Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing this mess for me. Thank you Gredelina1 for supporting me through the good and bad of the experience. Thank you all for reading xxx
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sam's simple plan to help and shelter people developed over the next two days into something much bigger than he'd imagined. People came alone, in pairs, and in groups. Some were unhurt but scared; others came with injuries. They brought them all in, found them rooms in the rapidly filling hotel, and then Sam and May tried their best to take care of them. They had lost no lives yet, but the injuries coming in were growing more severe, and Sam was worried that there would be someone soon that they couldn't save. He didn't want James to experience that.
Sam was proud of how James was reacting to all he was dealing with. He was doing his best to help. He made sure people were eating and drinking with Chrissy's help. He fetched and carried for Sam and May, and sometimes sat with the injured that had come in alone when no one else was there. On the whole, people were good about taking care of each other. Though Sam and May were leading the work, everyone had a part in it. People were showing the best of themselves. Many were young, people that had come into the riots expecting something different to what they'd got. Some were older, and they were more reserved, ashamed that age was no protection for this kind of mistake. There was even a man that Sam guessed was homeless before the riots started that brought a trash bags full of belongings with him. He was now ensconced in a room, and Sam had instructed James and his helpers to make sure he had plenty to eat. Sam wondered what would happen to him when the riot was over and the hotel's ownership had been returned to Anton. It wouldn't be long. When the sun rose again, it would rise on the last day of the riot. The police and military would be moving in soon to restore order.
Sam was glad. It was getting worse out there. Rather than people's energy burning out, it seemed to be growing worse. There were even more fires. In places the sky was black with smoke that blocked out the sun and smuts of ash rained down. Sam knew he was doing what he could for his part of LA, but he wondered about the people that wanted to flee outside of their immediate area. Did they have somewhere they go hide until it was over?
They made regular contact with Missouri, though they would not be able to speak to her again now until they saw her. She was flying to Berkeley that morning to meet James and Sam when it was over. They were going to take James back to college and help him deal with any fallout from what he had done. Sam was pleased they had found something meaningful to do instead of just hiding and waiting for it to be over, and not just because of the people they were helping. James might take heat for skipping classes to come to LA for the verdicts, but Sam would be able to show he hadn't been a part of the riots. He was fighting for people's safety here, working tirelessly. Sam knew James was just as exhausted as he himself was.
None of them had slept properly since it started. Even James' first night of rest had been interrupted by his search for Sam. They were in bed now as May was taking a shift at triage with her group of helpers, but Sam couldn't sleep. His mind was too full of everything that was happening.
"Sam?" James said quietly. "Are you awake?"
Sam rolled over and leaned up on his elbow, facing James, seeing his eyes catching the glow of the streetlight outside the window.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked.
James sat up and leaned against the headboard. "I can't sleep," he said. "I keep thinking about all the people out there, the ones that haven't found us. How many of them do you think died because they have nowhere to go?"
Sam could have told him the final death count would be more than sixty. So many lives lost to the anarchy and anger that fed the riots. So many families mourning. It was tragic.
"I don't know," he lied. "Too many."
"I really thought I was doing the right thing coming here," James said. "I thought it was going to be great, and when those damn verdicts came through, I wanted to make a difference"
"I know you did." Sam sighed. "This isn't down to you and people like you. It's the few that started this thing and it snowballed. You came here for a good reason, and you have helped people by being here."
"Not like you," James said. "You've been out there. You're a hero. They all say it. You saved lives."
Sam looked away. "I'm not the only one. There are a lot of people doing what they can."
James sighed heavily, and Sam looked at him.
"James?"
"I lied before, when I said I hadn't seen you do anything heroic. You used to be a hero before, too. When I was a kid, I used to wish my mom and you would get married," he said quietly. "I wanted you to be my real dad. You were so good, and Mom was happy when you were there. She was so sad after Dad died, and you made her happy again. That made you my hero."
"It wasn't like that," Sam said. "Your mom saved me. When I met her, I was in a mess. She took care of me. All I did was give her something else to focus on other than her grief."
"But you love her," James stated.
"I do, so much, but not in that way. You mom is my best friend. She's like a sister to me. I will never be able to repay her for what she has done for me. She's an amazing woman."
"She is," James agreed. "And you're an amazing man. I think you would have been a good fit for each other. I really wanted it." He sighed again. "I told you that you weren't my father the other day because I was angry, and I'm sorry. I did love my real dad, and I miss him every day, but you have been like a dad to me all this time, and I forgot that for a moment."
Sam swallowed hard. He had never imagined he would hear these words from James. They made him feel a swell of emotion that he fought not to release, as it would embarrass James.
