Неизвестный - 2. Beyond The Breakwater

“What are they?” Reese asked suspiciously.

“Antibiotics and a pain pill. Believe me, you’re going to need it when the lidocaine wears off.”

With Tory’s help, Reese climbed down from the table, and the two of them walked slowly from the clinic to Tory’s Jeep. Ten minutes later, they reversed the process and, together, made their way inside and up to their bedroom.

“Can you get undressed by yourself?” Tory asked. “I really need to take a shower.”

“I do, too.”

“I want you to keep the wound dry tonight. You can shower in the morning.”

Reese nodded and sat tiredly on the edge of the bed. “Okay. You go ahead. I can manage.”

Tory studied her intently for a few seconds. She’d seen Reese injured before, but she’d never seen her appear quite so drained. Reluctantly, she said, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I’m all right, love.” Reese smiled faintly. “Don’t worry.”

As soon as she could mange, Tory returned to the bedroom, naked except for an oversized T-shirt. The room lights were still on, and Reese was lying on her back on the bed, still fully clothed. Fast asleep.

The insistent buzzing of the alarm finally penetrated Tory’s consciousness. She rolled over and peered at the clock, then sat up, startled. “Reese. Honey, it’s time to get up.”

When she got no response, she shook her lover’s shoulder gently. “Reese?”

“Tory,” Reese mumbled weakly, “I can’t.” She barely managed to get the words out before she rolled to the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor. “Sor…”

“Reese!” In a flash, Tory bolted upright and leaned over to stare at her lover. What she saw made her heart nearly stop. Reese’s eyes were unfocused, her color gray, and her skin slick with sweat. Worse, her breathing was shallow and rapid. My god, she looks septic.

“I need to check your wounds,” Tory said as calmly as she could manage while unwrapping the gauze on Reese’s forearm. Before she had even exposed the entire laceration, she could discern the redness and swelling extending from the wound itself nearly four inches up Reese’s arm. Cellulitis. To be this bad, this soon, it’s got to be a virulent organism.

Without hesitation, Tory snatched up the bedside phone and punched 911. In a second, a male voice answered, and she snapped, “This is Doctor King. I need an ambulance immediately.”

She gave them the address and slammed down the phone, then jumped from the bed and ran to get dressed. In a minute, she was back at Reese’s side with a cool towel which she used to wipe her lover’s face. “Reese. Honey, can you hear me?”

Reese’s lids flickered open, and she looked up in confusion. “Tor? What…what’s wrong?”

“You’ve got an infection, sweetheart. I need to take you to the emergency room so we can evaluate you. It’s going to be okay.” Tory glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. Where are they?

Then, in the distance, she heard the siren and breathed a sigh of relief. Loath to leave Reese, she rushed downstairs, opened the front door wide, and signaled with her arm for the EMTs to come inside. “We’re upstairs.”

Thankfully, Reese appeared slightly more coherent when the emergency technicians arrived. Enough to protest, “I don’t need…an ambulance.”

“Probably not,” Tory said gently as she held Reese’s uninjured hand. “But it will be easier on me if I don’t have to drive to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Reese replied softly. However, when she sat up, she gasped sharply, pressed her hand to her midsection, and promptly vomited again.

“Let’s get her on the stretcher,” Tory said sharply. “She needs IV hydration and a loading dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Come on. Let’s move it!”

With practiced proficiency, the two male EMTs shifted Reese to the gurney, strapped her on, and pushed her from the room. Tory stayed as close to the side of the moving stretcher as she could. Then she climbed into the back of the van and settled near Reese’s head as one of the techs, a burly redhead, rapidly started an intravenous line in her left arm.

“What do you want to give her, Doc?” As he spoke, he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Reese’s bicep and took a rapid reading. “Ninety over forty. Heart rate’s one-fifty. She’s pretty dehydrated.”

“Run the saline wide open. Then we’ll need a gram of Ancef and a hundred milligrams of gentamycin. We need to cover all our bases, because I don’t know what this is.”

As Tory spoke, the tech sorted through the drug box and began administering the antibiotics.

“I need to culture this wound right now,” Tory said as the ambulance screamed east on Route six toward the nearest hospital, which was in Hyannis. “Get me a prep tray and some instruments.”

The redhead’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he voiced no objection. He handed her sterile gloves and prepared to assist her. Tory removed the dressings on Reese’s arm once again, carefully prepped the area with antiseptic solution, and snipped out several of the sutures she had placed the night before. When she gently squeezed the area, Reese moaned, thrashed weakly on the stretcher, and tried to pull away. Tory did not look at her face.

“I don’t see any pus in there, do you?” The EMT asked as he peered over her shoulder.

“No. It’s too soon for an abscess. This is a soft tissue infection.”

“Strep?” His concern was evident in his tone. “Jesus, do you think it’s necrotizing faciitis?”

“I don’t know,” Tory said distractedly as she pushed a sterile culture swab into the depths of the wound. Reese stiffened at the swift jolt of pain, and Tory’s stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“S’okay,” Reese mumbled before she faded away again.

“I don’t have my cell phone with me. Can you connect me to the hospital?” Tory questioned.

“Sure.” He tapped on the sliding glass panel between the front cab and the treatment section in the rear. “Ken, pass me the radio.”

He handed it to Tory and pointed to the button on the side. “Push to talk, let go to receive. I’ll get someone in triage for you.”

After he gave the person in the emergency room their ETA, he handed the transmitter to Tory. She did as directed and spoke firmly, with no hint in her voice of the terror she felt. “This is Doctor Victoria King. I have a septic patient coming in. I need an infectious disease consultant and a surgeon standing by.”

An eternity later, they careened into the ambulance bay of the regional hospital. Within seconds they were inside and a swarm of nurses and ER doctors descended upon them. By the time Tory was done giving a synopsis of the injury and presenting symptoms, Reese was hooked up to monitors and additional IV lines. Throughout it all, Tory never left her side.

“I’m Jill Baker,” a short, trim African-American woman in a conservative blazer and slacks said as she approached the bed. “Infectious disease. What have we got?”

“Victoria King.” Tory repeated the details of the previous night and morning.

“Foreign body punctures while in a salt marsh. Jesus. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned dog bites.” The infectious disease specialist surveyed the monitors and frowned. As she reached for Reese’s injured arm, she asked, “No hypotensive episodes? Nothing to indicate shock?”

“No.” Tory’s throat was dry, and she suddenly felt light-headed. “I’m sorry. I need to sit for a second.”

“Here,” a deep alto voice said from behind her as a firm hand took her arm. “There’s a seat right behind you.”

“Thanks,” Tory mumbled, fighting a wave of nausea as she settled onto a stool. She was struggling so hard not to pass out she barely heard the swift intake of breath from the woman beside her.