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Post By Proving that every thowaway character is a potential star - except maybe Krotch - here's the next story of the nocturnal Nightingale, offered up in all it's gory glory by... the Hooded Hood Sun Apr 04, 2004 at 05:34:24 am EDT |
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Night Nurse #2: Blood Will Tell | |
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| Night Nurse #2: Blood Will Tell Author’s Note: I hope Al B. Harper doesn’t think I’m stepping on his turf here. He did such an excellent #1 with some interesting unexplored backstory hints that I’d hate to think I’ve scuppered something with the direction this story takes. So maybe this is another of those “imaginary tales” that don’t really happen like all the other stories about the Parodyverse do. Who knows? Grace O’Mercy arrived in ER just after sunset, as the busy nightshift began in Paradopolis’ Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital. She came in drenched from the downpour outside, evidence of the storm that had come howling off the Atlantic to batter the Eastern seaboard earlier that day. An overturned bus on the Englehart Bridge had already made the shift busier than usual, and Charge Nurse Dubrovnik looked desperately relieved to hand over to somebody else. “Careful going home,” Grace advised her as she checked down the operations book to get herself up to date. “It’s pretty foul out there, and all the roads are clogged with cars.” “Careful in here too,” Patty Dubrovnik answered. “The weather’s causing all kinds of accidents, and we can’t get the choppers out. There were nineteen schoolkids in that bus, and some of them were in bad shape. Three still down at X-ray. We also got three drunk-drivers, two ODs, one knifing, one electric shock, and a hand-through-plate-glass in the last hour alone.” “Who’s on tonight?” Grace wondered, checking the doctor’s roster. She flicked over the sheet. “Is anyone on?” Of the nine interns who were scheduled to be working only three had made it in so far. “Carlson and Jenner are both on their way, and I’ve already paged McKirkland to be on standby,” Patty noted. “I’ll call Nubridge and Lee as well,” Grace decided, “since they both kindly gave me their personal phone numbers.” “I bet they did,” smiled Patty Dubrovnik, looking at the slim dark-haired woman with the hourglass figure pulling on her nurse’s cap. “You go, girl.” “Oh no. I’m off doctors.” Grace glanced out through the sheet-glass windows. “You’d better go, Pat, before this gets any worse.” “Deal. But next time you tell me why you’re off doctors, okay? I thought things were going so well with Frank Shapiro.” Grace O’Mercy grimaced. “Later,” she promised. “Let’s just say for now that our shift patterns weren’t the only things that were incompatible.” When Patty had hurried off, Grace went down to the patient waiting area to see how things were stacking up. Francine DuBois, a plump black nurse roughly the size of a minivan was keeping order there. She had an amazing effect on rude and disorderly patients. “How’s it going, Francie?” Grace checked. “Oh, the usual,” shrugged the other woman. “Short of docs and short of beds and short of supplies. I’ve had to call Jimmy’s in GMY for more whole blood. I don’t know what we do with the stuff.” “Check your first year notes, Francie,” quipped the night nurse. “I think there’s something in there about bags and tubes and needles.” Whatever retort Francine might have come back with was lost forever as the doors from the ambulance bay swished open and an emergency paramedic team raced in with a man on a gurney. “Major trauma!” shouted Hal Baker, the lead medic. “Neck and chest wounds, gushing. He’s in cardiovascular shock, and he’s breathing arhythmically. Where’s the doc?” “Get Asland!” Grace told Francine, moving forward with practised professionalism, trauma kit in hand. “Prep bay three for immediate surgery.” “What are you doing?” Baker demanded as Grace looked over the patient then dived to the supply cabinet. “That neck trauma needs immediate attention,” the night nurse answered hastily. Francine and the others were setting up blood and glucose supplies. “Hell, half his damn neck is ripped out. We need to stanch that artery now, get the blood to coagulate.” She popped the cap of the bottle of clear liquid and sluiced it all over the punctures. “Gotcha,” agreed Baker, catching onto the strategy. Dr Asland was there in less than a minute, but in that time the patient’s life had already been saved. All he needed now was five hours in surgery and four months’ recovery. “Nice going,” Francine approved as the trauma case was being prepped to move into the theatre. “Unconventional but effective. Was that stuff you used…?” “Yeah. I’ve seen that kind of wound before,” frowned Grace. She turned to Hal Baker. “Where did you find that guy?” Baker nodded over to the pair of police officers who hovered over at the reception desk. “Code blue from them,” he answered. “He was in an alley, only a couple of blocks over from here. Hell, he