by M. K. Dawn
“Sweet moves there, Slash.”
Sloan screamed as she came face to face with Archer. “What are you doing in here?”
“Are you crying?”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s nothing.”
Archer studied her face. “Who were you remembering?”
His innate ability to read her always came as a surprise. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Who was it?”
Sloan shrugged. “My sister’s kids. I haven’t thought about them in a while. Didn’t want to. Hurts too much. The emptiness of the room brought back the memory of a song—their favorite song.”
“I punched a wall today.” Archer’s change of subject caught her off guard. “Haven’t done that since high school. Brought back memories of my mom. Hadn’t thought about her in years.”
“I admit, I was a bit confused for a moment there.”
A smile danced across Archer’s lips. “My mind moves a mile a minute. Got to keep up.”
“Why did you punch the wall?”
“Frustration, anger, fear. Cale was just lying half-dead on the stretcher. Couldn’t get a hold of Martinez. Jones was dead.”
“Cale!” Sloan suddenly remembered he hadn’t been updated yet.
“Evelyn told me he was stable. That he was going to be locked in the recovery room. She was pretty pissed when she left. Mumbled a few crude things about Fletcher and what he could go do to himself.”
Sloan chuckled, though nothing about this was remotely funny; it just felt good—a much-needed release.
“It’s been a hell of a day.” He sighed.
“Do you want to see him? Cale? I can take you to his room.”
Archer nodded. “That would be great, but first…”
“First what?”
His eyes drifted down her body. “You may want to put some clothes on.”
Sloan’s entire body flushed as she rushed to cover up. Fortunately, she had a sports bra and boy-shorts on but still, how could she forget she was standing there in her underwear?
“Don’t be shy, Slash. Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“You have not seen me naked!”
“You’re more covered up than most girls on a beach, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.” She still needed to rinse off; the blood was beginning to dry. “Can you give me five minutes to shower?”
“Sure.” He pinched his nose. “There’s a smell.”
“Shut up, Archer.” Sloan hurried off around the center lockers and towards the bathroom.
“If you need someone to scrub your back, just holler!”
Her body flushed. The man was impossible, but if she was being honest there was something about him…something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
***
“Tiffany has the key to Cale’s suite,” Sloan told Archer as they left the locker room.
It hadn’t taken long for her to shower. Not with Archer looming on the other side of the door.
Archer frowned. “To keep people out?”
“No. It’s there for quarantine purposes so the patient doesn’t leave the room and infect others.”
Archer clicked his tongue. “Do we believe he’s contagious with something?”
“I asked Fletcher the same thing and his response was quite snippy.”
“He bit your head off?”
Sloan scrunched her nose. “You could say that.”
“You know, Slash, it’s okay if you relax sometimes. Speak like us common folks. I know you can do it. I just witnessed it firsthand back there—”
“What were you doing in there anyway?”
Archer stretched his muscular arms and yawned. “Showering. Then napping.”
“In the doctors’ locker room?”
“I figured the locker room would be the best place to find you.”
“Didn’t you speak with Evelyn about Cale’s condition?”
“I did.”
“Then why were you still in the locker room?”
Archer hesitated. “I—”
“What are you two doing here?” Tiffany interrupted as she stormed out of Cale’s room. “Authorized personnel only.” There was an edginess to her tone. More than normal. Was it possible Fletcher spoke to her after Sloan turned down his ridiculous proposal? That seemed a bit far-fetched and out of character for Fletcher, but so did the proposition.
“I’m his doctor,” Sloan said, voice tight and full of authority. “I need to check on his sutures.”
“They look fine,” Tiffany snapped.
Sloan peered into the room. “I see his breathing tube has been removed.”
Tiffany rubbed her bandaged fingers. “He was fighting it, thrashing about. Probably a touch of PTSD. He bit my finger. Nothing more than a flesh wound. I sedated him. There is nothing more to check until he reawakens.”
“Why didn’t you just tie him down?” Sloan asked.
“Dr. Fletcher ordered it to be removed. You would have to take it up with him.”
“If he was thrashing around, he could have re-injured himself,” Archer said. “Best Dr. Egan here check him out.”
“Major—”
“Colonel,” Archer corrected.
Tiffany’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry. Colonel. I’ve been given direct orders not to allow anyone to enter.”
“Orders from whom?” Sloan asked. It had been less than an hour since Fletcher ordered Tiffany to contact her if there were any changes in the patient’s condition.
“Um, I’ve been ordered not to say.”
Archer rolled his neck and looked at Sloan. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded. He had a plan. “I get it. We’re soldiers. We follow orders. You don’t have to grant us access.”
Tiffany let out a deep breath. “Thank you, sir.”
“But what you are going to do is walk away. Pretend you never saw us. Can’t stop what you didn’t see.”
Sloan smiled. It was a good plan—if it worked.
