Page 24 of Resuscitation

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thomas gripped his mylar blanket tighter, the metallic fabric crinkling noisily. It was so damn cold in here. “Alyssa, did I ever tell you about the time Rose and I stowed away on a luxury yacht?” He smiled at the memory.

Alyssa didn’t answer. He rotated the flashlight to aim it at her.

Her eyes were closed and she was struggling to breathe.

Suddenly, the monitor alarm went off. He jumped up, went to her, tugging his IV so hard he pulled it out.

Ignoring the thin stream of blood running down his arm, he tried to focus on the monitor, but it was a blur of green and red and yellow waves.

“Thomas,” Alyssa gasped.

He found her hand, grasped it. “I’m here. What do you need?”

“Seal. Clogged.” She slapped a hand against the monitor, silencing it.

But when he followed the movement with the flashlight, he realized she was really reaching for the special bandage Blake had already replaced once.

What had Blake done? Thomas tried to remember, but the entire world was like looking through the wrong end of a frosted whiskey tumbler, had been for years now thanks to his diabetes.

He’d learned to navigate the world by sticking to familiar routines and by translating the blurry blobs of color and waves of motion into his own version of reality.

Alyssa fumbled at the chest seal, peeling it off. Thomas peered at it. There was no bleeding, but if he remembered what had happened before, that wasn’t a good thing. It meant there was blood clotting beneath the bandage that was meant to act like a valve.

“Tell me what to do?” He choked down the sob that felt like a rock in his throat.

He hadn’t felt this helpless since the cancer ate at Rose while all he could do was sit by and watch her suffer and fade away before his eyes.

His damn eyes. They worked too damn well back then and were useless now! “Alyssa, what do you need?”

She sat up, leaning forward, working so hard to breathe that even he could see her neck muscles straining with the effort.

But she managed to point to the small tray containing the equipment Blake had used to start her IV.

Thomas grabbed it, set it on her lap. Her entire body bobbed up and down with every breath.

“Is this it?”

A nod and her finger inched along the various needles in their packaging. Finally, she stopped on one basin containing three IVs. He took one, held it close to his eyes with the light aimed straight at it. “It says fourteen-gauge angiocatheter. Is this the one?”

Another jerk of her chin, then she grabbed a fistful of gloves from the larger well beside the alcohol swabs. She thrust them at him, made a cutting motion with her fingers.

“Cut it?”

She held up one finger.

“Cut off a finger?”

Another nod.

He took the medical scissors from the tray, peered at the glove finger, and cut it almost at the palm.

While he was working, she’d wiped the area below her collarbone with alcohol and opened the IV catheter.

He handed her the glove finger, and to his surprise she slid the needle through the inside of the glove, then leaned back.

With a grunt of effort, she jammed the needle into her own ribcage.

“Alyssa!”

She fell back against the bed. Her hand trembled as she fought to remove the needle from the plastic IV tube.

He shone the light on it, managed to grab it and slide it free while she held the glove finger and plastic part in place against her skin.

As sudden whoosh of air released along with a steady trickle of blood—more blood than his own IV had released when he’d yanked it out.

“You’re bleeding? Is that okay?”

The glove’s finger closed over the IV’s opening as she inhaled. One breath, another.

“Good god, let’s not do that again,” she mumbled, her eyes closed. But none of those extra muscles were working to help her breathe, and her lips weren’t as dusky.

He began to pull the IV tray away, but she hugged it tight.

“If it clots?—”

Thomas filled in the blanks. “You might have to do that again.”

A sudden wave of nausea hit him, and it had nothing to do with his blood sugar. What a fool he’d been earlier, acting as if this was all some grand adventure for him, a lark. These were his friends, and they might die tonight.

“Blake will be back soon,” Thomas muttered, more to himself than to Alyssa. “He’ll know what to do.” But was Blake coming back? There had been shots from inside the building. It felt like a war was going on.

Alyssa’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice. She reached for his hand, but only to redirect the flashlight beam toward the monitor. “Sats still low.”

“Maybe your oxygen is running low?” He bent over to look at the gauge on her tank—in the red zone.

“You can use mine,” he told her. He’d discarded his own mask a while ago, didn’t like the cold air blowing at him or the plastic-like stench of the bottled air.

Using the flashlight to guide him, he shuffled back to his side of the room and checked his tank.

Then realized when he’d taken it off, he’d left it running, hadn’t even tried to shut it off.

Please, he prayed. Just one small miracle, for my friend, please.

Prayers had been useless when Rose was suffering, but he’d try anything. He leaned down, checked the gauge.

Empty.

And he had no idea how to switch with a new tank—the valve needed to come off the old, be inserted on the new, then the tubing hooked up. And he seemed to remember Blake wielding some kind of wrench? Maybe?

“Hang in there, Alyssa,” he whispered, his voice trembling with fear and determination.

“I’m gonna get you out of here, get you to Potsdam, and get you looked at.

Trust me.” Thomas felt his heart breaking as he looked down at the young medic who had always been so full of life, joking and singing with him, always a smile and the time to listen to an old man’s ramblings.

Now life seemed to be draining right out of her. Just like Rose.

No. Not again. He couldn’t face that, watching helpless…

Alyssa tried to smile, but the attempt quickly morphed into a grimace, pain etching deep lines into her usually cheerful features. Her eyes drifted shut once again, but her chest still rose and fell, but he could tell her right side moved differently than her left.

He used the light to survey the dark, abandoned clinic room, turning over options. Memories from his youth flashed before him.

He would drive her in that ambulance himself. It would be a struggle. He hadn’t been able to drive for years due to his deteriorating vision. Still, he had to try.

Alyssa’s life hung in the balance.

Thomas moved out into the hallway. He scanned the debris—maybe they’d left an oxygen tank that still had some juice? He stumbled forward, trying to focus, almost tripping on a discarded wheelchair with a ripped seat back. Nothing. He was wasting time.

He turned toward the rear door but stopped in his tracks when the intercom spluttered to life. It was difficult to hear the words, as there seemed to be no working speakers on their end of the hallway, but he moved toward the voice, down the corridor until the words became clear.

“…I’m gonna start killing the hostages, from the youngest to the oldest, until you give yourself up.”

Thomas dropped his head, leaned against the wall to steady himself, and drew in labored, raspy breaths. That asshole on the mic sounded like he meant what he said.

Killing the youngest to the oldest?

Jesus, what to do?

Blake must have been giving them a run for their money. Must still be if the bad guys were getting that desperate to kill their only bargaining chips. He smiled at that.

Maybe it was time for Thomas to get in on the action. Because he had to admit there was no way in hell he’d be able to get Alyssa to the ambulance, much less drive anywhere, without killing them both. But maybe there was still something left on this Earth for him to do, one last thing…

He’d had a good run, but Rose, God bless her soul, was waiting for him.

Perhaps now was the time. Whatever happened, he didn’t fear death. Not now.

Thomas knew what to do.