When McG wakes, everything is dark and everything hurts.
It takes a while to process anything past that. His thoughts are sluggish and his head spins like he's been on a terrible bender. But he doesn't remember drinking, and this feels so much worse than any hangover he's ever had before.
He's not really sure where he is or what has happened. Just that his whole body is in agony and he can't seem to move. There is also a strange buzzing in his ear that he really wishes would go away and leave him in peace.
After a minute or so he realizes his eyes are still shut and with a concerted effort he manages to get them open.
From his position he can see the stars high up in the dark sky overhead.
There is some small sane part of his brain that thinks that's weird. That there probably should have been a roof there.
But then the stars begin to blur and disappear from the sky until everything is just black again.
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The next time he wakes he is a bit more with it.
Aware enough to realize just how screwed he is.
It hurts a bit less which is nice, but deep down he knows it's not actually a good thing. Even though it does allow him to concentrate a little longer on exactly what kind of mess he's gotten himself into.
Nothing will move. Not his hands, not his legs.
Squinting he can focus enough to make out some pieces of the wall on top of his arms and chest. They are pinning down his arms and shoulders and making it hard to breath.
But that weight is nothing compared to what lays beyond.
A massive wooden beam is cutting into his thighs just below his pelvis, gravity pressing it unrelentlessly down and pinning him to the ground.
From his prone position, he can't see past the thick piece of wood. Nor can he really feel his legs by this point, they've long ago gone numb. At least he hopes they have. He isn't sure he really wants to know what kind of shape his lower half is in on the other side. His legs might not even be attached still for all he knows. He's seen shock mask all sorts of trauma. That realization makes him laugh, even though there really is nothing funny about it.
He forces his eyes away from the beam and the gory possibilities of what could lay behind it.
Instead he stares up at the non existent ceiling where the beam used to span the ceiling, holding up the roof above the second story of the house.
Right... there was a second story... he had been on the second story.
It all comes rushing back to him, how he ended up like this. The panicked warning in his ear, followed immediately by a bombing way too close to his location. The room exploding around him, things falling on him.. him falling.
So basically a house had fallen on him.
It wasn't caused by a tornado but his somewhat delirious brain, pictures his feet sticking out the otherside like the wicked witch with her ruby slippers. Someone could come by and steal his shoes and he wouldn't even know it.
A noise in the distance distracts him from his weird trip down the yellow brick road.
Maybe it's wishful thinking but it sounds like familiar voices calling out. Every fiber of his being hopes that it's his team, that they fared better than him.
He won't be much use to them if they are hurt and that thought concerns him more than anything else about this so far.
The precariously balanced rubble to the left of him shifts, spreading new dust into the air. It causes him to cough and sharp pain spikes in his chest and he drifts away again.
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He awakes sharply this time, body automatically reacting when a knee drops to the ground near his head.
"I've got him, form on me"
He knows that voice.
Then quieter, almost under his breath like a prayer, the man swears softly.
That's McG's first indication he is in trouble,
Dalton rarely swears.
"How're you doing McG?"
Dalton's face blurs into view as he leans closer into view assessing the situation.
McG recognizes the careful tones and now he really knows things are bad. Top has the same schooled features and the same false casualness that he usually gives people when he's trying not to let them know how much of a mess they are. It's weird to have it directed back at him.
If he wasn't sure, the reactions of the rest of the team when they arrive into view over Adam's shoulder confirm it.
Definitely not good.
He tries to get an answer out but the words catch in his dry throat. His lips and mouth are caked in dust and grime and he can't find any traction.
A hand tilts his head upwards gently and trickles some water into his mouth. The medic side of him wants to chastise them for not securing his c-spine like he's taught them. But right now he is so absurdly grateful for the liquid he doesn't care.
A few drops in though in his body rebels and he coughs out the precious hydration. The coughs are weak and the water gurgles out his mouth pitifully running down the side of his face leaving tracks in his dirty skin. He closes his eyes as his chest protests the sudden movements, he really needs to stop coughing.
When he finally manages get them to open again there are several sets of worried eyes fixed on him. Jaz is biting her lip but Preach gives him a reassuring nod.
"Been ….better" he finally pushes out.
"Yeah I'll bet. Always got to go for the big drama huh Joseph?" Amir makes the effort to keep things light and McG makes the effort to reciprocate.
