When the Sleeper Wakes Part 5 Revelations
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When The Sleeper Wakes Part 4: Accidents free porn video
WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES
Part 04: Accidents
Copyright (c) 2002 by Kim EM
All rights reserved
"When the Sleeper Wakes" Created by Kim EM and Debra Rachel
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between this
story and any actual person, living or dead, is coincidental,
except as noted here. Some real names have been used herein,
but these depictions are not intended to represent the actual
thoughts or behavior of the persons depicted, and are used only
for dramatic purposes. Any variances from accepted medical
procedure are solely the fault of the author. Don't try this
at home.
The story contains mature subject matter. It may contain adult
situations and/or language. If you're not old enough to legally
read this (and you know who you are), then get out of here before
it's too late. You've been warned.
Permission is granted to archive or repost this story as long as
the text is unaltered, and my copyright and this notice are
included. Oh, and this permission is conditional upon it's being
available only on free sites. No membership fee, "Adult Check",
or other means of extracting money from people are allowed.
I'd love to hear from any readers with comments. Email me at:
Kim EM: [email protected]
Chapter Four: ACCIDENTS
Bill Nelson was bored. College, medical school, internship,
residency, and for what? So he could cut up bodies in the
middle of the night?
He sighed as he sectioned the heart from the body before
him, deftly slicing through the still tissue and lifting
the sample into a small dish. Why, he wondered, had he
thought pathology would be an exciting specialty?
He stood alone, rapidly working away at the post, the room
silent except for the quiet whoosh of the water sluicing
through the drainage channels of the steel table and his
hushed mutterings into the hanging microphone. He only half
paid attention to the body before him, the victim of a
shooting up in Manhattan North.
Finishing up with the body, he turned and took his samples
into the lab, where he rapidly mounted and stained slides,
wondering as he did so why it was necessary. After all, the
deceased had obviously died of his gunshot wounds, most
likely from the head injury. The slides confirmed that
there were no systemic problems.
As he cleaned up and rang for an attendant to return the
body to its refrigerated storage, he thought for the
millionth time about his job. Three-quarters of a century
before, the powers-that-be had decided that any deaths
occurring in any of the five boroughs of New York City
required an autopsy to determine the cause of death.
The mission of the office was fairly simple: "The Office of
Chief Medical Examiner investigates cases of persons who
die within New York City from criminal violence; by
casualty or by suicide; suddenly, when in apparent good
health; when unattended by a physician; in a correctional
facility; or in any suspicious or unusual manner. The
Office also investigates when an application is made
pursuant to law for a permit to cremate the body of a
person."
Be it disease, mischance, or murder, the bodies of the
city's deceased, whether of the Four Hundred or the newest
of immigrants, were transferred to this dumpy brick
building on First Avenue for testing. The practice made
sense -- during the seventy-seven years the law had been in
place, innumerable murders that looked like something else
had been discovered, victims of hitherto unsuspected
contagious diseases were identified, and the doctors had
even broken some new ground in the field of immunology.
Many of the greatest names in pathology had practiced here
-Charles Norris, Milton Helpern, Michael Baden, Charles
Hirsch, Beryl Austin.
Bill Nelson, though, was just a peon. As the newest and
youngest pathologist on the Chief Medical Examiners staff,
he regularly drew the overnight duty. Too many of the cases
he handled had been gunshot victims. Part of the price for
practicing in New York, he supposed. Still, it was a great
place to live and work, far better than his hometown in
Wisconsin.
Still pondering the events that made his job necessary, he
picked up a tray to clean up -the instruments to a 'soiled'
container to be sent off for cleaning and sterilization,
the sharps to their plastic container for their eventual
safe disposal. Still woolgathering about the reasons his
job was necessary, he stumbled in turning, the tray sliding
from his grasp. As he recovered his balance and tried to
keep the tray from falling, a syringe he'd used to draw
blood slid toward him and pricked his left forearm.
"Shit."
The tray, suddenly forgotten, crashed to the floor as he
reflexively pulled back his arm. The offending syringe fell
into the mess as he stared helplessly at his arm, a drop of
blood at the site of the puncture.
The nearby double doors crashed open as the attendant
double-timed into the morgue. "What happened?"
"I just stuck myself. Dirty."
"Aww, crap." The attendant stared at him through her
eternally sorrowful eyes. "Now what?"
"I've got to run over to Bellevue and get this tested. At
the least, it means I've got a mountain of paperwork
waiting for me. At worst, well..."
"Yeah. You might as well head over now, Doctor Nelson. I'll
get this cleaned up."
As the attendant bent to start gathering up the debris,
Nelson turned towards the door, then swiveled and said,
"Can you call Doctor A. and let her know what happened?
She's going to have to call someone in to cover."
"Sure, no problem."
Bill Nelson wasted no time. Without even pausing at his
locker he headed towards the lobby. He swerved to the
security station and told the guard, "I need to run over to
the Bellevue emergency room for a bit, Gene. If Doctor A.
calls you might tell her where I am."
"Sure thing, Doctor."
Nelson usually came and went through a side door that was
reserved to doctors and staff, but the main lobby was
closer to his destination. Fortunately, the medical
examiners' building was right at the Bellevue campus, and
it was a fairly short, if energetic, walk to the ER. After
passing through the automatic doors, Bill bypassed the
triage nurse and made a beeline for the nursing station.
Sitting at a small table dictating into a micro-cassette
recorder was the chief resident on duty, Sheryl Mendelez.
She finished her dictation and looked up at the expectantly
waiting (and somewhat handsome) doctor.
"What's up?"
He gave her a half smile, embarrassed, and told her of his
mishap.
"Okay, no need to panic. Let's get some blood drawn, then
you can start with the paperwork."
Bill groaned. "Let's get on with it. The sooner we get this
done, the sooner I can start dealing with the bureaucrats."
She deftly swabbed his arm and tightened the rubber strap.
With a sure motion she found the vein on the first try and
drew a sample. "You know this isn't likely to show
anything. You're going to need to be tested regularly for
the next six months."
He smiled. "That'll teach me to watch where I walk."
She finished labeling the specimen and turned back to him.
"What can you tell me about the source of the blood?"
"Let's see. Black male, age twenty-six. Killed in a
shootout on Hundred-and-Seventeenth. Proximate cause was
head trauma. No obvious signs of drug use."
"That's a good sign."
"Yep. I'd say he appeared normal in every way except..."
"A hole in the head?"
"That, and three others. The odd thing is he had perfect
teeth, no scars or calluses, either. Plus..." He trailed
off into a thoughtful silence.
"What?"
"No plaque."
"You said he had perfect teeth."
Bill looked distracted, then said, "Not his teeth. His
arteries. Clean as the day he was born."
She looked at him bemusedly. "You said he was only twenty-
six."
"True, but even at twenty-six there should be SOME plaque."
"Healthy lifestyle?"
He shook his head. "Not that clean. I tell you, from the
condition of his body he might as well have sprung full-
blown from a test tube."
She laughed. "That's not too likely. I guess he was just
born lucky." She paused for a dramatic moment. "Until
tonight, at least."
"I guess."
Several hours later, and back in his office, Bill Nelson
tiredly signed the last of an awesome stack of forms,
explaining the accident and his response. He picked up the
stack and tiredly carried them to the elevator, which
surprisingly enough was waiting on his floor. As he rode up
he slumped against the back wall, willing himself the
strength to stay alert until he could deliver the forms,
sign out, and make his way to his upper west side
apartment.
Upstairs he flopped the stack into Doctor Austin's inbox
and turned back towards the elevator. He got about two
steps before a voice from behind beckoned him into the
office.
"Bill."
Nelson turned, resignedly, and dragged himself into the
Chief Medical Examiner's office. It was a tired office,
with worn carpeting and mismatched furniture, poorly
maintained. The furniture ranged from WPA to 1960's modern.
The prevailing aura was drab, from faded pastel chairs to
institutional green walls. With a quick look around the
familiar mess, he turned to the figure behind the desk.
"Someday you've got to do something about this office. The
politicians must love visiting."
"The politicians never come here. If a crappy office is
what it takes to drive them away, that's fine with me.
Besides," she continued, "I think there are other things
besides the furniture that keep them away from this
building."
"You're probably right." He adopted a lecturing tone. "And
for the next stop on our tour, here's the newest of our
patients. Note the channels at the sides of the table to
carry away blood and other bodily fluids. The dark colored
masses floating in the adjacent sink are his lungs, and...
Mister Mayor? Is something wrong?"
"You think it's funny, but several years ago I had a
Committeeman vomit into a body he'd wanted to see."
"Oh, nice."
"Anyways, when the new tower is built my office will look
just like any other corporate hive, and then I probably
won't be able to keep them off."
She gestured Nelson to one of the cracked green vinyl
chairs, and he sank gratefully into it. Doctor Beryl Austin
was a middle-aged woman, professional in appearance but
showing clear signs of chronic fatigue.
"So, I understand you had a rough night."
"That's an understatement. I tripped over my own feet,
managed to stick myself with the syringe I'd used to draw
blood from the body, and then managed to scatter the whole
tray of used merde across the floor."
"You've been checked?"
"I ran over to Bellevue right away. That's not going to
tell me much, though. It was only a few drops - enough that
it could infect me if, God forbid, there was anything there
to infect me with, but not likely to show up for some
time."
"So now you wait." She sighed. "Well, you aren't the first
one here and you're not likely to be the last."
"That figures. How - how many others so far?"
"Let's see..." She ran a quick mental inventory. "You'd be
the twelfth since we started keeping track. Nine of the
others were fine, no infections or known effects."
"And the other two?"
She hesitated, then went on. "Both tested positive for HIV.
One is on medication and the last I heard is still
asymptomatic."
"And the other?"
He developed full-blown AIDS and passed away about eighteen
months ago."
Twenty-five minutes later, Bill Nelson left the building
and his job for the last time, though he didn't know it at
the moment. A short walk brought him to Twenty-eighth and
Third, the nearest subway entrance. A quick trip on the 6
up to Forty-second, then crosstown on the Times Square
Shuttle, and finally uptown on the 3 would bring him to
Eighty-Sixth and Broadway, just a block from his not-too-
classy apartment.
Before catching the train, though, maybe some breakfast? He
turned into a familiar diner on the corner, sliding into a
booth. He felt a bit more human after the first cup of
coffee, and decided on a Denver omelet. He sat, waiting,
staring out the window, thinking about the patient whose
blood he'd gotten, and the two pathologists who'd come up
with HIV from similar sticks. How had they felt the morning
after their accidents, and even more so, how had they felt
when they'd been diagnosed?
The body he'd posted didn't show any signs of disease, and
it would take time to get back the lab results on the body.
The forensics lab was too busy and too small to get quick
answers on something like that, so the samples would sit
and wait their turn for the technicians to do their magic.
Maybe in a few years, when the new tower was built, things
would be different, but in the antiquated, cramped, 6300
square-foot facility there was too much backlog to be able
to rush blood work on a gunshot victim. The new lab, a
310,000 square-foot marvel would, if the political weenies
appropriated the money for construction and operations,
dramatically improve the office's efficiency and cut
turnaround time to a fraction of its current torpid pace.
When breakfast came, he barely tasted it, still dwelling on
the unfairnesses of life, and mentally kicking himself for
his carelessness with the tray of used instruments.
Finishing, he silently paid the bill and headed for home.
As he descended into the station, he remembered that he
needed to charge his MetroCard, and turned to the bank of
MetroCard vending machines. Pulling out the card and a ten
dollar bill, he inserted the card into the slot, and the
machine showed it's remaining value at forty-five cents. He
stuck the ten into the projecting slot, and the machine
showed the card's new value, $10.45. When the card ejected,
he tiredly took it and turned on his heel, catching his
shoulder on the projecting bill slot. With a ripping noise
and a stab of pain, he knew he'd just sliced his shoulder
open on its sharp corner.
"Terrific," he muttered to himself. What else could go
wrong?
To Be Continued...
Fay
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