.
Sandra pops the trunk and grabs her first aid kit. This isn’t a ten-dollar special from CVS. Sandra carries a full emergency response kit. It’s only a couple of steps removed from what would be in the back of an EMT vehicle. Add some oxygen cylinders and her little red convertible is an ambulance. Nick hates this thing. It’s a waste of money. She loves it. For her, it’s the chance to help someone in need. She slings the heavy bag over one shoulder and jogs toward the luxury car.
Sandra is as fit as the next suburban mom. She can run to the local street corner but not much further. Yoga on a Saturday morning is more fun than running around the block. An exercise bike in front of the TV makes her feel better, but it’s a light workout at best. The bag bounces awkwardly on her shoulder as she runs. Within twenty feet, Sandra’s feeling the exertion. For her, this is a sprint with twenty-five pounds weighing her down.
An overweight man crawls from the cab of the pickup. He looks dazed, but he’s conscious and coherent. For now, that’s enough. Her mind is already running to triage. He could be harboring serious injuries like internal bleeding, but he’s breathing and mobile. No matter how badly hurt he is, right now, he’s low on the list. He should be okay until the paramedics land.
“Get them off the road,” she calls out to Nick.
Nick?
He’s still sitting in her car.
Sandra runs toward the luxury sedan, breathing hard. Her shoes pound on the concrete. She comes to a halt, standing in front of her bright red convertible.
“What?” she says, bathed by the headlights, looking at the open back of her own car. She reaches out, touching the smooth paint on the hood. “I—I don’t understand?”
Sandra turns, looking for the luxury car and the pickup. Nothing. The road is clear. Where the hell did the pickup truck go? Where’s the child? What about the guy crawling out of the cab?
Is this a dream?
It’s a memory.
Sandra’s confused. Her mind is playing tricks on her. She’s reliving a moment from last spring, only now it’s gone, having evaporated like a mist.
“Sandy.”
Sandra blinks in the blinding lights raining down upon her from above.
“Nick???”
Fingers reach from the passenger’s seat, touching the door trim. Deep red blood smears across the leather upholstery.
“Nick!”
Sandra runs around the side of the car. The door is open. Nick has one foot out on the side of the road. It’s as though he’s trying to stand but can’t. It’s then she sees his head.
“Oh, dear God,” she says. “Don’t move. Do you understand me? Stay exactly where you are.”
Sandra slings the first aid kit from her shoulder and onto the ground. She unzips it, but her eyes never leave his head.
“Major trauma. Head injury,” she mumbles, talking herself through what she sees. “Exposed brain tissue. Patient is conscious and coherent.”
She rummages around with her hands, feeling for the things she needs, knowing precisely the shapes and weights of the heavy trauma pads, bandages and saline solution packs.
Nick’s breathing is shallow and rapid. His skull has been sliced open, exposing his brain. Blood seeps from the bone, matting what’s left of his hair. Cranial fluid oozes around the folds of grey matter making up his cerebral cortex, soaking into the gap between hemispheres. Thin red veins cover the folds of his brain, creeping up from below.
“I—I—I.”
“It’s okay,” she says, taking his hand for a moment. “Easy. I need you to sit still, okay? Don’t nod. Don’t speak. Just breathe. Focus on your breathing. Slow, deep breaths. In and then out. Just keep doing that. You’re going to be fine.”
“L—Liar.”
Her hands tremble. She is not capable of dealing with an injury this severe. He’s going to die. All she can do is comfort him—be with him. It feels strange helping someone that once tried to murder her, but she can’t turn away. It’s just not in her nature. If nothing else, she has to be true to herself.
Sandra smiles, trying to reassure him with something other than words. Nick smiles back. He knows. He seems at peace with what’s happening to him. He’s dying, but that doesn’t bother him. Her Nick would be panicking. He’d be freaking-the-fuck-out. What is going on?
Sandra breaks open a tube of sterile saline solution and cleans around the exposed bone.
“What happened? Who did this to you?” But she quickly corrects herself with, “No. Don’t say anything. Just stay still.”
Forget about keeping him calm—Sandra needs to keep herself from hyperventilating. She wipes a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
Focus.
Sandra rips open the plastic on a large gauze pad and positions it behind his head, resting what’s left of his skull on the pad and then on the seat.
