Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  “What are you thinking?” Dr. Grant asks me, and I realize I’ve zoned out.

  “Just about Ilsa, about how one case can have such a huge impact.”

  “Yeah,” Dr. Grant sighs. “It changed everything. Especially how doctors practice. Did you know doctors used to take a different oath?”

  I sit up straighter. While this makes sense, it never occurred to me before now that doctors made a different pledge when they were sworn into the profession. “Something other than the Oath to Preserve Life?”

  “Yeah, they used to take something called the Hippocratic Oath. One of its key tenets was: ‘First, do no harm.’ I wish we still took an oath like that. I feel like I’m hurting my patients by not helping them the way they need to be helped, by always balancing their needs against someone else’s.”

  Yeah, that would be tough. His colleagues, apparently, don’t share the same concerns. “Why aren’t more doctors upset by it?”

  “Some are,” he says plainly. “Others are just of a different breed. They’re immersed in Life First. Sometimes I think people have forgotten just how much society changed after the pandemics. So many people died, and many of them carried practical knowledge that wasn’t necessarily in the books. It took two decades just to get back on track with returning the normal chain of supply of goods, and get people out of their houses and trusting again. And while the medical community has probably made the most strides since the pandemics, the people who emerged from it weren’t the doctors and nurses that went into it. A lot of the people who ended up in medicine during the pandemics weren’t trained physicians. They were warm bodies willing to come in contact with a deadly virus. After the pandemics, these new doctors were people who had survived, who had immunity. They were taught on the fly how to care for sick people. They had to make due with their own notions, and those notions have shaped medicine today.

  “That survivor mentality among doctors has managed to prevail. People don’t believe saving lives is doing harm. But, sometimes it is.”

  I want to say something, to respond in some way that makes sense, that lets him know I understand. But all I can muster is a nod of my head. There is a knock at the door. We each turn and look at the door, holding our breaths ever so slightly. Once it is clear it is Luke doing the secret knock, we each breathe out. Dr Grant jettisons his gloves and lets Luke in. I look down at my arm, which has stopped tingling and feels heavy.

  Panting as he pads into the room, Buddy comes straight to me. I pat his head, rub from the top of his ears down his back, then give him a kiss on the nose.

  “You’re a good boy, Buddy,” I coo.

  He barks, then sits at my side.

  “You ready?” Luke asks me, taking hold of Buddy’s collar. I nod.

  Dr. Grant touches my arm to make sure it is numb. Satisfied, he turns his attention to Buddy, using scissors to cut hair on Buddy’s back, then wiping it with numbing ointment. Buddy whimpers apprehensively, but stays fairly still. I’m not sure this will continue once the numbing kicks in.

  Luke lets go of Buddy’s collar, and the dog pads over to the door.

  Dr. Grant removes the latex gloves he’s been wearing and puts on another pair. He reaches over to his tray to find the instrument he wants. When he lifts the scalpel, I turn my head. The sight of blood — particularly my own — makes me squeamish. Despite the numbness, I feel the pressure of the blade when he makes the incision; feel a small, unpleasant jostling; hear a click; then feel the sensation of tugging.

  With curiosity winning out over squeamishness, I turn my head to watch. Dr. Grant has a small machine in his hand that reminds me of an electric razor. Instead of a razor at the tip of the device, there are two pincers holding my LMS. Using his free hand, Dr. Grant gives me a two-inch square of thick gauze.

  “Hold this over your incision, please,” Dr. Grant tells me. Then he turns to Luke in the corner. “Bring Buddy back.”

  Luke grabs Buddy’s collar and leads him back. The dog walks hesitantly, and I fear he’ll bolt. Then, Dr. Grant does something unexpected — at least to me: reaches into a black bag near his feet, and pulls out a plastic zip-top bag stuffed with chunks of raw meat. He opens the bag and dumps the meat onto a metal tray on the floor.

  Buddy’s gate increases, and in a flash, he’s at our feet gobbling up the meat. Just like that, as quick as I’ve ever seen hands move, Dr. Grant makes an incision with his right hand, and then shoves the LMS in with his left. If Buddy notices, he doesn’t show it. Though I doubt he’s noticed, the way he’s still gobbling down the meat.

  After removing yet another pair of gloves, the doctor grabs a tube and squeezes a clear goo on top of the area he’s inserted the LMS into Buddy.

  He notices me staring. “Liquid bandage,” Dr. Grant says. “Should seal over the wound so it doesn’t get infected, and the LMS doesn’t pop out.”

  I watch Buddy, who is now licking the tray. “That was awfully quick. Doesn’t the LMS have to be attached better?”

  He shrugs. “Ideally,” Dr. Grant says, as he pours the same liquid bandage on my own wound. Only, with me, he takes more care. “But, it will still take readings even if it’s only loosely inserted. It will usually bond itself, and even if it’s not deep in, the regulator I attached will keep the readings steady.” He pats Buddy’s head gently. “Plus, we know they’re going to figure this out in a few hours. There’s no sense in upsetting your dog with me trying to do a perfect fit if it’s only going to be in him till morning.”