"t's how you get the ladies"
That gets a few eye rolls and its worth the effort to see their faces relax slightly.
Dalton is all business though
"Give us a systems check. Anything we need to worry about? Anything bleeding? We can't really see what's going on under all that stuff yet."
McG tries to think it through. It was hard to pinpoint what exactly was hurting. Could he just say everything?
He normally hated that answer but he would never judge a patient who used it ever again. It was honestly just the truth right it also wasn't helpful so he tried to prioritize what might be important for them to know about.
"Head is bad, lungs heavy...can't feel legs"
The team exchanges glances around him, unable to hide their worry at that last piece of information.
"You guys've... Shitty bedside manner"
They belatedly try to look unconcerned and he smirks a little.
"Alright, we'll get this beam off you and get you squared away."
Top's matter of fact plan is more reassuring than anything at this point. Short and simple, perfect for McG's foggy brain to latch onto right now.
Amir and Preach set to work clearing off some of the lighter rubble trapping his chest and arms. His battered ribs gratefully pull in oxygen without as much effort and with his upper half exposed the team can finally do something to help him.
Jaz quickly covers his torso with a blanket. It's a good idea considering the cold cement has been sapping his body heat for however long he's been lying here. She pulls out an IV kit and starts a line. He barely feels the pinch which is impressive, or maybe his arms are just numb as well. The prick at his neck he definitely feels, but its worth it and he moans appreciatively at the morphine hitting his system.
Finished with the minimal first aid she can attempt right now, Jaz runs her hand through his hair soothingly. He wants to remember to tease her about that later, but he probably won't. He knew deep down the Ninja was a big softie, now he has proof.
Her gentle fingers are the one nice sensation amongst the myriad of pains that are building the longer he lays here. Its soothing, just like the grey tugging at the edges of his vision and his lids start to lower slowly. The ever vigilant sniper is on him in a second chiding him to stay awake.
"M'awake"
He mutters, hoping it will appease her so he doesnt have to open his heavy eyes. He tries to focus on something else other than how appealing sleep is right now. He listens to his team work, trying to follow the conversation flowing around him and the sounds of metal and debris being moved as Preach, Dalton and Amir look for a way to free him.
He hears them preparing to lift, nearing conensus that they have appropriate leverage to lift the beam in one go. Instead of relief, he still can't shake the feeling that it's a bad idea. That this is not the right approach. That there was something he was missing. But he can't put the pieces together and his head protests when he tries.
He brushes it off in frustration, focusing instead on mentally preparing for what he knows is coming. The morphine they'd given him isn't going to going to be enough when the beam is lifted and the blood started reflowing to his extremities. He takes a few shaky breaths trying to relax, trying to let go of the anxiety and whatever is needling him about their plan. A few more breaths and he can feel the fatigue winning the battle, and he doesn't even try to fight it this time, hoping that when he wakes up it will be in a comfy bed with all the good drugs pumping.
"Easy now, we don't want to crush him, let's get something to brace that" Top's order cut through the deeping haze and he finds himself stuck on the wording.
Crush him…
Crush…
A sharp realization pulled him back from the darkness, as sudden and quick as turning on a lightswitch. That niggling doubt that he had been unable to put his finger on suddenly clicked into place.
That was it. He was being crushed. Of course he knew that before but now it was so clear, medically speaking they needed to account for crush syndrome.
Shit. How long has he been here. He has no idea.
Adrenaline was sharpening his mind again and his brain was trying to calculate but he didn't trust his sense of time. He forced his eyes back open in what feels like a Herculean feat.
"Jaz, how long?"
"How long what?"
"How... long... here?"
Every word is taking effort. With more adrenaline comes more awareness, but also more discomfort.
It's making it both easier and harder to focus again.
"I dunno, a couple hours now. Just hang on we are gonna get you out of here soon."
No that's not what he wanted.
Stop.
The word didn't make it out with any volume. Lips helplessly forming a word that no one hears. His mouth was so dry, any moisture he could generate rapidly absorbed and caked the sides with the dust and dirt. But they had to stop. He had to make her hear him. He painfully swallowed and tried again.
"Stop."
It was somewhere between a pitiful sob and a desperate prayer, but at least this time it was audible.
"What's that McG?" Jax leaned in closer.
"Don't lift it."
