21. "Now is Not The Time."
One man with a gun can control 100 without one.
-Vladimir Lenin
11:38 P.M
REGGIE SIMON
"It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay."
It was all Thomas had kept saying ever since him, Reggie, and Phil had been forced to take shelter in a supply closet. An accompanied shriek and gunshot ringing out every once in awhile. Reggie was steadily applying pressure to Phil's gunshot wounds, the latter looking worse for wear by the minute. Looking over towards Thomas, of whom appeared to be rocking back and forth in the corner, Reggie couldn't see very many options to take here. They were stuck, there was no way they could go back out into Milo's without putting their lives in even greater danger; and from what he could hear the shooter didn't sound to merciful.
"Okay," Reggie stated, to no one in particular.
"So Thomas called the ambulance, called the police. The others, the others are; I don't know. I'm afraid, I don't know what to do here. For God's sakes I'm a intern!" Even with Reggie's mess of babble, it still didn't seem to have any effect on the others, outside of a violent cough from Phil. Reggie sighed, looked down at the man soaked in blood, and began to cry.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry that this happened to you. None of this should have happened to you. You were just trying to rise above it, and I know I've given you a hard time, and I know you've been an ass to Andre, but you need to pull through this."
Another violent cough from Phil quickly followed Reggie's remark, and the intern sighed. However, as soon as he started to lift himself away from Phil, the intern was shocked when Phil's hand wrapped across the base of his arm and gripped tightly.
"Make him," Phil groaned, "Make him fix me, he's, he's the only one that can."
It was with those words that a pit formed in Reggie's stomach, Thomas was obviously in no condition to attempt such a feat, especially if he were to fail; and the limited amount of resources didn't exactly make for the most of effective hospital. He stared at Phil for another moment, of whom finally lost consciousness, before looking to Thomas, apologizing, taking a deep breath, and then tearing Phil's shirt open. Blood immediately began to gush from the three wounds, one of which had been a clean shot straight through; the other two were still lodged inside. He looked frantically around the supply closet, still counting the occasional gunshots that could be heard from outside; now enough for the shooter to have killed each one of his friends.
Pliers, his eyes rested on a pair of pliers, as well as a few dry cleaning towels and supplies.
"Not even a half-assed first-aid kit? What kind of damn bar is this?" He groaned, before taking another deep breath.
"Focus, okay, focus."
He grabbed a towel, pried open Phil's mouth and closed it around it; the intern being far too aware that he would need it. Before he went to work with the pliers, he stumbled upon some tape, and decided it would also be a valuable tool in however much time he could buy the older doctor. Setting that aside, he re-positioned the tool over one of Phil's wounds, sobbed for them both, and then began to gently ease it towards the wound.
"I'm not going to lie to you Phil, if you can still hear me. This is going to hurt, and he'll probably find us in here; but at least I can say I tried. I know it's not much but-"
"Reggie," Thomas finally spoke, his voice a whisper.
The intern paused, turning his head slightly, but being sure not to lose the positioning of his hands.
"Yes?" He asked.
"Just do it."
So he did.
GRACE YOUNG
Grace wondered if she was being too loud.
Even now, sitting on top of a toilet seat in the fetal position as quiet as a church mouse, every labored breath felt just as loud as if she were screaming from the rooftops. This was chaos, this was tragedy, and every ounce of happiness she had felt in the moments leading up to, was gone. She wondered, internally of course, if she would get the opportunity to have closure with Riley. This situation didn't allow for much sympathy, much time to think about relationships, but she couldn't help it. Every moment, every conversation, every touch, and every kiss was replaying in her mind like some cheesy V.H.S tape. She figured that it must have been just as equally as bad for the others, most likely cowering in some corner waiting for help like she was.
Was this how her patients felt?
Was this how a parent felt?
What could she do to make this fear, this hopelessness, go away?
"Please, oh God please, somebody help me!" A woman's voice screamed as she came rushing through the door. Grace instinctively clutched her hands over her mouth when she heard an almost inhuman growl follow in after her. She watched as shadows danced across the floor, blood pooling beneath her feet. For a couple of moments, there was a noticeable struggle between the two before another, piercing, gunshot followed; and all was quiet. The shooter's heavy breathing, along with her own heartbeat, was all that Grace could hear from her side of the bathroom stall; and she prayed that whatever God was out there kept it that way.
The heavy breathing was almost immediately followed by whistling from the shooter, as well as the sound of running water.
"Shut up," the man groaned, "Shut up, they deserve it, they were laughing at me; trying to show me up."
Grace had assumed that the man was insane before, but the conversation he seemed to be having with himself only confirmed her suspicions. There was no way in hell this was going to end well.
"Please," the woman mumbled from across the room, Grace could just barely see her nimble form; but felt just as close as ever when the man made his way back over towards her.
"I told you to shut up!" He exclaimed, before firing another round, assuredly silencing her entirely.
Grace let out a low moan, and immediately clasped her hands together even more tightly when she realized her mistake. Agonizingly slow steps approached the stalls, one after another, the shooter began slamming the doors open. Grace, being along the middle part of the stalls, decided to use the opportunity to slowly lower herself onto the floor and bear crawl towards the exit.
"Where are you God damn it?" The shooter asked, now moving at a more rapid pace as Grace moved with as much agility as she could produce.
Three stalls.
Two stalls.
One stall.
The home stretch, and she knew it. She was almost there, she could see Riley again, she could live another day, this hell wouldn't be hers.
"Stop or I'll shoot!"
She froze.
She turned around.
She saw the shooter, a man in his mid-fifties, bloodshot eyes, frayed and grey hair.
