Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker found it annoying how inaccurate vampire stereotypes were.
Despite many stories saying otherwise, vampires, in fact, did not just "disintegrate" in the sunlight. That started because a Hunter lit a vampire on fire in the 15th century. He'd done it right before dawn and, obviously, the vampire was ashes by the time the sun rose. The Hunter spread that story and it became fact without much grounds for evidence.
The better phrase for it was extreme intolerance. Vampires got burns about ten times faster than a human and their skin would peel raw until they died from blood loss. What humans didn't understand was that such situations only happened if they intentionally spent hours out in the sun without much protection. The pain of burning alive was excruciating, yes, but they'd found ways to defend themselves. Concoctions applied to the skin that could add an extra layer to defend against the sun. Talismans that protected them.
And, to a certain extent, long sleeved clothes. (That was a bit obvious. Thin and occasionally flimsy, but they did their job. How did that idea that clothes didn't work come about? Dennis guessed fiction authors had looked for an easy way to kill vampires in their stories.)
As time went on, vampire-kind managed to strengthen those formulas that made them temporarily invincible to the light. Then came mutations: a result of vampires applying so much of it to their skin. The chemicals modified their bodies, which led to some vampire children being immune to sunlight. The ability to withstand sunlight was a luxury for several reasons. For one, the recipe their sunscreen/foundation to hide pallor, admittedly, smelled quite a bit… off. It was extremely earthy and stung nostrils, like inhaling spice mixed with wet dirt. A side effect of using corpse flowers in it. Anyone would wince simply by smelling it if they walked past a vampire.
Without the burden of having to make and use the Oils, it made it easier to blend into society. It meant a vampire could walk in daylight, and could live amongst humankind.
Dennis could.
He was one of those "special" kids.
It was a privilege. Something his parents said he should thank those Above for. It was also a huge pain in his ass. It meant he got all the "fun" tasks; heading down into town to sell the family's produce, buying what his older brothers wanted, and running every single errand imaginable.
Another thing he wanted to add: vampires could be farmers.
His family, vampires masquerading as a family of vineyard owners, toiled in the fields, drenched in coats of the foul-smelling Oils. They had used so much that the scent was permanent, but they enjoyed working in the sun so the cost wasn't much.
Yeah, they were a bit odd.
Anyhow, they refused to raise any suspicious of any sort and didn't come with him. It wasn't like his visit would take an hour or so. No, his mother and father had forbidden him from using his heightened agility entirely, even if he was so far away from town. Too odd, they'd say. No human can run as fast as a vampire can. If anyone sees you, they will suspect something. He had to walk back up the rocky path called Pine Lane. It wasn't like he could drive either. The road leading to the vineyard was so worn out that he'd probably crash the family truck or ruin a couple tires before getting to town. Every few days, he'd walk down to town at a normal pace, take that normal route, and act normal. It took him from dawn to dusk to get through all his errands and walk back home.
Whatever. It wasn't like he could do anything about this new assignment. He didn't help out in the fields often, even with his tolerance to sunlight. His way of contributing was walking to Port Mercy to sell wine, juice, grapes, and raisins.
And today was another one of those days.
October 18
"Alrighty, hon, here's what's on the list for today…"
Dennis fidgeted in the foyer as his mother read out the ridiculously long list of things he had to do. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. He listened in and mentally repeated the tasks in his head—grab flowers for Ma, get a new shovel for Liam, ask the pharmacist for medication for Danny, buy three loaves of bread from the bakery—the list seemed unending.
"—and if you could get another flannel from the apparel store for yourself," she chided, looking at his dirt-stained clothes. "You can't keep wearing clothes like that when you go to Port Mercy. It's improper."
She was small compared to Dennis, who was smaller than most guys. The two of them looked almost the exact same. They even had the same shy look. Shy was the last word he'd ever use to describe his mother. She had that commanding presence that caused even his oldest brother, who always carried himself like he ruled the world, to shrink a little when she lectured him. Ma was never afraid to speak her mind, whether to her sons or her husband.