wouldn’t have made it if he’d been any further.” Grace went over to see the officers. “Hi, Jane,” she said to Officer Wilson. “New partner?” Officer Kelsey was new enough to blush when a pretty nurse noticed him. “The victim?” Jane Wilson asked. “Too early to say, but he’s got a chance. Who is he?” “ID says Harry Denholm, an accountant over in Carrington. Probably on his way home but couldn’t find a cab tonight.” “You think that was a mugging?” Grace frowned. “You think different?” “That wasn’t a knife injury,” the night nurse warned the officers. “Jane, that was a bite.” Officer Wilson frowned. “Ah.” Kelsey didn’t get it. “What’s going on, then?” he asked. “You’re saying he got attacked by a dog or something.” “Something,” agreed Grace. She looked along the row of cubicles where the casualties were being treated. Sure enough, there was the kid from Hell’s Bathroom that had come in after the gang fight. And beside him and his near-hysterical mother was just the man she needed to see. “Excuse me,” she said to the officers, then called out, “Reverend Fleetwood!” Mac Fleetwood glanced over and saw the nurse was calling him. He excused himself from Maria Pizaro and her wayward son now that the worst of the scare was over. The kid had eleven stitches to warn him away from drug running as a career; maybe that would be enough. “Nurse O’Mercy,” he smiled wearily. “What can I do for you tonight?” “We just got a neck trauma,” Grace told the minister. “Two sharp gashes over the jugular, exacerbated by an unidentified anticoagulant. I used holy water that moderated blood loss long enough for us to apply treatment. Does that mean anything to you, reverend?” Officer Kelsey frowned. It didn’t mean anything to him. “You’re suggesting a vampire attack?” Fleetwood recognised. “You’re kidding,” snorted Kelsey. “She’s kidding, right?” “Been a while since we’ve had one this blatant,” noted Jane Wilson. “This is a joke. It’s a gag to pull on the newbie,” said Kelsey. “So you’re okay with… well, talking about undead?” Grace checked with Fleetwood. “Some clergymen get offended.” “I work Hell’s Bathroom,” Mac retorted. “Vampires are some of the nicer neighbours.” “What the f…” Kelsey scowled. Wilson told him to shut up. “I’ll let the old man know,” she promised Grace. “Don Graham likes to hear about this kind of stuff right off.” “Tell him I’m in the loop,” Fleetwood instructed her. He looked worriedly at Grace. “I only hope you’re mistaken, Nurse O’Mercy.” “I’ve been working the night shift here for four years,” Grace assured him. “I’ve seen some very weird stuff. I’m not mistaken.” “It was a what?” Dr Beldevere asked in his superior Boston tones. “It was a vampire attack,” Nurse O’Mercy repeated firmly. She’d known as soon as she’d been summoned to the senior surgeon’s office that there was going to be trouble. “I know how that sounds, doctor, but you’re new here at PMH, in Paradopolis, and…” “And there are no such things as vampires here or anywhere,” Belvedere told her firmly. “Officer Kelsey reports that you used some unauthorised chemical on the patient when he was in critical condition.” “I washed his wound in holy water and it abated the bleeding,” Grace explained. “I think vampire saliva must act as a kind of anticoagulant, which was making the wound bleed worse than it should have. He’d have died if I hadn’t…” “Hadn’t doused him in unsterilised saline in some voodoo ritual nonsense! What century do you think we are living in, Nurse O’Mercy?” Grace forced herself to stay calm. “Look, this isn’t the first time…” “Are you telling me you’ve tried this nonsense before, nurse?” growled Dr Beldevere. “Ask any of the really senior staff here, doctor,” the night nurse told him. “Ask Dr Whitwell himself if you have to. They’ll tell you. We’ve seen this kind of thing before.” She allowed herself a brief rueful smile. “We see everything in ER here, sooner or later.” “What I see,” said the senior surgeon, “is a supposedly professional medical practitioner projecting her personal delusions into a delicate and sensitive care environment, endangering lives, bringing this facility into disrepute, and rendering our institution vulnerable to lawsuit and ridicule.” “And, y’know, saving a life!” Grace argued back. “Hey, if you’d been helping out in ER while we were seven doctors down instead of sitting up here in your office or going out for coffee or whatever the hell it was you’d have seen for yourself.” Belvedere’s face grew bleak. “Nurse O’Marcy, I am suspending you from duty pending a full disciplinary review. I shall be reporting your actions to the board and to the AMA with a recommendation that you be struck from the nursing register, and if I get my way they’ll press for reckless endangerment and malpractice charges against you as well.” “What? Look, if you’d just talk to Dr Whitwell…” “You are a disgrace to your profession and a menace to those you are supposed to be caring for. I want you off these premises now and if you won’t go I’ll have security toss you on your ass!” “Funny you should mention the word ass…” shouted the night