Chapter Three
Trent accepted the bottle of water Reynard shoved in his hands and downed it in one continuous swallow. The beverage quenched his thirst but what he really needed was a bolt of caffeine. Maybe even a mainline IV full of the stuff. And food. Damn… when was the last time he’d eaten? Outside of a few protein bars and similar open-the-package-and-consume-the-food products, it had been almost two days.
He’d been asleep when the earthquake hit. Knocked his ass out of bed and had him ducking into the doorframe of his house. He knew the moment the shaking stopped that he was going to be one of the lucky ones. He’d overseen the construction of his home personally. Unlike most homes in the region, his was made with standards spelled out to pass US inspections even though he could have paid off the locals to have his needs met. Trent didn’t work that way. Not with a home he’d planned on living in for a time. He had planned on staying for a year, maybe longer, then using the home for holidays.
As it turned out he stayed longer than a year, and spent his holidays in the upper forty-eight.
“Have you eaten, mon?”
“I’m good,” Trent lied to Reynard. Reynard’s own home had partially crumbled during the quake. His children, all four of them, were at their school, which sat on higher ground. It too suffered major damage but the tsunami hadn’t washed it away. That was a blessing. Reynard’s wife, Kiki, had been home while Reynard himself had already gone to work.
Mrs. Kiffen hadn’t yet been found.
The weight of her absence sat behind Reynard’s eyes.
“Any word on Kiki?” Trent asked.
A swift shake of Reynard’s head gave Trent his answer.
“I’ll check the list of patients on my next run. Make sure the Americans are keeping an eye open for her.”
Reynard blinked several times. “My Kiki is a strong woman. We’ll find her.”
Trent squeezed the man’s hand as he shook it. He’d make sure the doctors and nurses he’d flown into the zone had Kiki’s description and name. She’d turn up… the question was, in what condition?
The sun lay directly overhead. Its rays blistered the tarmac under Trent’s feet.
He needed his shoes, some decent food, and a couple hours’ sleep. He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.
“The next group will be here in four hours. Go home… rest”, Reynard told him.
“There’s too much to do.” And there was. Between transporting the relief help from the airport to the zone, Trent flew medical supplies from one clinic to another. Military helicopters and medevacs were busy transporting the most critical off the island altogether. More help was on the way, but they weren’t coming fast enough.
“At least put on some shoes, mon. Cutting your feet now isn’t wise. The hospital is lacking antibiotics. The dead are going to fester in this heat… disease—”
“Got it.” He knew he couldn’t add to the burden. “Make sure she’s fueled. I’ll be back in an hour for another run.”
“Go. Eat.”
Trent walked off the tarmac, dodging those who rushed in all directions. Most of the islanders were dressed like him. Two-day-old clothes, dirt covered much of their legs and arms. Some were scraped and bruised. But those he dodged on the way to his Jeep were nothing like those on sea level.
After fishing the keys from his pocket, Trent shoved the 4x4 in gear and turned his car toward home. Thank God help had come. His fleet of four helicopters, all designed to entertain tourists on sightseeing rides over the island, had instantly become the only way to move around after the quake. So much for a quiet existence on a tropical island.
He thought of calling in, to make sure his brothers knew he was safe. Landlines were down everywhere and he’d left his cell at home… not that cells were working when he’d left there. They would worry. Trent knew he would if the shoe were on the other foot. He glanced at his bare feet.
Natives walked along the side of the road without their normal wave and smile. Trent didn’t find a smile on his face either. For once, the frown wasn’t placed there by his own life, but because of the plight of others. He turned onto his private drive, drove around several boulders that had tumbled onto the road after the quake, and proceeded to his roundabout drive.
Ginger, his two-year-old Irish setter, bounded off the steps of his porch and greeted him with two paws mid-chest.
“Hey, girl.” He found his lips pulling into a grin. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Ginger wagged her tail and barked three times in response.