Dennis frowned in response. "Ma, it's not ruined or anything," he tried to argue, "and it looks fine. I don't need another shirt." In truth, he didn't like it when his mother—or anybody, for that matter—spent money on him.
"Nonsense." She went into the living room and returned with her wallet. A small leather thing, barely the size of his palm. "How much will you need?"
"Hm…" Dennis thought back to the last time he passed the McKin (or was it McKay?) clothing store. It was a while back. He didn't walk along Kite Boulevard much. There were too many people there and he felt suffocated by crowds. "Probably twenty dollars?"
His mother dug into her wallet and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. She grasped one of his hands and placed it into his palm. Dennis tried to give it back, but she shook her head. "Get pants while you're at it. Your clothes are in terrible condition, Dennis."
"They're not that worn out," he replied feebly, but even he knew how unconvincing he sounded. His flannel was falling apart at the cuffs, stained with dirt from messing around in the fields with his brothers. Jeans with hems ruined from mud and getting caught on thorns. He didn't like shopping. It was awkward talking to the shopkeepers when the whole town knew him as the shy farmhand. His mother raised an eyebrow in argument and he gave in, pocketing the dollar bill, keeping his eyes on his boots the whole time.
He felt cool hands brushing against his forehead. Dennis looked up from his shoes and smiled a little, brushing the curls out of his eyes. She murmured, "I should cut your hair soon. Your hair's getting long."
"I like it this way." He tugged at his bangs; a habit from childhood that he never broke, even a century later.
"If you insist." She sighed softly. She handed him a wooden crate, stocked to the brim with grapes and a few bottles of wine off to the sides. "That's all for today. Four bottles of white, a few vines of green and red grapes."
"Really?" It was unlike her to hand him such a small load, but he clutched the handles and took the crate. Hardly as heavy as he was used to carrying. "I thought Pa said we were bringing in more this week."
"Not this time" was all she said before ushering him out the door. Dennis didn't push and stepped outside into the cool October air. He heard his mother saying her farewell. He stepped off the front porch and onto the farm.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots. The wind stung his cheeks and hands as it carried the familiar scent of fertilizer, fresh dirt, and faintly, sweetness. Early golden light shone down onto the leaf-covered pathway, leaving long shadows to stretch across the fields. It was quiet so early on in the day. Even with the farm being so far away from Port Mercy, the sounds of bustling activity typically echoed along the valley all the way up to the cliff side. There was no honking from their vehicles, no chattering carried in the wind, no noise from the town to reach his ears.
By the time he'd reached the boundary between the farm and Spire's Hollow, his arms were already sore and an odd ache was settling into his legs. It was a bit rich for his body to be complaining, considering he did this every week, typically with heavier loads too.
Five years ago, his brother Liam used to go. Before him, Isaac went, and before Isaac, Danny. Every few years, they'd hand off the duty of visiting town to the next son, who didn't smell like the Oils. The tradition started when the Whitakers realized they couldn't send the same kid to Port Mercy over and over. People would notice the lack of aging. In five-ish years, Dennis would supposedly be in his mid-thirties, but would appear twenty-five. The Whitakers would either have to find a way for them to send and trade goods anonymously, or they'd have to move towns again.
Dennis sighed. He liked Port Mercy. He really didn't want to move, but being a vampire had its challenges.
After all, he'd been twenty-five years old for six decades.
"Damn it." Dennis put the crate down with a huff, straightening out his arms. The pain spread to his wrists now, creeping up his forearms and into his biceps. By no means was he the most in shape out of all his brothers, but he wasn't completely weak either. He'd made the journey back and forth without much discomfort other than his feet hurting from too-tight shoes. Never had he experienced pain in his arms before. He wasn't even in the Hollow yet.
So why was he so tired?
"Suck it up, Whitaker," he muttered to himself. He hoisted the crate back up, ignoring the constant throb. "You're probably tired from working with Pa."
Another common misconception: vampires could get sick. The chances were basically lower than winning a lottery ticket since they had extremely efficient immune systems. He'd been pushing himself, day and night, to help out on the farm. Danny, his eldest brother, was sick with a fever. He spent the last several weeks in bed, coughing and sniffling. Dennis had never seen his rough-and-tough brother so exhausted. His father then employed him and his remaining brothers to basically work overtime and keep up the farm with Danny down.
