Author's Note: Sorry this one took a while again. Got sidetracked. Giving a little warning for this one, because of some language, but other than that, nothing to worry about… XD Don't know how many chapters I've got left out of this, but as I think I've mentioned before, I do have a sequel forming in my head; a less physical-angst-filled, less suspenseful sequel, but a sequel all the same…
Mellaithwen: Thanks muchly :)
spacemonkeylover: And kicking ass is always good.
Samyo: Steve Atkin is based on Ray Winstone; a cockney actor who played Bors in 'King Arthur'. Thanks for asking :)
Cassie: Thanks. I like to have things detailed, but try not to go overboard, so I'm glad you like it.
Sawyer Fan: Don't say that o.O You'll give me a big head, and I really don't want that.
comlag: Love it when Weaver's snarky XD
KidBlink182: Welcome to the story, and I'm very glad you like it :)
The last episode I saw was 'The Middleman', where the boy Thomas is beaten by 6th Graders and ends up dying at the end of the episode, because Pratt dismissed him before Wendall could finish her job. I'd appreciate the restraint of spoilers beyond this point etc in reviews. Thanks!
CHAPTER ELEVEN: ARE WE THE WAITING?
Neela finished dressing the burn, and looked across the rather bustling curtain area, which was half-filled with staff and patients, and otherwise occupied by busy police and security. She suddenly felt a little lost in all the chaos, and didn't really know what to do with herself now that she'd tended to some of the patients who'd been waiting for treatment when the situation had started off. Part of her wanted to refuse working any longer, until she was certain of what was going on. Of course, the more sensible part of her said she should keep doing her job; help the time pass by aiding those who needed it. Of course, she knew Ray had been shot… and she was eager to help; any way she could. It didn't matter how she helped… she just felt useless applying simple bandages and antiseptics. These cases were all small; there was nothing challenging, and suddenly, that disappointed her. And in turn, that made her feel somewhat small and cheap.
Not far away, Morris was trying not to lose his concentration while suturing a patient's arm, which they had gashed. He was surprisingly quiet for a change, and actually looked remarkably exhausted. It was a wonder he hadn't dropped forward and passed out, from the looks of it. Neela quirked a dark, feminine brow, and stood, walking over to him after telling her own patient she was finished.
Coming up beside Morris, she seated herself on a nearby stool. The police were about to send a team down the hall, and she glanced to them briefly. "Hard to concentrate on what you're doing, isn't it?" she said almost casually, but with a hint of distress in her London accented voice.
Archie Morris turned his weary eyes to her as if startled, and managed to avoid pricking the woman's arm. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, from the looks of it… somehow, during all the 'excitement', the woman had fallen asleep, or fainted. Morris was taking advantage of her cooperative silence and stillness.
"What?" he fumbled, and then followed her line of sight. "Oh; right. Yeah, it is." He continued with his work, eyes down, before saying, "D'you reckon they're heading down now?"
Neela was surprised at the genuine concern in his voice… but she wasn't sure why. Morris wasn't an uncaring individual, just rather selfish and careless at times. He ran his mouth before running his brain, and it got him into trouble, that was all. She smiled softly, rather preferring this side of his character, and sighed. "It looks like it," she agreed quietly, wary of waking the patient. The last thing they needed was to have a nosy woman sticking her head into their conversation.
"How long do you think it'll take them?" Morris asked, looking up from his work briefly. "Y'know… to get them out of there."
Neela shrugged under her green scrub-top, pulling a pensive expression. "Not sure," she admitted. "Depends on the man in there; the one with the gun."
"Yeah… guess you're right." It was Morris' turn to sigh, apparently, and she watched him as he finished his suturing. "Hope it's soon, either way."
Neela smiled again, but it was rather wanly and forced that she did so. "Yeah… me too."
Ray and Neela were far from the best of friends; in fact, they had clashed on several occasions since their residency had started and she had returned to County, but they weren't enemies, exactly. She still cared whether he lived or died, and she wanted to get him out of that room, and into whatever emergency care treatment he needed.
Fifty… or was that fifty-one? Dammit…
Ray closed his eyes, hearing his own breathing in his ears, and wincing at the sound of it. It wasn't smooth and unnoticeable, as it should have been; it was somewhat ragged and struggled. Opening his eyes – more like forcing them – again, he looked to Abby, and furrowed his brows, admitting, "It's hard to breathe…"
"All right," she acknowledged in little more than a whisper, exchanging the tubes for the mask again. She adjusted the bed just a little so he wasn't completely horizontal anymore, which he silently appreciated. Though it did make counting the tiles a little more challenging all of a sudden; a thought which almost brought a smile to his face.