Trent pushed her off with a pet and encouraged her to follow him.
He stepped over a broken ceramic vase the earthquake shook to the ground. He should probably clean up anything that could cause damage to Ginger before he left again. Trent tried the light in the bathroom, it didn’t turn on. Power was probably the least of the island’s concerns… at least for where his home sat. He considered firing up the generator, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t be there long. No need to waste the gas.
He finished in the bathroom and washed his face and hands. “At least the water is still on,” he said to himself.
The kitchen was a minefield of broken glass. Ginger trotted in beside him.
“Out!”
Ginger sat on her hindquarters, her tongue lolling to one side. Ten minutes later the kitchen was safe enough for the dog to enter. Trent topped off Ginger’s food bowl with kibble and filled up a cooking pot with more dog food. Luckily Ginger ate when she was hungry and didn’t mow down the whole lot in one sitting.
After eating two raw hot dogs and an apple, he moved into his bedroom. His cell phone sat in its dock, the blinking red light letting him know he had a message. There were five missed calls from Jason and two from Glen.
Trent rang Jason’s cell phone. His brother would be at the office, but he knew the call would go through. Trent lay out on top of his covers. Damn it felt good to put his feet up.
The phone rang twice before Jason picked up the call. His brother’s words were rushed. “Trent? Jesus, Trent, is it you?” Worry laced the question, making Trent feel all kinds of sick for not trying to call sooner.
“It’s me, Jase. I’m fine.”
“Dammit. We thought… we heard…” Jason took a deep breath and started over. “You scared the f*ck out of us, Trent.”
“You’ve been here. My house isn’t on sea level. She handled the quake. I’ve been flying supplies and people. I haven’t been home since it hit.”
Trent imagined his brother looking out over the city in his three-piece suit and running his hand through his hair.
“The media footage shows total carnage. Is it as bad as it looks?”
The memory of bodies floated in Trent’s mind. “Worse.”
“Thank God you’re OK. Can I do anything?”
Ginger jumped up on his bed and set her head in his lap. “Call Glen. My phone has a charge, but I’m not sure for how long. Power’s out over much of the island.”
“We can be there in a few hours.”
Trent smiled. “I know… but hold that thought. What we need is doctors, nurses, and search and rescue. Not suit-wearing businessmen.”
Jason huffed into the phone at Trent’s dig. “What about another pilot?”
Their father had made sure each of the brothers had his pilot’s license before a driver’s license. “The birds are on the ground at night. The military is bringing in more power.”
“I feel helpless.”
“If you came here you’d feel worse.”
There was a pause on the phone. “You shouldn’t be there.”
Trent shook his head. He wasn’t about to go into that argument again. “I’ve got to go.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will. Don’t worry.” Trent ended the call and tossed the phone next to his side. He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. His brother’s life… his old life, wasn’t anything like existing in Jamaica.
Existing. Make that living, he corrected himself.
Thirty minutes later, he shook himself awake and forced himself off the bed. He took five minutes to shower and change clothes. This time he grabbed a pair of shoes and filled a sack with food and energy drinks before he headed back out.
Monica ran the back of her hand over her forehead to keep the sweat from dripping in her eyes. She’d stepped off Barefoot’s chopper and straight into hell.
Her scrubs stuck to her skin, her blonde hair was pulled back into a crude bun. Patients were everywhere and on every possible surface. The hospital, which wouldn’t pass as a clinic back home, was only two stories. It withstood the earthquake, which apparently was offshore. The tsunami hit the island quickly. The locals told her the quake had been impossible to sleep through and when the wave came they ran.
Monica’s station was a second level of triage. The first wasn’t even manned by someone with a medical degree. A receptionist of the hospital had been elevated to triage nurse in one day. She separated those with lacerations that could wait outside. Broken bones, so long as they weren’t open fractures or cutting off circulation, were sent to the same holding area. There were thousands of them.
