Graveyard Shift

by Melissa Yi

  "We’re a family. Patrick was a part of us," said Dr. Dupuis.

  "Who's Patrick," Bomb Guy's electro-voice replied.

  I frowned at the floor. He didn't know the name of the guard he’d killed in vengeance?

  Dr. Dupuis hesitated. "The security guard."

  "Charles Packard? I'll get him on the way out. Hell, if he comes in, I'll blow him up. Serves him right. Smug bastard."

  "No. The young one," said Dr. Dupuis, after a pause.

  "He cuffed me too tight. I told Lori. Did she bite him or something?"

  "No, not Lori," said Dr. Dupuis, after another pause.

  True. The upside of a Code White and police escort was the perfect alibi. However, Dr. Dupuis took it in a different direction.

  "Listen, I want to talk to you about your sister. I reviewed her chart. She was here a few weeks ago."

  "Yeah. She needed a refill, and no one would give it to her. That's why I had to take the stuff from the OR."

  I kept my eye roll to myself. Face down, no one would spot it.

  Dr. Dupuis continued, "She had lab work with Dr. Callendar that found a slightly high potassium and low sodium."

  My breath caught. I'd mentioned her electrolyte abnormalities before she tried to garrotte me with my own stethoscope.

  "Yeah, he told her to follow up with her family doctor. It takes her five months to get in!" Bill’s electronic voice beeped a few times, as if it couldn't process the next few words.

  Dr. Dupuis continued, "That visit, she was vomiting and had abdominal pains. The triage nurse commented on her thin body habitus."

  "I know. She was in withdrawal, all right? That's why I'm here!"

  "She’s in withdrawal," Dr. Dupuis agreed evenly, "but she may have a comorbid illness called Addison's disease, or adrenal insufficiency."

  I gasped so loudly that it triggered a mini coughing fit.

  Mind. Blown.

  28

  "What's that," said Bomb Guy.

  "It's an autoimmune disease that attacks your adrenal glands," said Dr. Dupuis. "It means you can't produce cortiosol, even though your brain keeps telling it to make more."

  In the midst of the world's worst night shift, Dr. Dupuis had reviewed the chart of a patient who'd already left the ER and made the diagnosis that the rest of us had missed.

  While my coughs subsided, and Dr. Dupuis explained, I mentally reviewed her signs and symptoms: painfully thin. Abdominal pain. Nausea and vomiting. Eating salty chips, which made her pain complaints seem ludicrous, but helped her replenish her low sodium. Plus she was so darned tanned in January. I thought she was doing bronzage, but I vaguely remembered that excess ACTH stimulates melanin.

  Bomb Guy didn't speak for a minute. "Why didn't anyone say that."

  "It's very rare. Your sister didn't come here often—"

  So rare that I'd never seen a case of Addison's. I only remembered it from an endocrinologist’s lecture in first year medical school. He said that it struck 1 in 100,000 people.

  "She came here, saw Callendar," said Bomb Guy.

  "Right. He ordered blood work."

  "Yeah, and nothing else. Useless twat."

  That, Bill and I could agree on. Except it was insulting to female genitalia.

  "And that bitch of a resident—" Bomb Guy went on.

  Hey.

  "An excellent addition to our department," Dr. Dupuis said, as if Bomb Guy had praised me. At least, I hoped God meant me and not Dr. Callendar.

  "You all suck," said Bomb Guy.

  So many compliments. My diagnostic brain had switched off when Lori had tried to throttle and stab me, but Addision’s made so much sense. Except she’d seemed agitated. Shouldn't she be exhausted instead?

  The woman was addicted to narcotics. Bill had raided the benzos and Ketamine too, either for her or for resale or a personal celebration. Benzos should bring her down. However, once you’d enjoyed the entire hospital pharmacopeia, as I’d realized earlier, Lori could have mixed in cocaine or PCP.

  So if Lori Goody was mainlining everything up her nose and mouth and through her veins, that would boost her energy levels back to normal and beyond. And might explain the judgment: impaired.

  "Where are my drugs. I want those and Dr. Chia, and if I don't get them in five minutes, I'm blowing you all to hell," Bomb Guy intoned.