“Relax,” she says. “Nice deep breaths. I know this is hard, but I need you to relax. Keep your head straight but let the muscles in your arms and legs go limp. I need you to slow things down for me.”
“I—I’m sorry,” he says with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I know,” she says, towering over him.
Sandra leans around, getting a good look at his wound. She stands in the footwell of her car, wanting to understand the way his skull has been severed. If anything, she’s surprised how little bleeding there is.
She sees the upturned skull cap in his other hand, resting in his lap. The inside is pink. Torn membranes lie crumpled within. Sandra goes to take it from him but thinks better of it. Which way is forward? If she puts it on the wrong way she could damage his brain tissue. Besides, it looks as though there’s fine grit in it. That could be ground bone or some other contaminant. She could inadvertently bring on a clot or introduce a microbial infection. She’s not qualified for this. Nick needs a surgeon. For once in her nursing career, Sandra feels helpless.
Nick’s arms, legs and chest are covered in thick goo. It’s been wiped from his face. Smeared would be a better description than cleaned. He’s wearing a heavy arctic jacket. It’s the kind Sandra’s only ever seen in places like Canada or the Dakotas. Nick doesn’t own a jacket like this. For South Carolina, it’s serious overkill. She pushes the hood of the jacket down away from his neck, making sure the thick lining is well clear of his exposed brain.
Sandra uses tweezers to pick bits of loose fur from around the bone. Nick grimaces at the slightest touch. His eyes dart around, looking for something, but he keeps his head still. Sandra pulls back a flap of skin on the far side of his head. It hangs loose, no longer resting on his grey matter.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says as darkness creeps in around her and the temperature drops. She’s never seen an injury like this and has no idea how to treat him. That he’s still alive is astonishing. All she can do is reduce blood loss and keep his wound clean. The hospital is only fifteen minutes away. There’s no point in calling an ambulance. She’ll be back there before they could arrive.
Nick’s in shock. He needs an infusion of intravenous fluid to stabilize him, but that’s beyond the scope of her medical kit.
“T—Thank you.”
“Easy,” she says, looking deep into his eyes.
Given the severity of his injuries, talking is good. Head injuries are notoriously difficult to assess. Exposed brain matter is normally fatal. Rather than being the result of blunt force trauma, his skull cap has been surgically removed without damaging his brain. Although that makes no sense, it gives her hope.
Sandra’s seen a lot of awful injuries as a nurse. She’s watched as patients have slipped away, holding their hands and talking softly with them until the end. She knows the names of everyone she’s lost. Most of them were drugged up by the time they passed, so at the very least it was peaceful. Death never comes easy, but
it can be free from pain and panic. This, though, is different. To her, Nick’s injury is horrific. It should be fatal, and yet it’s not. There’s no sign of saw teeth cutting through the bone. The edges are smooth. His skull cap has been removed, but by what?
How is he still alive?
Sandra uses another sterile bandage to pack the hollow that’s formed between the rear of his skull and his brain. She tries to stop blood from pooling there.
Nick reaches out with feeble fingers, touching lightly at her leg, pushing against her pants just below her knee. She understands. He’s trying to find some reassurance. Touch is life.
“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to get you to the hospital.”
Sandra isn’t looking forward to the drive back. She’s going to have to manage changes in acceleration carefully. Turns will be difficult. Gently, she lowers his seat, resting it as far back as possible, hoping he continues to retain control of his neck muscles. At best, it’s set at an angle of thirty degrees.
The wind swirls around her, something that’s been strangely absent for the past few minutes.
Red and blue emergency lights paint the trees and fields in splashes of color. EMT vehicles rush in from both directions, confusing her. There are dozens of them, but their sirens are off. Normally, that’s an indication they’re carrying a patient and trying not to distress them. In this case, though, it’s clear they’re coming for Nick. How did they know he was here?
Helicopters circle overhead, bathing the sports car with their spotlights, but they remain up high. These aren’t low-flying police helicopters trying to catch a criminal on the run. They seem to be aware they need to keep their distance and not kick up any debris. It’s like they know he’s down here.
The light is different. It’s not as intense.
Sandra looks up, craning her neck and peering into the darkness. The stars have long since vanished from sight, all except one. It moves toward the horizon, streaking away into the night.
Jury Duty (First Contact) Page 32