When You Think You're Alone
A post-Season-8 Carby romantic thrill ride.
CHAPTER THREE: PANIC ROOM
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue . . . you know.
Summary: Emotions bubble to the surface as Carter watches Abby grow ill and danger gets nearer.
Author's Note: Thank you again for leaving your comments behind. They certainly inspire me and help me gauge how well the story is coming across. And they just make me feel better about posting in the first place.
CHAPTER THREE: PANIC ROOM
Carter woke at 7:03 a.m. to the sound of Abby coughing in the tiny bathroom of Exam 3. It was that hard, irrepressible cough that only accompanies a violent purging of the digestive tract. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and waited for her to come out. When she emerged, he hardly recognized her. The overnight hours had taken a toll. Since he'd last seen her awake, her skin had turned pale, her eyes glazed, her hair matted with perspiration.
"Hey, why didn't you wake me?" he said to her.
"I think I just did."
Abby shuffled over to her bed and crawled on—first one knee, then the other—like she did when she was a child. He met her and pulled the covers over her and rested his hand on her head for just a moment before swinging into full doctor mode.
He grabbed an electronic thermometer, slipped it in her ear, and asked: "How long has that been going on?"
"An hour or two—I don't know. I feel like I've been in there all night."
"102.8," he read from the thermometer. "It's gone up a bit."
He put his stethoscope to her chest and then checked her eyes and glands as he did several hours before. He pulled the blanket away from her body, lifted her shirt slightly, and lowered her scrub pants somewhat to get access to her abdomen. Their eyes met as his fingertips made contact with her skin. His touch on her lower belly was gentle and intimate, and the warmth of his hands soothed her. She closed her eyes, rested her arms casually above her head, and let him feel her body.
"Does this hurt?" he said, pressing various spots on her stomach.
"No—I mean, yes. I have a stomach ache, okay?" Despite his careful touch, he located a number of painful spots, and soon she was uncomfortable.
"When was your last period?"
"Carter, please..."
"Any chance you could be pregnant?"
"No."
He was all business now but still had to work hard to suppress the little smile of satisfaction that her answer was "no." He covered her up again, and his hand instinctively reached for her forehead.
"I think 10 milligrams of compazine should calm that nausea, okay?"
She nodded in agreement and curled up in a ball while he went to set up her injection.
"Abby, where is it?"
"Top shelf, to the left of the analgesics."
"I only see 5 milligrams."
"Look in back for the 10."
"I don't see it."
"Do you actually work here?" she said and buried her head in the pillow.
"I got it."
He pulled open a drawer.
"I don't see any syringes."
"The other drawer."
"What about—"
"Alcohol wipes are here by the bed. Do you want me to stick it in my arm, too?"
"You're not too sick to be funny, are you?" he said as he returned to her bedside. "Except you should know that compazine is best given intramuscularly—in the buttock. Turn over."
"Carter!"
"Over." He gestured with the syringe full of medicine.
She obeyed. He moved her blanket once more and allowed her to slide her pants down slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her upper buttock. He sterilized a spot—rather leisurely, she thought—and injected her. Afterward, she quickly turned back over again.
He caught her eye and gave a nod of approval toward her derriere.
"Quiet," she chided.
The medication helped relax her, and he stood over her as she fell into a fever-induced sleep. He looked at the clock over their heads and realized it had been less than 24 hours since this ordeal began, though it felt much longer.
Yesterday started as a normal day—impossibly busy—but that was par for the course. Around mid-day, Michael Gallant brought to his attention the two youngsters in the waiting area with faces full of white pustules. From there it all happened so fast. He stepped forward to treat the children with Abby by his side. Next thing they knew, the two kids were being double-shrouded, smallpox was suspected, the ER was evacuated, and he and Abby were quarantined alone. And just when the strange circumstances provoked them to start sharing feelings, kiss for the first time, and touch each other the way they had in their dreams, they suddenly found themselves fearing for their safety—and now for her health.
Carter reached down and stroked Abby's hair while she slept and forced himself to acknowledge that both children who died of the pox first presented with flu-like symptoms—symptoms similar to hers.
Reluctantly, Carter walked over to the wall phone in the room, reached into his pocket for the number the CDC official gave him, and dialed. He was obligated to report that Abby was unwell. But like last night, the phone did not work.
"Damn!" he said, frustrated that they were still without telephone service. But he quickly stifled his exclamations so he wouldn't wake her.
