Author's Note, 10-30-03: Well. What can I say, it's Halloween time and I'm
really into that. And this is the type of thing that happens because of it.
Actually, the story itself really has nothing to do with Halloween, but it
is a bit morbid, I suppose, which is why I'm placing it in the horror
category. (Yeah, I know it's not scary.) I kind of threw it together last
minute, so don't expect anything brilliant. It's an homage to Shirley
Jackson's short story "The Lottery" (which you should read, if you haven't
already).
Go ahead and flame me if you want (or not). I'm rather looking forward to
it. Either way, lemme know what you think.
---
"Thinning Out the Herd"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The ER was filled to the brim today, but not a single patient was in sight. Doctors, nurses, surgeons, med students, desk clerks and even a few of the longtime cafeteria staff members were packed into the crowded triage area. A few had made the effort to keep things orderly and formed lines that were beginning to stretch down the hallways in both directions. Most, however, simply stood around chitchatting and tossing glances over their shoulder whenever another Cook County staffer wandered into their midst.
It was no easy task scheduling a time for the drawing to take place. In fact, it meant closing the doors of the hospital to needy patients and sending them elsewhere for the attention they required. But the area hospitals all had drawings of their own, and they were quite generous when it came to picking up the slack while fellow caregivers carried on their yearly tradition. No one could remember life without the drawing, and though some expressed dubious feelings about such a practice, most felt it was a necessity. Those who disagreed usually complained amongst themselves but kept mum around supporters.
As was common in the hospital, its members were a bit segregated. The nurses had gathered in one large group behind the triage desk, where they felt most at home, and shot unimpressed looks at a band of doctors who mingled on the other side, backs turned to the newly installed glass partition. Many of the medical students had ashen complexions, attesting to their inexperience. Despite the cliques, everyone had come prepared with the same supplies: rubber gloves, scalpels and syringes filled with their drug of choice. Some held the items in their hands, fingering them, a pensive expression crossing their face. Others merely kept the instruments tucked in lab coat pockets until they were ready to be put to use.
This year the drawing was being conducted by Kerry Weaver. Her longevity in the ER and status as Chief of Staff had made her a shoe-in for the role. Those in favor of keeping the drawing traditional had breathed a sigh of relief when she was chosen, for they knew Weaver to be a stickler for rules. She would no doubt move things ahead in an orderly and proper fashion. There were a few past incidents that no one liked to talk about; med students gone amuck, an unprecedented four or five staffers being selected. Strong leadership was required at such an event, and Weaver had proven time and again that she could tackle the hairiest of situations.
Presently, she emerged from the doctor's lounge, one arm looped around a large bedpan that might have easily been 100 years old. It was tarnished and dimpled in spots, its silver glint worn away from decades of use. The bedpan had always been an integral part of the drawing and was as revered by many as it was joked-on by others. As far as everyone knew, it had never been used for its original purpose, but an occasional wiseacre would pretend to be disgusted when the bedpan was passed their way, holding it at arms length and gingerly extracting their slip of paper. They were usually reprimanded with a harsh glare, something Weaver had a knack for. There would be very little horsing around at this drawing, that was certain.
Following Weaver was Jerry Markovic, looking very proud as he ceremoniously brought forth a stool and positioned it in front of the ambulance bay doors. He made a showy bow that caused a ripple of laughter to pass over the crowd, but Weaver rolled her eyes and nudged him aside with her cane. Placing bedpan atop stool, she turned towards the sea of faces that peered at her from every angle, some eager, some apprehensive. Her own mien was neutral, a blank canvas to be interpreted a number of ways. Perhaps she felt as anxious as the others. Perhaps she despised the ritual. It was impossible to tell. Whatever the case, she started off by getting straight to business. "Are we all here?"
"I think so," said one voice.
"Check the list," suggested another.
"There's too many names. Just get on with it."