"Blood pressure's dropping," Sam murmured from not too far away, and Ray looked to Abby for her reaction, seeing a nod, as gentle as it was. He vaguely registered the other resident inquiring on the saline in the drip, and he was aware of the nurse responding, but he missed the details, looking to Atkin, who was pacing not far away, his dark eyes almost burning into the three of them. Suddenly, Ray found that gaze rather unnerving, and almost wanted to cower away from it. He leaned his head back, taking as deep a breath as he could manage, even as Abby checked on the dressing over his wound.
He felt her change it, and just about groaned, though not from the pain. He barely felt it anymore, a fact which continued to unsettle him. It was just the idea that he was losing enough blood for them to keep switching the gauze and bandaging that really set off the alarms in his head.
Not that the alarms hadn't started up when he'd first seen the gun, of course.
I will not die in this room… or in any other room in this hospital, for that matter. At least, not anytime soon, he told himself with as much vehemence as he could muster internally. He winced when Abby applied a little too much pressure to his side, but she apologised. Her voice suddenly sounded a little too submissive for Ray's liking. He was used to her being forward and almost commanding in the way she worked… not this. It was Atkin; he'd affected her personality and temperament, and Ray didn't like that at all. It stirred anger in him; anger that couldn't manifest, and in turn, that frustrated. He'd already decided he despised feeling this vulnerable, and he was more certain of that all of a sudden.
When his eyes nearly dropped closed all the way – and stayed there – he felt a hand touch his face, and moved his head a little, groaning when he heard the voice say, "Stay awake, Ray, dammit. I know it's hard, but… please."
Opening his eyes halfway, he met Abby's gaze, and saw the pleading there. She was afraid… afraid for herself, or for him? He couldn't help but wonder, even as he grimaced, and looked to Sam.
"How many tiles, Ray?" she asked him.
He merely arched a brow, and groggily shifted the mask long enough to say, "I'm kinda distracted… gimme a chance…" His voice was far from bold, but it was audible, and even as he let the mask settle again, she cocked her head and brought a smile to her face; it was fake, he knew.
"Well, keep trying, okay?" she pushed gently. "You'll get it."
If he'd had enough energy, Ray had the feeling he would have made a sarcastic comment about that time, but as it was, all he could do was meet her gaze briefly, before looking to the ceiling anew.
Of course, when there came a voice from the corridor, it nearly tore a startled yell out of him; one that he only just managed to restrain.
Sam turned her head in the direction of the door, from where the voice had originated. It was firm and masculine… a policeman, she quickly decided, and an experienced one at that; she got that much from the tone in his voice.
"Mr. Atkin? This is Jason Steinbeck of the Chicago Police Department."
About damn time, Sam thought cynically to herself, even as she read the display from the heart monitor, more out of habit than anything else. Half of her job sometimes was relaying the vitals to a doctor, and she did it subconsciously a lot of the time, without even thinking. It was becoming a habit.
Atkin didn't speak at first, simply glanced from the three staff members to the door, as if accusingly. Sam kept herself quiet and restrained. Atkin had already lashed out at Ray and Abby… she didn't fancy becoming the third target.
"Mr. Atkin?"
"I'm here… what do you want?" Atkin responded at last, gruffly, but with volume.
"I've come here to speak with you," Steinbeck replied out in the corridor, his voice loud enough to carry through the doors and windows and into the room, no doubt aided by a megaphone or something of the like… if not just a powerful set of lungs; either was a possibility.
"What about?" Atkin barked in response. "I'm not in the mood to talk."
Sam just about rolled her eyes. This man could be so childish, she'd noticed, and it was starting to grate on her remaining nerves.
"We know you have three hostages in the room with you. I'm here to negotiate their release with you, if possible."
No kiddin'…
Sam suddenly found herself feeling very impatient and short-tempered. She kept herself firmly in place though, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention on herself from the one man in the room who could do her harm. Serious harm, for that matter.
"Well, you might as well bugger off," Atkin snapped, running a hand over his head and face, as if weary or frustrated.
"Mr. Atkin," Steinbeck began anew after only a short pause, "if you have no terms for the release of all three hostages, then I'm here to at least negotiate the release of one."
Sam looked to Abby, and then down at Ray, who had closed his eyes, but in more of a tight wince than anything. Either he was in pain, or fighting the lethargy… or perhaps both.
Atkin narrowed his eyes, glanced to the three hostages, and then back at the door. He kept silent, a hint for the man outside to continue.
"We understand one of the hostages is injured, and in need of medical attention. Dr. Barnett." There was a brief pause, barely noticeable, before the man continued, "At least release him so he can be treated."
"He's being treated already," Atkin abruptly corrected, his entire posture becoming fierce, like a dog who felt his territory was under threat. Sam watched him, almost fascinated for a time. "Got a doctor and a nurse in here; both very capable, if you ask me. We're doin' just fine."