Dennis sniffled. Maybe he was getting sick. That sounded about right.
The entrance to the Hollow was less intimating than the name implied. Depressing was a better word for it. The trees always hunched over the road, too tired to carry their own weight. Their branches clung to one another, desperate for something to hold. Their interwoven layers concealed most sunlight, leaving barely a few spots of brightness to guide him. Whispers of wind and birdsong were silenced in the trees. Only his breathing and the trickling of the stream could be heard in the ghostly forest.
He continued down the poor excuse of a road. As usual, he followed the stream parallel to it. It was more or less like a hiking trail at this point; all bumpy and uneven with rocks sticking out of everywhere. The only way he knew it was still a road was the washed out yellow line that ran along the middle of the concrete. In all honesty, the road through the Hollow was worse when it rained, snowed, or when a heatwave hit. He'd powered through storms and sweltering heat to get into Port Mercy. Suffice to say that the residents were always shocked when he turned up at the Farmer's Market, unscathed with flushed cheeks, regardless of how bad the weather got. Though today was a nice day to walk. Perfect weather, even. Cool air, crunchy leaves, and the sun brightening the way.
He jumped from rock to rock, following the river downstream as the contents in his carton swished and rocked within. The movements reminded him of how he played hopscotch with the village children back home. Laughing together, holding hands in the fields of rural Wales. How freeing it was, for a vampire child, taught to feel shame of their existence, to play with human children who didn't know any better. Children of both kinds didn't understand the difference between human and inhuman—they only saw another kid to play with. He spent months hanging out with those kids until his family started insisting that they cease all interaction, saying that humans would hurt them because they were scared. Dennis once read that fear towards something wasn't present at birth, it was trained. Trained by parents, trained by friends, trained by society.
Mankind had no purpose to create a rift between themselves and vampires. Yet, they found reasons to be scared. To induce fear and create a divide to emphasize their superiority.
Dennis teetered on his heels as he hopped off the last rock. His feet met solid, sturdy, and slightly muddy ground once more. He looked down at his delivery and ensured everything in the crate was intact before continuing the journey eastbound. The road was a bit more evened out here. Street lamps lit the way in the breaking dawn, coating him in artificial yellowish light. Evidently, the road hadn't faced the same fate as its hillside counterpart.
His gaze wandered to a rugged path to his right. It diverged from the road, turning into the thick trees ahead. From what he'd heard, someone lived down there, but he'd never seen anyone coming or leaving, or could he see the supposed house.
Dennis shook his head. Maybe they'd left.
After a few minutes of walking, he ended up at the intersection where uneven, cracked pavement turned to smooth asphalt. The exact spot where Pine Lane, the road to the vineyard, became Porter Avenue, the main road that ran through Port Mercy. The street that divided the two was Founders Street. Driving north on that road would eventually lead to the highway and from there, a whole other realm that Dennis wasn't sure he wanted to see. Whatever lay beyond the borders of Port Mercy was a world unknown.
Port Mercy was small. Safe. Controlled. It was one of those towns in the smack middle of nowhere. Dennis knew if he told someone he came from there, they'd nod and smile, then ask some variation of "Where is that again?" It wasn't surprising: a town with just under six thousand residents, old houses, located in some tiny, unshapen bay that opened up into the wide sea wasn't necessarily a vacation-worthy spot. Nothing notable came out of the town; no major exports, no extraordinary thing that could be a landmark, no event that was uniquely Port Mercy. It was a slow, sleepy town on a planet filled with bustling cities. It was one of the reasons Dennis liked the place so much. People couldn't look it up or find it on a map. Port Mercy was kept away from the rest of the world. It was a secret, one that he was happy to keep.
Port Mercy was generally quite a nice place. Kind residents, a quaint atmosphere, and hardly any crime. They were a pretty tight-knit community, even with a few thousand residents. The settlement wasn't removed from modern society, but definitely existed in its own little bubble. A little piece of land that whose architecture paid homage to both an older era while combining more modern aspects. Its uniqueness was what caught Dennis's eye when he first moved into Port Mercy back in… what was it, 1990?
