Nick made his way down to the hospital basement and navigated the twisty corridors to the laundry with ease, something he hadn’t done two years ago, when he had first started working at the med center—he used to get lost down here all the time. Now, he knew the layout well—past the MRI machines with all their funny magnet signs, and past the CAT scanners.
Nick hoped the laundry room would be empty, but his luck was not that good; several other members of the janitorial staff were taking a break, or trying to hide from their supervisors. Carol Sue was there. So was Nasty Mike Kuzmich. Both were seated on plastic crates tipped upside down on the dusty floor, puffing away on their beloved cigarettes.
“Hey Nick,” Nasty Mike said, sniggering. “What you got there? A full load? Three bags full?”
“No,” Nick said, “just one bag.”
Nasty Mike snorted loudly and started laughing.
“Don’t pay him no mind, Nick,” Carol Sue said before taking a long drag on her cigarette.
Nasty Mike continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Fuckin’ moron!”
Carol Sue belted Nasty Mike across his upper arm. “Shut up,” she said, and made an ugly face at him.
Nasty Mike frowned and rubbed his arm for a moment. But he wasn’t done.
“What’s that smell?” Nasty Mike stood and scrunched his nose up something fierce. “What’s that god-awful smell?”
“Leave him be, shithead,” Carol Sue said. She got up and walked over to Nick. He watched the bright pinks and greens in her Tinker Bell tattoo slide in and out from under her sleeve as her arm moved. Carol Sue’s teeth were yellow and crooked, but he liked her and thought she was pretty, with her long black hair.
“Maybe you oughtta throw that stuff in a hazardous waste box,” she said, eyeing his laundry bag. “It does stink,” she added in a soft voice that only he could hear.
“Okay,” Nick said. He looked around the room, then pulled a large flattened cardboard box off a stack in the corner. He tried to fold the preformed cardboard piece into a three dimensional box, but all the confusing flaps and arrows quickly turned into a jumbled mess in his mind. Carol Sue reached out to help him.
“Let me be,” Nick snapped at her. “I’ll do it myself.”
Nasty Mike was staring at him. Nick felt his face heat.
“I seen it all now,” Nasty Mike bellowed, shaking his head. “Outsmarted by a fuckin’ box!” Nasty Mike bent over and mashed his cigarette in his Pepsi can. Then he looked straight at Carol Sue. “Just like I said, sweetcakes—a fuckin’ moron.”
Carol Sue glared at him. “You’re the moron. Now, get the hell outta here.” She pointed to the door.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” Nasty Mike walked toward the door, bumping into Nick on his way. As he reached the door, he called back over his shoulder, “Bitch!”
Carol Sue turned to Nick. She had a nice smile on her face and touched his arm. “He’s such an asshole. Forget about the box, Nicky. Those buggers can be tricky.”
Nick felt ready to cry. He bit his lower lip.
She looked again at his cart and her smile faded. “Were you cleaning that room?” she asked. “The filthy ICU room with the patient who died? The one with the horrible smell?”
“Yeah, they told me to,” he said meekly.
“You washed your hands, right?”
Nick looked at the floor. “I was about to,” he mumbled. “I wore gloves.”
“Shit,” she said, shaking her head and looking plenty worried. “Go wash your hands. Now! And use the goddamn disinfectant.”
Nick went over to the sink. “There was some serious bad shit in that room,” Carol Sue continued, watching him wash his hands. “When you get home, take a good shower. Don’t forget, now.”
“I won’t,” he said, keeping his face turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears.
C H A P T E R 3
Wednesday, 11:45 a.m.
Tequila. What a cool name. He liked saying it—almost as much as drinking it. Chip Allison poured another shot glass full of tequila—his third, or maybe it was his fourth. But who’s counting, anyway? No, this wasn’t your Don Julio Anejo tequila, the stuff his dad liked to drink, aged for two years in oaken barrels and poured from the neat bottle with the fancy wooden stopper. And no, this wasn’t even Jose Cuervo Especial tequila. Rather, this was the cheapest rotgut money could buy, complete with the chintzy metal screw cap.
