Chapter 7
Friday 12:40am
Johnson was well versed in the symptoms of psychogenic shock, and he urged Mark to sit down, knowing that there was little else he could do but offer emotional support. However, he wasn't familiar with Mark's resilience, founded as it was on his natural optimism and a boundless faith in his son's abilities. Mark fought off the sense of panic engulfing him, needing to act and knowing more information was a prerequisite to acting productively.
"Was your son at UCHH?" the EMT asked sympathetically.
"No...yes...he'd just left." Mark took a deep breath, aware he wasn't being too coherent. "Is that where the damage is the worst?" he asked, clutching for any straws of comfort.
Johnson nodded. "The whole area's badly hit, but the University's the worst. Lane Auditorium and Main Hall collapsed completely. Luckily, it was the evening, and most of the students were finished for the day or we'd be seeing far worse. The kid in there," he nodded his head toward the ER, "was one of the luckier ones."
"What are the roads like?" Mark's mind was working furiously as he sifted through possibilities, trying to ascertain the most efficacious plan for locating and assisting his son.
"I don't know, I think..." Johnson was interrupted by Jesse flinging open the door and sticking his head through. "We've got eight criticals coming by chopper and many more..." He broke off as Mark's haggard appearance registered through his haste. "Are you OK? Is something wrong?"
"I'm fine, Jess." Mark stood up, duty warring with paternal instincts and, with no definitive proof of harm to Steve, temporarily, at least, winning. "We need more gurneys on the roof; the blood supply is running low, so send a call out for donors. I'll round up some more personnel."
Habit enabled him to direct the preparations while feeling curiously distanced from the proceedings. However, all sense of emotional detachment was shattered by the arrival of the casualties, their injuries suddenly intensely personal. The guillotine slash of shattered glass, the crushing impact of fallen masonry could easily have been inflicted on his own son. With a sudden jolt, he remembered the time Steve had helped out in an emergency drill. Now he thought about it, the staged crisis had been an earthquake, and Steve had arrived faking injuries caused by being buried under rubble and with a bar sticking out of his chest. At the time, they had laughed about the strange things they did together in their spare time, now the situation didn't seem funny any more, and Mark prayed it wasn't prophetic. He examined each new patient upon arrival with mingled hope and dread, each unfamiliar face eliciting a counterpoint of disappointment and relief.
The night unfolded, long and unrelenting, leavened only by the small triumphs of medical success and the satisfaction of a job well done. There should have been no time to think beyond the constant demands of the overflow of patients, but Mark's increasingly exhausted mind was assailed by haunting images, snatches of suppressed nightmares. The last few years of Steve's career had certainly provided fodder enough for countless sleepless nights, but Mark had noticed that it wasn't the egregious instances of terror that forced him upright, sweating, his heart thudding furiously in the dark.
The most unnerving dreams started innocuously, approaching gently and sliding insidiously into the subconscious under the guise of normalcy. Mark would be standing in the operating theatre, as he had innumerable times, confidently wielding a scalpel over the inert form on the table before him. He couldn't see the patient's face, but, as the operation continued, the body beneath his hands gradually assumed an eerie sense of familiarity. As the sensation intensified, his hands grew clumsier, finally faltering into near paralysis as recognition struck. This epiphany inevitably accompanied an abrupt return to consciousness although, on awakening, Mark was never sure which particular element of the dream it was that terrified him so deeply. Now he realised that it was the slow escalation of dread that sapped your strength and leached the warmth from your bones.
That feeling of imminent doom followed him into the early morning, transforming his fatigue into a state of preternaturally heightened alertness. His only solace during those anxious hours was a brief phone call with Captain Newman, Steve's superior. He apprised Newman of Steve's situation, and the Captain promised to contact the appropriate authorities at the scene in an attempt to find him.
During a lull in the frenetic activity, Jesse wound his way through green-tagged patients, for whom no space could be found in the overcrowded wards, to make his way to Mark's side. He rested his hand gently on Mark's shoulder to attract his attention, and drew a quick intake of breath at the despondent expression on the older doctor's face before he rearranged his features into a welcoming smile. Jesse knew there was only one thing that could bring out that distracted worry in his friend.
"Is it Steve?" he asked without preamble.
Mark gave a rueful grimace at being so transparent, but readily explained the situation. He hated to worry his young colleague, but he fully intended to enlist his services in searching for Steve.