The world slowly stirred awake as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Down the street, he heard birds singing loudly and cars zooming around town. The little buildings began to grow larger and the roads more stable with every step he took.
"Oh, good morning!"
Dennis almost jumped six feet up in the air in surprise. He looked in the direction of the voice; oddly chipper and upbeat for a Wednesday morning in October. A woman with dirty-blonde hair was suddenly walking beside him. Friendly eyes smiled at him through black framed glasses.
"Hello," Dennis managed to say. He hadn't seen her around town before. Then again, he didn't know faces or names, only occupations and who ran what store. "How are you…?"
"Melissa King. Please, call me Mel," she grinned. Dennis found her cheerfulness endearing. She looked fairly young, he thought. Couldn't be older than thirty, and even so, she had a child-like innocence about her that made her look even younger. "I'm the new therapist for Port Mercy. I moved in last night. I'm so glad to be here! It's so peaceful and beautiful."
A therapist? That was new.
Dennis let himself smile. "Agreed. I've always liked listening to the crashing waves at night. Helps me sleep."
"Me too." Mel gasped and fidgeted with her fingers, smile unfading as an embarrassed flush crept up her cheeks. "Oh my goodness, I forgot to ask for your name. You are?"
"Dennis." He nodded towards the path he'd come from. "I'm from Liberton Estate up on the hill."
Mel paused for a second, deep in thought. She snapped her fingers after a moment. "You're from the vineyard I've heard so much about! I've only been here a few days and I've only met a few people, and the bartender at the Bear—Mr. Langdon, I think was his name—kept talking about how great your family's drinks are!"
"That's good then." A weight seemed to dislodge in his chest. They still had an audience. "Nice to know the people of Port Mercy still like the wine."
Mel laughed. Not one of those polite, sarcastic laughs he heard in restaurants, but a full, hearty laugh. Mel was like a breath of fresh air in a town where new links only came in every so often.
"From what Mr. Langdon said, your family business has been thriving since the start. From what it sounds like, your family is basically part of Port Mercy's history."
They chatted during their walk into town, passing street after street. Dennis liked Mel. She wasn't artificial or pretending to be civil with him like some of the other residents. Mel didn't care that he was the odd farm boy. She laughed off her mistakes, apologized so much Dennis had lost count of how many times she'd said "sorry" in the last few minutes, and greeted every person they ran into with a smile.
Maybe getting to know the townsfolk wasn't such a bad idea after all.
"Oh, this is where I stop."
Mel halted in front of a two-story office complex. Reddish-brown bricks held the place up, with a red and white awnings keeping them in the shade. Two glass doors led into the building, and from there, Dennis couldn't see further inside.
"Your office?" Dennis inquired. Mel nodded. He hadn't noticed how dressed up she was: a white knitted sweater with brown slacks. She combed her fingers through her hair.
"I'm nervous. I'm new to the town, and I've got no clue if people here will like me," she admitted. "The people I've met are nice, but I've still got a few thousand more to meet."
Dennis shrugged, putting the crate down. The ache in his arms seemed even more pronounced now. "Don't worry about it. I've been here for fif—" he coughed, trying to cover up his mistake, "years now. I was born here, and I still don't know everyone. The people here in the Pitt are nice. No need to worry about remembering names. I sure don't."
"The… Pitt?" Mel said it like it was a foreign language.
He gestured to the cliff beyond the building. The small cove, a downhill walk from Port Mercy, extended into the grand ocean beyond. "This place we call home was the result of a huge earthquake way back in the 1600s," he explained. "The weak rock caved in to create a crater, which filled with seawater and eventually became the cove. Some guy discovered the land, decided to build a town around it, thus leading to the creation of Port Mercy. Or as his friend liked to call it, the Pitt. Name stuck around, and to this day, you'll hear the nickname."
Mel hummed in response. "Interesting. Thank you for telling me, Dennis."
"It's no problem," Dennis picked up his crate off the sidewalk. "Sorry. I should get going too. I've got errands."
