6. CHAPTER 6
I rub my heavy chest and lean forward on the bench to rest my arms on my thighs. I should be back inside instead of leaving my team in a lurch. Luckily, it’s a slower night, and they haven’t sent someone out to retrieve me yet.
Where is she? Could she have left from another exit?
I sigh, leaning back and crossing my arms to squeeze my biceps. Her ankle was broken. There are a lot of blanks in my memory, but I’m certain of that fact. She shouldn’t be able to put weight on it, and yet she’s walking. Walking with only one crutch.
My jaw clenches. But at least I know her name now. Isabella. My gut painfully spasms. I just need to talk to her. But why? What is this urge? Why can’t I just go back to work?
I have no game plan. I have no agenda. She’s alive and well. I should be happy to leave it at that and move on. And yet, here I am, still sitting outside like a loser. Running my hands through my already messy hair.
What am I doing out here? Is this just because of the dreams? Because of my attraction to her? That’s totally inappropriate.
The door she entered through opens, and my breath catches. A moment later, she exits the building, and my heart skips a beat. I push off the bench and jog toward her. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I can’t let her disappear again.
“Hey, wait up,” I call out to stop her. She isn’t moving quickly on only one crutch, so I’d be able to catch up, regardless.
She glances my way, eyes narrowing, then looks up, sighing into the sky. I’m obviously frustrating her, and she doesn’t fully stop, but at least she slows a bit. She shrugs the duffle bag higher on her shoulder with more ease than previously.
I’m over halfway to her when she pauses and looks down at her feet before glancing up at an abandoned car. I’m almost to her—
BOOM.
I’m violently thrown back, body smacking into the pavement and sliding further away against the concrete. I push myself up to a seated position, heat pulsing in the air.
What the hell? My head’s spinning. Body’s sore. The car’s engulfed in flames, thick black smoke drifting up all around. Anything surrounding it is now burning, the heat wafting in waves and warming my skin even from this distance.
Where is she? My gut clenches. She was right there.
I shove up to standing, swaying a bit. Scanning the area as my equilibrium settles. She’s lying unconscious by the tree on the other side of the street. Stumbling through my aching joints and bruised body, I sprint toward her. Her lower legs are aflame, and I whip my shirt off, dropping to my knees to beat the fire out. There’s a huge bump and a deep cut across her forehead. Large shards of glass poke out of her ribs and upper right shoulder. I’m assessing her wounds, trying to determine the most urgent ones. The crisp burnt skin covering most of her body is my biggest concern. Even with the night only having a slight chill, her body won’t be accurately regulating her body temperature. I need to get her inside for treatment before hypothermia sets in.
I don’t look away from her as I hear the scuff of people walking up. Thank goodness we’re so close to my ER. She needs treatment ASAP. Hopefully, they brought a gurney.
“What are we going to do with him?”
“It’s too late now. We take them both. This is the most vulnerable she’ll be, so, it’s now or never.”
Frowning, I start to turn toward the people whispering when something zaps me. I gulp in a deep breath through a suddenly dry mouth, jolted as current after current of intense stinging radiates from the point of contact. The electricity races through my system, speeding up my heart. The faint taste of copper fills my mouth, and my heart lurches as I’m zapped again—
I thump into a hard, chilly surface and blink multiple times, trying to clear my eyesight. Darkness obscures my vision as I arch my bare back away from the coldness.
Where am I? What happened?
My veins feel shredded, and my throat aches like I ate hundreds of pennies. I squish my swollen tongue against the gag in my mouth. I can’t move my hands or feet. Every bump jostles me and causes the burning pain to throb further through my body. My heavy eyes drift closed.
No! Focus!
Prying my eyes open, I quietly scoot around. I squint, trying to see what’s making the low, tinkling sound of something hitting the metal flooring, but it’s too dark. Plus, the soft noise is being overpowered by the squeaky brakes and the ringing in my ears.
Wait. Brakes? Tires? The vehicle turns sharply and I roll, my sore body pressing against the van’s cold door. Shit, this isn’t good.
Faint yellow light flashes through the windshield… briefly illuminating the back. Isabella!
She’s tied up, her legs completely blackened, the burnt skin cracking and small bits peeling upward. Her face’s turned away from me and she’s not moving. Is she breathing? I squint and still can’t tell. My gut tightens. I just need her to be okay.
Please let her still be alive.
Using every bump and turn, I roll closer to her. The ropes rub further into the skin of my bounded wrists and ankles. I bite the inside of my cheek to silence the pain and push forward toward her. I need to check on her.
