Shattered Highways

by Tara N Hathcock

  “Oh. Um. Sorry, I guess. But I think it’s okay.”

  “You do, do you?” she retorted. “Doctor Morrison had to wire your ribs back together after he dug the splinters out of your lung. In fact, you’re lucky you still have your lung. If it hasn’t healed enough to hold together, it could collapse and you could very well die. Die! Do you hear me soldier?”

  Logan couldn’t help the grin. The tiny little woman reminded him of his grandma. Stern and entirely more dramatic than the situation called for.

  “Yes ma’am, I hear you,” he said. “But I think my lung’s going to hold. I’m breathing okay, just a little sore.”

  “I see. Dr. Davies, is it? I didn’t realize,” she said caustically. “Now, if you don’t mind, Doctor, sit back down and let me listen.”

  She physically sat him on the bed and whipped out her stethoscope. The metal was frigid against his chest and he couldn’t help but flinch a little. He was sure she’d planted it against his chest harder than the situation required.

  “You’re not really a “blow on the end, warm it up” kind of nurse, are you?” he asked dryly.

  “Shut it, you,” Nurse Ratched snapped back.

  She listened for a few more seconds before straightening up and slinging the stethoscope back around her neck. Logan ducked as the end cleared his head space.

  “You sound clear. For now. But I’m reporting this incident to Doctor Morrison. I’m sure he’ll have words for his non-compliant patient.”

  She turned to leave but snapped back around. “I’m Shirley and I will be your nurse for the foreseeable future. Your partner, a Lieutenant Levi Jones, is in surgery. His condition was updated an hour ago to stable and he should be out within the hour.”

  Her eyes seemed to soften minutely as she looked at him. “I’ll make sure his doctor stops to see you as soon as he’s finished.” She opened the door and tossed back, “And your call button is on the bed rail. Use it next time.” Then she was gone, leaving a speechless Logan in her wake.

  Time seemed to crawl as Logan waited for the doctor. Nurse Shirley hadn’t given him any information other than Jones was in surgery and stable. In Logan’s experience, ‘stable’ just meant ‘not dying in the next five minutes’. It left a lot of room for speculation, and Logan didn’t have anything else to speculate about. Jones could have a spinal injury and be paralyzed. Or maybe he was bleeding internally. They could be repairing a lacerated liver or spleen. Or it could be worse. If Jonesy lost a kidney, it was an automatic medical discharge. So many variables and Logan had nothing but time to dwell on them. He took a deep, calming breath but flinched when pain tore through his left side. When he’d pulled the chest tube out in his determination to find answers, nurse Shirley had been worried his lung would collapse again and it would need to be reinserted. But so far it was holding its own, if not a bit uncomfortably. And while his head pounded and ached in tandem, it was livable. He had been pleasantly surprised to find his arm intact. It had been strapped to his chest to immobilize and protect his broken ribs but was, in fact, perfectly fine. He always hated arm injuries because they made him feel disadvantaged in a way other injuries never had. Being an arm down made him feel partly blind, like he was leaving his flank unprotected. Jonesy would always laugh when Logan said that. ‘Man, you don’t need both arms to protect your flank. That’s what you got me for, fool.’ But Jones wasn’t here this time, which meant Logan needed both arms. His partner was down - it was his turn to be the eyes.

  Another glance at the clock told him it had been 58 minutes since the last time he’d checked, which was 13 minutes longer than Nurse Shirley said Jonesy’s surgery should last. Logan reached for the remote with his free arm and turned the t.v. on. He flipped through the channels, stopped momentarily on a rerun of M.A.S.H, but shut it back down after a few minutes. T.V. never really got it right. He thought about buzzing Shirley again but decided not to poke the bear. The last time he rang, she had stormed in with a cup of ice chips and practically thrown a magazine at him. Then she slammed her hands on the bed rails on either side of him and leaned over until they were eye-to-eye.

  “If you push that button one more time, and I get up and walk in this room, and you aren’t actively bleeding or dying, you will be when I leave.”

