"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Patrolman Jack Stafford had been standing guard outside the open door to Room 604 for the past four-and-a-half hours. He heard the eardrum-shattering sound of something powerful exploding and felt the whole building rock. The officer immediately drew his weapon and then proceeded to retreat into the injured fireman's hospital room.
Inside ICU's Room 604…
Roy had just returned from his two-hour break and Chet was just about to take his leave, when the explosion occurred.
Kelly heard the blast and felt the floor shake beneath his boots. "What the hell was that?" he asked Gage's armed guard, as the guy suddenly ducked into the room.
The officer didn't have an answer.
"Sounded like somebody may have just set off a rat-trap!" Roy alarmedly determined and directed an extremely anxious gaze in the hunk a' cheese's direction. The paramedic was even more dismayed to discover that his lightly sedated buddy's eyes were both wide open. He reached out and pressed the nurses' call button.
Kelly considered the vertical paramedic's nonsensical reply over for a few moments. Then his mustached face scrunched up a might. "Huh-uh?"
"Please…tell me…that guy didn't…bring a bomb…into this hospital…" the horizontal paramedic pleaded, looking and sounding somewhat panic-stricken.
Gawd, how DeSoto wished he could tell him that.
But, at the moment, a bomb was the only logical explanation for the explosion they'd just heard—and felt.
Roy's silence caused his already extremely upset-looking partner to appear even more agitated.
Johnny's slightly sedated brain suddenly registered something and his distraught face filled with a look of absolute horror. His being there had placed the whole damn hospital in danger!
Alarms sounded, as the patient's cardiac monitor suddenly went wild.
The patient struggled to sit up. "First, he attacks the nurses…on this floor! Now, he's attacking…everybody in the building!"
Roy and Chet did their damnedest to keep their highly agitated, severely injured buddy in his bed.
Captain Stanley uncovered his head and gave it a quick shake. The rattled fire officer exhaled an audible sigh of relief and carefully picked himself up off of the floor of the lounge.
He saw that the space he had been occupying on the carpeting had been outlined by shards of broken glass, and gave his head another quick shake.
Hank then crossed—er, crunched over to the little room's blown out—er, blown in windows and took a quick look.
Well, the table he'd tossed out hadn't hit anybody, and there were no 'bodies' visible down below.
Because the handbag had exploded in mid-air, and because the blast did not occur in a confined space, and because the ICU's Visitors' Lounge was located at the back of the building, the powerful bomb's damage appeared to be limited to just a lot of shattered windows—and nerves.
Speaking of shattered nerves…
"Ga-age!" Stanley muttered beneath his breath and went racing back out of the room.
Hank halted just outside the ICU Ward's double-doored entrance and cautiously pushed one of the swinging portals open a crack. "Captain Hank Stanley!" he called down the deserted corridor. "Los Angeles County Fire Department!" he added for good measure and flashed Gage's armed guard his badge and photo I.D..
"Come ahead!" the cop called back. "But keep your hands open and your arms out to the sides!"
The Captain re-pocketed his wallet, slowly entered the Ward and did just as he was directed.
Prior to allowing the Captain access to Room 604, the armed cop gave the fireman's credentials a much closer inspection. Finally satisfied, as to their visitor's intentions and identity, the police officer waved the fire officer into the room.
Hank heaved another audible sigh of relief and stepped into Gage's hospital room. Alas, his relief was short-lived.
Two of his guys, along with an orderly and a nurse, were currently engaged in a struggle with the room's critically injured occupant.
Well, the only thing the nurse was actually struggling with was the recently filled hypodermic syringe she was wielding.
"You guys…gotta get me…outta here!" the bed-ridden paramedic implored and attempted, once again, to rise up from his hospital bed.
"At ease!" Stanley sternly ordered and stepped right up beside his antsy, injured crewman.
The nurse finally managed to administer the sedative.
Whether it was as a result of the syringe's contents, or his command, the patient suddenly went completely limp.
That is, until the hypo'ed paramedic happened to notice the lacerations on his boss' arms. "Ca-ap…you're bleeding…all over my bed!" he anxiously exclaimed and tried, once again, to sit up.
Stanley shoved him back onto his pillows. "Sorry 'bout that," he replied with a warm smile. Hank gave his injured forearms a disinterested glance. "Guess I must a' got hit with some flying glass." He glanced around. "Everybody okay in here?"