Her eyes darted between the two of them for a moment and then she rotated on a heel and walked away. Before she got out of earshot, she said seemingly to no one, “Doors lock from the outside. Got to remember not to close the door behind me without a key. Would suck to be locked in with the patient.”
“Does that mean she’s not going to tell anyone we’re here?” Sloan asked.
Archer grabbed her elbow and led her into the room. “Let’s not wait in the hall and find out. Hold the door, let me find something to prop it open.”
Sloan watched as Archer searched the room. There wasn’t much. A patient bed; the monitor and IV drip. “Grab the chair. It’ll have to do.”
He wedged the foot of the chair between the door and frame, leaving no more than an inch-wide gap. “Don’t want it to be too obvious in case someone walks by.”
Sloan wasn’t too concerned. After all, she was one of his doctors and had every right to be there.
“He doesn’t look too good,” Archer said as he approached the bed.
Sloan joined him. “His color does appear slightly off. A hint of gray most likely from the trauma.”
“Tiffany said he woke up and fought the breathing tube. That’s a good sign, right?” There was a vulnerability to his voice Sloan hadn’t heard before.
“It is.”
“How long until he wakes?”
“Depends on the dosage.” Sloan picked up his chart from the end of the bed. “Huh. She didn’t log the information.”
“Is administering a sedative against protocol?”
Sloan continued to flip through the chart. “It is not.” Nothing appeared out of order. His vitals were on the low side, but that could have been from the stress of surgery.
“Maybe she was in a rush?” Archer sat beside Cale.
Sloan hung up the chart, annoyed at Tiffany’s lack of precision. “That’s not an excuse for neglecting basic protocols.”
Archer directed his attention on Cale
and Sloan turned her back on the two to give Archer his space. On many occasions, he had spoken to her about his dear friend and the hardships they had endured together. From Basic to Ranger School, they’d gone through it all. Cale had been the one to help Archer bulk up. Apparently, he’d been a slender kid—though Sloan couldn’t picture him any way other than the brawny man he was now.
“How does everything look on the charts? Without the doctor mumbo jumbo; give it to me straight.”
Sloan took a moment to choose the perfect words, just as Chief McClain taught her. The last thing she wanted to do was give Archer false hope.
“Slash. I said cut the doctor shit.”
“His chances of surviving are slim. He lost a lot of blood. The surgery time was extensive, which puts a lot of strain on the body.”
Archer lowered his head and Sloan’s heart sank. She hated to see him upset. “However, it is encouraging that he woke and fought the breathing tube. That shows strength remains.”
Archer stood and rubbed his hands on the outer legs of his pants. “You know, he’s going to be pissed when he wakes and finds out his hair has been a rat’s nest the entire time.”
“What?” She wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
He laughed. “In Basic we used to call him The Fonz.”
Sloan narrowed her eyes.
“From Happy Days. He was always combing his hair.”
“Oh.” Sloan got that reference. She and Brit used to watch reruns on Nick at Night when they were little.
“He swore his hair was his best quality. A chick magnet.” Archer ran his fingers over his friend’s head and came up with a clump of hair. He shook his hand. “What the fu—”
“It’s not as uncommon as you think.” Sloan spit out as quick as she could. She didn’t want him to panic. “Stress, anesthesia, medication, and the surgery itself could cause telogen effluvium.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Habit. Sudden hair loss.”
Archer stood there for a moment, lost in thought.
“What is it?”
He shook his head as if it would help clear his mind. “I think we should go.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep.” He ushered her out into the hall and kicked the chair aside allowing the door to close behind them. “It’s been one crazy-ass day. Probably best if we let him rest. I know I’m exhausted.” He paused. “And starving. Let’s hit the dining hall first.”
***
There weren’t many people lining up to eat at six and the quiet was a welcome change from the normal bustling hall.
“So,” Archer stuffed a piece of pork into his mouth, “you hear the execs ordered autopsies on Martinez and Jones?”
“That’s not surprising.”
“Well, I was pretty damn surprised.”
Sloan laid down her fork and took a sip of water. “Do they know how the men died?”
“The soldiers said it was an animal attack.”
“Has that been confirmed?”
“Only by the soldiers.”
“Well,” Sloan said, “then the correct protocol is an autopsy.”
He paused longer than necessary. “Plus the other reason.”
Sloan glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one was sitting too close. “These men were exposed to a surface that is thought to be toxic. I assume both died after they inhaled the air, so an autopsy and a complete workup could tell us a great deal about how the earth has changed. The goal must be to one day return to the surface. We can’t live underground forever.”
“True.” Archer continued to eat. “Any thought as to who might perform the autopsies? It would have to be someone who’s aware of the situation.”
“Fletcher, perhaps? To keep those who know what happened at a minimum.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I have a briefing tomorrow morning. Do you mind if I throw out your name?”