"All good." Mel gave him two thumbs up with a wide smile. "See you around, then?"
Dennis balanced the wooden box against his hip to free one hand. He returned the gesture. "See you around."
Maybe getting to know the townspeople wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.
Good, he thought. Today was going good.
I'm going to jump off Pointe Cliff one day.
That was the only thing on Dr. Michael Robinavitch's mind as Jack stopped compressions and Dana pinched the space between her eyebrows. Two of the nurses stepped away from the gurney with their hands full of tubing and wires.
"Time of death," Robby muttered, "10:13."
Dana's pen scratched against paper as she told something to the nurses as they stepped out. Robby and Jack stood on opposite sides of the man, the latter peeling off bloodied gloves and tossing them into the red bag nearby. He leaned back, head hitting the wall behind him.
Their patient, a man in his mid-fifties, was know for managing the library on Canal Row. Robby had seen him around town and while they never shared more than a few conversations at communal gatherings, he knew a bit about him. His wife worked as a bartender at the Bear. His brother was one of the town's fisherman. He was a father of three. His son, the youngest, was twelve. His eldest daughter left for college out of the country, and the younger daughter started grade 10 last month.
A heart attack took away someone who was crucial in several people's lives.
"Ten in the morning and we've already lost four patients," Jack grunted. He was exceptionally ill-tempered today, having been forced into overtime with one of the doctors calling in sick. To make matters worse, Jack worked the night shift before coming in and was running on caffeine, two hours of sleep, and sheer will. The hospital shouldn't have called him in, but there was nobody else. Perks of being the only medical service in the smack middle of nowhere.
"Yeah," Robby sighed. He reached for a nearby blanket and unfolded it. In one gentle swoop, he covered the man. Corpse, he reminded himself. He wasn't alive anymore. "All part of the job."
Robby never escaped his fate of working in the emergency room. Four years spent at Big Charity, New Orleans. Two years in a shabby New York clinic. Today marked seventeen years spent working for Wildflower Medical, Port Mercy.
"I'm getting more coffee." Jack pushed off the wall and went towards the glass double doors of Trauma One. "You coming?"
"Sure." Robby followed him out of the room. The two nurses from earlier reentered and moved the body away.
The halls were quiet. That was one nice thing about Wildflower Medical being in Port Mercy: Less residents meant less patients. The entire hospital had thirty beds, and statistically, less than 8 thousand emergency department visits every year. They only managed general medicine, minor surgical operations, and maternity. Anything more severe was handed off to the larger hospital about four hours away. Most days, they dealt with a few incoming patients and check-ins for current residents. Under-staffing was a problem though; not many people wanted to live the rest of their days in some no-name town that couldn't match the opportunities in a bustling city, and most days, they were stretched for personnel.
There were those days where Wildflower took in patients from even smaller towns and their rooms got so full people were put in the halls. Today was one of those shitty days.
Robby sat down on the faux-leather couches of the staff room while Jack prepped the coffee machine. Jack was right; only 10AM and he was ready to go home. Robby put his glasses on to check his phone right as the door opened to reveal Dana, hands shoved in the pockets of her scrubs. Robby stood up and Jack turned around, ready to sprint back to the trauma rooms.
"At ease, boys," Dana, smiling, raised her hands. "Nobody's incoming."
The three of them were close friends and balanced each other out perfectly: Jack's sarcasm and quick thinking, Robby's rationale and intelligence, and Dana's calmness and management. She sat down on a chair across from Robby, who'd returned to his seat with a breath of relief. Jack went back to making coffee.
"Dana, you want some too?" He raised an empty mug.
Dana shook her head. "I'm alright," she said. "But I do have to talk to you both."
Robby looked at her. "Patient update?"
"Someone died because I turned my pager off for two seconds?" Jack guessed. "I didn't, but still."
"You're mad because I didn't code the last guy?" Robby tried.
"I got it," Jack snapped his fingers. "You found my stash of cigarettes and you're mad you didn't get one."
"Not everything I want to talk about is work related, you know," Dana rolled her eyes. She glanced at Jack. "Since when did you smoke?"
"I don't," Jack said. "I'm the dealer."
