Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

Then it happened.

Something heavy and damp and cold struck my head, and I felt a cool, sharp pain over my forehead, and then a strong punch to my stomach. I fell to the pavement and the world began to spin sickeningly. I heard a shout, and footsteps, and then nothing.

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE PECULIAR VIEWS YOU HAVE, like a dream where everything is distorted. The buildings were black and very high, towering above me, threatening to collapse. They seemed to rise forever. I felt cold and soaked through, and rain spattered my face. I lifted my head up from the pavement and saw that it was all red.

I pulled up on one elbow. Blood dripped down onto my raincoat. I looked stupidly down at the red pavement. Hell of a lot of blood. Mine?

My stomach churned and I vomited on the sidewalk. I was dizzy and the world turned green for a while.

Finally, I forced myself to get to my knees.

In the distance, I heard sirens. Far off but getting closer. I stood shakily and leaned on an automobile parked by the curb. I didn’t know where I was; the street was dark and silent. I looked at the bloody sidewalk and wondered what to do.

The sirens were coming closer.

Stumbling, I ran around the corner, then stopped to catch my breath. The sirens were very close now; a blue light flashed on the street I had just left.

I ran again. I don’t know how far I went. I don’t know where I was.

I just kept running until I saw a taxi. It was parked at a stand, the motor idling.

I said, “Take me to the nearest hospital.”

He looked at my face.

“Not a chance,” he said.

I started to get in.

“Forget it, buddy.” He pulled the door shut and drove away, leaving me standing there.

In the distance, I heard the sirens again.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I squatted and waited for it to pass. I was sick again. Blood was still dripping from somewhere on my face. Little red drops spattered into the vomit.

The rain continued. I was shivering cold, but it helped me to stay conscious. I got up and tried to get my bearings; I was somewhere south of Washington Street; the nearest signpost said Curley Place. It didn’t mean anything to me. I started walking, unsteady, pausing frequently.

I hoped I was going in the right direction. I knew I was losing blood, but I didn’t know how much. Every few steps, I had to stop to lean on a car and catch my breath. The dizziness was getting worse.

I stumbled and fell. My knees cracked into the pavement and pain shot through me. For an instant, it cleared my head, and I was able to get back to my feet. The shoes, soaked through, squeaked. My clothes were damp with sweat and rain.

I concentrated on the sound of my shoes and forced myself to walk. One step at a time. Three blocks ahead, I saw lights. I knew I could make it.

One step at a time.

I leaned against a blue car for a moment, just a moment, to catch my breath.

“THAT’S IT. That’s the boy.” Somebody was lifting me up. I was in a car, being lifted out. My arm was thrown over a shoulder, and I was walking. Bright lights ahead. A sign: “Emergency Ward.” Blue-lighted sign. Nurse at the door.

“Just go slow, boy. Just take it easy.” My head was loose on my neck. I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I was terribly thirsty and cold. I looked at the man helping me, an old man with a grizzled beard and a bald head. I tried to stand better so he wouldn’t have to support me, but my knees were rubber, and I was shivering badly. “Doing fine, boy. No problem at all.” His voice was gruffly encouraging. The nurse came forward, floating in the pool of light near the EW door, saw me, and ran back inside. Two interns came out and each took an arm. They were strong; I felt myself lifted up until my toes were scraping through the puddles. I felt rain on the back of my neck as my head drooped forward. The bald man was running ahead to open the door.

They helped me inside where it was warm. They put me on a padded table and started pulling off my clothes, but the clothes were wet and blood-soaked; they clung to my body, and finally they had to cut them off with a scissors. It was all very difficult and it took hours. I kept my eyes closed because the lights overhead were painfully bright.

“Get a crit and cross-match him,” said one of the interns. “And set up a four kit with sutures in room two.”

People were fussing with my head; I vaguely felt hands and gauze pads being pressed against my skin. My forehead was numb and cold. By now they had me completely undressed. They dried me with a hard towel and wrapped me in a blanket, then transferred me to another padded table. It started to roll down the hall. I opened my eyes and saw the bald man looking down at me solicitously.

“Where’d you find him?” one of the interns asked.

“On a car. He was lying on a car. I saw him and thought he was a drunk passed out. He was half in the street, you know, so I figured he could get run over and stopped to move him. Then I saw he was nicely dressed and all bloody. I didn’t know what happened, but he looked bad, so I brought him here.”

“You have any idea what happened?” the intern asked.

“Looks beat up, if you ask me,” the man said.

“He didn’t have a wallet,” the intern said. “He owe you money for the fare?”

“That’s all right,” the bald man said. “I’m sure he’ll want to pay you.”

“That’s all right,” the cabby said. “I’ll just go now.”

“Better leave your name at the desk,” the intern said.

But the man was already gone.

They wheeled me into a room tiled in blue. The surgical light over my head switched on. Faces peered down at me. Rubber gloves pulled on, gauze masks in place.

“We’ll stop the bleeding,” the intern said. “Then get some X rays.” He looked at me. “You awake, sir?”

I nodded and tried to speak.

“Don’t talk. Your jaw may be broken. I’m just going to close this wound on your forehead, and then we’ll see.”

The nurse bathed my face, first with warm soap. The sponges came away bloody.

“Alcohol now,” she said. “It may sting a little.”

The interns were talking to each other, looking at the wound. “Better mark that as a six-centimeter superficial on the right temple.”

I barely felt the alcohol. It felt cool and tingled slightly, nothing more.

The intern held the curved suture needle in a needle holder. The nurse stepped back and he moved over my head. I expected pain, but it was nothing more than a slight pricking on my forehead.

The intern who was sewing said, “Damned sharp incision here. Looks almost surgical.”

“Knife?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.”

The nurse put a tourniquet on my arm and drew blood. “Better give him tetanus toxoid as well,” the intern said, still sewing. “And a shot of penicillin.” He said to me, “Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

I blinked twice.

“Are you sure?”

I blinked once.

“O.K.,” said the intern. He returned to his sewing. The nurse gave me two injections. The other intern was examining my body, saying nothing.

I must have passed out again. When I opened my eyes, I saw a huge X-ray machine poised by my head. Someone was saying, “Gently, gently,” in an irritated voice.

I passed out again.

I awoke in another room. This was painted light green. The interns were holding the dripping-wet X rays up to the light, talking about them. Then one left and the other came over to me.

“You seem all right,” he said. “You may have a few loose teeth, but no fractures anywhere that we can see.”

My head was clearing; I was awake enough to ask, “Has the radiologist looked at those films?”