ASJ Fanfiction: Chapter 8
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 8
Dr. Kealy flipped through the charts on what she thought of as her mystery patient. Not only was the man some sort of historic cosplayer, but he’d evidently refused to break character even long enough to tell Deputy Burton who’d shot him. And there was the question of his name. If he was a re-enactor, who was to say that Joshua Smith wasn’t the name of his character instead of his real name?
Maybe she ought to pull Psych in on this one. If the fellow was unable to distinguish between fact and fiction, maybe they needed to transfer him to their ward once he could be moved. Maybe he was some poor mental patient who’d been wandering the streets and wound up facing the wrong people.
That didn’t play out to her though. He was too clean, for one - neatly shaved and smelling more of cologne than sweat. Too, he’d been shot only once, from a distance. Either it had been deliberate, or he’d really been in the wrong place when some distant fool fired his weapon. If he’d wandered into a gang war or drug deal, he wouldn’t have been able to stagger into the street afterwards.
She was no gunshot expert, but it had been a large caliber slug, probably a .45. If, as her nurse had supposed, this was a cosplayer re-enactment gone bad, it might even be an antique pistol. Surely that derringer they’d turned over to Burton had looked like something out of the Wild West.
Whatever the man’s name, he wasn’t out of danger yet. He’d spiked a worrisome fever which told her she hadn’t gotten everything out of the wound. That was the trouble with gunshots: you got all sorts of things carried into the body along with the bullet. Cloth from the shirt and jacket, anything that might have been in an upper pocket (and that included money, which was one of the most germ-ridden items carried around in the human pocket), dirt and germs from the weapon itself - she’d even seen bits of wood from nearby trees.
She’d ordered a broad-spectrum antibiotic that ought to do the trick. They’d delivered the last of the blood a few hours ago, to replace what he’d lost during surgery, so he was just getting fluids and the antibiotic now. She wasn’t certain he was up to eating just yet, not with such trauma to the system. She wrote “Clear Liquids” on the diet chart.
Time to see for herself just what was going on in Room 3. She knocked once, then stepped inside. Brown eyes turned her way, though she could tell the brain behind them was fuzzy from the hydromorphone. The man’s tall friend lay stretched out in the visitor’s chair. At her knock, he started awake and sat up quickly. His blue eyes shot her an icy glare before he seemed to remember her from the operating room.
“Dr. Kealy? Good morning.” The man sounded as if she’d wakened him from a really sound sleep. He probably needed a good eight hours.
She introduced herself to “Smith” and crossed to the bedside.
“Lemme loose.” The man spoke haltingly, still obviously in some respiratory difficulty. Probably the broken ribs.
Dr. Kealy ignored the request for the moment. “We’ll see. Let’s get a good look at you first, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing rotten. I’m tied up like a dog and I hurt.”
“You’re hurting now? On a scale of one to ---“
“All right, all right. You medical people and your scales. Maybe not right this minute but I need my hands and legs free.”
“Smith’s” friend - hadn’t he said his name was Jones? And wasn’t that a bit obvious? - rose and stood hesitantly at the head of the bed. “You don’t need to keep him tied up, Doc. He’s not going to fight anybody. He was just ---“
“In shock. I’m aware of that.” Dr. Kealy pulled out her penlight and examined “Smith’s” pupils. Constricted from the hydromorphone of course, but good response, even reactions.
“What is that?” “Smith” asked, staring at her light with interest.
“Haven’t you ever had an eye exam?”
“Nope. I see fine.”
“An eye exam is still a good idea. You might have other problems besides poor eyesight that might need to be corrected.”
“Don’t explain that little light though. Where’d you get that?”
“Jones” was staring at the light with the same puzzled expression. Dr. Kealy held up her penlight and gave it a good look herself. Were they serious or were they still playing their historic characters?
“I don’t know how to answer that question,” she finally said. “I really need you to break character and be with me in the present, if that’s what you’re doing.”
“I got no idea what you just said but I’ll do whatever you say so long as you untie me.”
“That’s good because I need you to cooperate. Do you remember pulling your IV out? Fighting the EMTs?”