"I hope you understand how bad that sounds." Robby couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"Can we get back on track, please?" Dana waved her hand to catch their attention.
Jack and Robby glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes. Dana caught their brief eye contact and sighed.
"It's a report from the police. They've issued a warning for all residents for here and a few other towns to be careful of heading into the mountains and forests."
Jack spoke first, "Serial killer in the area?"
"Jesus, you went there right away," Dana snorted. "No idea. All I got from Mrs. Shamsi was that apparently there's someone dangerous nearby. Might be some kid with a gun thinking they could play cowboy."
Eileen Shamsi was the mayor of Port Mercy. People knew her as a very qualified leader, a guiding figure, and someone who kept the town in check. Everyone knew her daughter more, though. Robby felt bad for her. The residents her age called her the "nepo baby" since she was basically a shoo-in once her mother retired. From what Robby heard from Dana (the woman knew everything going on in town), she was actually qualified for office, aside from the fact she was awkward and shy.
"Or," Jack proposed, "it could be a cult, or maybe some rogues—"
"That's some Star Wars shit," Robby groaned, shaking his head.
"For fuck's sake, weren't you in the army for several years?" Dana laughed. "Thought you'd be more… strategic, more logical about this."
"Nah, the only thing the war did was mess me up."
Silence swallowed up the light atmosphere. Jack had severely injured part of his right leg after an accident in the field. He amputated the lower section and to wore a prosthetic to walk. To this day, his leg still ached after hours of standing and walking. And as much as he tried to hide it, Robby saw him limping after shifts that stretched too long.
"Didn't mean to kill the mood." Jack nudged Robby with his elbow. A familiar scent met his nose: he finished making the coffee. Robby took the mug graciously.
"Nothing wrong with talking about the past." Dana untied her hair and stretched her neck. "That's what helps you confront and move on from it, right?"
"Tell that to him," Jack pointed his thumb at Robby, who flipped him off in exchange. Jack merely laughed into his coffee and took a sip.
"That's rude." Robby held the warm cup in his hands. The dark liquid seemed too deep, so endless. "No need to call me out, Abbot."
"Stating facts, Robinavitch."
"Look at you two," Dana leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling, "bickering like an old married couple. Can't believe I've put up with this act for so many years."
"You love us," Jack nodded, reaffirming his own words. Dana shook her head, not objecting.
"Ohoho, you hear that, Jack?" Robby joked. "The great Dana Evans isn't denying our claim."
"Seems like we've wormed our way into her heart," Jack clutched at his chest dramatically, leaning towards Dana. She swatted him away.
"Cut it out." Dana stood up from her chair. Her pager buzzed in her pocket. With the trained speed of an experienced nurse, she checked it. On the little screen were abbreviations and a series of numbers.
INC>MH / GSW:RLQ / ETA –5M / HR:127
"Incoming from Maple Hill, GSW to the right lower quadrant. ETA 5 minutes," she translated. Jack leaned over.
"They're at 127 and still breathing? Nice." Jack downed the last of his coffee. "This'll be interesting."
"Any chances the paramedics know if the patient was inhaling when the shot struck RLQ?" Robby put his mug down and stood up as well. He removed his glasses, hooking them on the neckline of his scrubs.
Dana shook her head. "We'll have to wait and see."
The three of them walked out of the staff lounge and went to the emergency bay. Cool air from the coastline brushed their faces. The sounds of sirens grew louder and closer. It was calming, to be honest.
Then came the red and white lights, stark against the bright blue sky. Gone was the momentary relief. The ambulance pulled up right into the bay and barely a few seconds passed before a gurney came out the back. Dana and Jack were at the sides of it immediately, helping the EMT push their casualty inside. The man wheezed in pain, head shaking from side to side.
"Twenty-seven year old male, found bleeding out in his backyard by his neighbour," the EMT said, jogging alongside Robby. "Possible suicide attempt, caller wasn't certain. Apparently they saw someone leaving the scene. Local police still running forensics. Caller said he dialed almost immediately after hearing a gunshot."
Robby and Jack pushed the doors to Trauma One open. They parked the gurney next to T1's gurney.
