Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 4

Quickly, I sweep the broken shards of glass up and toss them into the trash. Dana yanks the truck's back door open and pulls out the stretcher before I can move to help.

Checking her watch, she says, "Let's make this quick."

I look for the blood tubes I filled earlier for the hospital. My hunger is growing so raw I'll keep them for myself, surreptitiously of course. But thanks to Dana's driving they've slid across the bench seat toward the back door. She sees them before I do and picks them up.

"You need to slow down," I snap. "You're driving like an escaped convict."

"I need to make that lecture," she huffs. "How come whenever there's something I need to do, we get a call?"

"That's why they call it a job, Dana." I hand her the report and begin straightening the truck as she wheels the stretcher into the ER, carrying Lily Anne's blood tubes away from me. I long to run after her and snatch them back, but that would look crazy so I stick to my routine. I never remain at the hospital for long. Too much fluorescent light, too many eyes. Dana likes to linger, especially now that there is a new ER doc in town. She must really be worried about school, because tonight she pushes through the doors without even a glance around for him.

I'm restocking the IV kit when Rescue 7 backs in, screeching to a stop beside me. Paul, also known as Chewi for his laconic propensity to communicate through grunts, climbs out moving uncharacteristically fast. Normally, he barely picks up speed for a multiple casualty incident and I wonder what has him hustling. He shuffles to the back and throws open the door. Inside, controlled chaos reigns. A paramedic is at the head of the stretcher bagging oxygen into a patient's lungs while a sweaty fireman performs rapid CPR. Nearby, a terrified mother crouches. Discarded ET tubes, wrappers, towels, and a bloody laryngoscope handle litter the floor.

"Stop CPR," Chewi says, and checks the monitor. The fireman stops. It's Tom, Dana's jilted lover, and I pray they don't run into each other inside. The ECG alarm screams in the small space and the monitor commands, "Check patient" over and over with a grating robotic voice intentionally designed, I suspect, to induce stress. Tom wipes his forehead against his arm. Chewi frowns.

CPR recommences and I move to help. When we unload the patient I see he is only a boy, about 8-years-old, wearing a "Star Wars" t-shirt and PJ's covered in Dalmatians. I place a bare hand on his forehead and sense the current of life struggling within him. CPR is keeping him alive. For now.

Tom looks to me as if for hope, but I can't give any. "Electrocution," he says. "Just a freak thing." There is a bewildered, frightened air to him, and I wonder if he's imagining his own child yet to be born, the potential fragility of life for which he will soon be held responsible.

How vulnerable loves makes us.

The little boy is whisked inside and I cannot help but follow. Just through the code room's double doors, the new ER doc is there listening to the medic's report and giving orders. The hospital staff takes over, but nothing they do is working. The child's heart refuses to beat. Without a pause, the doc cracks open the boy's chest with the ease of a linebacker tearing open a small box. The room falls silent. Stunned, I watch as his gloved hand slips around ribs slender as branches and slides beneath the boy's heart to massage and restart it. My guts clench. The scent of young blood hits my face and I fall back, so caught off guard I can't help myself. I press into the wall, trying to hide.

Upon the doctor's palm lies a tender, glistening heart.

Gently, he pulses the heart with his hand, circulating blood to the boy's brain and body while coolly directing his staff, who remain momentarily frozen. Even the ER's most seasoned veteran looks strained, yet not a gleam of sweat or single strand of hair reveals the doctor's tension. He's impeccable under his white coat, which has somehow survived this impromptu surgery without acquiring a speck of blood. A bright suspended light hangs directly above him. For a split second, he shines like an Aryan god.

This is Dr. Webb, our new physician.

How I long to sink my teeth into the heart he holds and suck it dry. I squeeze my eyes closed at the shameful image. Dear God, forgive me.

"Let's go, people," Webb orders, breaking his staff's paralysis. They immediately obey.

A sharp, animal-like yelp cuts the room and Webb looks over. It's the boy's mother, staring horrified at her son's gaping chest. He gives the head nurse a quick glance of disapproval and she ushers out the distraught woman.

Suddenly the energy of the room shifts, as if a faint electrical hum I'd barely noticed swells to fill the space. The scent of blood blooms and Webb's breath catches. The boy is alive! Webb knows the moment of rekindled life, and I see his eyes brighten, ecstatic he made the save. No one notices but me. My hunger flares. Webb contains himself and continues on, remaining methodical and concise.

Dana appears at my side, grabbing me by the arm and once again checking her watch. Tom sees her and blushes, but she doesn't notice. As she pulls me away, I take a last look at the doctor.

"We have a pulse," he says. He stops cardiac massage, letting his fingers fall open from around the boy's heart. In awe, the entire staff stares at the red bundle of muscle beating upon Webb's palm.

Our new doctor has brought a boy back from the dead.

"Get a blood pressure," he orders.

A nurse jumps to comply. The new respiratory tech takes shallow breaths, eyes shining with tears. Dr. Webb says something comforting, I think, but I can't hear. Dana is dragging me through swinging doors.

"Damn!" she says, startling the shock-stricken mother nearby. "I'm going to be late. Motherfucker."