"We're still waiting on Drs. Chen and Kovac," Susan Lewis informed them. She was seated in the corner with Abby Lockhart, and the two had been conversing in low tones for the better part of an hour. They were two of the first arrivals and had been keeping track of everyone's comings and goings, and thoroughly enjoying the gossip that made its way from one end of the room to the other. However, their often girlish behavior was toned down for the occasion, and they were both wearing sober expressions, hands already donning rubber gloves.
"We're here." Jing-Mei Chen's voice rang out sharply in the silence and the assembly parted as she pushed her way to the front, dragging Luka Kovac along with her. Their hair and clothes were slightly disheveled, and Luka seemed to fidget more than usual as all eyes fell upon him and the woman at his side. Abby's and Susan's eyebrows lifted in unison as they watched the pair scramble for seats, apologizing for their tardiness. Chen ended up squeezing herself in between Abby and Elizabeth Corday, a telling smile on her lips. She wasn't the least bit sorry for holding things up. "I was just so occupied with my patients that I almost forgot what day it is," she said in a loud voice. Laughter followed, for everyone knew there were no patients today.
"Disgraceful," Robert Romano muttered from his spot in a trauma room doorway. He had to crane his neck to see over the taller folks in front of him, but he had no trouble making himself heard. "It's imbeciles like that that are ruining the drawing. I heard some hospitals in Michigan gave it up completely because no one took it seriously anymore. What the hell is wrong with people? There's a bad case of stupid-ass going around, or something."
"Hear, hear."
"He's right," a nearby surgeon said.
"Bad case of stupid-ass! Haha!" cried a lunch lady, guffawing.
Abby and Susan giggled behind their hands, professional demeanors gone for the moment. Chen shot them a nasty look, as they were laughing at her expense, since she was technically one of the stupid asses. They ignored the icy glare and focused on Weaver, who had called for order. Add "in the court" to that, and she would have made the perfect judge.
"All right, now that I have your attention..." Weaver's solemn eyes traversed the room, checking to see if the statement was true. "It is time to explain the official rules of our annual drawing."
Someone groaned. No one could possibly have forgotten the rules -- they hadn't changed in at least fifty years. Even the scut buckets knew them by heart. Any physician worth his (or her) salt could recite them on cue. But the ceremony wouldn't be complete until this portion was through, so everybody listened in whether they actually wanted to or not.
And it was a good thing. Weaver explained all the obvious steps: Each person drew a single slip of paper, under no circumstances were they to open it until permission was given, no one was allowed to trade ("Damn straight!" Romano yelled) - that would narrow things down to a certain branch of the hospital, the OR, ER, ICU, etc - then came the final drawing to determine which individual from that group was the chosen one. But this year she threw in a twist that made ears perk up, backs straighten, and a couple of heads (Chen's and Luka's) snap into reality and swivel in her direction to make sure they had heard correctly.
"Did you say two people are getting it this year?" Chen interrupted.
"Yes, I did." Weaver grimaced as Romano let out a second whooping noise. "Due to a heavy increase in staff, it was decided that one person wouldn't be enough."
"Can it be two people from the same department?" an OB nurse wondered.
"Yes, it can."
Abby and Susan raised their eyebrows at each other again. Wow.
Weaver wasn't in the mood to allow the new information to sink in. The name list was huge this year, it would take a good fifteen minutes to get through just that. She took a pen from her breast pocket, tapped it against the bedpan (cling!), held up a chart and began calling names. "Allen..."
One by one they stepped forward, attendings, residents, RNs, the odds - for a brief period, anyway - making them equals. The drawing didn't distinguish between which field of medicine you had chosen to study.
The last piece of folded paper went to Weaver, who plucked it out of the bedpan and then, in a rare display of mischief, paused for dramatic effect. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. "You may open them now," she said slowly, and a loud rustling of paper drowned out the final word.
"Where is it?"
"I don't think our department got one."
Confusion and noise descended on the group for a moment, while each person glanced at their neighbors to see what they had drawn. And then, "Lewis has it!"