“Smith” gave her a sheepish look. “I remember I was pretty confused when I got here. I thought they were trying to rob me.”
“Now you know better. What about that IV?”
Now the brow furrowed. “I still say that ain’t natural. Can’t you just give me some pills or something?”
“Pills don’t work very quickly. IV painkillers and antibiotics are better for right now. If you want your hands loose, you’ll have to promise to leave the medical equipment alone.”
She leaned forward to give him a stern glare. “That means the chest tube, too. You need that to drain the blood and fluid out of your lung.”
“I ain’t never had no tube in me before.”
“There’s a first time for everything. You need to leave those tubes in place, leave the oxygen mask on your face, and leave the monitor on your finger.”
“Smith’s” eyes cut toward the door, where one of the nurses stood, arms crossed, nodding at Dr. Kealy’s speech.
“That’s right,” Dr. Kealy said firmly. “They tell me everything that goes on in here. And if I’m going to get you well, I have to know everything.”
“Smith wilted. “Just let me loose. I’ll leave the tubes alone.”
“I’ll remind him, Doc,” “Jones “put in. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get him well again.”
Dr. Kealy crossed her arms and gave the two her best Doctor Stare. “I suppose I should give you the chance to prove yourself. I’ll remove the restraints on the condition that you cooperate fully with myself and the hospital staff. If I find out you’ve given them any trouble whatsoever, I’ll have you strapped back in and you’ll stay that way until I release you from the hospital.”
“Smith” gave her a searching look. His mouth turned down and his shoulders drooped. “I believe you.”
“And you’ll behave yourself?”
The man heaved a sigh - or what passed as one considering his difficulty breathing. “I’ll behave. Even Etta won’t be able to complain.”
Dr. Kealy unbuckled the restraints. “Smith” raised a hand to his face, then paused. “Can I scratch under this thing without you getting proddy?”
“You can scratch. You can even take it off for a few moments at a time. Just remember that oxygen isn’t going to help you breathe unless the mask is on your face.”
“I ain’t sure what oxygen is, but I’ll leave the thing alone.”
“Smith” rubbed his nose energetically, then replaced the mask.
“Now, in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve got one more tube that you have to leave alone.” Dr. Kealy explained the urinary catheter, feeling just a bit amused to see both men’s faces flush. Men and their preoccupation with their organs. And yet they blushed when a woman spoke bluntly.
“Can I at least get some clothes?” “Smith” said at last, his voice subdued.
“I’ll get you some scrub pants, but I’d rather have your chest open to the air for awhile. If anything’s going to go bad in there, I want to be able to get at it instantly.”
“Smith” paled. “Do I even want to ask what could go bad?”
“If you aren’t good, you could pull a suture loose and start bleeding inside. Your infection could spread. You might contract pneumonia. I might have missed a piece of rib and it could work its way somewhere vital.” Dr. Keely took pity on the man at that point. “And I can fix any of those situations, so don’t worry. Just try to lie still and let your body heal.”
“Smith” raised his left hand. “I promise. What about some breakfast?”
“I’ll let you have some clear liquids, see how you do on those.”
“Smith’s” face fell. “Why don’t that sound good?”
“Clear liquids include hot broth, coffee without creamer, apple juice, and most anything else you can see through. I’ll have something sent up.”
“Better than ice chips, I suppose.”
“I still wish you’d tell us what your name really is.”
The left cheek dimpled. “It’s Joshua Smith.”
Dr. Kealy let it go. Maybe it wasn’t as important to know his real name. What she had to decide was whether he actually believed he was some historical character or not. Maybe she did need to call in a psych consult after all.
***
Heyes heaved what passed for a sigh and scratched underneath the damned face mask again. The trouble was, he’d started running a fever, and sweat kept dripping down inside the mask. That lady - she’d said she was an actual doctor, though he wasn’t sure he should believe her or not - had ordered some pills for him to swallow. Nurse Etta had said they were called “Tylenol” and were better than aspirin, whatever that was.
At least his arm and legs were free. And the Kid was here, even though he’d fallen back asleep as soon as the doctor had left. Jed needed sleep just as much as Heyes did.