“Help… please. Someone?” The voice rose above the chaos of the room; moans and desperation filtered thick in the air.
Monica twisted toward the voice.
Two Jamaican men rushed in a twentysomething man on the back of what looked like a plank door. A woman stood over the man screaming for help.
Their desperation alone made Monica’s legs move. Behind the band of newcomers was the poor receptionist-made-nurse. “You said to let through cold feet.”
Monica shook her head. “Cold feet?” Her eyes moved over the man on his back. His head shook from side to side. His ebony skin was ashen.
“His leg. It’s cold.”
Monica moved closer.
“You a doctor?” the woman by the patient’s side asked.
“A nurse.” Monica was reaching for her trauma shears. “Do you speak English?” she asked the man on the door.
He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“He needs a doctor!” the woman screamed.
Monica felt herself folding into the woman’s drama.
“The doctors are busy. Tell me what’s wrong.” Monica started at the feet since that was where the receptionist said the problem was. The man’s right leg, above the knee, was bent in an awkward position. It didn’t take an X-ray to tell it was broken.
Monica cut from the bottom until she exposed the entirety of the problem.
“He was under the rubble. Two days my boy.” The woman hovered over the patient.
“He’s your son?” Monica asked in attempt to get information and calm the woman.
“Yes, just seventeen. Help him.”
He looked much older. “What’s your name?”
“D-Deon,” he said through chattering teeth.
Airway… Breathing… Circulation… Monica placed her fingers on a pulse point below his injury.
Weak. And cool.
She looked around and hoped her poker face was intact.
The kid was pale, his pulse rate at his wrist too fast.
Femur fractures could bleed. Excessively. And what other damage could the rubble have caused? If she didn’t try to correct the fracture and restore this kid’s circulation soon he could lose his leg.
Monica had never had to do this on her own. In fact, she’d only assisted doctors and only in extreme circumstances. Yet paramedics were often put to the task in the field. Life or limb and all that.
“Help him!” the mother cried.
Walt was in surgery and Tina was two rooms away with just as many severe cases as Monica.
“Deon? Does anything else hurt other than your leg?”
He shook his head.
Monica ushered the men holding Deon to a nearby desk and pushed everything on top of it to the floor.
The men holding the door Deon lay on were older, too old to help Monica with what she needed. The mom was hysterical and virtually useless.
Ignoring the mother, Monica positioned herself over Deon’s face. “Deon, listen. I need to straighten your leg.”
His eyes grew wide, his nostrils flared. “It’s going to hurt. You’re going to want to fight me.” He would fight her… he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Although he may only be a teenager he outweighed Monica by a good forty pounds.
How the hell am I going to do this?
She looked up and frantically swept the room with her eyes.
Dark hair, Ray-Bans… “Barefoot?” she yelled at the pilot who’d delivered her to hell.
He shifted his gaze toward hers.
“You. Come here!”
Barefoot glanced behind him then back.
“Yes, you. I need your help.” His strong shoulders and lack of relationship with the patient were exactly what Monica needed.
Monica found a towel and wrapped it around Deon’s leg while Barefoot moved to her side.
“I need to straighten his leg.” She gathered the edges of the towel and handed the ends to him. “You,” she looked at the men who had carried Deon in. “Hold his shoulders down. Mom… talk to him.”
The mother nodded. “You know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.” No. Monica hated the self-doubt. But she knew this boy could lose his leg if she did nothing.
Monica lifted her gaze to Barefoot. He’d taken off his sunglasses and she met his dark, piercing gaze. He saw her doubt. She knew it.
“What can I do?” Barefoot asked. His voice was a rough timbre and the opposite of all the panicked calls inside the room. It grounded her.
“Hold this. I need traction so he doesn’t slip.”
Monica crawled up on the table with Deon and wiped the moisture from her palms before grasping his leg.
