insisted as both men cupped their hands underneath their chins and began to wiggle their fingers in a wave-like pattern.
GeeHad and Johnny erupted in laughter at their own antics. Then GeeHad abruptly stopped laughing and motioned for Abdul to come closer. Johnny realized immediately that their conversation had concluded. He turned and promptly left the conference room.
Abdul and GeeHad were now alone. GeeHad placed his arm over Abdul’s shoulder. They turned to face the window, taking a minute to relish all the fury nature had unleashed.
“Our meeting went very well, Abdul. Did you notice how all the Christian infidels continuously nod their heads in agreement?”
“Allah is great, and they are very stupid,” Abdul chuckled.
“Yes, Allah is great. Fear and terror are the weapons of Allah. We grow very powerful, my friend. The nonbelievers will soon be in Hell. Have you heard from Abu Bakr?” GeeHad inquired.
“Your shipment from Wonsan arrives tomorrow, GeeHad,” Abdul confirmed.
“Excellent!” GeeHad replied enthusiastically.
Chapter 5
The thunder and lightning persisted all day, but the torrential downpour had begun to subside. The emergency generators continued to provide the basic electrical needs, but much of the hospital remained dimly lit. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, the floodwaters that had engulfed the streets for hours were starting to recede, and, like clockwork, a sea of humanity was beginning to migrate toward Carencrow Regional’s emergency room. The ER waiting room was already filled to capacity. The floors were wet, and the pungent smell of damp, soiled clothing permeated the air. The sound of the thunder was soon displaced by a deafening roar of general conversation mingled with coughing, sneezing, vomiting, and the ever present moans and groans.
As the emergency room’s first line of defense, the triage nurse sat undefended in the waiting room, fully exposed to the good, the bad, and the ugly. The registered nurse/target assigned a level of acuity to each patient given their respective complaint, thus controlling when they would be seen. It was the usual daily battle, with each patient who checked in at triage deliberately attempting to appear more sick than the next, thinking they would be rushed beyond the locked doors and into the emergency room. Tempers flared as the nearly dying were rushed to the back, ahead of others who had checked in earlier. Arguments erupted with increasing frequency. Soon the triage nurse would become the focus for verbal abuse and seething glares.
Debby Flat, RN, was the triage nurse this fateful day. Debby was incredibly tenacious and extremely tough. After fifteen years of brutal combat in the ER, she no longer felt the arrows of insult penetrate her middle-aged body. Perhaps it was the years of drinking Crown Royal that dulled her sensitivity to pain. Beyond the locked doors of the waiting room lay the emergency room, which was one large space divided into two sections, separated only by a large, rectangular counter. Behind the counter sat the emergency room coordinator and the admitting clerks. It was the emergency room nerve center. To the right of the counter were the even-numbered trauma rooms. To the left were the odd-numbered rooms. These rooms were separated from the counter by walkways congested with crash carts, stretchers, and various other obstacles. The ER was manned by two teams, each consisting of a physician, two nurses, and one tech. Each team worked twelve-hour shifts and was responsible for twelve rooms.
The emergency room coordinator, Sheila “Queen of the Jungle” Mafuse, RN, was on duty. She was responsible for assigning each patient to a specific room, whether they were coming in the front door or the ambulance entrance, located at the other end of the ER.
This afternoon all twenty-four rooms and the walk-in clinic were full. Four extremely sick patients were in a holding pattern, parked on ambulance stretchers in the hall, waiting for rooms to be vacated. All lay patiently with the EMS personnel in tow, watching the mayhem.
Dr. Rex “Rrrrex” Bent; Patricia “Trissy” Bent, RN; Wanda “the Splint” Bennet, RN; and Terry “Flashback” Foxxman were in trauma room eight, trying desperately to revive a young drowning victim. The nine-year-old had been swept away during the floods while standing on a boat dock, mesmerized by the raging Cajun River. The normally placid river had turned violent with the torrential downpour. The river level rose instantaneously, and the sheer volume created so much turbulence that the water appeared to be boiling. Without question, the force of the water, coupled with the mass of large, floating debris striking the thin pilings, was more than the small, rickety dock could withstand. It collapsed, launching the child downstream. By some miracle he was found quickly. His lifeless, hypothermic body was brought to the emergency room. EMS had intubated the child at the scene; one paramedic was frantically doing chest compressions while the other pumped oxygen into his lungs.
“How long had he been down?” Rex asked as he looked at the young man’s pupils, which were fixed and dilated.
“He was submerged for at least twenty minutes, Dr. Bent. By the time we got to him, he was in asystole,” Demetrius, one of the seasoned paramedics, replied. CPR continued while the young man was shifted onto the hospital stretcher.
“Bag him,” Rex said as he listened to the boy’s lungs. He could hear the distinctive snap and crackle of fluid-filled alveoli opening and slamming shut.
“Stop CPR,” Rex ordered as he felt for a pulse. There was no pulse, no blood pressure, no spontaneous respirations, and the patient remained in asystole. “Resume CPR,” Rex requested. “Demetrius, what have you given the young man so far?” Rex asked.
“He’s had four amps of epinephrine and one amp of bicarb IV push,” Demetrius responded.
“Rex, his rectal temperature is eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit,” Trissy said after inserting a probe to record the patient’s core temperature.
“Get the bear hugger, warm blankets, and warm fluids. Give him another amp of epinephrine IV push,” Rex ordered, surveying the young man’s grossly discolored body. He had sustained multiple cuts and abrasions, presumably due to swift moving debris. For all intents and purposes the boy was dead, but no one can legally be declared dead unless they are “warm and dead.” The ER team continued life-saving procedures, injecting the chemicals necessary to restart his lifeless heart. All efforts proved unsuccessful, and, after forty-five minutes, the code was called.
“Time of death, seventeen-forty-five,” Wanda announced.
“Great job everyone,” Rex said to the dejected team, commending their valiant efforts before walking to the room where the young man’s parents, brothers, and sisters were anxiously waiting. Upon receiving the horrific news, all became hysterical. The yelling, screaming, and crying that ensued could be heard throughout the emergency department. The sounds were hauntingly gut-wrenching and, as always with tragedies such as this one, unforgettable.
Suddenly, full power was restored to the hospital. As soon as the lights came back on, all hell broke loose. An eighteen-year-old male, unresponsive and slumped over in a wheelchair, was being rushed toward Debby at a dangerous speed. The man pushing the wheelchair yelled, “Help! My brother’s been shot!”
Debby flung the doors to the emergency room open and shouted, “Gun shot!” She shoved the frantic brother aside, grabbed the wheelchair, and rushed toward the back.
“Trauma room ten,” Sheila shouted.
A new victim, Tyroneous Washington, had arrived. As he was being rushed toward room ten, Tyroneous started to slowly slither out of the wheelchair. Given the critical nursing
