The Donors (18 page)

“It was awesome, you guys.” Jason noticed that Nathan unconsciously cradled his bandaged arm and wondered if he had much pain. “We should totally try and go to a park like that when this is all over.” The boy looked over at his mom, like he had said a bad word or let out a secret. “You know—when I get out of the hospital, I mean.” He looked at Jason and smiled; his face held the kid version of a wink.

“We will definitely do that, buddy,” he said and squeezed Nathan's shoulder gently.

They chatted for a few more minutes and Jason tried to answer some of Sherry's questions. The Burn Service doctors had already told them that Nathan would leave the ICU today and go to a regular room. Jason made a mental note to try and cash in some favors and get them a private room if there were any available. The time went by quickly until Jenny squeezed his arm gently.

“I need to get to shift report,” she said.

“Ah, Jeez,” Jason said looking at his watch. “I need to get down to the ER, too.” He looked over at Sherry who seemed pretty content. “You've got my cell number, right, Sherry?”

“I do,” she said with a smile. “You guys have both been so great.”

“Can you call me and let me know when he moves to a new room so I can find him? We might try and stop by at lunch,” he said and cast a glance at Jenny who nodded enthusiastically.

“Absolutely,” she said. “And I'll try and get Nathan as part of my assignment so I can be the one who transfers him.”

Jason kissed Nathan on top of the head, which seemed to embarrass the boy a little. Jenny gave Nathan a big hug.

“I'll see you in just a little while and I'm here all day if you need anything,” she said.

“Thank you, Jenny,” Sherry said with a warm smile.

Jason checked again that Jenny seemed okay and had the phone numbers, just in case.

“I got ‘em—you're like a worried parent.” Then she kissed his cheek and Jason headed to the ER.

I think we just might get through this day.

Stay sharp. Today things will begin—

He shuddered at the words of the other-him voice in his head and wondered just what the hell he could possibly do if anything did go wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He checked, for the tenth time, the nine millimeter tucked into the back of his baggy jeans. He had put on an old pair of jeans this morning, from before it was cool to wear ‘em loose, just so's he could carry his gun in the small of his back like he'd seen Tick do so many times. He didn't feel nervous, just jacked. Tick would think he was a badass when he brought him all this green. Nah, not nervous. Just jacked. This would be easy.

The white kids weren't street, not really. They wanted to score some junk and be cool, try to impress their friends. They wanted to look street, but they didn't come from no shit-ass neighborhood. You wanna be street? Okay, no problem.

Jazz gonna bring you some street, assholes.

He'd never been able to actually get anyone except his little brother to call him Jazz, which he thought would be a slick street name, but that was gonna change today. Those white punks would bring the cash for dope he had no intention of giving them, and he was gonna take it from them and give it to Tick. Then they'd call him whatever the fuck he wanted. If he had to cap one of the bitches, even better. That would be some real serious street cred.

He felt warm in his hooded sweatshirt, even though the morning still seemed pretty cold. Must just be excited, ‘cause he sure as shit wasn't nervous. Not him. He needed it to cover his piece in the back of his jeans (which he now checked one more time) and to cover his head and face when he ran away with the cash.

James (Jazz, goddamnit—James was a faggot name) rounded the corner and walked the short alley behind the tire store that would take him to the dead end behind the grocery. He forced himself not to check his piece again ‘cause if they were here already, they would see him, and anyway, he could feel it rubbing uncomfortably on his back. Two guys in jeans and work boots with dark jackets waited for him at the end of the alley. He took a big breath and sauntered in.

“Where that other boy, the one with the shitty skin?” he called to the two boys standing crossed arm in front of him.

“Don't worry about him. You got our junk?”

“Yeah, man, don't sweat nothing,” he answered and reached behind him like it was in his back pocket. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the butt of his gun. “Show me some green first.”

The taller kid reached down into the front of his pants and pulled out a huge wad of bills. James felt his heart race and his eyes widened at the sight of it. Shit, these boys had really brought three thousand dollars. No fuckin' shit! He realized his arm shook a lot and tried to make it stop.

I ain't scared. Just excited.

He pulled the gun out and pointed it at the two, rotating it sideways—gang style, he thought to himself. He laughed a higher-pitched laugh than he meant to.

“How's ‘bout you assholes put my money down on the ground there and get your silly white asses the fuck outta here?” He liked how tough that sounded. Shit, this was easy. The boys looked scared—but not really. He tightened his grip on the gun and felt his arm shake a little. What was wrong?