Sloan hadn’t performed an autopsy in years, but she supposed her training wasn’t something she’d forget. “Not at all.”
“Good. It would be nice to have someone on the inside. A person I can trust.”
A grin danced across her lips. She sat in awe and watched Archer shovel a few more bites into his mouth. Her mind wandered to a few nights ago. The kiss they shared was nothing short of spectacular; she’d never felt anything quite like it.
“What’s with the silly face, Slash?”
She whipped her head away, cheeks burning. “Nothing.” What was happening to her? Sloan was not this girl; giddy and daydreaming about being intimate with a man. “What time are the autopsies scheduled for?”
“Nine a.m., I believe. Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine.” She fanned her face with a hand. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”
“Not any more than normal.”
“Nine, you said? I should double check my schedule.” She lifted her hand. “Crap. I left my wristband in the OR. If you don’t take it off, it gets all bloody and shorts out for a few days. I should go grab it.”
Archer stood. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, no.” Sloan waved him to sit. “You finish eating. It won’t take but a minute. I’ll peek in on Cale while I’m down there and meet you back in our suite.”
“All right. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yep.” She rushed out of the room without bothering to put away her plate. Archer would take care of it. Most days he finished off her leftovers anyway.
The surgical ward was quiet this time of night. Most clocked out around five so at six the place was a ghost town. Tiffany should be around—probably in the lounge—as she was scheduled to keep an eye on Cale until midnight. OR one—where they’d operated on Cale—was two doors down from the elevator for easy access when emergencies came through, such as today.
Sloan slipped inside and found her wristband where she’d left it: inside the cabinet locked in a small safe. The room was still a mess, bloodied clothes and discarded surgical supplies scattered about. Tiffany should have put in a call to get this cleaned up.
“Lockhart, Tiffany,” she called from her wristband but there was no answer. Where was that woman?
Guess she would have to order the clean-up herself. “Maintenance.”
“This is maintenance, go,” a man answered.
Sloan hesitated. Maybe the reason Tiffany never called was because this too was supposed to be cleaned by someone who had the clearance to do so.
“Ma’am, do you need something?”
“Um, no. I found some extra towels. Sorry for the bother.”
“No bother at all. Have a good evening.” The connection ended.
Sloan left the OR in search of Tiffany. She also wanted to know who was responsible for cleaning the OR. They couldn’t leave it that way. It was unsanitary, first of all. And what would happen if they needed the room? There were only two operating rooms. Chances were slim more than one would be needed at the same time, but you could never be too careful.
The locker room was empty, as was the doctor’s lounge. Could she be with Cale? As Sloan got closer to recovery, a soft buzzing sound caught her ear. At first, she couldn’t place where it was coming from. Then it dawned on her: the heart monitor.
Sloan darted down the hall as the buzzing grew louder. She flung open the door to Cale’s room and her breath hitched. Cale was up, back to her, staggering about. The cables once attached to his chest had been ripped off. His head was nearly devoid of hair. “What are you doing?” She rushed in and forgot about the door. “Shit.” It slammed behind her, locking Sloan inside.
At least she had her wristband back. Once she got Cale settled into bed, she would call for help.
“Cale, it’s Sloan. You’re not strong enough to be up. Let me help you.”
He froze at the sound of her voice, his muscles tense. A low growl escaped his lips.
Sloan stopped mid-stride. His skin, veins; the hue appeared off—al
most in shades of black and gray. Though, with the dimming light, it was hard to be sure.
There was also a smell. Blood, decay, perhaps even death. Her mind tried to piece together the scattered puzzle her eyes witnessed.
Cale stood motionless. The buzz of the disconnected monitor faded into the background as Sloan’s racing heart thrashed in her ears and tremors wracked her clammy hands.
She didn’t know if she should speak—if she could. Cale’s body twitched and Sloan took a wobbly step backward. Her foot knocked into the bed and the wheels repositioned and whined.
He whirled around so fast she nearly missed it.
A piercing screamed vacated her lips, her brain unwilling to comprehend what she was seeing. Black eyes. Razor sharp teeth.
The room closed in around her.
She couldn’t breathe.
Spots danced before her eyes.
The monster inched forward. Hunched over, nose in the air.
A predator stalking its prey.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
Run, her mind screamed. But where?
She slid backwards then took a step to the right, positioning the bed between her and that thing.
It twitched its grotesque head and rushed for her.
Sloan didn’t think. Didn’t have time. She shoved the bed and slammed it into his thighs. The monster hardly noticed. It sprung forward, this time leaping over the bed with incredible speed. They hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of her. The pain was excruciating but she didn’t have to time to dwell. The fall disoriented the thing long enough that she was able to scurry off the floor. Sloan grabbed the closest thing—the IV stand—and swung, smashing it into its skull. Green and black goo trickled out and the thing that used to be Cale slumped to the ground.