"Mr. Atkin, as I'm sure Dr. Lockhart and Nurse Taggart have already pointed out to you, they cannot administer the appropriate treatment in that room. If you were to release him–"
"Not going to happen," Atkin interrupted loudly, face and head fully turned to the door. "Now clear off."
"Mr. Atkin…"
"I said clear off!" Atkin emphasised his threat by aiming the gun's barrel towards the door and pulling the trigger. Abby – perhaps instinctively – ducked herself down and actually protected Ray as the gun let off a deafening crack like abrupt thunder, and during the subsequent smashing of glass, there came the sound of screams down the corridor, even as Sam backed away from Atkin as much as she could, bumping into the bed's rail a little. She kept her eyes on the large man, even as he lowered the barrel, yelling with fury, "I won't say it again; fuck off!"
Sam swallowed dryly, turning her eyes to her companions, just as Abby raised herself out of her protective position, with Ray looking from her, to the nurse, and then at Atkin. Sam heard the policeman call out, "At least consider, Mr. Atkin. We'll come back later." With that, there was the sound of shuffling feet, and Sam guessed they had retreated. She sighed, bowing her head for a moment, and lifting it again when she was certain tears were nowhere near the surface. She would not cry. Turning herself to Abby and Ray, and away from Atkin – she suddenly found it difficult to even look at the man – altogether, breathing heavily to calm herself. Silently and inwardly, she prayed that they would find a way out… that the police would help them… that Luka would be there when they did. She didn't know when she had started to want him so badly in all of this confusion and panic, but nothing seemed more comforting to her in that moment than collapsing in the safety of his arms and hearing his voice whisper to her. Closing her eyes, she imagined that, and felt the anger and fear ebb and fade enough for her to concentrate again, opening her eyes to continue with her painful job of trying to help Ray without the correct equipment and drugs.
John and the others had ducked behind the desk when the gunshot had gone off down the corridor, and he half expected to hear a cry of pain… thankful to only hear frightened screams of patients nearby, and the smashing of glass. No one had been hurt, it seemed, and for that, he was overwhelmingly grateful. He let out a choked sigh, and emerged from his hiding place, next to Susan, seeing the police detectives come back towards them. They, for the most part, looked unshaken, but he was more than certain they were hiding whatever fear had swarmed them during that gunshot in their direction.
"For now," Steinbeck began, running a hand over his hair, "he's reluctant to release Dr. Barnett for treatment. His volatile nature makes it difficult to negotiate." Looking from John, to Susan, and finally to Weaver, he added, "We might have to consider extreme measures."
"And what exactly, do you count as extreme measures?" he interrupted before Weaver could even open her mouth, though he did feel her gaze on him for a time.
Steinbeck considered for a moment, before saying, "Sending a team, perhaps."
"You can't do that," John said at once. "You said yourself, he has a 'volatile nature'. Sending a team… he'd kill the hostages." A powerful terror gripped him inside and refused to let go, like an iron fist that threatened to crush.
"Not if we acted quickly enough."
"And what exactly would you do?" Luka demanded as calmly as he could manage. John actually noticed Steinbeck shied back just a fraction from the tall Croatian doctor. "Go in guns blazing, hoping you don't hit one of the hostages?" The irritation at the delay was clear in Luka's heavily accented voice, making it more forceful and sharp.
"There are other alternatives," Steinbeck offered, raising a hand to stop any interruptions. "Such as gas."
"Gas?" Weaver blurted, cocking her head to one side. "What kind of gas, exactly?" It was clear from the tone she used that she already disapproved.
"Tear gas, for one."
"Out of the question. He'd still be able to use the gun!" Weaver snapped, her pitch rising slightly in a manner that John recognised from their clashes in the past. She did not approve at all; that was obvious.
"That is possible, yes, but at this point, we're running out of options."
"You only just started!" Susan reminded them disbelievingly. "How can you be running out of options already?"
John was almost amused that four doctors were beating back a detective in an argument he clearly should have had the upper hand in, and were the situation less grave, he had a feeling he would have smiled; laughed even. As it was, he refrained, and simply waited for the inevitable response.
"Listen… we're trying everything we can. Given the nature of the situation, and the severity, seeing as one hostage is already wounded, we're on a time limit."
"What kind of time limit?" Luka asked bluntly and rather abruptly.
"Please… we have the situation under control." Without another word, Steinbeck and his two companions turned and walked away. John's eyes widened slightly in shock at their behaviour, and he shook his head.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, hearing Luka mumble to himself. Either it was too quiet to really make out, or Luka had switched to his native language… at this point, it didn't really matter.
"Is it me, or does this just keep getting worse?" Susan grumbled petulantly, crossing her arms before covering her face altogether and leaning on the desk with a groan. John sympathised; he wanted nothing more than to hide away in a dark corner with some silence and privacy right then, but that was out of the question, he knew. Sighing, he settled himself next to Susan, and waited.
He was getting tired of waiting…
To Be Continued…