Of course, let’s be honest here. Honesty is the best policy, right? He wasn’t really drinking it to savor the flavor. That much was clear. And who gives a flying fuck that it’s only twelve noon. There was a celebration going on here—his twenty-third birthday—so he had every reason to get hammered. And as long as we’re telling the truth, it’s not really a shot glass, either. It was one of those mega shot glasses. You know, the three or four ounce jobbies—the true volume of which, only God Almighty knew.
He spilled a little tequila on the dingy white Formica countertop. Shit. Can’t even do that right. But then, just as quickly, he came to his own defense: Wait, hold on—no worries. Just a smidge, no need to panic. His mom liked that word—smidge, that is, not panic. Short for smidgeon—whatever the hell that was. Although, truth be told, even dear old Mom wasn’t too happy with him nowadays.
Retrieving a soggy washcloth from the pile of dirty dishes overflowing the sink, he swabbed up the spilt tequila. There, clean as a whistle. He tossed the rag back toward the sink.
Movement caught his eye and he peered out the little window of his third floor apartment’s kitchenette, eyes following a sparrow fluttering down to join several others hopping around in the brown grass of his tiny backyard. Geez, when had the grass gotten that brown?
An unexpected wave of sadness came over him as he remembered when things had been different. Very different, in fact. Everything had been going well—really well—until that awful decision involving Michelle six months ago. How could he have been so stupid as to believe her? Was it really possible to fuck up your life so badly in such a short time? This line of questioning never failed to make his head hurt.
Out in the living room, Frodo was talking worriedly to Gandalf. Commercial break was over. Drink in hand, he sauntered back into the room and plopped down on his worn sofa, not five feet from the boob tube. The taco chips were there waiting for him. Salt always went well with tequila, right?
He checked his watch. He had to be at work in . . . let’s see . . . nine hours. Or was it eight? His subtraction skills were suboptimal at the moment. Taking a siesta. Wasting away again in Margaritaville. Whatever. Plenty of time. He had experience in these matters. Besides, how alert did you have to be to watch the stupid cardiac monitors in the ICU? The newer computer-driven monitors had sophisticated dysrhythmia detection algorithms that rarely missed identifying a dangerous rhythm and then sounding the alarm.
Chip plucked his iPhone out of his pocket and set the alarm. Couldn’t afford to be late for work; he’d never get back into med school that way. So responsible . . . Dad—or should he say the great and fearless Colonel Allison—would be proud. He was always big on responsibility. And integrity. Which explained why he was so disappointed when he found out about his delinquent son.
Chip tried hard to get his dad’s face and stinging words out of his mind. Luckily, just then, the black riders rode across the screen, snorting and wailing, gnashing their teeth, blood dripping from their foaming mouths as they galloped down the road toward the Shire. Chip sat there mesmerized, crunching absently on some chips. Usually, he really liked this part of the movie. Today, however, Chip shuddered a little as he imagined the riders were somehow coming for him. He drained the tequila.
C H A P T E R 4
Wednesday, 11:45 a.m.
The late-morning sun eventually cleared the nearby building and light poured in through the venetian blinds, bathing the ICU room in a garish, almost phosphorescent light, rousing him awake. Chandler squinted hard and cursed at the painfully bright horizontal stripes. But
he quickly retracted his curse. The light was a wonderful thing, after all; it meant he had survived the night, something his good doctors had thought unlikely. Somewhere between his last conscious period and now, he’d discovered a will to live.
Chandler took inventory of his body. His heart had been ravaged by an especially virulent infection that had started it all. What had they called it—a viral myocarditis? They’d said his heart was ruined. Except he detected internal evidence that his immune system was rallying, locking onto the viral protein coat and taking out the virus. He could tell his heart was on the mend.