She knew her anatomy, if she moved to the left or right, he might hit a lung. If she rushed him she'd be a goner for sure. If she turned, pushed out of the bathroom door, and took a hard left swing to his face; it just might buy her a few minutes. Regardless, none of her hell's seemed particularly pleasing, but nothing about this moment really did. She turned and floored it, but he grabbed her hair, a variable she didn't account for, before yanking her back and sending her head slamming against the cold tile.
"Come on kitten, play nice or you don't get your milk," he noted, of which made her nearly sick. She should have been stronger, faster, better equipped to deal with something she saw in hospital beds nearly every day. If the concussion, she felt as if she was experiencing, didn't take her out, this psychopath would.
"You sick bastard," she groaned, of which, obviously, resulted in a kick in her ribs; a guttural groan escaping her throat.
"Now that wasn't very nice was it kitten?"
Another kick.
"Was it?"
Another.
"Was it?"
Another.
"No!" Grace finally cried out, "It, it wasn't nice, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay kitten," the man noted, before crouching down and rubbing her cheek, "Accidents happen; but I am going to have to leave you here to think about what you've done."
He couldn't, she knew that he couldn't, she'd bled to death internally before anyone found her in this godforsaken bathroom.
"Please, I want to go with you!" She exclaimed, forcing a smile unto her face.
"You should have thought about that before kitten, but don't worry, I'll be back. You wait here, keep prissy company."
Without another moments pause, the man quickly stepped over her and made his way out of the bathroom; Grace sobbing hysterically as she watched him go. The pain was too much, everything was too much. She was going to die here.
ROSIE JONES
She was going to die here.
For Rosie, the statement seemed eminent, even while she was tending to an injured victim with the Chief and Andre at her side.
"Are you always this prepared?" Rosie asked the Chief as he threaded the needle through the wound and the patient he was treating gripped her hand tightly. The question was more so to fill the heated silence than anything, both the Chief and Andre looked too far away to find the humor in it.
"I'm the Chief of Surgery Doctor Jones, I'm always prepared," Chang noted, finally beginning work on the last stitch. The horrors that they had seen were indescribable, Rosie could remember pushing through the flock of scattering club-goers, making her way towards the kitchen with the Chief and Andre. There had been an uneasiness as they had waited, for death, or the authorities, neither of which had occurred within their area. Every now and then, when the gunshots were fewer and farther away, they'd pick an injured person in reasonable condition and drag them back for the Chief to doctor. It was dangerous, but none of them could live with themselves if they just eagerly let people die for them.
"You know," Rosie continued, "I honestly didn't expect my day to go like this. Anyone else?"
"Pretty damn unpredictable Rose," Andre finally added, "God I hope Reggie's okay."
"And Grace," Rosie added.
"Stop talking about them as if they're already dead," Chang noted, "I worked my ass off to get a job at this hospital; and I'll be damned if I lose any of my people like this. I am responsible for all of you, this, however it ends; that's on me."
Rosie was stunned, even though she had only known the Chief for a short time, it was incredible for her to see how much he already valued her as a person. To him, she wasn't just another intern running around and bothering surgeons; she was a person.
"Chief I need to tell you something?" Rosie asked.
"Can it wait Jones, there are tons of other people we need to-"
"That's just it Chief," Rosie started, interrupting, "she's a person too. It was hard for me to look at it like that at first, her bruises and scraps were easily covered up by makeup; and what was the outcome of telling? Do you know how often women aren't believed, how easy it is to say that we ask for it?"
"Oh what on God's earth are you talking about Jones?" The Chief asked.
"Doctor Tucker sir, Rowell tried to convince you that we were in a relationship; and I played along for the sake of my career. Felicity and I have been planning, gathering evidence, but it's just not enough anymore; and I'm not going to die tonight without telling you what he's done."
She paused for a second, weighing the words, how good it felt to finally say them.
"Rowell's been abusing her, and I think it's best the board consider terminating his employment."
Both the Chief and Andre looked at her as if they had seen a ghost.
"Rose," Andre said, somewhere in-between shock and utter disbelief. However, before the Chief could say anything, the group was met with the most alarming sight of the night; the kitchen door being kicked in.
THOMAS AVERY
Thomas felt helpless, even as he watched Reggie doctor on his ex with little to no medical supplies, he couldn't find the strength to step in. He didn't know what was wrong with him, what nerves and memories were conveying this response. He had never been afraid to die before, being a doctor had nearly erased the concept for him.
Humans die.
Humans survive.
Humans live long and healthy lives.
He knew the cycle all too well, yet nothing about it felt relevant in this moment he had lost himself in.
"Who does that?" He finally asked Reggie.
"Does what?" Reggie asked, still in the process of wrapping duck tape around Phil's wounds.
"Who shoots people?"
"Shooters."
Thomas stared at him a moment, blank expression on both of their faces before they both started laughing hysterically.
"I'm sorry," Reggie added, "that might have been a bit of a loaded response."
"But you know I like my responses to have a big POP," he continued. Thomas simply sighed at the lame joke.
"Just trying to ease you through the fact that I just performed a trauma surgey with duck tape and pliers, don't mind little old me."
"For what it's worth Reggie," Thomas stated, while waiting for their laughter to die down, "I'm no Clarke Kent."
"Tom," Reggie groaned, his tone faltering as tears swelled up in his eyes, "There's nothing more that either of us could have done for him. The only difference is, that if you would've tried to do what I did and failed it would have destroyed you. So you refused to act, not because you're not Clarke Kent, but because you're his Superman. Now, come over here and be his Superman while we wait for the police, or death; but hopefully the police."
Just as Thomas began to slid over towards Phil, the group was pleasantly surprised by the door being kicked in as several officers greeted them.
"We need him taken to WoodHayes stat!" Thomas screamed, and then something strange happened; Superman began to cry.