LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced at the limp figure. He was unrecognizable as the boy he met previously. Daniel was lifeless except for labored breathing. His face was red and bloated from stings, and there were large bruises on his swollen arms and legs. The father ’s eyes welled up in tears. John motioned him toward an empty treatment room. It was the only bit of courtesy John could offer in the busy triage area; just a moment of privacy. As they walked through the threshold of the treatment room door, John said quietly, “I think your wife should hear this as well.”

      Bob turned now with visible tears running down his cheeks.

      “Didn’t make it,” he said choking the words out, “I couldn’t pull her away. I could only save one of them.”

      Bob sobbed as he gently laid the boy on the treatment table. The yellowed plastic covers over the fluorescent lights suffused the room with a yellow glow, making the ill boy’s skin look more sallow than it was in triage. John did a cursory look at the boy while taking his pulse, which was weak and thready. Sadly, John thought, he didn’t even save one.

      John put his hand gently on Bob’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes, “Bob, it hurts to say, but reality is, I can’t help your son. He’s too far gone. Antitoxin won’t work at this stage, but I’ll do my absolute best to make him as comfortable as possible.”

      “I want you to transfuse him,” demanded Bob. His face looked as if it had turned to granite.

      John, taken aback by the unusual request, paused, then said, “Bob, it doesn’t work that way. A blood transfusion wouldn’t benefit your son.”

      “I want you to transfuse him with my blood,” said Bob unyielding, “We have the same blood type. Commingle our circulation; transfuse him into me and me into him.”

      “Bob,” said John firmly, “not only would a transfusion not prolong Daniel’s life, the toxins in Daniel would certainly kill you as well. The absolute best option for your son is letting me make him comfortable.”

      Bob responded by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a nine millimeter handgun. He aimed it at John’s chest. His hand was trembling. “John, you’re a good man, but I’ll start shooting if you don’t do this for Daniel.”

      “Put the gun away!” said John, eying the blue-steeled weapon, “If anybody sees that pistol, you’ll be labeled a terrorist. Go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Your life will be over.”

      “If you don’t transfuse Daniel, my life is over,” replied Bob with a shrug.

      “No!” said John, now raising his voice, “you’ll carry on, but if I transfuse like you ask, you will both die!”

      “Wrong!” said Bob, shaking his head stubbornly, “I’m immune to the stings.”

      John paused for a second and glanced at Bob’s exposed skin. No edema, welts, or erythema was present. He had treated numerous heroic individuals who saved others from airwars. The one hallmark of these heroes and heroines was they invariably looked as bad as, or sometimes worse than, the victims they saved.

      “You came in contact with tentacles?” questioned John.

      “Yeah,” replied Bob, “I had to run inside the curtain to get my boy.”

      “You went inside the curtain and came out?” said John with amazement.

      John knew the curtain was the outermost specialized layer of tentacles, which were black like the hydrogen sac. The black tentacles were more mobile than the red inner layers and more toxic. They grabbed and attached to objects on the ground to pull airwars forward. If an immediate death occurred, it was typically due to massive stings from the outer curtain. Although not public knowledge, ASC released information to medical personnel indicating less effective stinging power inside the curtain. The inner tentacles, red to pink in color, although mildly poisonous, were more specialized in binding and lifting.

      The outer curtain was the source of contact for most treatable stings largely because those passing to the inner curtain rarely got out alive. A person could wear protective garments, but airwars seemed to sense this and would bind and lift, then drop anyone wearing protective covering from a height of forty to fifty feet. Sometimes repetition of this process occurred until the victim was dead. Of course, there was no reason victims couldn’t survive, if rescued, as the screams of victims inside the curtain continued for hours. These screams continued until death or to the point the victim transferred into the digestive chamber.

      John looked at the dying boy. He weighed the resolve in the father ’s eyes against the trouble he’d be in if he agreed. The gun aimed at his chest factored in as well.

      “Okay,” said John, “I’ll do it.” He knew he would do the same if it was Cassandra lying there. “But please hide your gun!”

      Bob appeared to be studying John’s eyes to determine if this was a feint.

      “Thank you,” said Bob finally, then he handed the gun, butt end toward John.

      “You keep it,” said John, waving the gun off. Then he smiled and winked at Bob, “Besides, what would I do with another one?”

      Bob gave John one brief smile back.

      John exited the exam room and returned to the triage area. He knew it would be difficult to set up the transfusion by himself. He couldn’t enlist the help of any other medical personnel. If it got out, the procedure would end and Bob would face certain incarceration. In addition, there was the problem of doing a commingled transfusion. He’d never done a direct transfusion; nobody did this in modern medicine. Commingling circulations might be a physiology experiment in a dog lab, but never as a human treatment.

      Clearly, there were a list of risks a mile long, but he didn’t know what they were, and he didn’t have time to look them up. He also knew there would be hell to pay in the end, but he would just point to the dead man’s gun and say he was coerced. Hospitals needed doctors too badly to revoke his medical license.

      Even in the face of the negatives, John felt exhilarated. He knew he was pushing the limits of medical ethics, but for the first time, he was trying to accomplish something that might make a difference. He knew deep down the procedure was doomed, but at least it was an attempt. Gathering the equipment for the transfusion took several minutes because he had to do it sub-rosa. Then there was a problem of disappearing an hour from triage without others noticing. Although five other doctors worked triage, his absence would eventually become apparent.

      John draped his hand in a hot pack and approached the head triage nurse. Lifting the wrapped hand, he announced, “I just got a secondary. I’m feeling a bit weak. I’m taking an hour break, but I’ll be back.”

      A “secondary” was a sting on medical personnel from tentacle fragments remaining attached to victims. Usually, secondaries were minor injuries due to minimum envenomization. The nurse seemed relieved he was returning after a break. Most personnel took the rest of the day off.

      “Dr. Long,” said the nurse with concern, “do you want one of the other docs to look at you? I think this is the first secondary you’ve ever had.”

      John knew he was a bit unusual in that way. He’d been lucky so far; in fact, the other docs deferred patients with tentacle debris for his evaluation.

      “No, I’m fine. The hot pack is working well.”

      Medical staff used hot packs to denature venom that might remain high in the skin. If you could take the skin temperature to 118.5º F, you could denature one component of the poison, and this was the component responsible for pain.

      “I’m holing up in treatment room seven for an hour,” said John. “Please don’t have anyone disturb me.”

      The nurse nodded and walked off.

      As he rejoined Bob and his son in exam room seven, he placed a Do Not Enter: Procedure In Progress sign on the door and removed the hot wrap from his hand. John pushed a gurney with

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