"Oh my God, Lockhart has the other. What are the chances?"
"I told you they do everything together," Frank the desk clerk shouted out above the din, getting a laugh from the crowd and startling Randi so badly that she let out a squeal.
"That's because they share a brain," Romano yelled back, but he was grinning at the women while he spoke and banging his hand against the wall in a sort of makeshift clap.
Weaver hammered her pen against the bedpan. "Quiet," she demanded. "Abby, Susan, step forward please."
Obediently, the two women approached and stood shoulder to shoulder while Weaver confirmed that indeed they had both selected papers which put the ER in the final round, twice over. Mixed feelings were expressed by the crowd. A couple of people booed, others cheered. Those who worked in the emergency room said nothing but rushed forward and lined up behind Abby and Susan. An angry cardiologist balled his paper and threw it at the back of Gregory Pratt's head.
"Chill, man," Pratt growled. "You still get to participate."
"When you're quite finished..." Weaver was glaring again. She snatched the bedpan off its stool and held it high over her head. Someone giggled. "I am going to pass this around to each of you. Refold your papers and place them into the pan only, and I mean ONLY, if you work in the ER." She tossed the papers Susan and Abby had drawn into the bedpan and held it out for the nearest person to take. Romano got it first, doing a tricky bit of one- handed juggling to get his paper in. He passed the bedpan to the next in line. For a minute, it appeared the doctors and nurses were playing Hot Potato as it went from one hand to another, before working its way back to Weaver.
She jiggled the bedpan, stuck her pen inside and swirled the contents, then jiggled it some more. Finally satisfied, she said, "All right. Susan and Abby draw first this time. Just pass it around again when you're done."
The second drawing was much quicker, thanks to the first winnowing process. It took less than a minute for everyone in the ER staff to claim another slip of paper.
"Ready?" Weaver asked, as soon as the bedpan had been returned to its stool.
"I hope it isn't Abby," one of the OB nurses whispered.
"Wish it was that prissy boy Carter," another voice mumbled. "Might know he'd be hiding out in the Congo."
Susan nudged Abby and grinned, but their amusement dissolved when Weaver shouted, "Open!"
Several of the women cried out, waving blank slips of paper in the air. Abby and Susan were among them, and they shared a quick, triumphant embrace before turning to see what the others had. "What did you get, Dr. Chen?" Abby said, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Chen didn't answer. Her eyes were wild and unseeing as she began to back up, shaking her head vehemently. Her paper fluttered to the floor, revealing a single black dot that Jerry had scribbled in earlier with a permanent marker. "No, this isn't fair. I didn't have enough time to choose." She pointed an accusing finger at Weaver. "You rushed me because I was late. I should get another chance."
Romano blocked her path and shoved her forward. He fished in his pocket for a syringe, squirting drops of fluid into the air tauntingly. "There's supposed to be two. Who's the other one?"
"Over here," Michael Gallant said. "It's Kovac." He placed both hands on Luka's shoulders and pushed the man towards Chen. Luka gave them all a tragic look but didn't utter a sound.
"Hurry, Abby," Susan urged, her scalpel ready. "She's probably quick. You grab one arm, I'll take the other."
Abby flicked the syringe she was holding. "What about Luka?" Her words jumbled as she tried to talk over the scalpel handle she had clenched between her teeth. She looked like a pirate, lips curled over trusty dagger for safe keeping.
"He's big," Susan said, breathless. She was fighting to keep her spot at the front while the crowd circled in on Luka and Chen. "There will be plenty of him left by the time we're through with her."
"No. You have to stop this," Chen wailed, clutching Luka's arm. Even he had begun to babble pleas now, but the frantic pitch of Chen's voice blocked them out. "Abby, Susan, we were friends, weren't we?" She gave up speaking and merely screamed when the first scalpel pierced her flesh.