  Now, Logan had been reamed out and intimidated by the toughest officers and drill sergeants the army could churn out. But Nurse Shirley was in a class all her own. And Logan believed every word. She had remained frozen above him, staring him down and waiting. Logan had swallowed and then, like the good soldier he was, nodded his head.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The door finally, finally, swung open and Logan jerked his head up off the bed to see a tall man in blue surgical scrubs and cap follow Nurse Shirley into the room.

  “Shirley, I see you’re taking great care of our young lieutenant.” The man grinned at Logan. “How’s he doing?”

  “Despite pulling his chest tube out ten minutes after he regained consciousness, he’s doing just fine.”

  Nurse Shirley’s disapproving look contrasted ironically with her surprisingly gentle arrangement of the blankets covering his legs.

  “I’m sure you won’t give Commander Marlowe any trouble at all, will you Lt. Davies?” She casually slid a syringe from the pocket of her jacket and held it up to the light, flicking it until all the air bubbles dissipated. “I would hate to have to come back into this room.”

  “Unless I was actively bleeding or dying. Yes ma’am, I remember,” Logan agreed wholeheartedly. Nurse Shirley gave him a grandmotherly smile and left him to consider what other methods of persuasion she had tucked away on her person.

  Logan turned back to the commander. “Do you think she keeps that needle in there just for shock value?” he asked.

  The commander laughed. “I’ve learned that Shirley never makes a promise she isn’t willing to keep. But a better nurse you will not find.”

  The man tucked the chart he held under his left arm and extended a hand. “I’m Commander Marlowe. I’m the surgeon who took care of Lt. Jones. Shirley tells me you might like an update?”

  Logan exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “So he made it through surgery then?” Logan asked, although at this point it was just a formality. Something about the Cdr’s casual posture told Logan his partner was still breathing.

  Cdr Marlowe pulled a chair over beside Logan’s bed and sat. “He did, but first thing’s first.”

  He flipped open one of the files he was holding and glanced through it. “Lt. Logan Davies. Moderate concussion, left pneumothorax. Chest tube was inserted in-country but Shirley tells me you’ve already remedied that.” The commander paused and glanced up at Logan with a wry smile. “Care to defend your actions Lieutenant?”

  Logan rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tightness in his head and neck that was aggravating his headache. Or concussion, apparently.

  “I’m fine. Talk to me about Jones. How did - ,” Cdr Marlowe cut in, his easy-going attitude suddenly replaced by a no-nonsense commanding officer.

  “We will talk about Lt. Jones once we’ve discussed your condition soldier. You’re right - you are fine. Or you will be, soon enough. But Lt. Jones’s condition is going to take some time to wade through so I need you to focus for five minutes.”

  The commander took a breath and seemed to consider for a moment. “He’s alive. And I believe, with time, he will recover. Now, back to that missing chest tube.”

  Logan understood the chain of command. He was a good soldier, and had been one for many years. But he wasn’t quite ready to give up on his friend. “Sir, if I may, my injuries will heal. I just need to know if my partner’s will, too.”

  “I understand,” said Cdr Marlowe, and Logan thought he actually did. He looked sympathetic. He even looked sympathetic as he pushed the chair back, stood, and said, “I’ll go get your attending physician. I’ll let him discuss your condition with you and we can talk about Lt. Jones after.”
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  “Wait. What?” Logan was confused. “I thought...you’re not my doctor?”

  Was his concussion worse than he thought? He did seem to be having trouble following the commander’s quick changes in personality. Or maybe it was changes in subject he was having trouble tracking “If you’re not my doctor, why do you want to talk about me?”

  “Kid, I’m a neurosurgeon. One of the chief neurosurgeons at this facility, in fact. I have zero interest in your case.” Cdr. Marlowe tipped his head in thought. “Scratch that. Your concussion gives me maybe a five percent interest in your case. Enough for me to listen to an intern or a medical student break it down. Not enough to actually treat it myself.”