"Got it. Thanks." Robby said. "On three." The six personnel present lifted the man onto the bed in unison.
Within seconds, they had gowns and gloves on. A nurse tore away the bloodied clothing while another stuck the monitors to his chest. On screen, the vitals spiked frantically and the numbers glowed menacingly.
"BP 63/82, heart rate 130," Dana read, watching the monitor. The beeping seemed to grow louder in every second. "Sir, on a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt?"
When no response came other than a distressed rasp, Dana pursed her lips. "Morphine." She listened to his breathing and after pulling her stethoscope away, she said, "Shallow and tachy. Hemorrhagic shock."
"SpO₂ 88% on room air," Robby projected his voice, "prep for intubation. Push roc."
Robby watched as a fellow nurse began as requested. Another nurse completed the IV attachment and began checking the abdomen for blood.
"Any free fluid?" Jack asked the nurse, who nodded. Jack huffed a breath through his teeth. "Rigid, tender, FAST positive for free fluid. Internal bleeding. Where the hell is the O-negative?"
"Add plasma while you're at it," Robby interjected. "Get TXA on board."
The young nurse with Dana set up the transfusion immediately, hooking up two bags as Robby went over to the head of the gurney to help with intubation. The nurse handed over the laryngoscope upon request and helped Robby with the tubing.
Robby moved on autopilot. This case was a harder one. There was no doubt about that. Yet, his legs walked to where he needed them to, his arms moving exactly as he wanted. He let himself get lost, doing whatever he felt was right. His fingers sutured, his voice called out orders. Words came automatically to him: "Clamp this. More suction. Hang another unit." The words felt hollow, merely rehearsed lines and sounds in a play he'd performed several times over.
The fluorescent lights above blurred like halos. Clattering and pinging blended together into a distant hum. Robby felt less present and more like he was watching his body at work. Everything felt far away, the plastic pipes in his hand barely weighing anything, the mass of his flesh nothing. A machine wrapped in human skin.
No matter how hard he tried, the metallic smell of blood never faded. The redness stained his hands, his heart.
And God, he hated it.
He heard Dana talking indistinctly and his body complied to whatever she said. He, Jack, Dana, and a couple nurses stepped away to let a new nurse and a surgeon wheel the gurney away. His feet led him out of Trauma One and into the hallway. Where he would go, he didn't know.
A sudden pat on his back snapped him out of his daze. Jack appeared beside him, eyebrows knitted together in worry.
"You alright?" Jack asked. "You look pale."
Robby shook his head. "Didn't sleep well last night. It's catching up to me."
"Same, brother," Jack agreed. "You sure you don't need a minute?"
"I'm okay." The lie was practiced, another part of a script he memorized long ago.
Jack saw through it; Robby could tell by the way his eyes flickered with understanding. Neither said anything.
"Alright then," Jack patted him once again. "I'm going to do rounds with Dana, since, you know, we all forgot to do it this morning."
Forgot was a nice way of putting it. That morning three patients came in at seven, eight-fifteen, and nine-thirty respectively. Each had entered the ER and died from their injuries despite their best efforts to save them. Dana looked more worn out than usual, Jack was using twice the sarcasm, and Robby felt more detached than before.
Medicine was the job that kept on giving, as per his own catchphrase. Giving a fuck ton of headaches, mental breakdowns, and suicidal tendencies.
Jack was halfway down the hall when he turned back to check on Robby. "Coming?"
"Do I really have a choice?" Robby rolled his shoulders and trailed behind Jack, who laughed.
"Nah, not really."
From where they stood, Robby could see Dana leaning against the counters in Central, chatting with one of the new interns. She noticed him and Jack looking her way and she gave a wave. Jack beckoned him to follow.
Today's gone terribly, he thought, but maybe it'll get better.
By the time Dennis had sold everything and grabbed all the items on his list, dusk was settling on Port Mercy. The wooden crate, initially filled with wine and grapes, was now full of flowers, groceries, and a new shirt. He didn't end up buying pants; he decided he'd rather treat his mother with a new necklace. Her birthday was coming up and she'd been murmuring about the loss of her old one for weeks.