It was nice to be able to move his legs, though. He pulled one knee up, wincing at the feel of the “catheter” tugging at places that shouldn’t be tugged. But he’d promised to leave the tubes alone, and he certainly didn’t want to give Etta the opportunity to strap his hands back down again.
Evidently one of Etta’s jobs was measuring whatever was draining out of his tubes and writing that down, along with the results of a bunch of other things she periodically did to him, like squeezing his arm with another fat tube and shoving what she claimed was a thermometer under his tongue. And they kept trying to get him to breathe deeply and cough, even though it hurt like hell. The only thing keeping him from up and walking off was the fact that he couldn’t figure out how to get out of the damned bed without rupturing something. He’d never seen a bed with bars on it before.
Heyes wasn’t pleased with the “clear liquid” that arrived shortly after the doctor had left. The Kid woke up when they knocked on the door.
“That don’t look nothing like breakfast,” he said, eyeing the broth.
Heyes was hungry enough to eat - or rather, drink - anything. The coffee was horribly weak, though, and he’d have killed for a biscuit or slice of bread to go with the broth. There was a bowl of some sort of gelatin cubes that he could at least chew on, so he felt a little more full afterwards.
“You can have anything you want to drink,” Etta told him as she gave him the “Tylenol” tablets. “So long as it’s clear. Just press the call button.”
She pointed out a painted spot on the bed railing. Heyes tried pushing it. Etta slapped at his hand.
“You don’t need to push it while I’m standing right here.” She glanced over at the Kid. “You can have a drink, too. We’ll just charge it to the bill. That way you don’t need to keep running down to the cafeteria whenever you’re thirsty.”
Heyes didn’t want to ask about that bill. He didn’t want to know how much all these machines cost. He only hoped that he and Jed had enough between them to pay.
Jed admitted he’d like a cup of coffee. “I don’t see how nobody can sleep with all you folks coming in and out all the time.”
“That’s a hospital for you,” Etta said with a grin.
“What happened to the other nurse?” Heyes asked. “The one that didn’t threaten to slap me into next week?”
“She ain’t going to bring you no food if that’s what you’re thinking. But I’ll let Abby bring Mr. Jones here his coffee. You want a doughnut or something with that, Jones?”
The nerve of the woman. But the Kid was always hungry. He cast a sheepish glance at Heyes and nodded. Within moments, the cute blonde nurse was back with coffee and a plate holding not one but two doughnuts.
“Why can’t I have real food?” Heyes complained. “I’m being good.”
Abby leaned over to place a hand on his forehead. She frowned at the temperature. “One reason is that your medicine makes you nauseated. We’re giving you some Zofran for that, but if you eat solid food too quickly, you might get sick at your stomach.”
Heyes had stopped trying to understand what he figured was medical talk. He had no idea what medicine they were giving him or what it was doing. He didn’t feel particularly nauseated.
He tried a smile. “Couldn’t I have something besides that excuse for coffee? Beer’s clear, ain’t it?”
Abby’s eyes widened. “You can’t have beer! Do you know what would happen if you drank alcohol with those pain medications? You could stop breathing!”
The Kid choked on his coffee, nearly spewing it over the floor. “You ain’t getting no beer then,” he said firmly once he could talk again.
“You could have a soda,” Abby suggested.
Heyes grimaced. “Not a big fan of water, either.”
“No, I meant like a Coke or Sprite.”
Whatever those were. “You got anything that’s not water or fruit juice?”
“You’ve never had a Coke before? Where are you two from?”
Heyes glanced at the Kid, who looked blankly back. “Kansas?”
“They have Cokes in Kansas, Mr. Smith. I’ll bring you one.”
She brought him, not a bottle but a can so cold the water had condensed on the outside. Heyes was glad she opened it for him. He’d never have figured out that little metal tab on the top. It was sweet like juice, but carbonated like soda water. He drank half the can before his eyelids started drooping again. That was the trouble with pain medicine - it just made you too damn sleepy.
Knowing the Kid was two steps away made it easier to let himself fall asleep though. He lay back and surrendered to the morphine.