What the hell will I do if she isn’t breathing? I can’t give chest compressions when I’m tied up. One problem at a time.
I’m less than a foot away from her, but it’s too dark to see anything. I zero in my gaze to her chest while twisting my wrists to loosen them. My anxiety rising with every second, waiting for the next light to brighten the space enough for me to see her.
Please. Just please.
We pass another streetlight. The yellow light shines over her for only a few seconds, but it’s enough. Her chest rises and lowers in short, shallow breaths. They’re too quick, but she’s alive. Now I just need to get her, us, out of here so we can both stay that way.
What the hell is all of this? Why did they take us? Is it for me? Her? This crap only happens in movies.
I don’t understand what’s happening. And yet, I’m obsessing about her. For days. My gut, which is never wrong, was telling me to focus on her. I thought I missed something with her condition. Maybe I’m just a dutiful doctor. Or maybe I am a creepy stalker. But then all of this happened… What if my gut was telling me she would need me, a doctor? None of it makes sense, and yet I feel like I’m here for a reason. I just need to loosen these damn ropes.
My attention snaps to the passenger and the conversation he’s having with the driver. “What are we going to do with him?”
I can hardly hear the driver over the low music and the ringing in my ears, just barely making out his response. “I don’t know right now, but we have to get her into a cell before she wakes up or we’re screwed. Did you grab their phones and her bag?”
So, I wasn’t unconscious for long. They must still be close to the hospital. I can’t see either of them from my position, but I close my eyes and focus, trying to catch every word.
“Yeah. I grabbed her bag, the phones, and his smart watch.”
The passenger window goes down, and the wind rustles in. “Toss them out so they can’t track us.”
My heart drops with the crack of the devices hitting the road.
When I glance back at Isabella, the wind gushing from the window through the van causes small blackened pieces of her flesh to flap with the breeze. Her legs are completely discolored and there’s charred skin cracking and peeling upward.
What the…?
The van makes a sharp turn, jostling me, and I bite my tongue to keep from making a noise. It comes to a rough stop and shuts off with a rumble. The back doors of the van creak open, and I can just make out the silhouette of an older man with a large gut. “He’s awake.” The passenger’s voice from earlier barely reaches me over the buzzing in my ears.
A leaner guy with a goatee appears around the door. “Take her first before she wakes.”
Large Gut Guy reaches for her upper body and the Goatee Guy pulls her legs. Tiny pieces of glass dart around the bed of the van when they lift her up and carry her away.
Here’s my chance to escape, and I can’t even run. Dammit!
They’re back for me before I even get my bound feet to the edge of the bed.
“Nope, sorry, man. We can’t let you go,” Goatee Guy says while securely holding my legs. Large Gut Guy grabs my shoulders, and they lift me.
I frantically look around, trying to get my bearings, but night has fallen, and all I can make out are industrial buildings, most of which look abandoned.
They carry me in through a dark building, through a hallway with multiple rooms branching off and into a larger open room. There’s a 15x15 glass cage, with a cot, toilet, sink, and a small window. Boxes and partial walls block the rest of the room.
They drop me on the floor. Goatee Guy points a taser at me. “I’m going to loosen your restraints some. Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll tase you again. Got it?”
I nod.
“Good. We’ll also drop off some food in that window here shortly. I’m sorry about this. Nothing personal, just bad timing. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
They filter out the door, the lock clicking into place behind them. I watch them leave then shake my hands to further loosen the restraints. When my wrists slip free, I pull the gag from my mouth. I reach forward to undo the rope around my ankles while evaluating my condition. Like oxygen on an airplane, you must save yourself first to be in any condition to help others. My shirt’s missing from putting the fire out. I have various cuts, but nothing too deep. Bruising on my legs, ass, and hands, but nothing serious.
Next Isabella. My gut clenches when I look over at her unconscious form on the rubber cot. I crawl to her over the cool concrete floor then slowly roll her onto her back. I kneel beside the thin bed and check her injuries. She’s still breathing, and her pulse is strong, thank goodness. The fire ate away most of her flowy skirt, leaving wisps that barely cover her black, lacy underwear. Her shirt is also partially gone, showing most of her abs and ribs. Her head wound isn’t bleeding as badly, but the bump is still noticeable. She has two large glass shards sticking out of her and the bruising on her sides indicate possible broken ribs. Her ankle is at a gross angle. Déjà vu swarms me as more images of the bus accident resurface.
Her ankle at a 90-degree angle and bone poking through.
At least no bones are protruding this time.