  He shook his head, like he was shaking off a bum detail from a tyrant drill sergeant that he really didn’t want. “As one of the chief neurosurgeons, I do, however, have a vested interest in your partner’s case.” The commander let out a deep breath, which sounded more like a weary sigh to Logan. “I also know what it’s like, in-country. I know the dependence partners put on each other. I know it’s the only way we make it out alive most of the time. Which is why I thought I’d do you a solid, look you over myself. I have no real interest in your broken ribs. Pretty much none in your chest tube, or lack thereof. And as long as you keep breathing, I couldn’t care less that you pulled it out yourself.”

  Logan thought it rather ironic that the commander would adjust the oxygen levels flowing through his nasal cannula while claiming not to care about his non-patient’s breathing.

  “However, I can’t guarantee your cardiothoracic surgeon will feel the same. Dr. Morrison isn’t military but he imitates a fine drill sergeant.” Marlowe gave that a minute to sink in. “So pick your poison soldier. It’s me or him.”

  Logan was nothing if not pragmatic. He’d been raised by a mother whose wandering, freewheeling lifestyle had insured he’d either be flaky himself or develop practicality as a superpower. So he was willing to accept a generous offer when it was presented. He gave a nod and the commanding officer standing in front of him became an unusually affable chief neurosurgeon once more.

  “Okay then,” he said. “I believe we were talking about that chest tube. Or lack thereof, am I right?”

  He put the charts he carried down on the small table beside the bed and motioned Logan forward. “Let’s go ahead and take a look so we can say we did.”

  Logan shifted so the commander could pull his gown away from his left side and flinched when he started tugging at the bandages nurse Shirley had so lovingly and painfully placed over the wound.

  “Looks like you pulled it out cleanly, all things considered. I don’t see any obvious signs of bleeding or oozing around the incision site.”

  The commander taped the gauze back in place and let Logan’s gown fall back over his side. “I’m going to take a quick listen. Go ahead and lean forward.”

  Logan used his good arm to pull himself away from the back of the bed and took in a couple of breaths while Marlowe moved his stethoscope around his chest and back. It was painful, trying to breathe so deeply, and Logan had to fight the urge to cough, but he managed to hold it back. When Marlowe seemed satisfied with what he heard, he straightened and helped Logan lean back. There was a pillow sitting in one of the spare chairs by the window and the commander walked around the bed and grabbed it.

  “Coughing is actually good in this situation. You need to cough to keep the fluid from settling into your lungs because it can build up and cause infection faster than you’d think. But it’ll hurt for a while. When you feel it coming, squeeze a pillow to your chest as tight as you can and hold it there through the cough.”

  He demonstrated on the pillow in his arms and then tossed it to Logan. “The pillow will help brace your ribs and give you support. It’ll still hurt but it shouldn’t feel like your chest is coming apart.”

  Logan caught the pillow with his right arm and sat it beside him on the bed. “I thought you said you were a neurosurgeon.”

  The commander smiled. “Oh, you know. I pick up stuff here and there. I have a lot of little tricks. If you ever need to reduce a shoulder dislocation on your own, give me a call. I’ll walk you right through it.”

  “Questions about your own injuries/prognosis/rehab before we move on?”

  Logan just quirked an eyebrow, as if to ask ‘Seriously?’

  Cdr Marlowe grinned. “I figured but I had to ask.”

  He settled back into his previous chair by the side of the bed and dropped Logan’s chart onto the floor at his feet, then leaned over and grabbed the other chart. The much thicker chart. Jonesy’s chart.

  “The news isn’t all bad, but it isn’t entirely great either. I think it will make more sense if we start at the very beginning. How much do you remember about the IED explosion?”

  Logan closed his eyes and tried to picture what had happened. It had come back in bits and pieces after he had woken up. “I remember we were on foot, passing through a small town that was little more than a patch of dirt.”

  Logan remembered everything that happened before the explosion very well. The almost-suffocating dryness of the air as he tried to suck in breaths. The dust that had settled into every available outlet on his face - his eyes, inside his nose, between his teeth. The fact that he wasn’t sweating nearly enough in the debilitating heat. And the town itself, perfectly silent and still. Looking back, that should have been their first clue that something was wrong. Towns like that were never still. Whether it was children roaming the alleyways, stray dogs and cats fighting over scraps of trash, or women sneaking from one doorway to another, trying to remain unseen, there was always movement. These towns might be quiet, but they were never still.