  "What kind of bomb is it?" said Dr. Dupuis.

  "I'm not telling you jack shit. You'll probably come up with something two hours later, like you did with my sister."

  "I know you're frustrated, but I can help Lori. You can, too."

  I saw where Dr. Dupuis was going with this. Don't blow us up, man. We're useful. You need us. And remember, if you take us down, you're taking yourself down, too.

  Since Bomb Guy hated me, it was better for me to do nothing and pray that he forgot "that bitch of a resident," much as it galled me. They also serve, those who lie on the floor.

  "We're friends, right?" said Dr. Dupuis. "I haven't had a chance to talk to anyone else about the Addison's disease."

  Don't blow me up, or your sister's diagnosis will get blown up, too.

  "You told me. Now I know."

  "Yeah, but I haven't assessed her myself yet. Let me take a look. You know I can help."

  You know I'm God and I'll bring something new to the table. Don't blow us up.

  "You all suck," Bill repeated, but softer now.

  "You used to call us your family."

  Bill made a spitting noise.

  "We're a dysfunctional family for sure. I don't pretend we're great. But if you let us out of here, I promise that I'll do what I can to help you and Lori."

  "You can't get me my job back. I'm finished."

  Dr. Dupuis shook his head. "I can't promise that you'll get this job back—"

  I sure as hell hope not, seeing as he's threatening to bomb us to death.

  "—but I wouldn't rule anything out."

  "Even if I could get a job in a nursing home somewhere, my pension is gone. My seniority is dead. No, you know I'll be in jail for the rest of my life. Lori will die without me."

  Dr. Dupuis didn't blink. "You can work in other ways. You could be a motivational speaker. You could reach people on YouTube."

  True. Bomb Guy could be born again on the Internet, preaching fire and explosions. Scary.

  "There are other possibilities," said Dr. Dupuis. "You're worried about your sister's health. I can help with that. I can help you too."

  Bill hesitated.

  "We take care of everyone here, Bill. You know that and I know that. Sometimes, when you're in health care, you care a little too much. But I'll do what I can. And I can do a hell of a lot."

  I could relax under God. All I had to do was call 911, and he’d take care of the rest, diagnosing and consoling would-be killers.

  Something tapped to my right, around 4 o’clock, beyond the nursing station. Something that both silenced and inflamed the entire department.

  I craned my neck and swivelled on the tile, straining to see. The counters blocked me. I had to thrust myself backwards, out of the nursing station, in order to understand.

  From the shadow of the little hallway that led to the staff physician call room, Dr. Chia stared back at us.

  29

  Dr. Chia could have gotten away. She could have snuck out of the building, unseen, through the door into the hallway.

  Instead, she'd entered the lair with the beast and the bomb.

  Dr. Dupuis’s face iced over.

  She returned his gaze before she fixed on Bill, who studied her through the holes of his face mask. "Excellent. Come here, Dr. Chia. On my left side."

  The side farther from Dr. Dupuis, who stood at 11 o’clock, on Bomb Guy's right, while Dr. Chia hovered at 4 o’clock.

  "No." Dr. Dupuis tried to cut directly through the nursing station toward her.

  "Don't move," Robo Bill commanded, raising his gun to Dr. Dupuis.

  God ignored him as he exited the nursing
station, circling the Plexiglass wall counterclockwise as he strode toward Dr. Chia. "She has nothing to do with this. Let her go."

  "She has everything to do with this. We need funding. She has money."

  "She doesn't." Dr. Dupuis had marched all the way to 6 o’clock without getting shot. Unfortunately, it meant that Bomb Guy now pointed the gun directly over me as he tracked him.

  "Dave. Stop now, or I will blow your head off." His gloved fingers flexed around the trigger.

  Dr. Dupuis halted, hands in the air, now less than 15 feet from Dr. Chia. She hadn’t budged, apart from breathing.

  "Don’t shoot her. Never shoot her. She’s innocent," said Dr. Dupuis.

  Bill snorted. "No one is innocent. Don’t you know that, Dave? You know what she is? Useful."

  Hmm. That didn’t bode well for me, the "useless piece of shit."