Her legs were burnt black and crispy in the van. They were, without a doubt, fourth degree burns and my biggest concern. But now, most of them look a deep red, more third degree in appearance. Only a few small spots are still black. I shake my head. I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. Burns can change degrees, but it’s to worsening conditions as the heat and cell damage set in. They don’t get better like this. Even with skin graphing and proper treatment, they wouldn’t have healed this way.
A soft plop onto the thin rubber mat pulls my attention from her burgundy legs to her hands lying limply on the cot. I lift her wrist, and a tiny piece of glass dislodges from her skin and falls. Plop.
My jaw drops open. I pick up the piece and look back at her wrist. Another piece plops to the mat. Is her skin pushing the glass out? I huff a humorless laugh and lift her wrist higher to look at the spot where the glass was just embedded. I suck in a quick breath and my mouth pinches tightly as the hole slowly closes in front of my eyes. No tweezers. No disinfectant. No stitches.
“What. The. Hell.” I place her arm back on the cot, leaning back on my heels and breathing shallowly. How is this possible?
I wet my lips, looking at the larger shard of glass sticking out of her shoulder and angle closer to examine the skin adhering to the glass. Normally, I wouldn’t try to remove pieces like this without proper equipment, in case the glass nicked something or was blocking an artery, but with the placement of the two shards, it’s less of a concern. Her skin possibly growing over and adhering to the glass is more worrisome. Plus, she doesn’t seem to need stitches to close wounds. I shake my head again.
I wipe my clammy hands on my scrubs then rip the bottom of each leg off at the knee. To prevent any cuts, I wrap the bottom of a pant leg around each broken fragment of glass.
How is she healing so fast? I literally watched her skin push out the glass. That can happen with splinters, but glass? And the burn degree changing like that? My hands tremble violently in my lap. I don’t understand what’s happening.
Focus.
One thing at a time. Right now, I’m addressing her wounds, which involves removing these larger pieces. I shake my hands to regain some steadiness. Taking a deep breath, I firmly grip the shard by her shoulder and yank straight up on a breath out. There’s a slight tug, the skin ripping free of the glass. Blood rushes out of the wound, and I press the bottoms of my scrubs to the wound, applying light pressure. I can’t leave the cloth there too long if her skin was already adhering to the glass, but I don’t want her to bleed out. I count to sixty, trying to slow my breathing at the same time, then slowly lift away the cloth. The wound is already clotting. Sixty seconds. It took less than a minute. Less than a minute to clot. My heart rate spikes higher as the wound gets smaller and smaller.
“What the actual hell?”
I mean, for her condition, this is great news, especially since I don’t have any supplies to treat her here. But… this can’t be happening. I rub my eyes with my forearm. With all my schooling and medical experience, this can’t be real. But it is. I’m seeing it with my own two eyes. I wipe the remaining blood from her shoulder then turn my attention to the shard sticking out of her ribs. I wrap the glass and yank, applying cloth and pressure to the open wound and count down from sixty again.
I’m usually super calm under distressing situations like this—the incident with Hope obviously excluded. But none of this is natural; none of this is normal. Even knowing what I should expect, I’m practically hyperventilating when I remove the cloth. I wipe the blood away and the wound knits closed. My lungs burn as my freak out goes into full effect.
What does this mean? What is happening? If she heals like this, why was she pouring blood at the bus accident?
A door shuts to my right, and I jump back, glancing at the window shelf that the Goatee Guy just placed items in. I stand, trying to control my breathing, still clutching a shard of glass.
“This window allows us to pass you guys stuff. It locks on your side if this side is open and vice versa. So don’t try anything stupid.” He eyes the bloodied, wrapped glass. “The two items on the right are for her. And the sandwich and orange juice on the left are for you. We weren’t expecting you, so we’ll bring more food for you tomorrow.”
I mutely nod and walk toward the two-way window. He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and heads to the entrance we came in.
I open the window, and on the right is raw steak and a large glass of a dark liquid. What is that? I lift the glass of thick fluid to my nose, cringing at the harsh coppery smell wafting from it. Blood? What the hell? And it’s for her? They had that on stock, but no other food for me? What is this place? What have I gotten myself into?
I take my sandwich, even though my appetite is nonexistent, and slide down the corner of the cell. I put my plate down next to me and pull my legs up to my chest, my gaze locked on her. What is she?
Some sick part of me is still attracted to her, still wants to touch her, and the doctor side of me longs to make sure she’s okay. Plus, I admit, my curiosity is piqued; I want to know why there’re so many abnormalities. I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on top of my knees, just staring at her. But I don’t want to be anywhere near her when she wakes up.