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 8
Dr. Kealy flipped through the charts on what she thought of as her mystery patient. Not only was the man some sort of historic cosplayer, but he’d evidently refused to break character even long enough to tell Deputy Burton who’d shot him. And there was the question of his name. If he was a re-enactor, who was to say that Joshua Smith wasn’t the name of his character instead of his real name?
Maybe she ought to pull Psych in on this one. If the fellow was unable to distinguish between fact and fiction, maybe they needed to transfer him to their ward once he could be moved. Maybe he was some poor mental patient who’d been wandering the streets and wound up facing the wrong people.
That didn’t play out to her though. He was too clean, for one - neatly shaved and smelling more of cologne than sweat. Too, he’d been shot only once, from a distance. Either it had been deliberate, or he’d really been in the wrong place when some distant fool fired his weapon. If he’d wandered into a gang war or drug deal, he wouldn’t have been able to stagger into the street afterwards.
She was no gunshot expert, but it had been a large caliber slug, probably a .45. If, as her nurse had supposed, this was a cosplayer re-enactment gone bad, it might even be an antique pistol. Surely that derringer they’d turned over to Burton had looked like something out of the Wild West.
Whatever the man’s name, he wasn’t out of danger yet. He’d spiked a worrisome fever which told her she hadn’t gotten everything out of the wound. That was the trouble with gunshots: you got all sorts of things carried into the body along with the bullet. Cloth from the shirt and jacket, anything that might have been in an upper pocket (and that included money, which was one of the most germ-ridden items carried around in the human pocket), dirt and germs from the weapon itself - she’d even seen bits of wood from nearby trees.
She’d ordered a broad-spectrum antibiotic that ought to do the trick. They’d delivered the last of the blood a few hours ago, to replace what he’d lost during surgery, so he was just getting fluids and the antibiotic now. She wasn’t certain he was up to eating just yet, not with such trauma to the system. She wrote “Clear Liquids” on the diet chart.
Time to see for herself just what was going on in Room 3. She knocked once, then stepped inside. Brown eyes turned her way, though she could tell the brain behind them was fuzzy from the hydromorphone. The man’s tall friend lay stretched out in the visitor’s chair. At her knock, he started awake and sat up quickly. His blue eyes shot her an icy glare before he seemed to remember her from the operating room.
“Dr. Kealy? Good morning.” The man sounded as if she’d wakened him from a really sound sleep. He probably needed a good eight hours.
She introduced herself to “Smith” and crossed to the bedside.
“Lemme loose.” The man spoke haltingly, still obviously in some respiratory difficulty. Probably the broken ribs.
Dr. Kealy ignored the request for the moment. “We’ll see. Let’s get a good look at you first, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing rotten. I’m tied up like a dog and I hurt.”
“You’re hurting now? On a scale of one to ---“
“All right, all right. You medical people and your scales. Maybe not right this minute but I need my hands and legs free.”
“Smith’s” friend - hadn’t he said his name was Jones? And wasn’t that a bit obvious? - rose and stood hesitantly at the head of the bed. “You don’t need to keep him tied up, Doc. He’s not going to fight anybody. He was just ---“
“In shock. I’m aware of that.” Dr. Kealy pulled out her penlight and examined “Smith’s” pupils. Constricted from the hydromorphone of course, but good response, even reactions.
“What is that?” “Smith” asked, staring at her light with interest.
“Haven’t you ever had an eye exam?”
“Nope. I see fine.”
“An eye exam is still a good idea. You might have other problems besides poor eyesight that might need to be corrected.”
“Don’t explain that little light though. Where’d you get that?”
“Jones” was staring at the light with the same puzzled expression. Dr. Kealy held up her penlight and gave it a good look herself. Were they serious or were they still playing their historic characters?
“I don’t know how to answer that question,” she finally said. “I really need you to break character and be with me in the present, if that’s what you’re doing.”
“I got no idea what you just said but I’ll do whatever you say so long as you untie me.”
“That’s good because I need you to cooperate. Do you remember pulling your IV out? Fighting the EMTs?”
