Prepper: Book 1 by Tom Abrahams

Author:Tom Abrahams
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2023-08-07T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

THE WOODLANDS, TEXAS

GRID DOWN, DAY ONE

Jack scanned his surroundings. He had trouble making sense of the bedlam. It was sensory overload. Sights. Sounds. Smells.

Nurses and doctors wore head-mounted flashlights. The white beams crisscrossed the dark ER like a laser show. Jack squinted when stray lights pierced his eyes. People brushed past him as if he were not there.

A dozen or more people stood or sat in the waiting area. Others stood at the nurses’ station at the entrance. Men and women rolled back and forth on gurneys, their wheels rattling against the solid floors, their axles spinning and adjusting to accommodate the frenzied movement.

Too many people spoke, shouted, or issued commands for Jack to make sense of it. From the space beyond the open doors, typically closed to separate the ER from the lobby, people groaned or sobbed. Some cried for help.

In the passing flashes of light, Jack caught glimpses of the injured and sick. It turned his stomach. A woman sat in a chair with a bloody rag pressed to her head. Shards of glass protruded from her forearm. A child sat in an adult’s lap, holding an unnaturally bent wrist. Road rash painted one side of the adult’s face. Another man lay on his side on the floor of the waiting room. He balled himself into a fetal position and clutched his midsection. He groaned and gritted his teeth.

Jack stood frozen for an instant before his eyes found a nurse standing by the check-in desk, holding a clipboard in her hands. She made eye contact with him, and he used the opening to approach.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I need help.”

She tried a weak smile. “Everybody here does, sir. We’ll get to you when we can. Please take a seat and—”

“It’s not me,” said Jack. “We’ve got a gunshot wound. He’s losing a lot of blood. He’s outside in my truck. Can you help? I don’t think he has long.”

She looked confused. “Gunshot?”

“Yes. Can we get some help? He’s in my truck outside.”

“Is he breathing?”

“He was. He was awake.”

The nurse looked past him, toward the open entrance doors, and nodded. “Give me a second. I’ll get someone.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She held up a finger. “Stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.” She put down the clipboard and hurried into the bowels of the ER.

Jack surveyed the chaos. The darkness, the stench of sweat, excrement, and antiseptic, was nauseating. Or the adrenaline was waning. Exhaustion crept into his limbs, and he leaned against the corner of the desk. He needed to get home.

The nurse returned with two men in scrubs. “Where is he?” she asked.

Jack stood up and gestured to the exit. He led them through the open doors and to his truck. The two men in the bed had the tailgate open. The woman stood to one side of the truck. Harold lay in the bed, conscious but in terrible shape. His color was pallid, his breathing shallow and rapid.

“All right,” the nurse said. “Clear out. We’ve got him.”

The two men pushed the gurney to the end of the open tailgate.

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