"For Christ sakes, stick her with something that'll shut her up!" Romano bellowed, his syringe already jammed firmly into Luka's shoulder. The bald man's eyes gleamed as he brought forth his scalpel and began to slice.
"It's not fair, it's not fair," Chen screeched, and then her cries died out altogether as Abby, Susan and the rest of the mob advanced.
THE END
---
"Thinning Out the Herd"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The ER was filled to the brim today, but not a single patient was in sight. Doctors, nurses, surgeons, med students, desk clerks and even a few of the longtime cafeteria staff members were packed into the crowded triage area. A few had made the effort to keep things orderly and formed lines that were beginning to stretch down the hallways in both directions. Most, however, simply stood around chitchatting and tossing glances over their shoulder whenever another Cook County staffer wandered into their midst.
It was no easy task scheduling a time for the drawing to take place. In fact, it meant closing the doors of the hospital to needy patients and sending them elsewhere for the attention they required. But the area hospitals all had drawings of their own, and they were quite generous when it came to picking up the slack while fellow caregivers carried on their yearly tradition. No one could remember life without the drawing, and though some expressed dubious feelings about such a practice, most felt it was a necessity. Those who disagreed usually complained amongst themselves but kept mum around supporters.
As was common in the hospital, its members were a bit segregated. The nurses had gathered in one large group behind the triage desk, where they felt most at home, and shot unimpressed looks at a band of doctors who mingled on the other side, backs turned to the newly installed glass partition. Many of the medical students had ashen complexions, attesting to their inexperience. Despite the cliques, everyone had come prepared with the same supplies: rubber gloves, scalpels and syringes filled with their drug of choice. Some held the items in their hands, fingering them, a pensive expression crossing their face. Others merely kept the instruments tucked in lab coat pockets until they were ready to be put to use.
This year the drawing was being conducted by Kerry Weaver. Her longevity in the ER and status as Chief of Staff had made her a shoe-in for the role. Those in favor of keeping the drawing traditional had breathed a sigh of relief when she was chosen, for they knew Weaver to be a stickler for rules. She would no doubt move things ahead in an orderly and proper fashion. There were a few past incidents that no one liked to talk about; med students gone amuck, an unprecedented four or five staffers being selected. Strong leadership was required at such an event, and Weaver had proven time and again that she could tackle the hairiest of situations.
Presently, she emerged from the doctor's lounge, one arm looped around a large bedpan that might have easily been 100 years old. It was tarnished and dimpled in spots, its silver glint worn away from decades of use. The bedpan had always been an integral part of the drawing and was as revered by many as it was joked-on by others. As far as everyone knew, it had never been used for its original purpose, but an occasional wiseacre would pretend to be disgusted when the bedpan was passed their way, holding it at arms length and gingerly extracting their slip of paper. They were usually reprimanded with a harsh glare, something Weaver had a knack for. There would be very little horsing around at this drawing, that was certain.
Following Weaver was Jerry Markovic, looking very proud as he ceremoniously brought forth a stool and positioned it in front of the ambulance bay doors. He made a showy bow that caused a ripple of laughter to pass over the crowd, but Weaver rolled her eyes and nudged him aside with her cane. Placing bedpan atop stool, she turned towards the sea of faces that peered at her from every angle, some eager, some apprehensive. Her own mien was neutral, a blank canvas to be interpreted a number of ways. Perhaps she felt as anxious as the others. Perhaps she despised the ritual. It was impossible to tell. Whatever the case, she started off by getting straight to business. "Are we all here?"
"I think so," said one voice.
"Check the list," suggested another.
"There's too many names. Just get on with it."
"We're still waiting on Drs. Chen and Kovac," Susan Lewis informed them. She was seated in the corner with Abby Lockhart, and the two had been conversing in low tones for the better part of an hour. They were two of the first arrivals and had been keeping track of everyone's comings and goings, and thoroughly enjoying the gossip that made its way from one end of the room to the other. However, their often girlish behavior was toned down for the occasion, and they were both wearing sober expressions, hands already donning rubber gloves.