Similarly, his lungs were repairing themselves, the damaged capillaries starting to shore up their leaks and the oxygen exchange steadily improving across the delicate alveolar membranes. As the extracellular fluid diminished, the compliance of the pulmonary tissue improved, thereby decreasing the need for high pressures to ventilate him. Soon, he knew, the ventilator would not be necessary. His kidneys and liver were also responding to the improved cardiac output and no longer spiraled toward total shutdown.
He could see all these changes in his body as he had never seen before. How was that possible? He certainly wasn’t a doctor. Besides, even a doctor couldn’t see the inner workings of his own body. But it was more than that. He sensed that his brain was somehow directing these wonderful changes, manipulating his autonomic nervous system to improve blood flow here, tweak perfusion there, in a kind of intelligent design approach to healing by following the innate blueprints of his body, right down to the cellular level. Again, he sensed this was all a manifestation of the transformation he had somehow undergone.
The urge to sleep came over him again, but he resisted. He knew their goal was to keep him sedated, and to that end, he was on round-the-clock narcotics and a propofol drip. He’d have to deal with that before long.
He heard people entering his room and was careful not to open his eyes; no need for them to know he was conscious just yet. He was beginning to connect names with the voices. The attending doc, cardiologist Dr. Leffler, was speaking.
“Gorman, why don’t you examine the patient and tell us all where the endotracheal tube is, instead of cutting corners and just saying it’s in good position. Good for what? Medicine is not a field for sloppiness, young man.”
One of the med students, presumably Gorman, leaned in close to him. Chandler felt a slight touch on his lips, then his tube was jostled a bit. He struggled to remain still and fought back an overwhelming urge to gag.
“Tube’s at twenty-two centimeters at the lips,” Gorman said, adding with a hint of irritation, “Still in good position.” But the next part was not spoken aloud. Chandler saw the words form clearly in Gorman’s mind, then heard them just as plainly in his own: Doesn’t really matter where the goddamn tube is, now, does it, Leffler, you frickin’ asshole! This guy’s toast! This surprised Chandler so much that his eyes almost flew open.
When Gorman stepped back to join the group, the connection was broken.
C H A P T E R 5
Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.
“You’re late, Allison.” Victor Cohen swiveled his chair around to face Chip. Behind Victor, EKG telemetry tracings from twenty-four very sick patients paraded across several banks of flat-screen monitors in high contrast green on black.
“Sorry, Victor,” Chip said. “I had some things to take care of.”
“Whatever.” Victor’s irritated expression grew serious. “I got a big micro test tomorrow and I need to get cracking.”
“Okay, okay,” Chip said. “How’re things going?”
“Great—now that you’re gone.”
Chip sighed. “I meant with the patients.” He nodded toward the monitor screens.
Victor’s face morphed again—this time into a shit-eating grin. “I got the highest grade on the pharm midterm.”
“Good for you.” Same old Victor, annoying as hell. He never had much of a filter between his brain and his mouth. “Anything useful to report?”
“No, not really. They’re all pretty much the same.” Victor slid out of the chair and stood; he barely came up to Chip’s chin and his thin face and skinny body made Chip think weasel. And of course, ever since Victor had joined the list of prime suspects who had ratted him out, the description seemed to fit all the more.
Chip tapped the bizarre-looking EKG trace from Room 237—super-wide QRS complexes that were going way too fast. “What’s up with this one?”
“Oh—he’s the new Mueller special. He’s probably going to buy it tonight.”
“Swell,” Chip said.
“Ain’t modern medicine grand?”
“Yeah, ain’t it.” Chip settled himself into the padded chair. “See you around, Victor.”
Victor leaned in close, invading his personal space, and spoke in a lowered voice. “Chip, can I tell you something?”
Chip tensed. “What?”
“We used to be friends, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Chip said warily, thinking Victor was stretching the definition.
“You need to lay off the sauce, man.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“For god sakes, I can smell it on you.”