While Abby slept, Carter began to check her body carefully for signs of white pustules. Her face was beautiful and delicate—and thankfully free of any marks. He could see that easily. But he had to gently move her hair to give him a better view of her neck. Her arms, ever so slightly tanned, showed no sign of pox. He put his finger in the neckline of her white knit shirt and stretched it from side to side to give him a view of her chest and shoulders. He couldn't help but glance at the subtle roundness of her breasts, though he rationalized that his looks were purely clinical. He moved the blanket from her lower body and slid the thin fabric of her scrub pants up each leg. Her calves were strong and thicker than he'd expected—probably from being on her feet all day. But he couldn't help but notice their shapeliness and the softness of her clean-shaven skin.
"What're you doing?" she asked. His touches woke her up.
"Checking you out."
"I can see that." She smiled.
"I'm looking for rash."
"You mean pox, don't you?"
"It doesn't matter. I don't see anything," he said, covering her up again. "How do you feel?"
"My stomach hurts," she said, adding, "You need to move out of the way." She struggled to throw off the covers and get up from the bed.
"Are you still nauseated?"
"No."
"Then what—"
"Move, please," she said urgently. She started to get up from the bed and slipped back from dizziness.
"Let me help you."
"No, please leave me alone." She managed to slide off the bed and head for the restroom once again.
When she returned, she curled up on her side. She was even weaker than before, even more uncomfortable—and this time, scared.
"I guess I caught a stomach flu, huh?" Her eyes were wet, and her lower lip began to quiver. He stepped toward her to comfort her.
"Stay away from me, Carter," she sniffled.
"I can't." He moved closer. "Believe me, I've tried."
"I know you want to help, but you have to stay away—you can catch this," she said, trying to appeal to him.
His eyes were fixed on her.
"John, I mean it, stay away," she warned as he got within arm's length.
"I can't," he whispered again, his voice filled with emotion.
Frustration, fever, and fatigue overtook her, and tears began rolling down her face. "Why?"
"I don't know," he said when he reached her. He took her hand in one of his. With the other, he wiped tears from her cheeks. He kissed her on the temple and rested his forehead against her head for a moment. "I don't know," he said again, this time whispering it in her ear.
But he did know. He had fallen in love with her, and he knew it, and Susan saw it, and Luka sensed it. But had she?
Nothing in Carter's life prepared him for the feelings he would have for Abby. He had many women in his life before—but not one of them occupied his thoughts the way she did. Not one buried herself as deeply in his heart as she did. Not one would he have sacrificed himself for the way he would for her. Now if only she knew it.
He sat at the edge of her bed and held her hand as she nodded off to sleep again. But a sound outside their door got his attention and made her eyes pop open.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Their eyes bolted in the direction of the far end of the hall where they heard the whir of wheels approaching.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Their eyes swept across the room following the sound of the wheels as they got closer to the door.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
And their eyes kept following as the sound of the wheels passed them by.
"Carter—"
"Lie still," he told her. He went to the door and peeked through the slats of the blinds that covered the window.
"It sounded like that skateboard," he guessed.
"Or a supply cart," she offered.
"Or a drug cart," he said, feeling confident he'd found the answer.
He reached for the knob.
"Carter, you can't go out there. Let them take what they want. What if they have a gun or—a knife?"
Carter tried to will away his sudden apprehension. His hand instinctively reached for his back and rubbed the site where he was stabbed more than two years before. In his head, he heard himself groan when the knife penetrated him. Like it was yesterday, he could see Lucy Knight, cheek to the floor, her punctured body convulsing with rough, shallow breaths.
But the frightening images of his past were nothing compared to the thought that he and Abby could be living for six more days in fear of noises outside their room. What if they couldn't get food or medicine or equipment he may need—for her? Courage overtook the fear, and he reached again for the knob.
"John wait!" she cried. "We're quarantined. What if you're incubating the virus? If—if they hurt you and then escape, they could spread the disease and kill a lot of people. Just call the police."
Abby was right.
He reached in his pocket for his cell phone. The tiny display screen was dark. Carter pressed the "on" button over and over again and began to breathe heavily.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The battery."
"What?"
"It's drained."
"Where's your charger?"
"Home."
"Home? You mean—"
He tossed the tiny gadget, now useless, against the wall. He looked at her apologetically.
"Well, what about the wall phone?" she asked.
"Still out. I checked while you were asleep."
She saw worry on his face and wanted to make him feel better.
"Carter, we're safe in here, and the phone will come on soon. It'll be okay."
He sat down on the bed opposite her and rested his face in his hands, feeling the weight of their predicament. He slapped his fist against his lap and said more to himself than to her: "Why did I let you come in there with me?"
"What?"
"When I first started treating those kids. I never should have let you in there with me—I never should have let you," he repeated to himself shaking his head.
"You couldn't have stopped me."
"I should have."
"Look, everyone was frightened—"
"I know. Why weren't you?"
"I was."
"So why did you come in with me?"
"Because I wanted to be there."
"Why?"
"Because . . ." She sighed loudly as if she were angry at him for making her say the words. "Because I wanted to be with you!"