James felt a flurry of motion behind him and spun around just in time to see the zit-faced kid whip the big metal bar over his head. He tried to move out of the way, but the bar caught him at the base of the neck and he both heard and felt the sickening crunch of bones giving way. For a moment he saw white light and felt like he floated, but the sensation disappeared abruptly when he landed with a jarring thud on the street and his head exploded in pain. Through the flashes of light he tried to look up and see what had happened and saw the shadowy image of the boy spinning the bar over his head for another blow. James raised both of his arms above him.

“Crush his nigger head.” He heard one of the other two scream. Then he felt the metal smash into his raised arms and again felt bones shatter. James heard a howling scream and realized it was him. His eyes started to clear, but tears blurred the image that towered above him. He realized the figure bent down beside him. James shook his head to clear it and the motion brought excruciating pain from his shattered collarbone.

He heard a clattering sound and, in terror, realized the figure had picked up his gun. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again and saw the kid with the bad skin look down at him from behind the nine millimeter. The boy's acne-scarred face looked scared and Jazz had a glimmer of hope that the boy wouldn't be able to do it.

“Try and rip us off, you black piece of shit.”

The hate in the voice stole away his hope. He closed his eyes and waited for his head to explode like a pumpkin.

The bang of the gun sounded much louder than he expected and it felt like the boy had kicked him hard in the chest—but that was all. He felt nothing else and opened his eyes.

The boy looked down at him in terror instead of victory, then dropped the gun and dashed out of view. Holy shit! He had missed. Point-fucking-blank and he had missed. He listened to the boys scurry out of the alley and couldn't believe he was alive.

“HOLY FUCK, DUDE. YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM. LET'S GET OUTTA HERE.”

You didn't kill shit, man. I can't believe you fuckin' missed. I will find you bitches and we will fuck you up for this.

James felt incredibly tired. He knew he had to grab his piece and get out of there before the cops came, but his body weighed a thousand pounds and he couldn't possibly get up. Maybe he would just rest a second and then he would jam. He took a deep breath and felt a hollow tug in the right side of his chest and then a hot, shooting pain. He painfully reached his hand to the spot and new anguish shot up his arm. A warm wetness met his tingling fingers as he felt the side of his shirt. Panic started to build in his chest, right alongside the new full feeling, and he raised his hand to his eyes slowly, the pain in his arm now irrelevant.

The hand was coated in blood and he realized what that meant.

“That fuckin' guy shot me,” he whispered and heard a raspy gurgle. It was hard to suck in the air he needed and he began to feel real fear now.

“Help me,” he whispered. “I don't wanna die.”

Sirens screamed in the distance and for once they gave him hope instead of fear. They would take him to the hospital. They would get him there and he would be okay. The hospital would be safe and they would save him.

And when I get better, I will fuck those guys up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason usually loved the trauma cases. Today, anything that took his thoughts away from his search for a plan to stop the nightmare he found himself in served as a distraction and nothing more.

Still, anything that makes the day go faster is good, right?

The residents from the Trauma Service, mostly surgeons plus a couple of students and Brent from his ER program, already scurried around donning their gowns and masks. His job was really to help out and assume care if the patient turned out to not need surgical admission to the hospital. That seemed pretty unlikely since the dispatcher for EMS told them the patient had a gunshot wound to the chest and multiple fractures. Jason pulled on his own stuff just in case they needed a hand and felt a little relief that he could think for a moment about something other than caves and Lizard Men.

Jason stood back against the wall as the medics came in, rolling the stretcher in front of them.

“African-American male, about nineteen or twenty years old, single gunshot wound to the right chest. Hemodynamically stable after one liter of IV fluids. Very poor breath sounds on the right—getting a little tachycardic the last few minutes and breathing fast now—also has obvious fractures with deformity to both forearms, which we splinted and a big ‘ol hematoma at the base of his neck on the left—probably a clavicle fracture—looks like someone beat him with a bat or something before they shot him.”

“I'm sure he was mindin' his own business and two dudes shot him for no reason,” someone chimed in from the Trauma Bay. The familiar old joke referred to what it seemed nearly all of the victims said when they were likely bad guys themselves. The medic ignored the comment and continued with the patient's vital signs, which Jason noted were not too terrible.

