ASJ Fanfiction: Chapter 3
Warning: this fic contains graphic descriptions of a gunshot wound, along with medical procedure. Don’t read unless that sort of thing is interesting to you.
Hannibal Heyes is gunned down by a dry-gulcher on his way back to his hotel room. He and the Kid stumble into a time portal and wind up in the present day, just in time to nearly be run over by a passing car.
Chapter 3
“I’m not hearing much on this side.” Samuel “Mac” McLoughlin pulled the stethoscope away from Smith’s bloody chest. “Heartbeat’s rapid and he’s coughing more. Bet you dinner that lung’s collapsed.”
“No bets.” Red, his partner, checked the patient’s pupil reactions. “He’s shocky. Fingertips are going blue. Decompression?”
“We’re nearly there. Radio them to expect a pneumothorax.”
Red updated the hospital on the new development and pulled out a package of instant hand-warmers. They tucked those around the patient’s body and wrapped his lower extremities in a blanket. Mac dropped the head of the bed and lifted the foot, encouraging blood flow to the brain and vital organs.
Smith was one of those patients you hated to see coming. First, he’d become combative once they’d closed the ambulance doors on his friend, refusing to let Red start an IV, struggling to sit up and climb off the stretcher. They’d finally had to restrain him.
Then, IV in place, they’d headed for the hospital with the patient struggling so hard against the restraints that he nearly upset the stretcher. Maybe they should have let the friend ride along after all.
Mac had tried getting some basic information from the man. Smith had been panting too hard for coherent speech and once they’d restrained him, what little came out of his mouth sounded like something Mac’s dear old grandmother would have washed his mouth out for. Smith’s speech was fortunately muffled by the oxygen mask, now coated with the blood spraying from his mouth and nose.
Mac was glad to see Dr. Kealy’s team waiting in the ambulance bay. He didn’t want to have to deal with Akerman’s arrogance tonight.
“He’s your problem now Doc,” Mac said, passing over a copy of the paperwork. “You got yourself a fighter tonight.”
Between the two teams, the got the victim relocated to the ER’s gurney. Smith no longer struggled against the restraints, though Dr. Keely refastened those once they’d moved him to the hospital gurney. No sense taking a chance.
***
Dr. Sarah Kealy wanted badly to curse, but she was trying to break herself of the bad habit. She did hate a pneumothorax.
“Get that chest tube ready,” she ordered. “And I want an X-ray. See what kind of damage that bullet did.”
The bullet had entered the patient’s chest high on the right side. From there, it must have ricocheted off a rib, coming out the back at an angle. Blood bubbled from both wounds and sprayed from the man’s nose and mouth.
Mac had been right: the man was in shock. The pressure inside his lung cavity was building up, pressing on his blood vessels and cutting off the supply to his heart. If they didn’t get that chest tube in, he could die before they had the chance to operate.
“Type and match him,” she added as they moved him onto the table. “Let’s get some blood into him.”
“Want to put him out now?” the anesthesiologist asked, readying her equipment. “He’s not going to like that tube going in.”
“He wouldn’t like anything I’m planning to do,” Kealy muttered, already plotting her entry into the man’s chest. “Sir, if you can hear me, we’re going to patch you up now. You’re going to start feeling sleepy.”
She nodded to the anesthesiologist and within seconds, the patient’s labored breathing had relaxed a bit. The team went to work, strapping the patient’s hands out of the way and swabbing the site with Betadine.
“Let’s get that tube in,” Kealy said, making her incision. The chest tube would drain the blood and air from the pleural cavity, leaving room for the lung to expand once more. It took a few minutes to position properly, then she hooked it up and let it start its job.
She was dimly aware of her team performing other functions around her. Mark had stripped off the rest of the patient’s clothing before inserting a catheter. Mr. Smith was going to be bed-bound for at least a couple of days. Nancy was bagging and tagging the clothing and other belongings.
“Where’d he get this outfit?” she asked the room at large. “It’s like something out of the Victorian Era.”
“There’s a derringer in the jacket pocket,” Mark said in surprise. Maybe it was a costume party gone bad. Somebody playing cowboy with a real pistol.”
“Look at all this weird money. Is it fake?” Nancy held up a handful of bills. “It looks old-fashioned to me.”
“It is old-fashioned - if it’s real, it’s worth a lot of modern cash. I think we’ve got a cosplayer who takes his outfit a little too damn seriously.” Mark held up the remnants of the suit jacket and shirt. “Shame to toss them away though. Somebody put an awful lot of work into this.”
He and Nancy ended up bagging everything except the derringer. They’d turn that over to whichever deputy was sure to be in the waiting area. They got a blood type -- AB+ -- and started running some blood in to replace what he was losing.
The X-ray techs arrived with the portable machine. Dr. Kealy studied the results. “Looks like a couple of broken ribs,” she said aloud. “I’ll have to get in there, see what that lung looks like.”
The chest tube was the only part of the surgery that went well. The bullet had bounced off a rib and churned through the right lung before breaking through another rib on the way out. Dr. Kealy almost intubated him, just from looking at the mess, but he kept fighting, kept drawing his own breaths, even though they were shallow and rapid.
