I do not own Terminator: Rise of the Machines.
I am not in a machine apocalypse. From a certain point of view. ;)
Not A Church Youth Group Sleepovers
Assistant Veterinarians Are Hardcore
"I'm Kate Brewster. What's your name?"
"Jeffery Barnes. That's my brother Jericho."
She really doesn't have time to get anxious and locked up that she's not really technically a 'people' doctor.
Talk it out. Just like with piloting the plane.
"Okay, let's see what we've got here. Temperature, one hundred point three."
"Um, pulse, one seventy-two . . . blood pressure, sixty over thirty."
The dark skin is badly discolored around the dirty . . .
"What's this on the wound, duct tape?"
"Yeah. It was all we had."
"That's smart. Keeps out foreign substances. Keeps in everything else."
"Yeah. 's what I was thinkin'."
. . . chest wound.
And she tries to think through the rushing of her own blood in her veins.
Blood, veins . . .
"Okay, his blood is in his body but not in his veins."
And his breath is wheezing bad, getting worse.
She can barely breathe, her chest is so tight . . .
"I think he's got a hemothorax-"
"A what?!"
"He's bleeding into his chest wall and the pressure is collapsing his lungs. He's suffocating."
"Okay, so what do we do?"
How the fuck do I know, I'm a fucking veterinarian!
And then words come to her and she speaks.
"We have to drain the blood to relieve pressure so he can breathe."
Grabbing the largest, longest needle she can find.
Finds the spot between the ribs.
I'm sorry about this, Jericho.
And pushes it through.
The vial immediately fills up with blood and she unscrews the end to let it flow out.
Places a bucket under the drip to catch it.
The wheezing eases and the man standing next to her takes a deep, shaky sigh of relief.
But Kate doesn't, not yet.
There's no time.
"We have to get an IV in him before he goes into hypovolemic shock."
"What's that?"
"Organ failure. Death."
This silences the neatly bearded man and she works in it for a few more minutes.
The med bay offers up a supply of O negative blood bags, the universal donor, compatible with any blood type on Earth.
She dreads the day they use the last one.
"Okay. So . . . what do we do now?"
Kate shrugs, blots her patient's damp, sickly-pale forehead.
"We wait."
The rest of the survivors have various minor injuries.
Cuts and burns get generous antiseptic applications and appropriate bandaging.
". . . redness starts spreading, okay?"
"Okay. Thank you."
Bruises get cold packs.
They're in the same room, John and Kate, working near and far and around one another.
But they don't spare time to exchange glances, to reach out with a passing touch, a quiet murmur for one another.
". . . -cohol rub on it, it's gonna burn . . .'
People need help, people need care.
People need reassurance and stability.
John's no triage expert but he can apply antiseptics, wrap bandages.
". . . alone and we'll check it again in a day or two . . ."
Kate is better with the stitches, medical glue.
She hesitates at the dislocated finger but Barnes . . .
"Hang on, I got this. Alright, man, hang on to somethin'."
. . . pops it right back with the ease of a . . .
"Football."
. . . pro.
"Th-thank you."
"No problem, man."
And returns unceremoniously to the side of his unconscious brother.
Everyone, even Kate and John by the time it's done, gets full body decontamination with heavy soap, so coarse it would make Lava soap cry.
". . . feeling better?"
"Yeah. I think."
A change of clothes whilst their own clothes go through a washing from hell, all top grade scouring stuff and water so hot it's easily easily capable of second degree burns.
The replacement clothes, military issue, smell of mothballs rather than blood and smoke.
". . . know this place was even here?"
"That's a long story."
And everyone listens for an assault from the machines . . .
"Thank you. Thank you for letting us in."
"You're welcome."
. . . that never comes.
Thanks to MadMikeE (that's an interesting comparison, thank you) and DinahRay for previously reviewing! :)