He took a breath, calmed himself in the way he had spent years perfecting, and said, "You're like a son to me, James. You and your mom both gave me something I didn't realize I needed until I had it. I'm never going to be a father to anyone else, but that doesn't matter to me because I have you."
James smiled. "You could be a father still. You're not that old. You're only, what, fifty?"
Sam sat up and threw his pillow at him. It caught him in the face. "I'm forty, you ass." It was his birthday that day, not that there was anything to celebrate with the city burning.
"You don't look it," James said. "What's up with that? If you shaved your beard, you could probably pass for thirty still."
"It's good genetics," Sam said with a pang of guilt for the lie. "My dad didn't age fast either. I got lucky."
"I guess. But you could be a dad."
"I can't," Sam said. He had known that for a long time. In truth, he had known it since he lost Jess. His future with children and a wife had been lost that day. She was the only one he'd ever truly wanted to create a new life with. He was satisfied now with James, as he'd never thought he would even have that.
"Okay," James said, seeming to sense the finality. "We should get some more sleep. We need to spell May in a few hours."
"You sleep," Sam said. "I'm going to get some coffee and then check in on the others."
"You need rest, Sam. We don't know how long this is going to last."
"It'll be over soon," Sam said. "The authorities have had time to prepare themselves now. I think they'll act soon."
"You think?" James asked hopefully.
"Pretty confident," Sam said, turning away to hide his smile. "It's almost over."
Sam stood at the door of the hotel and watched the group approaching. There were seven of them, men and women, and they looked wrecked. Their clothes were ragged and their faces smudged with soot. Sam suspected they'd been in the thick of the action. That didn't worry him; he'd refused no one a place as long as they dumped their weapons before coming in. Now the fourth day had dawned people were exhausted and just wanted somewhere safe to hide until it was over. The shine of the riot had worn off.
The oldest looking person in the group came forward as another faltered and said, "Is this the hospital?"
"It's a lot of things," Sam said. "We have rooms if you're looking for somewhere to shelter through. Are any of you hurt?"
"No," he said, and his friends shook their heads.
"Good. You need to dump your weapons if you're coming in." He pointed at the mailbox on the corner where people had been depositing guns and knives. "Put them in there if you want to come in."
He waited to see if they'd argue. Some people did at first, and a few had refused to do it, so Sam hadn't let them in. This group all exchanged a glance and nodded though. They went to the blue mailbox and one by one posted weapons inside. One man had more than anyone else. He kept pulling guns from pockets and even a flip knife from his boot. When they were all unarmed, they walked towards the hotel. Sam stepped back to let them in and then registered a man standing back from the crowd with a large zoom lens camera in his hands.
He raised it and pointed it at Sam standing in the doorway.
"Hey," Sam said, holding a hand to his face to block the camera. "What are you doing?"
"Making you famous, buddy," he said. "Can I get a quote?"
"What? No."
"But you're the man in charge, right?"
"No, that's someone else," Sam said. "I'll get him for you." He thought if he could get James on camera doing good, it would stand as evidence that he hadn't been a part of the violent riots when they got him back to college.
He gestured the group inside and said, "There are rooms on the fourth floor that are still empty, and there's food in the kitchen. If you want to help, find me or a woman called May and we'll tell you what to do. If not, stay out of our way and let us work. No fighting or you're out. Understand?"
"Yeah, sure," the man that had spoken before said, making for the elevators.
Sam sighed and raked a hand over his face then started as he turned and saw the photographer standing behind him.
"Is it okay if I take some photos around the place?"
"No," Sam said. "People here are hurt. The need rest not a photo shoot."
"How many would you say you've saved so far?" he asked, leaving his camera to hang from his neck and pulling out a notepad and pen.
Sam shook his head and walked away, stopping abruptly and turning for the door when he heard a voice crying outside, "Help!"
He sprinted out of the door and ran towards the voice. Two people were staggering along the street, a boy that looked like he was still in his teens and a girl that was the one shouting. She had the boy draped over her shoulder and was trying to lead him toward the hotel. The boy's face was starkly pale and there was blood soaking down the sleeve of his t-shirt and arm. He looked like he was barely keeping his feet.
Sam ran at them and scooped the bleeding boy into his arms. He felt the blood slick against his skin as he jogged back to the hotel and through the door. His vision wavered a moment and the flashbulb of the reporter's camera clicked, and he cursed at him as he shoved past him and inside.
"May!" he shouted, running towards his and James' room. The only other ones free were upstairs, and Sam wanted to get the kid down fast so he could start taking care of him.
People peered out of doors as he passed, shouting for May, and Sam caught sight of Chrissy standing with a bloody cloth in her hands.
"Chrissy, find May. I need her," he commanded.
She darted away, and Sam carried the boy into his room and set him on his bed. The kid's eyes fixed on Sam and then rolled back in his head as he passed out. Sam tore back the sleeve of the kid's shirt and saw the small circular wound with raw edges.