“Smith” gave her a sheepish look. “I remember I was pretty confused when I got here. I thought they were trying to rob me.”
“Now you know better. What about that IV?”
Now the brow furrowed. “I still say that ain’t natural. Can’t you just give me some pills or something?”
“Pills don’t work very quickly. IV painkillers and antibiotics are better for right now. If you want your hands loose, you’ll have to promise to leave the medical equipment alone.”
She leaned forward to give him a stern glare. “That means the chest tube, too. You need that to drain the blood and fluid out of your lung.”
“I ain’t never had no tube in me before.”
“There’s a first time for everything. You need to leave those tubes in place, leave the oxygen mask on your face, and leave the monitor on your finger.”
“Smith’s” eyes cut toward the door, where one of the nurses stood, arms crossed, nodding at Dr. Kealy’s speech.
“That’s right,” Dr. Kealy said firmly. “They tell me everything that goes on in here. And if I’m going to get you well, I have to know everything.”
“Smith wilted. “Just let me loose. I’ll leave the tubes alone.”
“I’ll remind him, Doc,” “Jones “put in. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get him well again.”
Dr. Kealy crossed her arms and gave the two her best Doctor Stare. “I suppose I should give you the chance to prove yourself. I’ll remove the restraints on the condition that you cooperate fully with myself and the hospital staff. If I find out you’ve given them any trouble whatsoever, I’ll have you strapped back in and you’ll stay that way until I release you from the hospital.”
“Smith” gave her a searching look. His mouth turned down and his shoulders drooped. “I believe you.”
“And you’ll behave yourself?”
The man heaved a sigh - or what passed as one considering his difficulty breathing. “I’ll behave. Even Etta won’t be able to complain.”
Dr. Kealy unbuckled the restraints. “Smith” raised a hand to his face, then paused. “Can I scratch under this thing without you getting proddy?”
“You can scratch. You can even take it off for a few moments at a time. Just remember that oxygen isn’t going to help you breathe unless the mask is on your face.”
“I ain’t sure what oxygen is, but I’ll leave the thing alone.”
“Smith” rubbed his nose energetically, then replaced the mask.
“Now, in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve got one more tube that you have to leave alone.” Dr. Kealy explained the urinary catheter, feeling just a bit amused to see both men’s faces flush. Men and their preoccupation with their organs. And yet they blushed when a woman spoke bluntly.
“Can I at least get some clothes?” “Smith” said at last, his voice subdued.
“I’ll get you some scrub pants, but I’d rather have your chest open to the air for awhile. If anything’s going to go bad in there, I want to be able to get at it instantly.”
“Smith” paled. “Do I even want to ask what could go bad?”
“If you aren’t good, you could pull a suture loose and start bleeding inside. Your infection could spread. You might contract pneumonia. I might have missed a piece of rib and it could work its way somewhere vital.” Dr. Keely took pity on the man at that point. “And I can fix any of those situations, so don’t worry. Just try to lie still and let your body heal.”
“Smith” raised his left hand. “I promise. What about some breakfast?”
“I’ll let you have some clear liquids, see how you do on those.”
“Smith’s” face fell. “Why don’t that sound good?”
“Clear liquids include hot broth, coffee without creamer, apple juice, and most anything else you can see through. I’ll have something sent up.”
“Better than ice chips, I suppose.”
“I still wish you’d tell us what your name really is.”
The left cheek dimpled. “It’s Joshua Smith.”
Dr. Kealy let it go. Maybe it wasn’t as important to know his real name. What she had to decide was whether he actually believed he was some historical character or not. Maybe she did need to call in a psych consult after all.
***
Heyes heaved what passed for a sigh and scratched underneath the damned face mask again. The trouble was, he’d started running a fever, and sweat kept dripping down inside the mask. That lady - she’d said she was an actual doctor, though he wasn’t sure he should believe her or not - had ordered some pills for him to swallow. Nurse Etta had said they were called “Tylenol” and were better than aspirin, whatever that was.
At least his arm and legs were free. And the Kid was here, even though he’d fallen back asleep as soon as the doctor had left. Jed needed sleep just as much as Heyes did.
