Countdown
Part Six
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS: Okay, here we are again. First, the usual jazz. Sing along if you know the words...

ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work, especially if I remind them that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Yeah, they'll buy that...

Rate this one PG-13 for subject material.



(6:23 p.m., December 31st, 1999...)

Five hours and thirty-seven minutes before the end of the world, Haleh Adams arrived at the ambulance bay on foot. She was still grumbling about her car's breakdown and her mother-in-law who'd delayed her with her endless chattering, even when Haleh said she was going to be late for work if she didn't walk out the door RIGHT NOW, and... Let it go, she told herself. Don't start a shift angry, or it'll just get worse from there.

She noted the ambulances parked in front of the entrance. So they had customers tonight, what a surprise. Nothing too serious, let's hope.

As she entered the ER and said hello to Jerry, she was surprised at the expression on his face. "Oh, man, there you are!" he exclaimed with relief, "Why don't you ever answer your phone?!"

"Well, Good Evening to you too, Jerry," she replied, archly.

"HEY!" Haleh suddenly found herself being hugged tightly by Randi Fronczak, for reasons that escaped her. She'd never seen the clerk react like that before. Other people seemed to be smiling a lot at the sight of her. You'd think these folks hadn't seen her in months, instead of working with her just yesterday.

"Oh, I'm popular tonight," she muttered. "What's with everyone?"

The young woman released her. "Are you all right? We were worried sick about you!" Randi was saying.

"Just because I'm a few minutes late?"

"No, because we thought... You weren't at that bar, were you? The one you sing at sometimes?"

"Which one?"

"About five blocks thataway?"

"What, Moody's?" Haleh was becoming more confused by the moment. "No, I was with the family, at my in-laws. What's all the excitement?"

Randi filled her in on the bar shootings while she clocked in. During the explanation, she had to contend with relieved greetings from several people. "The guy ended up shooting seventeen people before the SWAT team was able to get in. Only nine of them were alive when they found 'em."

"Oh, Lord have mercy," Haleh breathed.

Randi nodded and went back to the desk.

Haleh looked toward the Trauma Rooms, just as Maggie Doyle angrily slammed out of one of them. Haleh caught a glimpse of Lydia and Conni and Dr. Kovac still in the room. One look and she knew they'd lost their patient.

Glancing in the other, she saw Drs. Carter and Weaver, with Yosh and Malik laboring over another. Doris Pickman, leaning dejectedly against a nearby wall, barely gave Haleh a glance, and she could tell the paramedic was deeply troubled by something.

Catching sight of Haleh, Maggie managed a smile. "Hey, you okay?"

"Sure, I wasn't there," the nurse replied.

"Thank God," the doctor added. She looked at Doris, who was watching the remaining doctors work on their patient. "How's that one look?"

"Can't tell yet," Doris answered her, absently.

"You bring him in?"

The paramedic looked at Maggie, sharply. "Yeah, I did. What about it?"

"Nothing," Maggie answered, coolly, "Just thought maybe you should've driven slower."

"Oh, up yours, Maggie!" Doris shot her a poisonous look and fled. Haleh could see her fighting back tears.

"What's that all about?" she asked the resident.

"Ahh..." Maggie shrugged it off and said, "Nine GSW's, six of 'em were DOA. We just lost two more, Carter and Weaver've got the last one." She rolled her neck, tired.

The other Trauma room opened, and the patient was wheeled out, accompanied by Carter, Yosh, and a police officer. They passed by Maggie and Haleh and headed for the elevators. The patient's face seemed to have suffered most of the trauma, and Haleh immediately knew that he'd need extensive reconstructive plastic surgery. If he lived.

Maggie watched them go and shook her head. "Well, that's one out of eighteen still alive," she remarked, disgustedly.

"Dear God, seventeen people dead because some poor soul flips out and shoots them while they're celebrating New Year's," Haleh remarked with a chill. Maybe she wouldn't complain about her mother-in-law for a while. To Maggie, she said, "Did they at least get the son of a bitch who did it?"