"We're here." Jing-Mei Chen's voice rang out sharply in the silence and the assembly parted as she pushed her way to the front, dragging Luka Kovac along with her. Their hair and clothes were slightly disheveled, and Luka seemed to fidget more than usual as all eyes fell upon him and the woman at his side. Abby's and Susan's eyebrows lifted in unison as they watched the pair scramble for seats, apologizing for their tardiness. Chen ended up squeezing herself in between Abby and Elizabeth Corday, a telling smile on her lips. She wasn't the least bit sorry for holding things up. "I was just so occupied with my patients that I almost forgot what day it is," she said in a loud voice. Laughter followed, for everyone knew there were no patients today.
"Disgraceful," Robert Romano muttered from his spot in a trauma room doorway. He had to crane his neck to see over the taller folks in front of him, but he had no trouble making himself heard. "It's imbeciles like that that are ruining the drawing. I heard some hospitals in Michigan gave it up completely because no one took it seriously anymore. What the hell is wrong with people? There's a bad case of stupid-ass going around, or something."
"Hear, hear."
"He's right," a nearby surgeon said.
"Bad case of stupid-ass! Haha!" cried a lunch lady, guffawing.
Abby and Susan giggled behind their hands, professional demeanors gone for the moment. Chen shot them a nasty look, as they were laughing at her expense, since she was technically one of the stupid asses. They ignored the icy glare and focused on Weaver, who had called for order. Add "in the court" to that, and she would have made the perfect judge.
"All right, now that I have your attention..." Weaver's solemn eyes traversed the room, checking to see if the statement was true. "It is time to explain the official rules of our annual drawing."
Someone groaned. No one could possibly have forgotten the rules -- they hadn't changed in at least fifty years. Even the scut buckets knew them by heart. Any physician worth his (or her) salt could recite them on cue. But the ceremony wouldn't be complete until this portion was through, so everybody listened in whether they actually wanted to or not.
And it was a good thing. Weaver explained all the obvious steps: Each person drew a single slip of paper, under no circumstances were they to open it until permission was given, no one was allowed to trade ("Damn straight!" Romano yelled) - that would narrow things down to a certain branch of the hospital, the OR, ER, ICU, etc - then came the final drawing to determine which individual from that group was the chosen one. But this year she threw in a twist that made ears perk up, backs straighten, and a couple of heads (Chen's and Luka's) snap into reality and swivel in her direction to make sure they had heard correctly.
"Did you say two people are getting it this year?" Chen interrupted.
"Yes, I did." Weaver grimaced as Romano let out a second whooping noise. "Due to a heavy increase in staff, it was decided that one person wouldn't be enough."
"Can it be two people from the same department?" an OB nurse wondered.
"Yes, it can."
Abby and Susan raised their eyebrows at each other again. Wow.
Weaver wasn't in the mood to allow the new information to sink in. The name list was huge this year, it would take a good fifteen minutes to get through just that. She took a pen from her breast pocket, tapped it against the bedpan (cling!), held up a chart and began calling names. "Allen..."
One by one they stepped forward, attendings, residents, RNs, the odds - for a brief period, anyway - making them equals. The drawing didn't distinguish between which field of medicine you had chosen to study.
The last piece of folded paper went to Weaver, who plucked it out of the bedpan and then, in a rare display of mischief, paused for dramatic effect. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. "You may open them now," she said slowly, and a loud rustling of paper drowned out the final word.
"Where is it?"
"I don't think our department got one."
Confusion and noise descended on the group for a moment, while each person glanced at their neighbors to see what they had drawn. And then, "Lewis has it!"
"Oh my God, Lockhart has the other. What are the chances?"
"I told you they do everything together," Frank the desk clerk shouted out above the din, getting a laugh from the crowd and startling Randi so badly that she let out a squeal.