She looked at him reassuringly not understanding. "It's fine we will take it off carefully. We can give you more morphine. It will be ok."
"Jaz no... don't... kill me!"
That got her attention.
Eyes widening she finally processed some of the severity of what he was trying to say, even if she still looked confused.
She stood up, turning to address the rest of the team gathered on the other side of the beam.
He dizzily tried to track her movement, finally relaxing when he heard her relay the message.
After that things went a little grey again, his body taking his relief as job done and time to shut down for a rest.
A gentle pat to his face brought his eyes back open. He wasn't sure when they had closed.
But the whole team was now crouched down near him. Looking unsure and concerned. Waiting for him to speak.
He tried to sort his thoughts through. Prioritize what he needed to tell them.
"Crush syndrome. Can't lift it."
Ok, just tell us what we need to do.
Dalton's voice was calm and he grasped on to that like a lifeline. Fighting the panic that was swelling and making it harder to think. What did they need to do? Think McG. He hadn't got that far yet.
"Where's my bag?" he tried to look around but his vision swam.
"I need to… I mean you need to…"
Jesus. He sounded so flustered.
He looked up at Jaz and lost focus in the watery tears rimming her concerned eyes. Crap he couldn't do this to her. Not after Elijah.
Focus McG. How did he treat this. Crush syndrome… okay. Toxins were building up. Would travel up once the compression was lifted. Needed to balance it out with the appropriate levels of fluids and ...did he even have bicarbonate in his bag? Or Calcium Chloride…
Even if he did, how did he explain it.
The team all had basic field medic training but the complex titrations required for this were beyond their skillsets. That wouldn't work. Hell he didn't even think he had enough IV fluids to pull it off anyways.
Panic overwhelmed him. He couldn't do this. They couldn't do this.
The team exchanged worried glances.
Preach scooted closer to him. Kneeling down next to his head and firmly taking his hand.
"Ok McG. We need your help. Patients lower limbs have been under heavy weight for 3 hours. What's your treatment plan? Push fluids? Elevate?"
He grasped onto the clam procedural voice. Training overriding his panic. Separating himself from the equation. Identify the problem… find a solution.
"Yes. Push fluids…. Much as possible. No elevation."
Ok, ignore the titrations. What was the second best treatment plan...
"Need... Tourniquets on legs. Above beam. Tight. Don't release. Don't lift weight till last minute"
"Tell doctors. Crush syndrome… watch the kidneys"
He petered off spent, panting in pain and lack of oxygen. He let himself drift for a while, trusting his team to follow his instructions.
He vaguely heard Jaz teasing tones, but he wasn't sure what she was joking about.
Sometime later he heard the motors of the helicopter as it approached. A part of him processed that meant it was almost time.
He jerked back to full awareness when they yanked hard pushing against his body to tighten the tourniquets firmly around his legs
"Ready McG?"
Dalton was letting him make the call.
He looked around at each of his teammates, memorizing their faces, suddenly scared. All he had wanted was to get out from under the crushing weight but now what lay on the other side terrified him more. The idea that he might not make it or that he might not be in one piece if he did. Either way he wouldn't be there to fight alongside his team again, to take care of them and ensure they all made it home. That was his job. He wasn't ready to abandon it yet. He wasn't ready to abandon them yet.
Jaz took his hand and squeezed it hard as if to remind him that they weren't going anywhere and neither was he.
He swallowed and gave a short nod. "Ready"
"Ok. Three. Two. one lift"
He felt some of the heaviness recede.
Still blissfully numb for a second, he had just enough time to think that it had gone better than expected, that it hadn't hurt that bad to move it. Then he was engulfed in a wave of fire, as if someone had dumped gasoline on his entire lower half and lit a match. Every nerve screamed and he choked out something unintelligible as pain stole his breath. He prayed for it to be over, for the darkness to come back and make it stop. There were guttural noises in the background and only after a few seconds did he realize they were coming through his own clenched teeth.
He tried to curl upwards, to escape but hands held him back, pushing him to stay still. Voices blurred around him but he couldn't understand anything trapped in his own world where the only language was pain. His breath was coming out in fast rapid pants and even through the firestorm his medic brain chided him to breathe slowly through it. Warning that he was going to hyperventilate if he kept up like this. Another part of his brain told that one to fuck off and happily embraced unconsciousness when it came a few seconds later.