“Give it a rest, Victor. You sound like my old man.”
“Look, Chip. I can only cover for you for so long. You know how it goes. Sometimes the people who know and do nothing get into more trouble than the ones actually screwing up. Remember all that Penn State shit?”
“Hey, you look, Victor. Don’t do me any favors.” Chip rolled his chair away from him in disgust. “I thought you had a test to study for.”
Victor turned to leave, then stopped, his grin reappearing. “Heather’s working tonight.”
“So?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not interested.”
“I’m not,” Chip said.
“Sure—whatever you say.” Victor’s grin faded. “Anyway, that’s probably a good thing. I don’t think you have a chance in hell.”
Chip didn’t respond, struggling to contain the familiar anger welling up inside him.
“Just saying,” Victor added.
“Go fuck yourself, Victor.”
Three hours into the shift, Chip caught himself daydreaming again and angrily stifled a yawn, not for the first time. He was mad at himself for coming to work tired—and hungover. Chip rubbed his eyes and forced his attention back to the monitor screens he was supposed to be watching. Room 235 had frequent PVCs, but this had been going on for a week now and they were all unifocal. Room 242 was Afib/flutter that occasionally shot his rate up to 150 beats per minute—he’d have to keep an eye on that.
But the real money was on the new admission in 237. The trace had the dreaded red star taped next to it. Basically, it looked like shit. Victor had been right—this guy could go south at any moment. Chip knew he would spend extra time watching this room, but also knew it had nothing to do with the guy’s rhythm.
Victor had also mentioned that 237 was a Mueller special—one of the poor saps that had been subjected to the new resuscitation protocol. So far, there had been three of them that Chip knew of over the past six months. Well, three that made it out of the lab, anyway. Word was that many more went into the lab, but never came out. The previous two lasted several hours in the ICU before dying.
Wheeling his chair to the right, Chip craned his neck around the monitor screens to get a look into room 237. He wasn’t trying to see the patient, but rather hoping to catch a glimpse of Heather, the patient’s nurse. Truth be told, he was interested in Heather—she was a real looker, like Michelle. No dice—she must be sitting in the corner, away from the door or window. After several minutes, Chip reluctantly rolled his chair back and refocused on the monitors.
The next hour passed by slowly, again lulling Chip into a trancelike state. Visions of making it with Heather paraded across his mind—until the tap of footsteps coming from his right interrupted another large yawn, and his head snapped up. He watched Heather walk by in a b
lur of blonde hair and fluid hips, swiveling his chair around in an attempt to make eye contact with her. Too late; she had already passed him. He did, however, get a blast of her perfume.
“Hi Heather,” he called to her back.
She stopped and turned, giving him a half-hearted smile. “Oh, hi.”
“How’s your patient doing?”
“Fine. Well, he’s really sick.” Her shoulder-length blonde hair danced playfully about her pretty face as her eyes darted around the room, anywhere but on him. She took several steps toward him.
Chip’s heart pounded even harder in his chest. “Yes, he’s very sick,” he said.
“Have you seen Dr. Donahue?” she asked.
“No.”
“Listen, uh—” she glanced at his name badge “—Chip. If you see Dr. Donahue, tell him I need to talk to him, okay? It’s important.”
“Okay,” Chip said. “But, I’m pretty sure he left.”
“Darn.” She rummaged around in her purse before yanking out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
“Hey, your guy’s complex looks pretty bad,” Chip said. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
“Can’t say. Listen, I gotta go on break.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“See ya,” she said as she walked away.
“Yeah, see ya,” Chip replied, but doubted she heard him. Damn. He had to think of something a bit more clever to say when she came back.
A voice from the other side of his station startled him. “She’s just not that into you, Allison.”
He spun around to see Kristin, the radiology tech on duty, standing with her elbows resting on the wooden railing. She was sporting a large grin and toying with the end of her light brown, almost dirty blonde hair, which was woven into a complex braid.
The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE) Page 2