Maggie looked at her pointedly, nodded in the direction of Carter's patient, and said, "That WAS the son of a bitch who did it."



(6:39 p.m., December 31st, 1999...)

Carter finished his coffee just as he encountered Doris Pickman in the supply room. "Are you raiding our stocks again?" he asked, only half-serious.

Doris stiffened, obviously angry, and set down the supplies in her hands. "I cleared it with Lydia, she said it was okay," she said, tightly, "If it's not, I'll put 'em back."

"Relax, it's okay," Carter assured her, "Look, I know you were in a difficult situation with that one..."

"Yeah, and everyone's making these little cracks about how I should've let the guy die," the paramedic snapped, "Like I'm somehow approving what he did if I try to save his life! All of a sudden, I'm not supposed to do my job?!"

"Doris," Carter placated her, "nobody means anything by it; don't let it get to you."

"So I'm supposed to just put up with it all and be the bad guy?"

"All I can tell you is that everyone's been kind of on edge through the whole thing. We thought one of our nurses might have been on the scene at the time. People were worried about her."

Doris' anger diffused a little on hearing this, but she seemed no more at ease. "Yeah, I guess I can understand how they'd feel..."

Carter nodded.

"It's not like we get to pick and choose who we transport," she went on, in a defensive tone, "You don't think I've brought in plenty of people who the world wouldn't miss? Gangbangers who shoot kids and old people, drunks who are just gonna go back home and beat the shit out of their wives again...you don't think I've thought about letting some of them die off?"

"Take it easy," Carter told her, "I'd have done the same thing."

"No, don't tell me to take it easy, Carter. You don't know what you'd have done. It's easy to say you would, but nobody really knows what they'll do until they're in that position."

"I've been in that position," he replied, quietly, thinking of a rapist with the face of a choirboy.

Doris didn't say anything.

"You and me, we just do our jobs," Carter said, "We have to stick to that, or we get lost inside, you know? We've got to stick to that, 'cause it's all we've got. Heal 'em all, let God sort 'em out."

"It's not always enough..."

"No, it's not always enough, but it's that or nothing." He smiled at her. "Take what you need, okay? And don't pay attention to anybody around here. Tomorrow we'll all be back to normal."

She nodded. "Yeah, if the world doesn't end tonight..."



(6:44 p.m., December 31st, 1999...)

"That's about all I can tell you," Kerry told the police detective, a 54-year-old Swede with a drooping mustache named Porterfield. "He's in surgery at the moment. It looks like he'll make it, but I doubt he'll be able to answer any questions for a while."

"Okay, thanks, Dr. Weaver," the detective rumbled, closing his notebook, "We'll have a guard on him twenty-four hours a day until he's ready to be released. 'Course, it wouldn't bother us too much if he took a turn for the worse and didn't make it."

"I don't think that's likely," she said, carefully ignoring the insinuation, "We take pretty good care of people here."

Porterfield nodded unenthusiastically. "Yeah, I guess you do. Plus, he's in better shape than any of the people he shot." He shook his head. "Can you believe it? Asshole shoots seventeen people, then uses the last bullet on himself. Why can't any of them ever do it the other way around? I mean, when are these people gonna learn how much happier everyone else'd be if they started with themselves? Off themselves with the first bullet? If you're gonna kill yourself, fine, but leave everyone else out of it, for Chrissakes..."

"Any idea what made him do it in the first place?" Kerry broke in, not wanting to hear the detective's ramblings.

A shrug. "The other fourteen hostages were fine; he ended up with more hostages than bullets. They said he was scared, babbling some paranoia about the end o' the world. More'a that Millennium Doomsday bullshit. Apparently, he didn't make a lot of sense, kept worrying about the Year 2000 'opening the floodgates of chaos.' "

"Well, he's not going to be talking about that any more," Kerry informed him, "Or anything else. The bullet shattered his palate and took out his tongue. Along with most of his nose and a number of teeth. Looks like he's been making out with Hannibal Lecter."