"That's because they share a brain," Romano yelled back, but he was grinning at the women while he spoke and banging his hand against the wall in a sort of makeshift clap.
Weaver hammered her pen against the bedpan. "Quiet," she demanded. "Abby, Susan, step forward please."
Obediently, the two women approached and stood shoulder to shoulder while Weaver confirmed that indeed they had both selected papers which put the ER in the final round, twice over. Mixed feelings were expressed by the crowd. A couple of people booed, others cheered. Those who worked in the emergency room said nothing but rushed forward and lined up behind Abby and Susan. An angry cardiologist balled his paper and threw it at the back of Gregory Pratt's head.
"Chill, man," Pratt growled. "You still get to participate."
"When you're quite finished..." Weaver was glaring again. She snatched the bedpan off its stool and held it high over her head. Someone giggled. "I am going to pass this around to each of you. Refold your papers and place them into the pan only, and I mean ONLY, if you work in the ER." She tossed the papers Susan and Abby had drawn into the bedpan and held it out for the nearest person to take. Romano got it first, doing a tricky bit of one- handed juggling to get his paper in. He passed the bedpan to the next in line. For a minute, it appeared the doctors and nurses were playing Hot Potato as it went from one hand to another, before working its way back to Weaver.
She jiggled the bedpan, stuck her pen inside and swirled the contents, then jiggled it some more. Finally satisfied, she said, "All right. Susan and Abby draw first this time. Just pass it around again when you're done."
The second drawing was much quicker, thanks to the first winnowing process. It took less than a minute for everyone in the ER staff to claim another slip of paper.
"Ready?" Weaver asked, as soon as the bedpan had been returned to its stool.
"I hope it isn't Abby," one of the OB nurses whispered.
"Wish it was that prissy boy Carter," another voice mumbled. "Might know he'd be hiding out in the Congo."
Susan nudged Abby and grinned, but their amusement dissolved when Weaver shouted, "Open!"
Several of the women cried out, waving blank slips of paper in the air. Abby and Susan were among them, and they shared a quick, triumphant embrace before turning to see what the others had. "What did you get, Dr. Chen?" Abby said, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Chen didn't answer. Her eyes were wild and unseeing as she began to back up, shaking her head vehemently. Her paper fluttered to the floor, revealing a single black dot that Jerry had scribbled in earlier with a permanent marker. "No, this isn't fair. I didn't have enough time to choose." She pointed an accusing finger at Weaver. "You rushed me because I was late. I should get another chance."
Romano blocked her path and shoved her forward. He fished in his pocket for a syringe, squirting drops of fluid into the air tauntingly. "There's supposed to be two. Who's the other one?"
"Over here," Michael Gallant said. "It's Kovac." He placed both hands on Luka's shoulders and pushed the man towards Chen. Luka gave them all a tragic look but didn't utter a sound.
"Hurry, Abby," Susan urged, her scalpel ready. "She's probably quick. You grab one arm, I'll take the other."
Abby flicked the syringe she was holding. "What about Luka?" Her words jumbled as she tried to talk over the scalpel handle she had clenched between her teeth. She looked like a pirate, lips curled over trusty dagger for safe keeping.
"He's big," Susan said, breathless. She was fighting to keep her spot at the front while the crowd circled in on Luka and Chen. "There will be plenty of him left by the time we're through with her."
"No. You have to stop this," Chen wailed, clutching Luka's arm. Even he had begun to babble pleas now, but the frantic pitch of Chen's voice blocked them out. "Abby, Susan, we were friends, weren't we?" She gave up speaking and merely screamed when the first scalpel pierced her flesh.
"For Christ sakes, stick her with something that'll shut her up!" Romano bellowed, his syringe already jammed firmly into Luka's shoulder. The bald man's eyes gleamed as he brought forth his scalpel and began to slice.
"It's not fair, it's not fair," Chen screeched, and then her cries died out altogether as Abby, Susan and the rest of the mob advanced.
THE END