"He was shot," a shaky voice said behind him. "They shot him."
Without turning, Sam clamped his hands down around the kid's thin arm and said, "In that blue crate there's packs of gauze. Get some opened up for me and a roll of bandage."
She obviously obeyed as a moment later a wad of gauze was held in his line of sight. He took it and pressed it hard against the small wound and them lifted the arm to check the back. There was a wound pulsing blood from where the bullet had exited, and it was larger than the entry wound.
Sam slapped a wad of gauzes on it and turned to the girl beside him. She was holding a roll of bandage in her shaking hands.
"Can you help me?" Sam asked.
She nodded. "Tell me what to do."
"I'm going to move my hands out of the way and you're going to tie this bandage around his arm, holding the gauze in place. You want to make it tight enough to hold, but not so tight it cuts off the circulation. Can you do that?"
"Yes," she said, unravelling the bandage with fumbling fingers.
"That's enough," Sam said when she had a good length. "Don't worry about cutting it yet. We just need to get it in place." He moved his hands slightly so he was still holding the gauze but she could lay the gauze over it. "That's right. Just like that," he guided. "Now tie it off. Perfect."
He moved his hands to check the bandage wasn't too tight. It wasn't, but blood was already soaking though it. He needed to do more than staunch the bleeding. The kid needed stitching up.
"What's you name?" Sam asked, unthinkingly laying a bloody hand on her shoulder.
"Rachel," she said.
"And what's your friend called?"
"Paul. He's my brother. Is he going to be okay?"
Sam couldn't make promises. For all he knew Paul could be one of the sixty-three dead from the riots. "I'm going to do what I can," Sam said.
He looked to the door to see if May was coming and registered the clicking at last. The reporter from outside had followed him in and was snapping pictures of them. Sam glowered at him, but his attention quickly moved on as May shoved past the reporter and rushed into the room.
"What do we have?" she asked.
"Gunshot wound," Sam said. "It's a through and through, but he'd losing a lot of blood. Did you bring any suture kits in the crates?"
"No!" she said, aghast. "I didn't think."
"But you have them in the store?" Sam asked.
"Yes. I supply a clinic. I will go get them."
"No!" Sam said quickly. "I'll get them. You stay here and keep an eye on him. He lost consciousness when I got him in, and it may be kinder to let him stay out for now, but watch him closely."
"How bad is it, Sam?" she asked.
Sam dropped his voice so he wouldn't be overheard by Rachel and said. "It's not good. The exit wound's nasty." He raised his voice again. "I'll come right back."
"Sam, wait." She rooted in her pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "This is the doors and this small one's for the drug cabinet. We're going to need morphine. Bring me some of the syringes from the middle shelf, too."
Sam nodded. "On it." He pushed out of the room, past the reporter and the people that had been drawn to the room by the noise, and to the lobby.
He caught up with James at the door, and his eyes widened as he saw Sam. "What happened?" he asked.
"We've got a pretty bad gunshot wound," he said. "I'm going back to the drugstore to get supplies for them."
"I'll come with you," James said.
"No!" Sam said, then he softened his voice. "I need you here taking care of the others. May is going to be busy with this new one. Keep the door shut while I'm gone."
"What if someone comes and they're hurt?" James asked.
"I'll be quick," Sam said. "I have to go James. You stay in here."
"Why is it okay for you to risk your life out there but not me?" James asked. He wasn't hostile; he just wanted an answer.
"Because you matter so much more," Sam said, gripping the back of his neck and tugging him into a brief hug. "I'll see you soon."
He dashed out of the door and ran along the street. The real chaos from the main drag had spread to their street now. Buildings were burning, and people were attacking the windows that had not yet been smashed. Only the hotel was untouched. Sam didn't know whether it was because of the number of people defending it or if the rioters were respecting the makeshift hospital for what it was. Either way, he was grateful.
He felt eyes on him as he ran down the street and turned the corner, but no one confronted him. Perhaps the sight of the blood on his shirt but the fact he was still upright made them think twice; perhaps they were just happy with the trouble they were already making.
When he got to May's store he stopped and cursed. It had been looted. The window at the front had been broken and the door was hanging off its hinges. Sam felt a wave of sorrow for May. She was insured, but she was still going to have to deal with the destruction of her business. It would take her time to rebuild it.
There were people around, and Sam didn't want them following him inside and perhaps getting access to the drugs May kept locked up, so he slipped down the alley and let himself in through the rear door. The break room didn't look as though it had been touched, but Sam saw that the stores room had been ransacked. There were boxes of supplies and bottles of medication spread over the flood, and some of the pill bottles had been emptied to lay in colorful puddles.