"Yeah, how do you like that?" Porterfield commented wryly, "Stupid bastard saved the last bullet for himself, rather than let himself be taken, so he puts the gun under his chin trying to blow his brains out, and he misses! Shreds his face, opens his skull, but doesn't touch his brain! Jeez, why couldn't he have missed all the OTHER people and got that one right?"

Kerry sighed, disliking Porterfield and tiring of the conversation. "Well, at least he's alive," she said, her tone signaling the end of the discussion as far as she was concerned.

The detective looked at her. "And that's okay by you, huh?" he snorted, "You don't think he's gettin' off too easy?"

She looked him right in the eye. "I think he was scared and confused, just like a lot of people are scared and confused tonight," she told him. In light of her recent visions, she was gaining a new appreciation for fear and confusion.

"Oh, so maybe we all should get some guns and shoot up a bunch of..."

"That's not what I'm saying," she insisted, "Of course he was wrong in how he reacted. There's no justification for a senseless tragedy like what happened there. But consider this: that man won't be able to speak again for the rest of his life, and he may lose his sight as well. He'll have to live with the memory of what he's done. Plus, he'll be alive and well at midnight, which is the one thing he most wanted to avoid. If those floodgates do open, the chaos he was worried about is going to come flooding up his ass along with the rest of us."

Porterfield obviously didn't have a counter-argument ready.

"That punishment suit the crime well enough for you?" Kerry left with this parting shot, turning her back on the detective.

The truth, she admitted to herself as she walked down the hallway, was that it was easy to agree with the detective's sentiments. Easy to wish that the gunman - he still hadn't been identified by name - could have died before he arrived at County and became their responsibility. Her responsibility. But hearing it put baldly into words was more than a little distasteful.

She stepped into an empty exam room to collect herself a little more, and considered another issue. She still had to decide what to do about Randi. The irate woman's wallet was still in her pocket, along with the crumpled Employee Incident Report. She took out both and looked at them, weighing the pros and cons of filing the Report.

Kerry opened the wallet and flipped briefly through the wallet. There was no driver's license or picture ID, but the credit cards and other forms of identification all bore the name Robin Vitelli. Something was bothering her about the wallet's contents, but she couldn't put her finger on it at the moment. Kerry shook it off, wrote down the name 'Robin Vitelli' on a memo pad and stuck it, along with the wallet and Incident form in her pockets.

Going in search of Randi, she found the young woman at the desk readily enough. She was on the phone, trying to explain to someone that no, the ER was not closed for the holidays, yes, they would be remaining open all night, and no, they did not have a No-Shoes-No-Shirt-No-Service policy for trauma victims. Randi carefully kept her tone polite, despite the obvious frustration and impatience on her face.

Finally, she hung up the phone and noticed Kerry. "Dr. Weaver, I'm glad you're here," she began, not looking terribly glad, "I wanted to apologize for what happened with that woman who was here earlier..."

"I don't think this is the best time to discuss it, Randi," Kerry told her, conscious of the form in her pocket. "But there is something I want you to do for me."

"Sure, what do you need?" Randi answered, trying a little too obviously to be helpful and cooperative.

Kerry handed her the memo pad and said, "This is the name from that woman's wallet. I want you to look up her number and give her a call."

Randi took the pad, torn between an impulse to refuse and the need to get on Kerry's good side. "You want ME to call her...?"

"Yes. Make sure she knows her wallet is here. Let's try to inconvenience her as little as possible."

"Uh, okay. What do you want me to tell her when she gets here?"

Kerry debated for a moment. Part of her wanted to have Randi apologize to Ms. Vitelli in person, but that would be tantamount to admitting the crime of theft. If that happened, Randi's fate was out of her hands. "Nothing," she finally said, "Just call me, and I'll deal with her."