It took nearly five hours to repair the damage. By the time the last suture was tied off, Dr. Kealy was more than ready to clock out.
Hannibal Heyes is gunned down by a dry-gulcher on his way back to his hotel room. He and the Kid stumble into a time portal and wind up in the present day, just in time to nearly be run over by a passing car.
Chapter 3
“I’m not hearing much on this side.” Samuel “Mac” McLoughlin pulled the stethoscope away from Smith’s bloody chest. “Heartbeat’s rapid and he’s coughing more. Bet you dinner that lung’s collapsed.”
“No bets.” Red, his partner, checked the patient’s pupil reactions. “He’s shocky. Fingertips are going blue. Decompression?”
“We’re nearly there. Radio them to expect a pneumothorax.”
Red updated the hospital on the new development and pulled out a package of instant hand-warmers. They tucked those around the patient’s body and wrapped his lower extremities in a blanket. Mac dropped the head of the bed and lifted the foot, encouraging blood flow to the brain and vital organs.
Smith was one of those patients you hated to see coming. First, he’d become combative once they’d closed the ambulance doors on his friend, refusing to let Red start an IV, struggling to sit up and climb off the stretcher. They’d finally had to restrain him.
Then, IV in place, they’d headed for the hospital with the patient struggling so hard against the restraints that he nearly upset the stretcher. Maybe they should have let the friend ride along after all.
Mac had tried getting some basic information from the man. Smith had been panting too hard for coherent speech and once they’d restrained him, what little came out of his mouth sounded like something Mac’s dear old grandmother would have washed his mouth out for. Smith’s speech was fortunately muffled by the oxygen mask, now coated with the blood spraying from his mouth and nose.
Mac was glad to see Dr. Kealy’s team waiting in the ambulance bay. He didn’t want to have to deal with Akerman’s arrogance tonight.
“He’s your problem now Doc,” Mac said, passing over a copy of the paperwork. “You got yourself a fighter tonight.”
Between the two teams, the got the victim relocated to the ER’s gurney. Smith no longer struggled against the restraints, though Dr. Keely refastened those once they’d moved him to the hospital gurney. No sense taking a chance.
***
Dr. Sarah Kealy wanted badly to curse, but she was trying to break herself of the bad habit. She did hate a pneumothorax.
“Get that chest tube ready,” she ordered. “And I want an X-ray. See what kind of damage that bullet did.”
The bullet had entered the patient’s chest high on the right side. From there, it must have ricocheted off a rib, coming out the back at an angle. Blood bubbled from both wounds and sprayed from the man’s nose and mouth.
Mac had been right: the man was in shock. The pressure inside his lung cavity was building up, pressing on his blood vessels and cutting off the supply to his heart. If they didn’t get that chest tube in, he could die before they had the chance to operate.
“Type and match him,” she added as they moved him onto the table. “Let’s get some blood into him.”
“Want to put him out now?” the anesthesiologist asked, readying her equipment. “He’s not going to like that tube going in.”
“He wouldn’t like anything I’m planning to do,” Kealy muttered, already plotting her entry into the man’s chest. “Sir, if you can hear me, we’re going to patch you up now. You’re going to start feeling sleepy.”
She nodded to the anesthesiologist and within seconds, the patient’s labored breathing had relaxed a bit. The team went to work, strapping the patient’s hands out of the way and swabbing the site with Betadine.
“Let’s get that tube in,” Kealy said, making her incision. The chest tube would drain the blood and air from the pleural cavity, leaving room for the lung to expand once more. It took a few minutes to position properly, then she hooked it up and let it start its job.
She was dimly aware of her team performing other functions around her. Mark had stripped off the rest of the patient’s clothing before inserting a catheter. Mr. Smith was going to be bed-bound for at least a couple of days. Nancy was bagging and tagging the clothing and other belongings.
“Where’d he get this outfit?” she asked the room at large. “It’s like something out of the Victorian Era.”
“There’s a derringer in the jacket pocket,” Mark said in surprise. Maybe it was a costume party gone bad. Somebody playing cowboy with a real pistol.”
“Look at all this weird money. Is it fake?” Nancy held up a handful of bills. “It looks old-fashioned to me.”
“It is old-fashioned - if it’s real, it’s worth a lot of modern cash. I think we’ve got a cosplayer who takes his outfit a little too damn seriously.” Mark held up the remnants of the suit jacket and shirt. “Shame to toss them away though. Somebody put an awful lot of work into this.”
He and Nancy ended up bagging everything except the derringer. They’d turn that over to whichever deputy was sure to be in the waiting area. They got a blood type -- AB+ -- and started running some blood in to replace what he was losing.
The X-ray techs arrived with the portable machine. Dr. Kealy studied the results. “Looks like a couple of broken ribs,” she said aloud. “I’ll have to get in there, see what that lung looks like.”
The chest tube was the only part of the surgery that went well. The bullet had bounced off a rib and churned through the right lung before breaking through another rib on the way out. Dr. Kealy almost intubated him, just from looking at the mess, but he kept fighting, kept drawing his own breaths, even though they were shallow and rapid.
It took nearly five hours to repair the damage. By the time the last suture was tied off, Dr. Kealy was more than ready to clock out.