Mercy 6

Mendenhall heard Mullich stepping quickly behind her. He was wearing soft shoes, something athletic. For this, she thought. She slipped into the crease.

The four traumas were still together. This was not right, not this deep into the bay, not this close to the elevators. No attending was near. Mendenhall held back for a moment, not looking at any of the traumas specifically, just taking them in as four, as an event.

“Where are the other attendings?”

“You’re it,” said Pao Pao.

Mendenhall went left to right. The first was a black man with gray in his beard. He wore the brown shirt of physical plant. His eyes were open and still. The second was a sixtyish woman in a patient gown. Her eyes were closed, mouth open and slack. The third, a young man, had a visitor’s pass stuck to his t-shirt. His eyes were open and still. They were very pretty eyes. He’s dreaming, she thought. He’s dreaming he’s dead. The fourth was a surgical nurse. Peterson. Her eyes were closed, but Mendenhall could tell that someone had closed them. One of the other nurses, someone from the clutter and concern. Pao Pao would never have done such a thing. No veteran nurse would. Peterson’s lids were skewed, one pushed too far down, one sliding up and exposing a sliver of white.

She felt all eyes on her. EMTs held raised paddles. Pao Pao’s jaw was clenched.

They’re dead, thought Mendenhall. “Go!” she said anyway. “What are you waiting for? What are you looking for? I look, you go.”

She moved to the first, knowing that was the real way to start this. In the old days, in her mentor’s time, they had DOA. She wanted to look back to find Mullich, to ask him: Could we have that back?

She pressed her fingers to the patient’s carotid, the brush of his beard softer than anticipated. She pushed deeply, trying for any kind of flutter. The throat of a hummingbird. Anything. Peterson, she thought. This guy. This guy, too. We know this guy, too.

She drew back, looked for blood, for angled limbs or necks, for grimace, for posturing. All carts ceased. EMTs and nurses returned to ready positions. She spoke to Pao Pao.

“They’re all from here.”

Pao Pao nodded, frown parallel to jaw.

“No sign of injury or trauma.”

Mendenhall looked across the bay to the entrance, the huge sliding glass orange from the night beyond. She sensed the gathering bristle, some of them following her gaze.

She carefully chose the order of her commands to Pao Pao.

“Close the doors. Get Infectious Diseases.”

Three of the EMTs and two nurses ran for the door. Others along the bay floor gathered what was happening and tried to escape with them. Mendenhall stopped caring about them. Pao Pao would get the doors sealed. In an hour they would open and everyone could drive into the night, eat sandwiches, drink, watch TV, go online, go still.

Mendenhall spoke to the nearest nurse and nodded toward those who ran. “Write down their names.”

She then fingered the carotid of each patient.

“They’re dead.” She looked at her watch, the cheap digital she used for running. “Seven thirty-six.”

Two of the nurses ignored her and made an EMT keep attending to Peterson. Those origami hats, thought Mendenhall. They should still have to wear those. She offered some vague expression to the two nurses, a kind of wince. It could have been a frown. It could have been dismay. She could have called them fools. All of these gave permission. Anything but “No, stop” gave them permission to try to revive Peterson.

Activity in the bay swelled near the closed doors. Outside, an incoming ambulance slowed, then sped away to another hospital, its lights pulsing against the glass, sirenless. Mendenhall spoke to Pao Pao, who had finished making the calls.

“Who was here before me? Who ran off?”

“Dr. Tehmul,” said the nurse.

“How close did he get? Are they his? Did he touch them?”

Pao Pao shook her head. “They’re yours. They’re all yours, Dr.

Mendenhall.”

3

She retreated to her station, which was just a three-walled cubicle at the far end of the bay. It was connected to another cubicle that three other doctors shared. They shared because, unlike her, they weren’t ER specialists, they weren’t permanent, they had other floors, they had careers. Her desk faced a side wall. She remembered when it had been moved away from the back wall.

She liked it better this way because it gave her screen privacy. But now she knew the reason it had been shifted: this way gave her peripheral vision into the bay. Mullich was still following her. He stood at the entrance to her cubicle.

“What is happening?” He laced his fingers at his waist and leaned against the wall, first testing its strength with his shoulder.

“I mean, I’ve seen this before, this containment. But I always had to surmise and read dry protocol. What is really happening?”

“Tag.”

“Pardon?”