He'd made it back up the hill to Liberton, handed over the crate of goodies to his mother, who started making dinner the second he was back. He gave Danny his medications, picked grapes with Isaac, and helped his father with the leak in the stables.
Everything was fine.
Until 9:45 in the evening.
"Dennis, hon," his mother called from the kitchen. "Could you come here for a moment?"
Dennis, comfortably reading on the couch, looked up from his book. He could see her from where he sat. She stood at the counter, cutting up vegetables for whatever stew she was making tonight. It smelled great, no doubt about that.
"Yeah, ma?" He stood up and in his thin socks, slid over into the aromatic warmth of their kitchen. He was careful to stay out of her way.
"Pa needs you to help him with the leak in the roof," she said. Dennis restrained himself from groaning.
"Why can't Isaac or Liam do it?" Dennis complained.
He wasn't scared of heights. Nope. Definitely not. Being on the roof in the dark didn't seem safe. That was why.
"Isaac is still busy with pressing the harvest from today." She finished chopping the remaining vegetables and transferred them into the pot. "And Liam's helping him."
"Okay…" Dennis tried, "and why do I have to go tonight? Why not tomorrow?"
"The weather forecast shows a rainstorm overnight, so I'd suggest you help your Pa. He's in the front. You'll see his ladder." She paused. "Unless you want to wake up to a room full of rainwater."
So that's why Ma waited for me to come home. Liam and Isaac must've said no to helping out since it's not their room that'll get flooded if they don't assist.
Oh, the pros of having the attic loft as my bedroom.
"Yeah, fine," Dennis grumbled. His body was still achy, arms like noodles and his legs weak. In his humble opinion, he was in no shape to work on fixing a hole in the roof.
"Dennis Whitaker, don't give me that attitude," his mother threatened. Dennis was already in the foyer, shoving his boots onto his feet. He threw a jacket on and went out the front door. Rain was already beginning to fall. Barely a drizzle now.
True to what she had said, there was a red ladder leaning against the house. Dennis climbed up the rungs, hoping that it wouldn't collapse. The very top of the house was fairly high up, about three stories. When he reached the last step, he saw his father's head. Dennis stepped onto the roof, basically crawling on the tiles.
His father turned around and squinted into the darkness. Dennis stared back. He and his father looked nothing alike. His father had blonde hair and deep green eyes. The man always had a formidable air to him, one that commanded people to listen to him—not in the way Dennis's mother did. He demanded respect and was essentially a boulder incarnate. Hell, he was even as strong as one. He couldn't have been any more different than his youngest son, who was quiet, reclusive, and slimmer.
He must've been able to make out Dennis's face in the night because he went back to his work.
"I need you to tape this part here," his father said. "Just a temporary fix while I grab some tiles from the shed."
Dennis crawled closer. His father gestured to a gaping hole in the roof. It was about the size of Dennis's palm. He handed him a roll of water-proof tape. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't move."
Dennis only nodded as his father disappeared down the ladder. Kneeling against the tiles wasn't hard. The clay-concrete digging into his knees was painful, to say the least; nothing he couldn't tolerate.
It was the fact the rainfall had tripled in the minute he'd exited the house.
It wasn't raining. Downpour was the only way to explain it. He could feel his jacket getting soaked, but he didn't want to head back in. He forced himself to pull strips of tape over the hole, ignoring the way his hair stuck to his forehead and the way his hands shook from the cold.
His father already saw him as the runt of the family.
If he went back in, he'd prove his father's words right.
So he kept on grabbing tape, sticking it over the hole. Layer onto layer, thick enough that the water wouldn't penetrate it.
There was so much water.
So much that it burned his eyes and blurred his vision, stung his nose and seeped into his mouth.
His arms burned.
How odd. All he did was pull some tape.
The exhaustion from earlier must've caught up to him. Cotton filled his ears, his eyelids falling shut.
The rain was like a blanket to his weary heart. It was a hug that, despite its chill, was welcome.
He hadn't felt someone hug him for awhile now.
And on that night, Dennis Whitaker fell off the roof.