  Bill shifted his arms so that the gun now pointed at her head. He'd have to shoot her through the Plexiglass, but no one would bank on St. Joe's construction to protect us. "Tell your boyfriend to sign over 1.1 million dollars, or I'll blow you up."

  Dr. Chia’s eyes widened. She hadn't said a word. She looked fragile, and very beautiful, as she hovered in the shadows with her right hand raised to the doorway opening.

  "You were trying to ransom me for 1.1 million dollars?" I muttered to the specks in the tile.

  Bill didn't bother to shift his gaze or his gun, but he did deign to respond. "That was a mistake."

  "I'll say." Couldn't he tell me and Dr. Chia apart in the parking lot? We didn't look much alike. They'd worked together for years, she was ten years older than me, and he still tried to kidnap me instead of her?

  "Shut up." Now he pointed the pistol between my eyes.

  I gulped. Why hadn’t I shut up? Had fatigue eaten holes in my brain, like prions in Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease?

  "I hired two shit-for-brains. They couldn't even grab the right chink. So fuck them. They're gone."

  He must have killed them before he came in. They knew too much, and he clearly subscribed to the scorched earth strategy.

  Which meant that I was next. He could use me as an object lesson for Dr. Chia, i.e., obey me, or this will happen to you.

  Bomb Guy wouldn't miss a second time, in front of all these witnesses.

  Ryan, Tucker, Kevin, Mom, Dad, Grandma, Other Grandma, Grandpa. I love you.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the bullet.

  No. That reminded me of the famous Vietnam War picture of a poor man getting his brains blasted out.

  I opened my eyes and glared at Bill as best I could from the floor, levering myself back into in cobra position. I’d die defiant.

  Something slapped the tile floor. No, more of a shuffling noise, behind me and to my right. Say, five o’clock.

  "Don't move," instructed Robo Bill.

  I hadn’t broken from cobra pose. He didn’t mean me.

  He meant whoever was walking, or dragging, toward us.

  "Please, Alyssa..." Andrea whispered.

  Alyssa. My sister in near-strangulation. Risen from Room 13.

  Bill’s head shifted toward her. I could feel his concentration break.

  From the sound of it, Alyssa shambled toward us, slow but determined, like a zombie.

  No one dared speak. They didn’t want to draw Bomb Guy’s attention. His gun stayed trained on me, and they wanted to keep it that way.

  "Stop right there." Bomb Guy ordered, quieter than before. He enjoyed yelling at me and, to a certain extent, Dr. Dupuis, but he didn't know how to handle a small female whose blackened eyes, swollen face, bruised throat, and battered body advertised violence against women.

  "You should lie down—" Roxanne started, but when Bill swung his gun in her general vicinity, she shut up, too.

  "I don't want to hurt you," Bill told Roxanne. His gun pointed more at her feet than at her body. He still cared about his last friend.

  "So don't do this." Roxanne looked at his face, at his eye holes, instead of the gun, as she took a step toward him. "You need help, Bill. We'll get it for you. You don't have to do this. You haven't hurt anyone yet—"

  "You. Killed. Patrick," said Alyssa. Her footsteps stopped on my right. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her sway on her feet. She'd fall on top of me.

  I flinched. Dr. Dupuis on my left, Alyssa on my right, and me on the floor. All dead ducks, even if Alyssa didn’t faint on me first.

  Roxanne moved to catch her, but Bill redirected his gun, this time at Roxanne’s chest. His arms trembled visibly.

  There were too many of us. He couldn't shoot everyone at once with a .45. But if we got him panicked, he'd use the bomb.

  "You killed Patrick because he walked you out." Alyssa's voice broke.

  "No," said Robo Bill, raising his pistol at her. "Shut up, you stupid—"

  Everything exploded then.

  30

  The ground shook beneath my body.

  Warm liquid hit my neck.

  Something banged into the back of my head—a body part? Shrapnel?

  Not heavy enough for Alyssa, or for any adult body.

  I’d covered my ears.

  Still couldn’t block out the screaming.

  Hell, I was screaming too, with my shred of a voice.

  But more than anything, I needed to know where that fucking Bomb Guy was.

  Smoky air clogged my nose and fogged my eyes.

  I strained to see as I boosted myself up to standing, stepping over fallen ceiling tiles.