  Their convoy had been rolling through the town, on a humanitarian mission of all things. There had been reports in the area of disease-riddled civilian populations that needed food, water, and basic medical supplies. They had been driving a 15-mile stretch, distributing what aid they could. A couple guys had hopped out of the transport vehicles, opting for the dry, arid heat outside the Humvee rather than the thick, stifling heat inside it, Logan and Jonesy among them. Logan could remember the guys joking and laughing. It felt good to be caregivers for once instead of shock troops and they had been enjoying the reprieve. Logan could remember how Clipper started singing some song about blue skies and beautiful women he claimed to have picked up down in New Orleans. He remembered McDaniels tossing clods of the dry, packed dirt that littered the countryside at him and Mitch howling like a dying coyote. He could remember looking back at Jonesy, who was grinning like he’d never seen anything funnier. Which was ridiculous, because McDaniels and Mitch weren’t that funny. He could remember opening his mouth to say something to him but he couldn’t remember what. Because there was a sound, a loud, ripping sound, like metal on metal. And there was a flash of white and red and black. And there was a rush of burning heat. And then there was the hospital and the pain and the panic of not knowing where his partner was. There was Nurse Ratchet and Cdr Marlowe. And, finally, there was Jonesy. Lying in a bed, breathing through a tube. Jonesy, disoriented and dazed, not able to hear or see where he was. And then, finally, Jonesy, who could hear too much.

  Chapter 32

  Logan

  Logan sighed and pulled himself back to the present. He couldn’t allow himself to get lost in the past. This was about Quincy, not Jones. Logan couldn’t protect Jones anymore but Quincy? She was still here. And with a shooter gunning for her, he couldn’t afford to lose what little trust she had in him. He was painfully aware, even if she wasn’t, just how close she’d come to dying. He’d followed her, of course, intending to try to calm her down when the shot had been taken. It had been dead on and nothing but dumb luck had prevented it from hitting its mark. Whoever the shooter was, he was a professional and the odds of him missing a second time were non-existent. Logan had already managed to spook Quincy at the cafe. He knew it had been risky to reach out to her. He had observed her enough to
know she kept people at arm’s length deliberately and that any obvious push to invade her privacy would be met with instant resistance. But he had spent time with her. First, to assess her as a potential target. Later, to build trust once he realized she was. Maybe it was flattery, but he thought she even kind of enjoyed his company. He definitely enjoyed hers. Probably more than he should, considering she was the mission. He had been sent to observe her, and later, to bring her in when they realized they were right about her and he was soldier enough to know that emotions complicated matters, always. But she seemed so alone and so sad. And so utterly unaware of what was happening. Logan had to agree with Garrison - she clearly had no idea. If he was going to be able to help her, if they were going to be able to help her, he had to do this right.

  “The doctors had all but written Jones off by that point. These were all military doctors and nurses you understand, and every one of them had spent years treating combat injuries. To them, it was just one more case of PTSD. Granted, it was a severe case and the symptoms were unusual, but still. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen a dozen.”

  It still burned, all these years later, that no one had believed Jones or tried to look deeper.

  “I don’t blame them. I think combat medics must be a little traumatized themselves, seeing what they see and doing what they do. But even when you know you sound crazy, when you know you don’t make any sense, you still just want someone to believe you, you know?” he asked, glancing over at her.

  Her eyes were locked on his face, absorbing his words. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, though she was clearly thinking something.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I really do.” He thought that might be the most honest thing she had ever admitted to him.

  “So anyway, with specialist after specialist giving us the same diagnosis, Jones started spiraling. He became angry and withdrawn. Even I couldn’t pull him out of it. At that point, I was researching neurological injuries day and night, looking for anything that could help. I became something of an amateur expert,” he said with a laugh. “I can tell you almost anything you want to know about traumatic brain injuries and treatment options. I also know the names of all the heavy hitters in the field,” he said, thinking of the list of names he’d compiled. A list of the most renowned, well-known medical professionals even remotely related to the field of neurology. How he’d contacted each and every one of those experts and then crossed their names off the list one-by-one. Until he came to Dr. Garrison.