"What can I do to help?" Jesse asked immediately, concern apparent on his countenance.
"Nothing, at the moment," Mark answered, though the inactivity was clearly galling to him. "I spoke to Newman, and he's putting out feelers to try to locate Steve. However, he recommended that we didn't try to go anywhere yet since many of the roads are apparently impassable, covered with shards of glass and other debris. They're distributing the casualties from the area via helicopter among about 20 surrounding hospitals, so, once we can safely move around, we can divide them up amongst ourselves to search for Steve."
"We'll find him, Mark," Jesse promised, although his heart was not as optimistic as his words, and he couldn't help but contemplate the alternative institutions in which they might locate Steve, or his body. However, he had no intention of allowing Mark to sense his doubts, and he continued on firmly. "Meanwhile, you need to take a break. You haven't stopped in the last 16 hours."
"Neither have you," Mark pointed out reasonably.
"Yes, but I'm closer to my internship than you and so more used to crazy hours," Jesse improvised.
"Is that a polite way of telling me I'm old?" Mark asked with some amusement.
"Nobody would ever call you old," Jesse said with the utmost sincerity. "But some rest would do you good."
Mark acquiesced, acknowledging the good sense behind his friend's suggestion. He resolutely settled himself on the couch in his office and closed his eyes, attempting to nap and build up his reserves. However, worry for his son sent jolts of adrenaline through his system, as effective a stimulant as a double espresso, and he soon surrendered to the inevitable and started pacing restlessly around his room. He knew Steve would move heaven and earth to get a message through to him under the circumstances, and it was becoming an inescapable conclusion that his silence signaled something more drastic than a lost or broken cell phone. The longer the night went without contact, the more ominous it became.
He gently reached out to touch a favourite photograph, then picked it up and sat down heavily in his chair. The picture had been taken on their white-water rafting trip, one of the few real vacations they had successfully coordinated between their busy schedules. It had been taken by someone on the shore with a zoom lens as the raft launched itself into the preliminary waves of a Class 4 rapid. The expression on Mark's face was a strange mixture of grim determination and unholy delight. Steve had been caught glancing back protectively, reacting with pride and enjoyment at his father's evident enthusiasm. It had been a rare time of undiluted pleasure, and, even now, Mark couldn't help but smile at the memory. He made a mental promise to himself that when this was over - he refused to contemplate an if - they would find a way to recreate such an experience.
For a short time, the memories were soothing and, even though sleep was out of the question, Mark was able to avoid further pacing by focusing on the comforting reflection of his son's formidable aptitude for survival. However, as the minute hand crawled round the clock with the speed of a geriatric tortoise, Mark found himself obsessively watching the phone, mentally willing it to ring until finally he decided that exercising his patience was the most strenuous activity there was, and he'd rather be doing something less stressful - like open-heart surgery.
Just as he was contemplating escape, the door slowly opened and Jesse peered in, hoping Mark would be asleep, but clearly unsurprised to find him wide awake. "Mark, there's something I think you should see."
Jesse's face was set and bleak, and Mark felt a new serpent of fear coil inside him ready to strike. "Jesse, what is it? Is it Steve? Have you heard something?"
Jesse held up a placating hand. "Nothing like that. We've just got our first television coverage and ... well...I think you should watch it."
Jesse evasiveness did nothing to quell Mark's concerns, but he followed his friend to the staff room without further questions, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answers that would soon be forthcoming.
There were people crowded round the TV making it impossible for Mark to see the screen, although snatches of commentary filtered through, littered with technical phrases like "previously unknown blind-thrust fault" and "subsurface liquefaction causing widespread ground failure". Jesse created a passage for them both with judicious use of his elbows and insincere apologies until finally Mark could see what held everyone's rapt attention.
A news reporter, with the unctuous expression of regret assumed by all TV announcers covering a disastrous event, spoke earnestly into the camera. Behind her was a scene of intense activity as people worked frantically around lumps of concrete and twisted metal, through which occasionally the dull gleam of a vehicle could be glimpsed. In the background there were several army helicopters, occasionally drowning out the commentary as they took off. Mark gazed at the tragic scene in horrified empathy, only half listening to the reporter's over-dramatic patter.