nurse.” Mac Fleetwood was still up despite the lateness of the hour. He’d just finished a long conversation with his old friend police commissioner Don Graham, and he wasn’t feeling any less settled. Normally the undead in Paradopolis kept a low profile, sticking to a few clubs where people consensually offered their blood because that was what aroused them, or to the sewers preying on vermin. Either one of the night stalkers had changed it’s pattern for some reason or there was a new vampire in town that wasn’t playing the game. There was a hammering at the church door. Reverend Fleetwood left his office and checked in the spyhole before unlocking the door to the nurse that had saved that victim’s life earlier. She was soaked through and very distressed. “Hi, can I come in?” she begged. “I need to talk to you.” “Sure,” Fleetwood assured her. “Let me get some coffee on.” Grace padded after him into the office. “Sorry to call so late, Reverend, but I was… well, I was worried about… you know.” “The vampire assault?” the clergyman supplied. “And call me Mac.” “I’ve been suspended,” Grace admitted. “My supervisor doesn’t believe in undead blood-sucking monsters, but he does believe in costly potential litigations and bad publicity.” “When’s Dr Whitwell back from his vacation?” Mac wondered. “I’m pretty sure he’ll…” “Two weeks,” the night nurse answered. “But by then who knows what will have happened? Harry Denholm only survived long enough for us to save him because those police officers stumbled upon the crime scene while the attack was happening… and to be honest because I knew to use holy water on his injury. What’ll happen next time if I’m not in ER?” “I’ve talked with some friends of mine, put out the word,” Mac assured Grace, handing over her coffee. She took it in traditional nurse’s fashion, sweet and black. “There’s an old scholar in Gothametropolis called Greye,” the night nurse suggested. “He might be able to help. And a plumber and watchmaker called…” “Xander the Improbable,” Mac finished for her. “I’ve left a message on his answering machine. At least I think it was an answering machine. And there’s an Englishman called Johnstantine. All the usual lines are being used.” Grace O’Mercy snorted self-depreciatingly. “You must think I’m being very silly. You have it all in hand.” “No, I appreciate you caring,” Fleetwood assured her. “Caring’s never wrong.” Grace noticed the duffel bag filled with flashlight, holy water, garlic, and stakes. “You’re expecting to hunt this thing?” she asked. “If I can find it I’ll try and lay it to rest,” Mac admitted. “If I can.” “You’ve… slain vampires before?” “No. But I’ve seen all the movies.” “Oh. That’s okay then. For a minute there I thought you were a novice.” “Well, you know,” Mac admitted ruefully, “all help gratefully received.” It was almost morning before Grace left the Zero Street Mission. The night had gone quickly plotting possible related incidents on large scale maps of Paradopolis. Mac had bales of old newspapers stacked up for recycling and they’d tried to spot any other incident that might relate to the problem at hand, but this was Paradopolis. Missing persons didn’t even make page thirteen. Grace was feeling tired now. The adrenaline of her confrontation with Beldevere had long worn off and the coffee could only go so far to keep her going. She hurried off down the rain-soaked alley because even in a torrential downpour at five a.m. this wasn’t a good neighbourhood for a young woman to be on her own. Mac had wanted to walk her to the subway but she’d preferred to go alone. Now she wished she hadn’t. There was someone behind her in the alley. The night nurse’s hand was resting on her trusty can of mace in her pocket as she turned to face her pursuer. “Yes?” she demanded fiercely. “It’s only me,” said Dr Beldevere, emerging from the shadows. “I was looking for you. Nurse DuBois mentioned that you stormed out intending to speak to Reverend Fleetwood.” “I needed spiritual counsel,” answered the young woman. It occurred to her how strange it was to be talking with the senior surgeon in the pouring rain in a Hell’s Bathroom alley. “I wanted to let you know that I have reconsidered what you told me,” Belvedere told her. “I think I misjudged you. I was too harsh.” “You believe in vampires,” Grace O’Mercy replied. “Of course you do.” Her mind was working fast now, and all the bits were clicking into place. “You’re new in town. The attack took place just two blocks from the hospital. Francine’s whole blood stocks were lower than they should have been.” “You are very clever,” conceded Dr Belvedere, “and far, far too perceptive. But you shouldn’t have wandered alone in such a dangerous part of town.” “I know,” admitted the night nurse as the vampire moved towards her. “That’s why I didn’t.” Mac Fleetwood moved up behind Belvedere, holding out a shining silver cross. “Like you say, she’s really perceptive,” the minister agreed. “And sneaky.” The vampire seemed unimpressed. “You have watched too many bad TV shows and movies,” he told the clergyman. “That only