Just touching him caused pain. Normally, in an ER, this wouldn’t be done without heavy sedation, but that wasn’t going to happen here. Not only did they lack cardiac monitoring, they didn’t have the drugs to accomplish the job. Besides, they didn’t have time for that. As it was, there was no guarantee what Monica was about to do would save his leg.
Because it wasn’t completely cold or mottled she knew he had a chance of saving it.
“Ready?” Barefoot asked, bringing her attention back around.
Monica nodded. “Hold him,” she told the others.
Deon tensed, waiting.
Monica grasped him above his leg, supported his calf on her thigh. She waited until Deon took a few deep breaths. She glanced at Barefoot and mouthed the words, three, two… one.
It wasn’t a jolt, but more of a pull. Even though Deon screamed out Monica kept pulling his leg, feeling as best she could through his skin as the bone attempted to move back into place.
Her arms shook as she fought the patient and the displaced fracture.
Barefoot held traction and watched her as she struggled to keep her grip on Deon’s leg. Monica shifted her position, attempting to pull the bone through muscles and tendons.
This is just as hard as it looks when the doctors do it.
Deon screamed when the bone moved, but it still wasn’t in place.
“Hold up.” Monica instructed Barefoot as she lost her grip. The femur was closer to being in place, but not right.
Deon was moving on the makeshift gurney, making it even harder to set his leg.
Monica rubbed her hands on the towel and leaned into Barefoot so only he could hear her. “Pull harder.”
He nodded once.
She leveraged one leg on the table and sat taller.
Monica counted down again. Three… two… one.
Deon filled the room with his cry.
Monica pulled with every muscle she owned. Her hands started to slide, she repositioned again and felt his leg move.
Monica ground her back teeth together. Her arms started to shudder under the strain. Finally, Deon’s leg shifted and she manipulated it into line.
“Thank God,” she said.
Barefoot eased his pressure off and she set Deon’s leg on the table. She located a pulse behind his knee, felt a beat. Lower, his pulses in his foot were still faint, but better. Much better.
“We need to splint this to keep it in place.”
The receptionist who’d watched the entire procedure left the room.
Deon was already more comfortable.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Monica told him once she jumped off the table. The swelling and bruising were evident. She couldn’t rule out a critical bleed. She removed a permanent marker from her pocket and flexible ruler. She marked Deon’s leg in two places and measured the circumference. There wasn’t a chart to write on so she did the next best thing… she wrote the numbers right on the boy’s leg. Then at least she would have a starting point when she checked on him again.
He attempted a smile.
“Wait with him,” she told the mother. “We’ll splint his leg and have a doctor look at him as soon as we can.”
Soon could be the next day if his pulses held and the leg didn’t swell, but Monica didn’t want to tell the mother that.
“I’ll try and get him something for pain. Is he allergic to anything?”
“No.”
Monica added the letters NKA to Deon’s leg in pen. No known allergies… such a simple fact written on a chart. Here it could be life or death.
Monica turned away from the patient, her shoulders slumped slightly. The room was packed. If she could split into five people, she still wouldn’t be able to manage what all of them needed.
A strong hand rested on her shoulder. “Good job back there.”
She glanced over her shoulder and up. Barefoot was tall and surprisingly broad. Unlike anyone else, he smelled good. Sandalwood and man. Such a relief from blood, sweat, and dirt. “Thank you for helping.”
“You did all the work. Have you done that before?”
“No.”
“You made it look easy.” He smiled and for a brief moment, the room slid away. Something curled in the pit of her stomach and heated. Was it desire or was it hunger?
The weight of his hand never left her shoulder. It would have been too easy to lean on him.
She shook off the yearning and moved out of Barefoot’s reach. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at his feet. He wore a pair of running shoes.
“I’ve got to keep moving. Thanks for your help.”
Monica took a few steps away only to hear her name. “Monica?”
He remembered?
“The name’s Trent. Not Barefoot.” He lifted a leg and wiggled his foot.
Monica felt her face heat. “Good to know,” she said with a rare smile before turning away.