"As you can see, the inadequately reinforced concrete columns that support the upper deck were sheared off, causing it to cave in. Observers say that that the quake rolled along the two-decker Soledad Canyon Bridge like a colossal ocean wave, behind which section upon section of the upper deck collapsed. Dozens of cars and trucks lie crushed beneath the pancaking of the two decks. Despite fears that aftershocks will bring down the remaining structure, fire crews are risking their lives to rescue drivers trapped in what has become a gigantic concrete tomb."
It took a moment for the name to register, then the anguished dawning of comprehension sucked the strength from his body in a dizzying rush. He automatically put his hand out to steady himself, not even noticing Jesse grabbing it and guiding him over to a hastily vacated chair. The shock seemed to disconnect a small gibbering part of his mind from his bulk of his emotions, and, while devastated by the possible implications of this revelation, he had a sudden, inane flashback to his seventh grade math class and a question that had caused him severe problems. If a train leaves Philadelphia at 6 pm traveling at an average of 40mph what time will it arrive in New York? He could see the text as clearly as if the workbook lay in front of him, then suddenly in his mind the words morphed into a very different question - If Steve left the University at 6:58pm traveling at an average of 40mph, what time would he cross the Soledad Canyon Bridge? His mind seemed as incapable of figuring out the answer as it had been when he was twelve, although for very different reasons. The picture his mind conjured up of his son in the midst of the collapsing bridge was so vivid that Mark closed his eyes in anguish, trying to block the distressing images, but they seemed to be burnt onto his retina and he hastily opened them again preferring the distance of the more impersonal wreckage on the screen to the gruesome possibilities dredged up by his imagination.
It couldn't take longer than thirty seconds to cross a bridge that size. What were the odds of the earthquake hitting in precisely those seconds? Steve had beaten the odds before. But there hadn't been a phone call. Mark was aware that his thoughts were slithering around aimlessly like a writhing pit of poisonous vipers, but the shock had deprived him of the will to curb them.
Jesse had been dividing his attention between the screen and his friend, observing him with concern. Mark seemed almost mesmerised by the TV, yet Jesse was no longer sure he was even watching it. "Mark?" he said softly, laying a hand on the older doctor's arm, not surprised by the rigidity of the muscles. The gaze Mark turned to him held no sparkle of its customary mischief, his eyes blind with grief at a horror only he could see, yet if shock had banked the flames of vitality, the spark of determination was already starting to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, and Jesse knew the kindling necessary to feed the flames. "It may look bad, but Steve always makes it through," he whispered softly.
His words seemed to provoke the reaction he desired, because suddenly Mark stood up and was on his way out the room. Jesse attempted to match his speed, but, despite his more slender build, he couldn't easily force his way through the crowd that seemed to melt before the elderly doctor's obvious determination. As Jesse emerged from the staff room he saw Mark entering an elevator on the opposite side of the hall, and it took a mad dash to squeeze in between the doors as they closed.
"Where're you going?" he panted, relieved that Mark's strength of purpose had reemerged, but still slightly concerned. In the past, Mark's decisions when Steve was hurt had not been his most rational and prudent. He had been known to threaten mob leaders and plunge into the middle of forest fires when driven by the need to protect his son.
"My son is out there somewhere, and I'm going to find him." It was said with quiet resolve, and Jesse found himself convinced that Mark would do just that, his own heart lifting in response.
As the elevator doors opened, Mark swept out, an inexorable force carrying Jesse along in his wake, and he didn't pause until he rounded the corner of the parking lot. "I need to talk to Newman. With the police radio, he is more likely to have heard something, but I can't contact him. He may be able to give us some ideas as to where to start looking. It may be best if you stay in the hospital for now and make sure we're covered here. If you get the chance, talk to some of the chopper pilots about getting three doctors on an outgoing flight to Hilton Heights, that would be good." He gave Jesse a slightly distracted, but genuine smile at his immediate assent. "Thanks, Jesse. I'll be in touch soon."
The senior doctors all had reserved parking spaces next to the building, and Jesse watched as Mark made his way to his car. He'd always envied the deep bond between father and son, but knew how sharp a double-edged sword it could be in a situation like this. For the first time, Jesse also allowed himself to feel the full measure of fear for his best friend. With a big sigh, he started to turn to go back inside the hospital, only to whirl around as an aberrant movement caught his eye. To his horror, a large piece of concrete had toppled off the roof and was hurtling straight at Mark as he unlocked his car.