We All Sleep Alone (Finley Creek #11) - Calle J. Brookes Page 0,1
that gash on your head taken care of.” Rafe used his own phone to gesture toward Allen’s head.
Allen didn’t remember getting hit. He touched his forehead. There was blood. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a contamination hazard. One we can’t afford right now.”
“I’ll clean him up,” the nurse who’d ridden through the storm with him said. She’d been at his side since the storm had hit, hands ready to get him everything he’d needed in an instant. Almost before he’d needed it.
She hadn’t panicked even once.
He didn’t know where she’d found half the supplies she had provided, but she had.
She was good. Definitely good at what she did. He’d make certain Rafe knew that. When this was over.
Rafe nodded. “Go.”
Allen followed the nurse toward the rear stairwell. There was a supply cabinet under there that had basics for these very kinds of emergencies. He thanked God they had some parts of the hospital still standing. “Hurry. We need to get back out there.”
“Yes. Is the storm over?”
Allen thought about the damage that had been done to one of the strongest buildings in the city. If the hospital had suffered such damage, it could be total hell out there now. “I think our storm may have just begun.”
Emergency lighting flicked on over their heads. She grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and some butterfly bandages and went to work.
Allen got his first real look at the woman working on his forehead.
His gaze dropped to the name tag still clipped to her top. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to Izzie M. before.
He hadn’t even fully remembered her name, to his own shame.
Her rich, dark hair was cropped short and now covered in plaster dust. Her dark eyes dominated her pixyish face. She was one of those nurses who buzzed around the ER on second and third shift. There were three or four of them that he didn’t know well, a dozen more he didn’t know at all. He very rarely was on the schedule during second or third shifts.
All he had ever cared about was that there was a pair of helping hands when he needed them.
Quiet, efficient, never causing any trouble.
Interchangeable.
He hadn’t looked that closely at them, not lately.
It didn’t matter which of the staff that was.
Except for Jillian—Jillian was a fiery redhead who had nearly died because of Allen. Jillian was hard to forget.
He didn’t remember if she’d been there a moment ago. “Was Jillian back there?”
“With Rafe. She’s ok. Nobody seemed hurt. Except you.” She worked quickly, cleaning his wound expertly. “But I heard some of the other wings have injuries. I think they are being diverted to Dr. Kaur in the rear of the building.”
He nodded. “They were all in the hallways with the patients. Except us.”
“I almost didn’t make it inside. I came in right behind that woman. If you hadn’t grabbed me...” She shivered. Allen didn’t want to think about it. No one outside could have survived that storm. “We...I don’t know what to do right now.”
“We do what we always do. We treat the people in the hospital.” Thunder cracked overhead. She jumped, spilling the alcohol down the front of her scrubs. Allen’s hand rose to steady hers.
Izzie had small, pretty hands. Hands that were scraped raw from helping dig through rubble to free a child.
“And we prepare for more. Because they will come here first.”
“I—” Fear. Her fear struck him hard. “I don’t know where Annie or Nikkie Jean are. Or Fin.”
He recognized every name. His friends, too. People he cared about. “Stay close to me. We’ll get through this.”
He didn’t know what made him say it. It might have been the big brown eyes that reminded him of another woman who had wanted him to save her once before.
He’d failed Jess. He wasn’t going to fail anyone else again.
2
Izzie stuck close to Dr. Jacobson. The ER staff had divided itself up into teams. Rafe and the head of security, Vincent—who’d taken a piece of shrapnel to his shoulder but was walking around in a makeshift sling—were inspecting every floor, along with any spare nonessential personnel they could gather up. Cage Ralstone had another team in the first-floor stairwell, handling moderate injuries. Shrapnel had sliced through Cage’s arm when he was trying to dig Dr. Kaur out of the partially collapsed maternity ward, but he was still capable of treating patients—he was doing it one-handed.
Whatever had hit the city, it had been bad. An F4, people were saying. Possibly an F5.