  Dr. Dupuis dragged Alyssa on her back by the ankles, toward the little hallway. Toward Dr. Chia, who rushed forward to help him.

  Alyssa’s mouth moved before she tried to knock Dr. Dupuis’s hands away, so she was in fighting form.

  Patients thrashed and sobbed in their thin, blue gowns, although my chest pain patient ripped off his monitor leads and took off for the exit across from him, near the light boxes.

  I turned toward the smoking remnants of the nursing station.

  A computer had toppled off a blackened, blasted counter, smashing its monitor. I stepped on an entire sheet of intact Plexiglass.

  The secretary cowered under what was left of her desk, her lipsticked mouth shaping sounds I couldn’t hear.

  "My legs! My legs!" someone bellowed from three o’clock, but his yells meant he maintained his airway and breathing, and Dr. Dupuis had turned to check on him.

  I’d make sure Bomb Guy was dead. Priority number one in first aid: secure the scene.

  Or more bombs could detonate.

  I scanned the wreckage. The smoke started to clear, although bright flames burned anew inside a recycling bin and its neighbouring trash can.

  Bomb Guy lay ten feet away, at two o’clock, a twitching mound of blood and flesh.

  Julie screamed and pointed at his head, which lay another ten feet beyond. His head had literally been blown off.

  I have never thrown up during my medical training or while discovering dead bodies. I'm more of a fight than flight person.

  This time, though, I had to twist my face to the left and fight the nausea. It took me a second of breathing through my teeth, while trying not to suck in the smoke or any aerosolized blood and body parts.

  When I turned back, they were pushing a stretcher over the plaster and particle board and whatever else littered the floor.

  Trying to get to Roxanne.

  Roxanne lay on the ground, right hand clamped over her left arm, mid-humerus level. The rest had been blown away.

  "I’m okay," she seemed to be saying as they boosted her up. Blood rained from her stump.

  "Tourniquet," I said, sprinting to resus ahead of the stretcher.

  I snatched a blue stretchy rubber band off one of the venipuncture carts right as they rolled in with Roxanne. I tied it firmly above her injury without stopping for gloves.

  Roxanne’s lips shaped the word "Thanks" as we attached her to the cardiac monitor.

  Tears tracked down Andrea’s c
heeks as she pushed up Roxanne’s pink scrub pants to get an IV in her foot. Which she did. First try. "Give me an Opsite."

  Amber handed her one to secure that IV, while Linda inserted a second in her other leg.

  Roxanne shook her head and joked, "You think they can do something with that?" She pointed at the charred forearm remnant, which someone had located and placed beside her stump.

  What did I tell you? ER nurses. Tough breed.

  Roxanne’s BP clocked in at 122/78, heart rate 111, resp rate an even 18 with a sat of 99 percent. She would goddamn fucking pull through this.

  While I called out orders for labs and X-rays—not that the nurses wouldn’t have done all that anyway, on autopilot—I tried to puzzle out what had happened.

  Bill’s bomb had exploded, but how? He’d pointed his gun at Alyssa. Using both hands.

  I wheeled around in a 360, surveying the area for more attackers.

  Maybe one of Bill’s parking lot minions had survived and sought revenge.

  Maybe—please not this—Tucker had returned and fired on the most obvious threat.

  Instead, my eyes focused on the lone figure lingering outside the resuscitation room.

  Charles Packard, the head security guard, gripped a gun in both hands.

  His eyes fixed on Bomb Guy's corpse.

  I opened my mouth, but directly across from us, the light box doors flung open and shut again.

  Blinding white light.

  One more blast.

  31

  Smoke.

  More ceiling tiles raining down on us, exposing black pipes that reminded me of broken teeth.

  Screams sounded thready now.

  I dove to the floor, protecting what remained of my eardrums.

  "POLICE! GET DOWN!"

  I dared to to turn slightly toward the light box door. Even peering up through the clouds of smoke, my watery eyes detected a line of black figures. The first carried a black shield prominently emblazoned with a single word in white: POLICE.

  "POLICE! GET DOWN!"

  Police pointed gigantic assault rifles at us. They also sported helmets, gas masks and body armor, but I concentrated on the assault rifles.