It was nice to be able to move his legs, though. He pulled one knee up, wincing at the feel of the “catheter” tugging at places that shouldn’t be tugged. But he’d promised to leave the tubes alone, and he certainly didn’t want to give Etta the opportunity to strap his hands back down again.
Evidently one of Etta’s jobs was measuring whatever was draining out of his tubes and writing that down, along with the results of a bunch of other things she periodically did to him, like squeezing his arm with another fat tube and shoving what she claimed was a thermometer under his tongue. And they kept trying to get him to breathe deeply and cough, even though it hurt like hell. The only thing keeping him from up and walking off was the fact that he couldn’t figure out how to get out of the damned bed without rupturing something. He’d never seen a bed with bars on it before.
Heyes wasn’t pleased with the “clear liquid” that arrived shortly after the doctor had left. The Kid woke up when they knocked on the door.
“That don’t look nothing like breakfast,” he said, eyeing the broth.
Heyes was hungry enough to eat - or rather, drink - anything. The coffee was horribly weak, though, and he’d have killed for a biscuit or slice of bread to go with the broth. There was a bowl of some sort of gelatin cubes that he could at least chew on, so he felt a little more full afterwards.
“You can have anything you want to drink,” Etta told him as she gave him the “Tylenol” tablets. “So long as it’s clear. Just press the call button.”
She pointed out a painted spot on the bed railing. Heyes tried pushing it. Etta slapped at his hand.
“You don’t need to push it while I’m standing right here.” She glanced over at the Kid. “You can have a drink, too. We’ll just charge it to the bill. That way you don’t need to keep running down to the cafeteria whenever you’re thirsty.”
Heyes didn’t want to ask about that bill. He didn’t want to know how much all these machines cost. He only hoped that he and Jed had enough between them to pay.
Jed admitted he’d like a cup of coffee. “I don’t see how nobody can sleep with all you folks coming in and out all the time.”
“That’s a hospital for you,” Etta said with a grin.
“What happened to the other nurse?” Heyes asked. “The one that didn’t threaten to slap me into next week?”
“She ain’t going to bring you no food if that’s what you’re thinking. But I’ll let Abby bring Mr. Jones here his coffee. You want a doughnut or something with that, Jones?”
The nerve of the woman. But the Kid was always hungry. He cast a sheepish glance at Heyes and nodded. Within moments, the cute blonde nurse was back with coffee and a plate holding not one but two doughnuts.
“Why can’t I have real food?” Heyes complained. “I’m being good.”
Abby leaned over to place a hand on his forehead. She frowned at the temperature. “One reason is that your medicine makes you nauseated. We’re giving you some Zofran for that, but if you eat solid food too quickly, you might get sick at your stomach.”
Heyes had stopped trying to understand what he figured was medical talk. He had no idea what medicine they were giving him or what it was doing. He didn’t feel particularly nauseated.
He tried a smile. “Couldn’t I have something besides that excuse for coffee? Beer’s clear, ain’t it?”
Abby’s eyes widened. “You can’t have beer! Do you know what would happen if you drank alcohol with those pain medications? You could stop breathing!”
The Kid choked on his coffee, nearly spewing it over the floor. “You ain’t getting no beer then,” he said firmly once he could talk again.
“You could have a soda,” Abby suggested.
Heyes grimaced. “Not a big fan of water, either.”
“No, I meant like a Coke or Sprite.”
Whatever those were. “You got anything that’s not water or fruit juice?”
“You’ve never had a Coke before? Where are you two from?”
Heyes glanced at the Kid, who looked blankly back. “Kansas?”
“They have Cokes in Kansas, Mr. Smith. I’ll bring you one.”
She brought him, not a bottle but a can so cold the water had condensed on the outside. Heyes was glad she opened it for him. He’d never have figured out that little metal tab on the top. It was sweet like juice, but carbonated like soda water. He drank half the can before his eyelids started drooping again. That was the trouble with pain medicine - it just made you too damn sleepy.
Knowing the Kid was two steps away made it easier to let himself fall asleep though. He lay back and surrendered to the morphine.