The patient's heart beat a little faster than normal, he breathed too fast and Jason guessed he had either a blood or an air leak in his chest. Probably both. He wished he could do the chest tube, which the patient definitely needed, but he knew someone on the Trauma Team would get to do that procedure. He busied himself setting up the chest-tube tray so they could pop it in quickly once the team finished their initial assessment.

“Brent, pop in a chest tube on the right, will ‘ya?” the trauma chief ordered.

Jason handed off the chest-tube tray to his friend from the ER and stepped back. He found himself rapidly losing interest and decided to just wait until they placed the tube to find out how much blood came out; anything less than a liter and a half and the guy probably didn't need surgery. This patient was definitely being admitted to the ICU either way, so Jason's role in his care was dwindling fast.

“What's your name, sir?” The chief resident asked.

“Jazz. What the fuck is your name?”

“Jazz. Right. Perfect.” The chief rolled his eyes and turned to Brent. “What ya got?”

“About six hundred milliliters and a little rush of air,” Brent called after a moment.

“Pressure looks stable and his heart rate is coming down,” someone else said.

Jason snapped off his gloves and tossed them in the big red trash can. Enough of that—the guy would definitely be admitted to the Trauma Service. He decided to start whittling down his patient list so he could get out on time. He had no idea what the evening might hold, but the weird, uneasy feeling hadn't left him.

“Spidey sense is tingling,” he mumbled.

You'll need more than that, trooper. You better start looking deep for things you'll need. It isn't just you that suffers if you fail this time.

He pictured Nathan—little Nathan, all boy and more of a man than him—and the pretty face of Jenny who he thought he might love even though he barely knew her. “Chest pain patient in six, Dr. Gelman,” a nursing triage tech said and shoved a chart in his hand.

If he could just get a minute to think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His chafed ankle, handcuffed to the rail of the ICU bed, hurt nearly as bad as where the fuckin' white, college-boy doctor had stabbed him in the chest with the tube. Didn't even give him no fuckin' medicine. Rich assholes. He knew they did that shit on purpose. That tube thing did take away the smothering feeling and made it easier to breathe, though, so he guessed they got that right. It still ached any time he shifted.

“Let me meet you on my street, bitch,” he mumbled.

“What's that you say there, James?” The big cop sat with his knees crossed in the oversized beige chair beside him. “You talkin' shit, boy? Better keep that to yourself.” The cop glared at him for a moment and then went back to his newspaper. James knew enough to say nothing.

His belly ached and he wondered when the hell he would get some food. Probably they kept that from the brothers too. He shifted in bed again and tried to lay his left leg so that it didn't pull on the handcuffs.

The door opened and an even bigger cop came in. He cast a look of more than hate, of almost a blind rage, at him before pulling his eyes away. He leaned over and whispered something to the cop in the chair.

“You sure?” the first cop said.

“Yeah, it's not a problem. I'll stay here with him while they chat.”

“He's a Fed or something?”

“Can't really talk about it, Danny. But it's fine. I'll stay here I promise.”

The cop in the chair frowned but got up and folded his paper. “Whatever you say, Sarge. I'll go grab a cup of coffee.” He glared back before he left. “You try not to be an asshole while I'm gone, James.”

James looked away and said nothing.

“Oh, he won't. I promise you that,” the new cop said. Something in his voice sent a shiver up James's spine, but he couldn't be sure why.

Fuck these guys. They just tryin' to scare me. I ain't sayin' shit to no one.

The older cop stood against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. James found it hard not to look over at him, but managed somehow. Then the door opened again and he looked up.

The figure that walked through the door should've looked funny, but he didn't. In another circumstance James would have hassled the man in the long trench coat and low-riding hat. But something about the pale skin and the eerie trick of the hospital lights that made his eyes appear to be glowing orange, made his chest feel tight in a place nowhere near the big tube that hung from his side.

He strained his own eyes to make sense of the image before him, the head tilted down and the hands clasped in front. At first, James didn't notice the shorter version behind the first man; same low hat and long coat, his pale hands up close to his hidden face and holding a small notebook and a stub of a pencil.

“These men have some questions for you, James,” the older cop said without moving from the wall.

“Name's Jazz,” James said, trying to sound tough. He tried to clear his throat but made a squeaking noise instead. His mouth felt so dry that it actually burned and he thought his throat might close up.

The taller figure tilted his head slightly back.

“I'm Mr. Clark and this is Mr. Smith,” he said. “We have some questions, James.”