  Makes sense. I look over at Luke, who’s standing patiently in the corner. Dr. Grant puts on a new pair of gloves and finishes bandaging my incision. Once he is done, he removes the gloves and places the used, disposable medical items into the waste bag. “So what now?” I ask.

  Luke pipes in. “I’ll run Buddy over to your place, then come back for you.”

  “You think it will work?” I ask.

  Luke shines his full-of-bravado thousand-megawatt smile. “Of course.”

  I hope he’s right.

  Chapter 9: Dr. Grant

  Luke is taking Buddy back to the house and getting Susan’s car. Even though she couldn’t use her car after surgery, Susan hadn’t wanted to give up the little red convertible, so she stores it in our garage. Luke thinks it’s best to trade cars. Both the officer and my father saw the tan sedan. I don’t want to further involve Susan, but I’m at a loss for other options. On the plus side, she can say honestly she didn’t know I would take it. Red is a bit bold, but not so out of the ordinary as to be conspicuous.

  Dr. Grant and I clean the room. It just takes a couple of minutes to remove all traces we’ve been here. We leave the secret room together, and he locks the door with his key. When we reach the exit of the little church, I say, “Thank you,” and hug him tightly, not quite ready to let go. He kisses my forehead, and whispers “Be safe. Good luck.” And he’s off.

  It feels odd, watching him slink into the darkness, not sure when or if I’ll see him again. I’ve only known him three years, but in that time, everything has changed.

  I first met Dr. Grant during my third year at the state university. I’d planned to spend the weekend at the beach with my boyfriend. However, a couple of days before the trip, Tyler broke up with me, claiming he’d fallen madly in love with someone else. I was sure Susan would drop everything to console me. I’d envisioned a girls’ weekend shopping and bashing Tyler relentlessly. Only I was wrong. Susan had agreed to welcome doctors attending a campus conference. The gathering would culminate with the opening ceremony for a new research lab on campus.

  I hadn’t been paying much attention to the whole hullabaloo, as I’d been too absorbed with my relationship. Everything else had just been background noise.

  Once Tyler was gone, it seemed clear this new lab was a really big deal. Media from around the country were descending on campus. Susan, a go-getter to the core, wanted to be a part of it. Instead of wallowing, she suggested we use the conference to forget Tyler, and I became
part of the welcoming committee.

  Our job was to greet the new lab director, Dr. Stephen Grant, and give him a short tour of campus, ending at U Hotel.

  We were waiting outside the administration building when a taxi pulled up. Watching as he got out and tipped the driver, I realized Dr. Grant looked oddly familiar. He was a large man with wavy black hair and a matching beard. Clearly of hearty stock, he was well-proportioned enough that he looked like a lumberjack stuffed in a business suit. His face was eye-catching; not classically handsome, but intriguing. Something about his broad face and square chin, and the serene gleam in his eyes made you stop and take notice.

  Susan strode over to him, smiled and introduced herself, while I stood several feet back, watching. He smiled professionally and extended his hand to shake hers. Susan motioned to me, then he turned, caught me in his sights and didn’t let go. His gaze was laser like and unsettling. It was filled with wonder, curiosity, and something else, something unnerving. I didn’t understand why he looked at me that way, nor could I look away.

  Susan, for once, seemed oblivious. She didn’t notice his unbreakable gaze. Instead, she chuckled at something he said, then guided Dr. Grant to the spot where I was standing. “Dr. Grant, this is Kelsey Reed,” Susan said, inclining her head in my direction.

  Despite my discomfort from his gaze, I extended my hand affably and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  He shook my hand; it was firm and kind, if handshakes can be kind. Dr. Grant stared at me a moment more with that same intense look, then turned to Susan. “Do you think you’d be able to find me a bottle of water? I’m parched.”

  Susan smiled and said, “Sure.” As she grabbed my hand to take me with her, the doctor cleared his throat and Susan stopped in her tracks. “I was hoping Kelsey could tell me a bit about the school. We’ll wait here.”

  Susan nodded, but was clearly irritated at being dismissed. I turned to face Susan, so the doctor couldn’t see, and rolled my eyes. I hoped she realized I had no interest in schmoozing with the doctor. She didn’t seem comforted. My choice or not, I had managed to upstage her. And that rarely happened.

  As Susan walked into the administration building, I turned back to Dr. Grant and masked my discomfort with a friendly façade. “What do you want to know about the campus?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he maintained a wonder-laden stare. “You look just like her, you know?”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand. “Like Susan?” I asked, though I knew he couldn’t mean her. Susan was three inches taller than me, svelte, with fiery red hair and attitude to match. Nothing like me.

  “No, no,” Dr. Grant said, almost laughing. “You look just like Maya.”

  I felt like I’d been slapped. I wasn’t sure why, but the words hit me hard. What he was saying was true. Anyone who’d known my mother and now knew me said I looked just like her when she was this age. But, the doctor using her name as if he knew her, hurt.

  “You’ve seen pictures of her?” was the only response I could manage.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said, his shoulders drooping, as he let out a sigh. “I was her obstetrician.”