works if you have true faith.” Then he lurched forward at Fleetwood, only to be hurled back as if bouncing off an invisible wall. “Okay,” Mac said. “What else?” Belvedere had toppled amongst some battered garbage cans. With casual ease her hurled one at the minister, knocking him from his feet, sending the cross skittering into a puddle ten feet away. Then he was on Fleetwood, hoisting him by the neck at arms length. “How about this?” the vampire suggested. “No cross between us now, holy man.” “Right,” agreed Fleetwood. “But that’s just an outward symbol anyway, yeah? A little bit of metal representing a little bit of wood?” Belvedere’s fingers began to burn where they clutched Mac’s neck. “If that’s what an inanimate object representing God can do through faith, what can a real person representing God do?” the minister wondered as the vampire screamed in pain. But Belevedere still had the strength to hurl Mac the length of the alley before falling to the wet floor to douse his smouldering hands. The clergyman hit the ground hard and didn’t rise. Grace O’Mercy froze halfway to the fallen cross as the vampire turned his gaze on her. “Try and get it,” he challenged. “Race you.” The night nurse backed away, swallowing hard. “No,” she said. “I couldn’t, could I?” “No chance,” grinned Belvedere, “but it would have been fun to let you hope.” “I suppose you think you’re very clever,” Grace told him. “A hospital’s a pretty good cover for a vampire, and there’s always blood on hand in case you get desperate.” “Right,” agreed Dr Belvedere, “and nurses taste so nice. Come here.” Grace drifted towards him. “I don’t want this,” she told him. “Too bad, Nurse O’Mercy,” laughed the rogue vampire. With a sudden snarl, Grace O’Marcy lashed sharp talons across Belvedere’s face, knocked his head sideways, then bit hard and ripped out his throat. It tasted glorious, like wine after long abstinence, like water in the desert. A vampire’s blood is the sweetest of all. For a blissful moment Grace forgot everything. The blood was the life. And then reality surged back in. She dropped the shrivelled, drained carcass of the senior surgeon and saw Mac Fleetwood watching her, stake in hand. Then he put the stake away. “Come with me,” he told her, and led her back to the Mission. She followed him uncomfortably, like some hideous schoolchild caught committing a sin, aware of the blood on her uniform, aware of the blood on her lips. She entered the church uncomfortably – he’d invited her in earlier – and followed him again into the office. “Almost dawn,” Mac said to her. “So I didn’t think you’d have time to make it home.” “What?” Grace said. “I mean… you saw, yes? You know.” “That you’re a vampire? Oh yeah. First time I noticed you. After a while you get the knack. Then later when you were very involved in the map plotting you sometimes forgot to breathe.” “I need to work on that,” Grace admitted. “Like you say, a hospital’s a great cover for a vampire,” the clergyman considered. “As long as you keep to the night shift.” The night nurse nodded. “So… what now? Do you stake me, or do you just tell your friends?” Mac Fleetwood shrugged. “How many lives would you say you’ve saved this week. At the hospital?” “Well, it’s kind of a team effort, Mac. We don’t keep score.” “How many people have you killed then? As a vampire. Ever.” “No one. I was a nurse before I was an undead. And we had to make this promise. Do no harm. And I can get all the blood I need. Francine turns a blind eye, so I don’t need to…” “So what have you done that’s so terrible I should kill you?” Grace didn’t know how to react. “I’m a vampire.” “So? God loves everyone. And I personally believe he’s got a special soft spot for the afflicted, and very especially when they take those handicaps and do something really remarkable despite them, or even through them,” suggested Mac. “Except that crosses burn me and holy water hurts me and…” argued Grace. But Mac caught her hand and held it. “Does that hurt?” he asked her. “It sure burned that doctor guy.” “No,” admitted the night nurse, “but, you know, you’re not trying.” “Then what about this?” asked Fleetwood, laying a cross over her palm. Grace flinched instinctively. “It… should burn,” she answered, puzzled. “Everybody knows it. It’s the rules.” “But?” “But this just itches. I think I might be allergic.” “Our misfortunes don’t make us good or bad,” Mac told her. “Our choices do. Our handicaps don’t define us. Our actions do. Whether we hurt or heal, harm or help.” Grace smiled despite herself. “You are a very good preacher,” she conceded. “So what are you first, a vampire or a nurse?” “A nurse of course.” Grace didn’t even have to think about it. “The night nurse.” “Then why would God have a bone to pick with you?” Grace laughed then. “I’m thirsty, Reverend Fleetwood,” she told him. “How about another coffee?” Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2004 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2004 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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