Mr. Clark's mouth seemed to grow until it split open like an infected wound, revealing impossibly long and pointed teeth.

 

*  *  *

 

Nathan lay alone in his bed. His mother had left to hunt down some apple juice for him (they only had orange in the ICU right now) and at first the being alone felt kind of nice. But now he felt anxious and didn't know why. His stuff sat in a pile at the foot of his bed—some clothes and a few toys from home stuffed into a Buzz Lightyear rolling suitcase. It didn't matter much since he only took up about half the length of the bed.

Miss Jenny came in a lot to check on him and she seemed to be doing a little better. Her smile seemed more real, he thought. The last time she came by, Jenny told them that Nathan's room on the other floor—the place where people went when they were nearly better she told him—was ready and helped his mom organize all his stuff for the ride to the new place. New places could always make you a little nervous.

It's not the new room. Things are going on, Ranger. You are on high alert.

I'm ready.

But he could be more ready if he knew what things were happening. No pictures showed up clearly in his head, but Nathan felt sure the Lizard Men were up to something bad. He wished Miss Jenny would come in again. He closed his eyes and tried to listen, strained to hear the far-off sounds of the cave without really going there.

Name's Jazz.

The voice sounded nothing like the other-him voice from his head. It sounded scared. He could hear the raspy sound of the Lizard Men breathing, the hunger in them. Nathan felt even more scared when the room felt swimmy and he worried he might open his eyes and be in the cave by himself with the creatures. When he opened his eyes, he was relieved to see his hospital room, but it made the conversation and the shuffling noises seem much farther away. Nathan took a deep breath and got ready to close his eyes and listen again, but the door opened and Miss Jenny came in.

“Hi, Nathan,” she said warmly. He liked that she always called him Nathan, just like he liked it that Jason almost never did—to him he was always buddy or bud or sport or something.

“Hi,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Jenny asked. Her face knitted up like Mommy's did when she thought he might be sick.

“Yeah,” he said and looked past her to be sure his mom wasn't right behind her. “I think something bad is happening—in the cave.” He nearly whispered the last part, but she heard it and Nathan knew she heard it because her face got all pale.

“Is it Jason?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

“No,” he said and saw her mouth drop open. “I mean yes, yes he's okay—no it's not Jason who's in trouble.”

“Thank God.” She breathed and hugged him. Then she sat on the side of his bed and took Nathan's hand.

“I think they're takin' someone else,” he said. “I think we gotta tell Jason.”

The door opened and his mom came in with some juice. She looked at the two of them and they must have looked like something bad had happened, because she got her worried look.

“What is it? What's wrong?” she asked and stopped in the door like she could stay away from whatever the problem was.

“Oh, nothing,” Jenny said and got up, but she kept his hand in her own. “He's just got a tiny little bit of pain so I'm going to get him some medicine,” she said and looked at him with a
please go along with it
look
.
“I'll go get that, sweetie, and I think Jason will be up in a little while to check on you. Probably you'll already be in your new room.”

“Okay,” he said and rubbed his arm to make it look like it really hurt. “Thanks, Miss Jenny.”

Jenny left and his Mommy sat where she had been and opened his juice for him. A part of him felt glad that he couldn't really close his eyes and listen to the rest. He already knew that the Lizard Men were taking someone new to the cave. He didn't need to hear the screams to prove it.

 

*  *  *

 

Jason changed quickly out of his scrubs and into the jeans and T-shirt he had worn in from Jenny's apartment. He had to stop at his apartment sometime tonight and get some fresh clothes and a toothbrush, he decided, but his shirt passed the sniff test at least. He headed to the fifth floor and the Pediatric Observation Ward. The busy shift meant that time had passed quickly, but he had not been able to come by and see Nathan or have lunch with Jenny.

Jenny had left at three-thirty, after her shift ended, offering to come back and pick him up later when Jason's twelve-hour shift was over. Jason had kissed her cheek and told her he would walk to her apartment, the question of whether they would be together tonight apparently answered for both of them. Perhaps the walk would give him a chance to think.

The Pedi Ward looked exactly like it should—bright colors, pictures of animals and balloons stenciled on the walls, soft music—but none of it could overcome the hospital smell and the feel of sick people around him. The nurses all wore brightly colored scrubs and jackets with animals and toys on them, but they were still the strange grown-ups that woke you up at night and rammed a glass rod up your butt.