Randi's relief was palpable. "Okay, will do," she said, her expression adding an unspoken 'Thanks'.

She nodded shortly. "Just let me know when she gets here," she said, and she walked away.

Gathering her coat, hat, and scarf from her locker, she had just begun to put them on...

...when the familiar fading sensation began again...



(TIME OUT...)

She choked and coughed, trying to get a good breath. The heat and the acrid smoke made her lungs hurt.

"Bob!" she yelled, her voice more ragged than usual, "Willy! Can you hear me?!"

No answer. Kerry dropped to the floor, her bones protesting, and she groped about on the floor for their bodies. She realized that Swift and Bogdanalivetsky must have caught the brunt of the initial blast, or possibly been overcome by the heat.

Her hands came into contact with someone - Swift, she guessed. He didn't react when touched, but she found a pulse, and he didn't feel burned. She knew he was too heavy for her to lift or drag. She heard, and felt, the flames nearing.

"Dr. Swift!" came a voice from beyond the door behind her, "Dr. Weaver! Are you in there?!"

Turning toward the voice - a lifeline of hope - she screamed, "ZADRO!! WE'RE IN HERE!! DR. SWIFT IS HURT!!" She was wracked with a coughing spasm. "HURRY, ZADRO, I CAN'T SEE!!"

She heard the doors crash open, and strong hands took hold of her arms, lifting...



"Jesus!" Kerry shook herself awake.

Back to the real world already. I don't even want to KNOW what was happening in that one, she thought.

There had to be a way to put a stop to these experiences. Kerry wondered briefly if there was something from the pharmaceutical stocks that might... No, she couldn't go that route without knowing the cause. Turning blindly to drugs would do her more harm than good.

Forcing the images out of her head, she bundled up and left the lounge, again passing by the desk. "I'm going to dinner," she told Randi, Jerry, and Malik, "I'll be at Doc's if I'm needed."

"Oh, Dr. Weaver!" Haleh called behind her as she caught up with the Attending, "I just heard from surgery; your patient from the bar shooting is in stable condition."

Damn. Kerry felt a little pang, realizing that part of her had hoped he wouldn't make it. She furiously banished the thought and simply said, "Okay, thank you, Haleh..."

There was some general mumbling, and she thought she heard Malik give a little snort, but she ignored it.

As an afterthought, she asked, "There's a police guard on him, right?"

"I believe so," Haleh told her.

"Better check on that. And make sure he's in restraints, he could be suicidal when he wakes up."

"So let him kill himself, if that's what he wants," Malik muttered.

"Okay, that is the LAST time I want to hear a remark like that!" Kerry yelled, spinning to face them all. "Out of ANYONE!"

Everyone was silenced, stunned at her outburst.

"You work in this hospital, you leave the judgments at home! Is that understood?!"

They all nodded, silently.

Kerry turned again and walked out into the dark and the chill.

Halfway across the ambulance bay, she heard the nurse's voice again. "Dr. Weaver?"

She turned back. "What is it, Haleh?"

"Are you all right?"

No, I'm not all right, she thought angrily, I'm freezing my ass off, losing my mind, I may have to fire a valued staff member, and everyone seems determined to ask that damned question of me today.

Haleh had followed her out without a coat, and Kerry could clearly see her shivering. But her concern for Kerry's state had apparently taken precedence.

In a tired voice, she replied, "I just saved the life of a mass murderer, Haleh. Oh yeah, I'm walking on sunshine."

The nurse looked like she wanted to ask if there was more, but was reluctant to press.

"You should go back inside," Kerry told her, "It's cold as hell out
here."

Haleh nodded and turned back toward the doors.

"Haleh?" Kerry said to her back, "I'm just so glad you weren't there."

Before the nurse could respond, Kerry quickly turned away and forged her way through the snow across the street.

She didn't know whether she felt colder inside or out.

(6:58 p.m., December 31st, 1999...)