She never failed to shock him. He got up from his bed, crossed over the narrow gap, and sat down on hers. "You did?"
She rolled over and turned her back to him. "What do you suppose that's all about?" she said, trying to lighten the conversation, fearing she'd already said too much.
He couldn't let the opportunity go by. He leaned his arm over her body and tilted his head to try to see her hidden face.
"I think . . . maybe . . . that's what they mean by . . . love."
She closed her eyes, curled up into a ball, and dug her face into the pillow. "Oh yeah? So now you think I love you, huh?"
"I think . . . maybe . . . we've loved each other for a while but didn't know it." She half expected him to reach around and kiss her—flu and all. But instead he got up from the bed.
She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes just enough to peek through her lashes and watch him walk away. Truth was, even though she was sick and terrified, she never felt less alone or more secure. And it was all because of him. And now he as much admitted that he loved her. Comforted by the thought, she relaxed and drifted off to sleep again.
By mid-day, Carter had nearly worn away the strip of linoleum flooring between their two beds with his constant pacing and frequent checking. By early afternoon, he was tired himself and closed his eyes for a few moments on the bed opposite hers. It was just a short time later that her whimpering awakened him.
When he opened his eyes, she was sitting up. Her lips were pale, her eyelids blue, her breathing shallow.
"I need to get up—now," she explained.
"I'll give you a basin—"
"The bathroom, please."
"Let me help." He stood by her.
"Leave me alone, okay?" She slid off the bed.
He waited outside the tiny bathroom. He could hear her faint sobs from the other side of the door. He tapped on it lightly with his knuckle.
"Abby, are you okay?"
He rested his palm on the door, desperate to make her feel better. "Abby—"
The door opened unexpectedly with his open hand still in the air. She was pale. Her pretty eyes were watery, and deep, dark circles encased them. Her lip was quivering, and her nose dripped above it.
"What is it?" he asked.
She wiped big tears from her eyes with the base of her palms. He took her face in both his hands. "What's wrong?"
"I saw blood . . . there was blood," she said.
She leaned her head against him. "John, I'm sick," she announced and cried into his T-shirt.
He pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. "Ssssshhh. I know. Everything's going to be okay. Don't worry." He kissed her hair, and his hand caressed her face. Holding her so close, he wondered if she could feel how hard and fast his heart was beating. He helped her back to bed.
With little instruction this time, he found all the supplies he needed to start an I.V. for her. He kissed her on the forehead, found the vein in her arm, and set up a drip to replace all the fluids she was losing. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He took her hand.
"Want to play doctor?" he said and smiled down at her.
"Maybe later." She drifted off to sleep, too weak to acknowledge the joke.
Once her eyes closed, Carter's smile receded from his face and was replaced by a grave expression. He immediately set to work gathering near her bed as many supplies as he could—intubation tray, crash cart, a syringe with lidocaine—anything he could find in the room that he would need if she took a turn for the worse and needed resuscitation.
He took her temperature once more, and as he held the thermometer near her ear, he was shaken by the sound of running footsteps out in the hall.
"Take what you want, damn it, and get out of here!" He spoke to the air so as not to disturb her.
His fear was compressed into such a tight package of nerves that it emerged as anger. His hand shook as he continued to hold the thermometer to Abby's ear, and he struggled to keep it steady so as not to wake her. But if his shaking hand didn't, his gasp almost did when the display on the thermometer told him that her fever had soared to 104.1. He couldn't wait any longer. He needed to know what was wrong with her.
He soaked a cloth with cool water and placed it on her forehead. He strapped a strip of rubber above her elbow, tore open an alcohol wipe, and began plucking at a vein from which to draw her blood.
The coldness of the alcohol woke her.
"What are you doing?" she asked groggily.
"Ssssshhhh. I'm going to find out what's wrong with you." He grabbed a needle and a vial.
"Little pinch—," he warned.
She didn't even flinch.
"John, do you think I . . . caught it?" she asked softly with wide, sad eyes as they both watched her blood spill into the vial.
"No!" he answered hastily, almost shouting the word. The thought was too painful for him.
But her eyes read something else in his face.
"I don't know," he confessed softly. "Those kids had the flu bad enough for their parents to bring them to the ER. But I don't see any pustules on you, and it's only been 24 hours since you've been exposed."
When the vial was full, he removed the needle from her arm and gently put a band-aid on the spot. He rubbed it for a long moment. He stood up, kissed her forehead, and reassured her. "You're going to be okay. I promise. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"What are you going to do with that?" she said, referring to the container of her blood.
"I'm going to bring it to the lab, make a smear, and analyze it myself."
"What? No! Don't leave!" She struggled to get up from her pillow.
"Abby, I have to—," he said, pushing her shoulders back onto the bed.