Nathan's room (a private room, he needed to remember to thank Sheila for that) sat conveniently beside the oversized cubicle jammed with toys, little chairs and beanbags for kids well enough to play. The lights were on in Nathan's room and he could hear the music from Disney's
Aladdin
blare from the TV. He smiled. He liked reminders that there really was a normal five-year-old in that brave little man.

“Hi, Jason,” Nathan said as casually as if he had walked into his living room at home.

“Hey, kid,” Jason said back. “Did I miss much?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Nathan answered and kept watching the screen. “I seen it before though.”

“
Have
seen it before,” his mother corrected, looking amused.

“I HAVE seen it before,” Nathan said and rolled his eyes a little.

“You ready for a little time out of bed?” Jason asked.

“Sure,” Nathan said, his face full of excited curiosity. He glanced over at his mom and she just smiled. “Where we goin'?”

“Thought you and I could go spend a few minutes in the play room—get you out of bed a bit and give your mom a break for a little while.” He looked at Sherry and winked.

Just wanna help out—not going to talk to your five-year-old about demon caves and Lizard Men—

“Is it okay, Mom?” Nathan pleaded.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Sherry said. “Just listen to Mr. Jason and do what you're told,” she added.

“I will,” Nathan said and literally bounded out of the bed.

“And be careful of your arm, please,” his mother added with a grimace at how he bounced around.

“No problem,” he answered and took Jason's hand with his un-bandaged good one, practically dragging him to the door.

“We won't be long,” Jason promised over his shoulder. “And the play room is right next door.”

“Have fun,” Sherry said with a nervous little wave. But she didn't get up. She trusted him and that felt pretty good.

They went into the oversized cubicle of a room and Jason collapsed into a furry, purple beanbag chair while Nathan scurried around and looked at the toys. He settled on a couple of plastic action figures and brought them over.

“Wanna play Power Rangers?” he asked.

Just a normal little boy.

“Sure,” Jason said and accepted the black and gray figure that Nathan passed him.

“That's a crybot. He's a bad guy,” Nathan said matter-of-factly. “This one is the Yellow Ranger and she's a good guy, although she's a girl.” The last part was like an apology and Jason fought down a snicker. “They don't have any boy ones that I saw, so I guess I'll be this one. Her name is Z.” Nathan sat beside him in the beanbag and winced a little when his hand bumped Jason's knee. They played for a while, the crybot in Jason's hand never quite getting the best of the Power Ranger—even if she was a girl. After a few minutes, Jason leaned in closer.

“You doing okay for real, buddy?”

Nathan shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “I'm nervous because I think something is going to happen soon.” He looked at Jason with his older eyes.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Jason asked.

“I don't know,” His brow wrinkled in thought. “Something bad, I think.” He looked at him again. “They took someone else, you know.”

Jason felt his mouth go dry, not just because he knew what Nathan meant, but because of the casual way Nathan told him.

They're gonna tear another human being apart alive. Do you want to play Power Rangers with me?

For the umpteenth time, Jason found himself worried about how all of this would affect his young friend in the coming years. Right now he had more pressing worries, however.

“Who did they take, Nathan? Is it someone you know?”

“No,” Nathan said and started putting his figure into another action pose. “I don't think so. I didn't see them, just heard them. Like from far away, you know?” Jason did know. The memory slowly became more and more real. “I think his name is Jazz. I think I heard him say it.”

Jazz. He had heard that name today. But where? He thought hard for a moment and then it came to him— the Trauma Bay. The kid with the gunshot wound. He'd said his name was Jazz.

“Did you say they already took him? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Nathan said without looking up. He now held the action figure tightly in his hand but no longer looked at it. “It sounded like they got him a little while ago.” Nathan looked up at him and Jason saw both pain and fear. “Is he a bad guy, Jason? Is Jazz a bad guy like Steve?”

“Yeah, buddy,” he said and put his arm around Nathan's shoulders. “He's a bad guy like Steve.” He understood why that mattered so much to Nathan. It did to him, too, though as a doctor he wasn't supposed to make those distinctions.

How about as a human being? They are torturing and killing people.

“
Everything's going to be okay.” He kissed the top of Nathan's head.

“Unless we can't stop them before they hurt someone good, right?” Nathan's eyes now looked hard. “We gotta stop them, don't we Jason?”

“Yeah, we do,” he answered. “And we'll figure out how, I promise.”

“I know.” Nathan gave him a big hug.

Jason explained how important it was that Nathan call him if anything happened, no matter how little.