  A lie. I had only been seven when she died, but I remembered her heading off to obstetrics appointments. She would say, “I’m off to Dr. Rice’s office.” And I always thought it was silly that her doctor was named after food.

  Something about my expression must have told him I didn’t believe him. For, he added quickly, “I practiced with Dr. Rice. I saw her the last three appointments.”

  I’m not sure when my jaw dropped. I just remember feeling a strong April breeze blow in and thinking I should close my mouth.

  “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said. I nodded reflexively, too stunned to do anything else. “Would you meet me at my hotel tonight, say around 9 o’clock?”

  A thousand thoughts crossed my mind, of things I should say, of things I should ask, but no words sprung from my mouth. Just another nod. From behind, I heard the clanging of high heels on pavement. I turned and saw Susan, in her light blue blouse and beige skirt, striding toward us, a bottle of water in hand.

  She closed the distance quickly, handing Dr. Grant the bottle as soon as she reached us.

  “Thank you,” he said to her. “I’m afraid I’m not really interested in a campus tour. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk to the hotel myself.”

  Susan kept her public smile plastered across her face, but gave me a look that said I had some massive explaining to do once he left.

  The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to me. “This is my number. Please call if you can’t make it, so we can reschedule. It’s very important.”

  I nodded, and he walked off.

  When he appeared to be out of earshot, Susan gave me a hard look. “What was that about?”

  My voice was monotone. I was too raw, still trying to process the emotions I was feeling. “He wants me to meet him at his hotel tonight.”

  Now, Susan’s expression turned from anger to alarm. “You can’t go, Kelsey,” she practically shouted, then lowered her voice, realizing she would attract attention. “Good doctors don’t ask students to meet them in their rooms after hours. He must be some kind of a pervert. Why else would he want you alone in his hotel room?”

  The answer to that was easy. I knew it the moment he admitted seeing my mother for her last three appointments. “Because he wants to apologize. He wants to say he’s sorry for killing my mother.”

  Chapter 10: Driving

  It is still dark and I’ve been asleep for what seems like an hour. Luke is doing marvelously at keeping awake and chauffeuring me to Georgia. It’s a long drive, but there’s nothing we can do about that.

  Part of me is glad he’s here. It makes me happy knowing he will be with me on what could be a scary journey. The other part of me hates it and wishes he were safe somewhere else; wishes I were going it alone, and he would join me later. I don’t know what I’ll do if we’re captured. If Luke has to go to a holding facility because he helped me, I will never forgive myself.

  I am in my seat belt, curled into a ball to sleep better. I stretch out, figuring I should keep Luke company. I mean, this is technically my escape. Yet, he is the one taking the active role. I wanted to drive, but Luke said it would be safer for him to be at the wheel if we got pulled over by the police. He insisted he could talk to the officer while I pretended to sleep. He didn’t seem to think the officer would notice I was a fugitive. Why Luke thinks the police are so ridiculously inept that they wouldn’t ask me to show my face, I don’t know. Actually, I don’t think he believes that. I think he just wanted to be useful and grasped for any excuse to drive. I let it stand, without pointing out the silliness of his assumption. Plus, when he proposed driving, I actually was tired. I hadn’t been sleeping well in the days leading up to this.

  I look over at Luke. He is concentrating on the road. Very few cars are out. My watch says 4:30 a.m. I’ve slept too long. Still dark, yet morning.

  Luke notices me awake. “You should sleep, if you’re tired.”.

  I yawn, stretch out. “Nope, I’m fine. I’d like to keep you company.”

  “No, I’m good,” he protests. “Really, sleep.”

  I decide not to argue, at least not with words. My staying awake will get my point across.

  I shift in my seat slightly. My arm still throbs where the LMS was removed, but I don’t dare look at it. I don’t want Luke to worry I’m in pain. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the steady white line separating the road from the shoulder. A green road sign says, “Welcome to South Carolina”

  My heart does a stutter step as I glance at the dashboard gauges, and realize we have been in mortal peril whilst I slept. “How fast have you been driving?”

  “Fast enough to get us through a couple of states,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t now. I’m afraid if we hit something at this speed we’ll
instantly disintegrate.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

  The speedometer reads 94. “We don’t want to get pulled over,” I say, the uneasiness I feel creeping into my voice. Luke sighs, and then I feel the car slow and watch as we decelerate to 65 m.p.h.

  “Very few police on these roads at night,” he says. “My friend Jack, his father’s an officer. He told me most of the officers sleep on the overnight shift unless they have a call. Very few are out looking around for speeders.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Jack is full of it.”

  “Yeah, he is,” he agrees, “but not about that.”

  We drive for awhile more in silence, passing exit ramps promising food, gas and other amenities.

  “Are you ready?” Luke asks.

  No, but I don’t really have a choice. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I’m going to miss my dad, Haleema, Susan, you. But, you’re gonna come in just two months, so it won’t be too long.”

  He nods, keeps his eyes on the road. Neither of us really wants to talk about the new life I am heading to. So, we watch the road for a bit more. I see him steal a glance at me. “Do you remember what I asked you, after you told me you’d been marked?”