"John, what if there's someone—?"
"Abby, you are going to have to get up and lock the door behind me. Can you do that?"
"I want to go with you."
"You can't. I don't know what's making you so sick. Stay here, please. Don't be scared."
"Aren't you scared?"
Yes, he was—but not only of the intruder who seemed to be sharing their quarters, but of the fact that she was sick and getting sicker.
"Come on, be strong, okay?" He brushed the hair out of her eyes with his fingers and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "Please?" His eyes asked for her trust.
Abby reluctantly agreed. She reached up and put her arms around his neck. He hugged her tightly and helped move her legs off the bed and drag her I.V. over to the door. They listened carefully for sounds out in the hall and then opened the door, cringing as it squeaked. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and he kissed her hair before walking out the door.
"It's okay. I'll be back in a few minutes. Go back to bed," he whispered.
She closed the door behind him, locked it, and crawled back onto the mattress to wait for him to return.
It was mid-day, but the underpowered interior hallways were as dark as ever. Carter clutched the vial of blood and walked lightly but swiftly toward the elevator.
Bang!
Carter turned in the direction of a door slam.
"Abby?"
There was no answer. Behind him the elevator doors opened. He swung around and stepped in with one foot—only there was no car, and Carter instantly felt himself teetering on the precipice of the deep, dark elevator shaft. He grabbed the frame with his fingertips and struggled to steady himself before leaning any farther into the shaft. They were not warned that the emergency generator did not sufficiently power the elevator. As a result, cars stopped randomly and rarely at their intended destination, they would learn later.
"Help!" Instinct made Carter call out, but he managed to steady himself and keep his balance without dropping the vial of blood. Once secure, he leaned against the frame and slid to his knees breathing heavily at the near miss. But he knew it wasn't safe to rest there, so he picked himself up and headed for the stairs with his heart beating hard and fast.
Help!
Abby heard him call out. Panic swept over her. "John? John!"
She ripped the tape from her arm and pulled out the I.V. tube it was meant to secure. She slid off the bed and headed for the door, wiping the drips of fluid and blood from the I.V. site with the bottom of her own shirt. She unlocked the door and swung it open. Dizzy and a little lightheaded, she looked for any sign of Carter. Up ahead, the double doors to Trauma 1 caught her attention as they swung back and forth.
"John?"
The swinging doors were still by the time she reached them, but through the glass she saw the interior double doors connecting Trauma 1 to Trauma 2 burst open. She hurried to the outside of Trauma 2 just in time to see the interior double doors connecting it to the suture room burst apart as well. She continued down the hall and peeked into the suture room. And there she saw—nothing. It was almost as if the doors were thrown open by themselves, one set after another. Abby's face grew warm and she had trouble catching her breath. That's all she would remember—just before she dropped to the floor.
Over in the lab, Carter went to work. It had been a long time since he had done laboratory research—not since medical school. So he armed himself with photographs from the many reference volumes on the shelves in the room. He moved quickly and quietly as he took several drops of her blood and secured them between two slides, all the time looking over his shoulder and listening for sounds of trouble. Taking aim with the most powerful microscope he could find, he took a deep breath and focused in on the sample, praying he would not find the characteristic brick-shaped pathogen of smallpox . . .
Maybe it was the much-needed I.V. fluids or the impromptu nap, but Abby awoke on the floor of the ER hall a little stronger. She gathered her wits about her, saw that Carter was nowhere in sight, and hurried back to the sanctuary of Exam 3. She entered the room, closed the door behind her, and locked it. She leaned her forehead against the back of the door and took deep breaths to both calm and re-energize herself.
Swiiiiish!
Her spine froze at the sound of a bed curtain being drawn quickly along its track behind her. "J-John?"
There was no answer. She didn't really expect one, as it quickly began to sink in that she'd made a perilous mistake by venturing out of the room.
Carter, on his way back, took the steps two at a time and landed in the ER just as Abby slammed the squeaky door to Exam 3.
"Abby?"
Why would she open that door?
"Abby!" He began to run toward the room.
Inside, Abby struggled to unlock the door to escape, but her fingers were numb with fear and wouldn't let her. Behind her, the intruder began slashing at the curtain with what appeared to be a knife. Frightened, she could do nothing but cover her head with her arms. But the knife fell from the intruder's hand and slid on the linoleum floor out from under the curtain toward her. Abby saw it from the corner of her eye and recognized it as the missing knife Carter used to slice the melon during their midnight snack. Without a thought, she moved to put her foot on it at the same time the intruder's hand emerged from under the curtain to retrieve the weapon. She thought to scream, but what she saw took the breath from her body and stole her voice. Out from under the curtain came a hand, a tiny hand—the hand of a child.
Next
Conclusion: A Little Longer