"We are no-ow," Roy relievedly replied. "Here…You better let me have a look at those cuts," the fireman further realized and sat their bleeding Captain down on his cot.
Six floors below, just outside the basement stairwell in Emergency Receiving…
Craig had been perfectly content to remain on 'his' side of the basement door. That is, until he recalled that the hospital's Lab was filled with technicians, and that those technicians could be used as hostages.
So the fireman had stealthily slipped into the stairwell and cautiously made his way down to the Lab.
Brice had the laboratory evacuated and was just about to follow the last of its fleeing workers back up the stairs, when the sound of running feet came echoing down the deserted hallway.
Iverson was coming back.
Craig raced up the basement stairs—two steps at a time. He had no notion of how he was going to accomplish his task. He just knew that the armed killer had to be kept out of Emergency Receiving.
The paramedic got back on the 'safe' side of the basement door.
Unfortunately, there was no way to lock it, and nothing within close proximity was heavy enough to block it. He glanced around.
The ER was already in a state of complete pandemonium, on account of the explosion.
He dreaded to think what the ward would be like once Iverson arrived waving—and perhaps even firing—his weapon. Craig gasped in exasperation and peered through the portal's narrow glass window.
Iverson was heading up the basement stairs—with his gun drawn!
Craig stepped away from the door and waited.
If the fireman timed things just right, he just might be able to knock the bad guy back down the basement steps.
The doorknob moved.
Brice waited until the heavy wooden portal was almost halfway open, before charging into it—full force.
Fortunately, he had timed his move perfectly.
The heavy door slammed into John's assailant and sent him reeling backwards.
"Ahhh-ahhh!" Carl Iverson shrieked, as he was suddenly shoved back and off-balance. His left arm flailed desperately, in search of a handhold.
There wasn't one.
So the cold-blooded killer continued to sail backwards—and right off the top of the landing.
Craig grimaced and grabbed his bruised right shoulder. The pained paramedic then snuck another quick peak through the extremely hard portal's little, narrow window. He watched in satisfaction as Iverson went toppling—head over heels—back down the basement stairs.
The gunman landed in a moaning heap at the foot of the steps.
"Don't move!…Or I'll shoot!" Storey screamed—er, threatened at the top of his heaving lungs, as he—and three armed members of his security detail—caught up with their fleeing quarry at the base of the basement stairway.
It was the last thing Carl Iverson never heard.
Craig jerked, as a shot suddenly rang out and up from the basement stairwell. He reached out with his left hand and slowly pulled the heavy portal back open. "Anybody down there require medical assistance?" he anxiously inquired.
"No!" Mr. Storey solemnly replied. "Carl Iverson is…dead!"
Brice was not the slightest bit heartbroken to hear that particular bit of news. If fact, the paramedic heaved his third sigh of relief, in as many minutes.
Brice's first stop, after being waylaid by Dr. Brackett, was ICU's Room 604.
The paramedic strolled into John's hospital room with his right shoulder immobilized and his right arm in a sling. He saw that the person he'd come to see was either asleep, or sedated. "I, uh, just wanted John to know that Carl Iverson won't be hurting anyone…anymore."
Hank—and everybody else within earshot—heaved a tremendous sigh of relief.
Gage's guard relaxed and promptly re-holstered his weapon.
Stanley studied Brice's bandages. "What'd yah do to your shoulder?"
Craig gave his injured arm a glum glance. "I had a little 'run-in' with a door. What'd you do to your arms?"
"I had a little 'run-in' with a bomb," the Captain replied, using the paramedic's own vernacular. Hank stared at the new arrival, looking somewhat astonished. "How on earth did you ever manage to recognize Iverson?"
"I saw Belmont with a photo in his hands, when I first arrived," Craig calmly replied. "Logic dictated that it was a picture of John's assailant."
'Sheesh!' Chet silently exclaimed. 'He sounds just like Spock!'
Stanley was even more astounded. "You were able to I.D. Iverson—right through his disguise—just by glancing at his photo for a second?
Craig nodded. "A quick glance was all that I required. You see, I have a photographic memory."
'Humph. He actually is a walking rulebook,' Roy realized, solely to himself.
"A photographic memory," Hank dazedly repeated. "A fact for which we can all be eternally grateful!" The Captain's gaze fell upon his peacefully sleeping paramedic. 'Especially you, pal…' he solemnly, and silently, mused. "Especially you," he quietly restated, right out loud.
TBC