Mercy 6

With her hand she made slicing motions above Julia’s body.

“Measure reflex, bottom up.” She uncovered Julia’s feet and grazed a fingertip along her instep. “Starting here. My guess is she’s struck through the upper thigh, somewhere with large muscle mass/lower vessel ratio. It doesn’t really matter, though. I think let her fall asleep now. Maintain oxygen, fluids, and glucose. Have Silva hold her hand. Make sure Silva is holding her hand and looking into her eyes as she goes under. Say her name. Say her name. I think she likes singing. Don’t let go of her hand as she dreams. If she makes it, others will, too.”

She turned and headed for the door. She never heard him coming, he was so silent and quick. Claiborne took hold of her elbow, crowded her into the door, his length pressed to her. He whispered into her ear.

“You need to sleep.”

“I need to get off this floor, get them away from here. I’ll be fine.

I’ll sleep in Q after they nab me.”

“You know what I mean.” His lips were touching her ear. She wanted to breathe in his scent, the clean cut of his shirt. “You need to let yourself go under.” He touched the side of her shoulder, indicating where Julia lay. “Like that. With us around. I brought plenty of IVs. I got the time.”

She lifted her eyes to his.

“You were struck with her,” he whispered. “But you were more down on sleep. Way down. You’re worse off than she is. You know this. Let yourself know this.”

“I know this.” She rested her forehead against his chest.

“You ER people are all the same. I hate you.”

“Left shoulder.” She spoke softly against his collar. “No lung, no vessel.” She ran her hand up his biceps, over his shoulder, pressed her thumb to the point of impact. She held it there, let him feel, think, imagine. She sighed against his neck.

“Listen. I’ll try.” She felt his arm across the small of her back.

Nothing could have held her better, contained her nerves. “I’ll try and set myself up.” She nodded toward Julia. “Like her. But Silva stays here, with Julia, because she stands the best chance for survival, and Silva is the best chance, anyone’s best chance. I got to Julia quickly. I was on it. You need to oversee. Covey needs to get back to her work.”

Claiborne jostled her. “That leaves—”

“Mullich.”

They laughed softly together. Together they whispered, “Hell.”

Then, for once, she overtook him, got the jump. She made a feint toward the bed, let Claiborne try for the lead, then went the other way, out the door.

Her eyes wouldn’t adjust to the light. The hall appeared different, as though she had gone through the wrong door. She didn’t anticipate the emptiness, the silence. She moved away from the door and farther up the hall, getting to the elevators. Something had changed. She stopped where she had injected the DC guards, where she believed that to be. The elevators remained quiet.

The blood spray was gone from the wall. She traced her fingers along the arc, where it had been. Was she imagining now, or had she hallucinated then? She tried to feel her own symptoms, the push and pull between sympathetic and parasympathetic, her limbic system haywire. There was definitely something off with her vision, but she couldn’t discern between constriction and dilation; the light was just wrong.

She faced the elevators, seeking some kind of answer in her warped reflection. When had she known? When Claiborne had said it, she had known, known as though reminded. Oh, yes, when I felt split, when I reached for two, one fallen, one still alive, what I often have to do, every day, several times. When I was ten. Or was it when I was on the roof with Mullich the first time? But no, Claiborne scanned me, found me pure and whole. So the one that pulsed through Julia pulsed through me. Or the one on the roof with Mullich just grazed my cheek, too shallow for any scan but just enough, enough. The one that killed the Mercy Six.

The elevator opened. She stood still, expecting one in DC garb and two security. The emptiness spread through her nerves. She felt herself opening with the silver doors, hollowing. The elevator remained open, waited.

She entered, stood in the center, faced the hall. She didn’t have her card. She had two syringes, one in each fist, caps off. With her knuckle she jabbed the button for Seven. As the doors began to close, Covey entered the hall and began running toward her.

Covey’s hair swung, her strides long and athletic. Mendenhall halted the doors with her foot. Someone running like that, let them in, let them join. Someone looking like that, just the possibility of her wanting to help, hold the door.

Covey drew up next to her, not even breathing hard.

“Who sent you?” Mendenhall let the doors close.

“The woman. She got a message.”

“What message?”

“Send Covey, too.”

“Mullich?”

“Yes. Who’s Mullich?”

“He’s a guy on the roof.”

Covey eyed the syringes in Mendenhall’s fists. “Are those the purple ones?”

“They’re what I have left.”

“Give me one.”

Mendenhall remained still, looked at Covey’s swimming