Sam went straight to the middle shelves and looked for suture kits. He found them on among a pile of dressings that had been tipped onto the floor. Grateful that they were well packaged, Sam picked up a few and set them down on the counter then searched through the middle shelves for syringes and needles. He found them and scooped a handful into his pocket.
He looked around for where May locked up the powerful drugs. He saw three cupboards on the far wall, and he opened them one by one, seeing a gunmetal cabinet inside the last. He unlocked it with the key and sighed with relief as he saw the rows of boxed drugs. He took one out and tipped it into his hand. It contained a glass vial marked as diamorphine. With a rush of relief, Sam took three more and stuffed them in his pocket. He was sure they wouldn't need that many, but he didn't want to have to come back again for any reason. He grabbed a few more marked penicillin, too, then locked the cupboard again, knowing it was dangerous for people to have access to these kinds of drugs, and snatched up the suture kits from the counter. If someone saw him carrying them, they would probably not be interested, especially given the proximity to the hotel.
He rushed outside again and locked the door behind him, then ran along the alley into the street. No one seemed to notice where he had come from, but as he turned the corner, a group of men began to shout at him.
"What you got here, huh? You found anything good?"
"Just medical supplies," Sam shouted, not slowing. "Someone has been shot."
"A pig?" someone shouted hopefully.
"A kid," Sam said.
He heard a pursuit behind him and he stopped. He wanted to get back, but he didn't want these people following him to the hotel, especially not when he saw the guns they had in their hands.
Swallowing hard, he said, "Someone has shot a kid. He's got to be sixteen, tops, and his sister brought him to us. I need to sew his wound closed before he bleeds out."
One of them men looked suspicious, but another grabbed his arm and said, "Let him go, Jake. He's one of those medics. We don't want a kid dying."
"Please," Sam said.
"Fine, go save the kid. Wouldn't want to interrupt your good work," the man sneered.
"Thank you," Sam said, turning and running back to the hotel.
As instructed, James had kept the door closed, but when Sam hammered on it, calling his name, it was ripped open and James looked at him with an expression of exquisite relief. Sam cast him a quick smile then ran along the hall to his room. May was standing by the bed, taking Paul's pulse.
"How is he?" Sam asked.
"His pulse is fast," May said. "But the bleeding has slowed."
"Good," Sam said, dropping the suture kits onto the bed and emptying his pockets. "Give him the morphine."
May unwrapped a syringe and jabbed the needle into the vial to draw up the drug.
Rachel shifted nervously as she watched, and Sam touched her shoulder. "This is going to help him. We're going to take care of his pain then we'll sew up the wounds."
"He'll be okay?" she asked, watching May inject her brother with the painkiller.
"We're going to do what we can," Sam said, in lieu of what could be a lie.
May straightened up and turned to Sam. "I've never done sutures before."
"I have," Sam said. "I can do it."
"You've done it?" James asked from the doorway.
Sam glanced at him but didn't answer. He shouldn't have slipped. James would have questions that Sam couldn't answer now. He wondered if he could get away with a lie about a military tour. He didn't want to tell a lie that big, but he wanted to tell James the truth even less.
"I need a little space," he said gently to Rachel and opening one of the suture kits. "Sit on the other side of the bed if you like. You can hold his hand. May, I need you to keep the other side padded."
Rachel moved around the bed and sat down. She picked up Paul's hand and said, "It's okay, Paul. They're going to help you."
Sam went into the bathroom and scrubbed his hands clean then dried them carefully. In one of the crates was a box of gloves, and he pulled on a pair then sat down beside Paul on the bed.
Feeling all eyes on him, he picked up the pre-threaded needle and took a breath. He hadn't done stitches for a long time, but he knew what he was doing. He pinched the edges of the wound together and whispered, "Don't look, Rachel," before pushing the needle through Paul's skin. He didn't flinch, which made Sam think he was deeply unconscious. He was glad he felt no pain, but he would rather see a reaction that told him Paul was still strong.
He made the stitches as small and neat as he could, trying to keep his breaths steady so he didn't worry Rachel more than she already was. When he was done, he wiped around the wound and held out a hand to May. "Dressing, please."
She unwrapped one and put it in his hand. He covered the now closed wound and took a breath. He still had the exit wound to do, and that was going to be more complicated, but he was feeling more confident now. The calm of training had descended over him and he was in the mindset of a hunter again. He could do this.
He was so focused on what he was doing that he didn't notice the clicking of a camera behind him.
So… The first of the real injuries has come in. There were 63 deaths as a result of the riots and 2,383 people were wounded enough to be recorded. There would have been many more minor injuries.
There were reporters on the ground in the city during that time, recording what was happening, and I thought the makeshift hospital would be a prime story for one of them.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx