"He's back, he's back!" The man screamed, and the other enigmatic figure Emmit had seen from his journey through the tunnel replied, "Good, good, keep an eye on those vitals and keep pressure on that GSW. We have to stop this guy's bleeding, or he won't be back next time." It was a cool and collected female voice.
"This bandage is almost soaked through," the man said, a tinge of worry in his voice.
"Then you need to apply more pressure, double up and use more tape if you need to. Is the wound sucking?"
"No, I think it went in and out without hitting the lungs."
"How's that airway?"
"Clear, but I was about to give him the oxygen mask and change out the saline."
"Go ahead, but make sure his airway stays clear, and make sure you keep pressure on him. We may end up needing to perform needle thoracostomy if he needs decompressed, so make sure his ribs are clean."
Emmit listened to this exchange in a half doze, his head lolling with the swaying of the ambulance as it shot through the city streets with the sirens screaming like horror movie divas. He felt his head gently lifted, and then gloved hands slipped an oxygen mask over his mouth. The cool air puffed lightly against his lips and nose.
"Did that security guard rough him up a little?" Asked the male paramedic, ripping out a fresh strip of medical tape and applying it to Emmit's bare chest. He placed his hand over the pumping bullet wound and leaned his body weight on it. Emmit groaned under the mask, trying to lift his hands to shove the man off. He was too weak and too exhausted, both mentally and physically. He had no choice but to lay there and take the pain.
The lady paramedic now: "Not that I know of, the reporting officer said this guy went for his gun and the security guard dropped him with one shot. No hand-to-hand violence necessary."
Emmit watched through half-lidded eyes as the male paramedic leaned over him, furrowing his brow as he stared at Emmit's face.
"It looks like... I could have sworn..."
The male paramedic was stammering, blinking as if trying to clear debris from his eyes.
"Spit it out, James."
"I could have sworn this guy had a big cut on his cheek, I mean a deep one. But now, I don't see anything. It's like it disappeared, Kate, I swear it..."
Kate joined him. Emmit went on half-listening, caught in a torturous limbo between life and death as the two spoke about him as if he weren’t there at all. She leaned down and clicked on a small flashlight, training the beam on the cheek that Roy had marked with his obsidian blade.
"There's no cut here," she said flatly. "You're just paranoid. There's a line, maybe an old cut, could be just a little bump from collapsing. He's fine, James. You're doing fine. He'll be in surgery in no time."
The last thing Emmit heard before he slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep was James sighing as he rubbed a cold wetness up and down both sides of his rib cage, and then grumbling "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, my friend."
Chapter 13: Revelation
Emmit Mills came out of his coma after four touch-and-go days in the ICU. He'd endured hours of emergency surgery to close the ragged crater left by the .9mm round (which, fortunately, had gone in just under his breastbone and right back out again without fragmenting or hitting his spine). The operation had come complete with the use of a long, large bore needle device that had been inserted between his ribs to suction out blood, air, and other nastiness that didn't belong in his abdomen. He'd also suffered near-fatal blood loss, a partially collapsed lung, a tear in his esophagus, a fractured sternum, and bruising on nearly all the soft and sensitive parts that kept him alive.
But he was, in fact, alive.
Coming out of the coma had felt like trying to wake up after swallowing a bottle or two of strong sleeping pills. He felt more like a car crash survivor than a gunshot survivor; every muscle ached and throbbed, but most of the pain was concentrated right in the middle of his body. It felt like a road crew had drilled a tunnel through him the way they might hollow out a mountain for a new tunnel, and although he knew the surgeons had stitched the wound up, it still felt like a yawning mineshaft with red hot wind seeping through it.
Armies of doctors, surgeons, pretty young nurses and anesthesiologists had turned his hospital room into Grand Central Terminal. Each time the heavy door whooshed open Emmit caught sight of a golden twinkle out in the busy hallway, shining in the sterile white hospital lights like a precious gemstone. It was coming from the badge pinned to the chest of the police officer who guarded his room 24/7, one of two men who each took 12-hour shifts.
Better watch me close, he thought dismally, absently sucking ice water through a straw and then wincing at the way it ached and strained down his newly repaired throat. I'll tie this gown shut and hitchhike back to my— oh, that's right. I don't have a home anymore.
He had almost laughed at the solemn demeanor of the doctors as they paid their semi-hourly visits. Didn't they know that his life was over, even if he still had a pulse? He was breathing, that much was true. They had saved his life,
