Head tossing.
*Flashes of light, searing, blinding, white, no wait, all the colors of the spectrum. I try closing my eyes, but they won't close! *
Whimpering.
*Whispers, no, scratches, no, whining? Where are these noises coming from? Did I just hear screaming? *
Muscles twitching.
*Touches, all over me, dry, cold, no comfort offered, just the touches. Moving me. Why can't I move my own body? *
Shivering.
*Cold, so very cold, numbing all the way through to my bones cold. No, wait, it's getting warmer, sunny beach warmer. No, please, it's middle of a burning building hot! *
Panting.
*Pain, annoying at first, then excruciating, devastating, 'Oh, please, God, kill me now' pain. *
Fists clenching.
*Pressure. All around, even through me. A voice? In my head? "Increase. I want to know what it's limits are." Oh, crap, this doesn't sound good, not at all. Suddenly, more pressure, steady, crushing, inside and out, more, more, until...Screaming? Who's screaming? Oh, God, it's ME! *
Nothingness.
Gasping, Mike Stoker bolted upright in his bed, struggling to pull air into his lungs. Throwing off his sweat-drenched sheet, he sat on the side of his bed, skin cooling in his air-conditioned bedroom, trying to make some sense out of the images that were running through his mind.
The longer he sat there, the less clear the images became, finally muddling into some hazy morass at the back of his mind. "No more burritos before bed" he mumbled, as he lay back down, trying to sleep before his alarm rang. But sleep eluded him, so he finally got up to shower and get ready for the day to come at work. And dreading the night he must spend there, hoping against hope for peaceful slumber.
"Good morning, good morning, good morning, everybody!" The strident tones of John Gage echoed through the locker room. "I do hope everybody had as great a weekend as I did!"
Mike glanced over at Roy DeSoto, raised an eyebrow, then continued dressing, shaking his head. Roy sighed, "Alright, I'll bite. Who was it this time?"
"Who was it? Only Becky from Pediatrics on Saturday, then Tricia from Physical Therapy on Sunday. Man, that Tricia can do a massage..." John's further explanations were cut short by Captain Hank Stanley's directive, "Roll call. Two minutes."
Roll call over, work assignments doled out, (Chet Kelly earning his usual latrine duty for being last to arrive), Mike found himself outside to wash and hang hose with Marco Lopez. Work rolled smoothly, conversation light, as the two competently took care of the soiled hoses, and reloaded the clean, dry hoses onto the bed of "Big Red", Engine 51.
Drying their hands, both headed for the dayroom, Marco stating, "Man, I hope John made fresh coffee. He may not be a gourmet chef, but mmmm he makes great coffee."
Mike turned to acknowledge Marco's statement, when Marco's hand shot out, grabbing Mike's forearm, pulling him into the kitchen. "Mike? Amigo, your nose is bleeding!" Grabbing paper towels, he gave them to Mike to put pressure on it. as he steered his crewmate to a chair, pushing him into it.
"Cap, John, Roy, Chet!" Marco yelled, bringing all of the members of Station 51 to the area, "We need some help here!"
"Roy, get the equipment, John, wanna check him out? Mike, what happened?" Cap asked, as he gave Mike fresh paper towels and threw the blood-soaked ones into the trash can that Chet helpfully brought over.
"Mike, pinch your nostrils together and put your head forward" John instructed, hands automatically checking Mike's pulse rate. "did you hit your nose on anything? Any pain in the area?" "No, I didn't even know it was bleeding until Marco said something." Mike answered, as he dutifully followed the paramedic's instructions. "Look, it's nothing. I'm fine. It's stopping. See?" He pulled the towels away, where no fresh blood was seen. By this time, Roy was back and with practiced hands, was wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Mike's arm, while John's hand had moved to Mike's abdomen to count his respirations.
"Pulse is 88, respirations 20." John intoned. "BP's 120/74" Roy completed. "Looks like it stopped. Do you have any dizziness, nausea, pain anywhere?" He asked Mike, helping him to sit up straight in the chair. A damp cloth was carefully used by John to clean up the engineer's face, as all eyes were glued to their crewmate. "No, guys, I'm fine. No problems. I was hiking yesterday, maybe I got into some pollen or something. I'm perfectly okay." Mike said as he stood up. "No dizziness or anything." "Okay, but try not to pick at or blow your nose, okay? And let us know if it happens again." Roy said. "Thanks, guys." Mike said, as he headed to the locker room to change his uniform shirt.
"What do you think, guys?" Cap asked, "Do we just watch him? Call Rampart?" "I don't think Rampart is necessary unless it's severe or too many of them. Let's just watch. I might let Doc Brackett know if we get a run into Rampart, see if he suggests anything different." Roy responded.
"Okay everyone, excitement's over. Back to work, all." Cap ordered. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he shook the almost-empty pot and said, "John, that's some great coffee. Mind giving us a repeat performance?" John laughed, gave a short bow, and replied, "Nothing like a command performance, huh, Your Majesty, Sir?" "You got it, pal. And now, your King has to retreat to attack the mountains of royal paperwork awaiting me. Let me know when more is ready, okay?" Cap said, as he left for his office.
Now with a clean uniform, Mike returned to the kitchen, sitting down with his notebook and textbook. Re-evaluation for his Engineer's designation was coming up, and Mike used almost every spare minute he had on studying.
"Coffee's done, Cap! Want me to bring you a cup?" John yelled. "No, I'll come get it myself. Give me a chance to stretch my legs and uncross my eyeballs." Cap laughed. "I swear this paperwork is in there breeding - every time I finish one, I find two more!" He refilled his cup, and came over to sit next to Mike at the table. "How ya doing there, Michael?"
Mike did not answer. He was sitting in front of the opened textbook, looking straight ahead, eyes appearing glazed. His left hand was clenching and unclenching, while his right was moving quickly across the notebook, pencil making making what appeared to to be some strange kind of shapes or symbols.
"Mike? Hey, Michael, you in there, pal?" Cap questioned, snapping his fingers in front of Mike's eyes. On the fourth snap, Mike startled, left hand jerking upward and in front of his face, almost in a defensive move. "Woah there, Mike, take it easy! Didn't mean to scare you, pal, you okay?" Cap asked. Mike nodded, "Guess I kind of zoned out for a bit there. Any coffee left?"
"Here ya go." Chet brought Mike a fresh cup of coffee, and glanced down at the notebook. "Wow! Since when did you learn how to do that Egyptian picture writing stuff?" "What do you mean, Chet? It's just doodling." Mike answered. "I mean, it looks like that program we saw on TV about King Tut's burial tomb, remember?" Chet continued. "Probably that's where I saw them, and just scribbled them while I was studying." Mike smiled, "I've been at the books for so long, I bet I could write ancient Sumerian symbols by now!"
"Well, take a break, because lunch is served" Roy announced, putting out the ingredients for submarine sandwiches along with a fresh fruit salad, while John and Marco set the table. Just as the last bite was eaten, Station 51 got toned out for an MVA about 5 miles down the road. Two cars were involved, and only minor injuries, with both drivers signing that they were going to their own doctors.
As Cap was walking towards the engine, he noticed Mike was sitting on the running board, hands over his face. "Michael? You okay?" he asked. "No" came the muffled reply. Mike pulled his hands away, and Cap noticed they were covered in blood. Blood that was pouring steadily out of Mike's nose.
"Gage! DeSoto! Bring the gear!" he yelled. Both paramedics came on the run, as well as Chet and Marco.
"It's not stopping, I've had pressure on it for awhile." Mike said quietly, looking confused. "What's happening to me?"