paramedic had an object delicately braced in both arms; the object was oddly shaped and wrapped in white gauze.
Mulder remained a few feet away as the stretcher passed through the center of the ER, toward the elevators that led up to the surgical ward. He caught a glimpse of the patient between the shoulders of the two nurses: thin, tall, writhing in obvious pain, tubes running out of every inch of bare skin. At first, Mulder couldn’t tell what was wrong—then his gaze moved to the tourniquet wrapped tightly around the man’s left forearm. He watched as the surgical consult took the gauze-covered object out of the paramedic’s arms and lifted a corner of the white cloth.
“It’s in pretty good shape,” he overheard the paramedic say. “Landed under the track, which protected it from the train. Think you can reattach?” The consult nodded, then continued on with the stretcher. The two paramedics stood watching as the rest of the group raced toward the elevator. Mulder shivered, then took his cue and stepped forward.
“Luke Canton?” he asked. He had gotten the name from the ER dispatcher. Canton and his partner had brought the John Doe into the hospital on the night of the 100
Skin
thirteen-car accident. The dispatcher had described him as one of the best in the city.
Canton turned toward Mulder, looking him over. The paramedic was six feet tall, with wide shoulders, and reddish scruff covering most of his square jaw. He yanked off his bloody gloves and tossed them to the floor. “That’s right. This is my partner, Emory Ross.”
“I’m Agent Mulder from the FBI. That was a hell of a scene. Is he going to be all right?” Canton shrugged. His face was grim, but there was something bright, deep in his blue eyes. This was his high—the adrenaline pump of medicine at its most raw.
“Lost a fight with a subway car. But if the surgeon’s any good, he’ll keep his hand.”
Mulder noticed splotches of fresh blood all over Canton’s uniform. “Covered you pretty good. Was it like this with the John Doe you brought in last Friday night?” Canton shook his head. “I figured that’s what this is about. Heard through the grapevine he might have been carrying some sort of virus.”
“It’s a possibility,” Mulder responded. He knew the CDC would probably be rounding up all of the possible risk candidates by midafternoon. He gestured at the blood on Canton’s uniform. “Most likely something blood-borne.”
Canton shrugged. “Well, then we’re in the clear. The John Doe had no external wounds. No blood at all.
Actually, we hardly had any contact with him—other than lifting him into the ambulance and working the 101
THE X-FILES
Velcro straps. He didn’t crash until he was in the ER. We didn’t even intubate—the two ER kids took over, and we went back into the field.”
Mulder moved his gaze from Canton to his partner, Emory Ross. Neither one looked the least bit ill. “And you’re feeling all right? No signs of fatigue or fever?” Canton smiled. “I worked out for two hours this morning. Hit two-fifty-five on the bench. What about you, Ross?”
Ross laughed. He seemed much younger than Canton, and it was obvious from his eyes that he looked up to his wide-shouldered partner. “I played pickup basketball for forty minutes before our shift started. Didn’t score very many, but I got a handful of rebounds.” Mulder felt relief, and a tinge of excitement. He wasn’t a doctor, but it sounded as though the two paramedics were not going to be felled by lethargy. Mulder walked with the two men toward the changing rooms located in the corner of the ER, just beyond the admissions desk. “I was told the John Doe was brought in from the scene of a car accident on the FDR Drive?”
“That’s right,” Canton answered. “Found him unconscious but stable in the breakdown lane, maybe twenty feet from the lead car. We already had one of the drivers in our wagon—a woman with a pretty severe
Mulder remained a few feet away as the stretcher passed through the center of the ER, toward the elevators that led up to the surgical ward. He caught a glimpse of the patient between the shoulders of the two nurses: thin, tall, writhing in obvious pain, tubes running out of every inch of bare skin. At first, Mulder couldn’t tell what was wrong—then his gaze moved to the tourniquet wrapped tightly around the man’s left forearm. He watched as the surgical consult took the gauze-covered object out of the paramedic’s arms and lifted a corner of the white cloth.
“It’s in pretty good shape,” he overheard the paramedic say. “Landed under the track, which protected it from the train. Think you can reattach?” The consult nodded, then continued on with the stretcher. The two paramedics stood watching as the rest of the group raced toward the elevator. Mulder shivered, then took his cue and stepped forward.
“Luke Canton?” he asked. He had gotten the name from the ER dispatcher. Canton and his partner had brought the John Doe into the hospital on the night of the 100
Skin
thirteen-car accident. The dispatcher had described him as one of the best in the city.
Canton turned toward Mulder, looking him over. The paramedic was six feet tall, with wide shoulders, and reddish scruff covering most of his square jaw. He yanked off his bloody gloves and tossed them to the floor. “That’s right. This is my partner, Emory Ross.”
“I’m Agent Mulder from the FBI. That was a hell of a scene. Is he going to be all right?” Canton shrugged. His face was grim, but there was something bright, deep in his blue eyes. This was his high—the adrenaline pump of medicine at its most raw.
“Lost a fight with a subway car. But if the surgeon’s any good, he’ll keep his hand.”
Mulder noticed splotches of fresh blood all over Canton’s uniform. “Covered you pretty good. Was it like this with the John Doe you brought in last Friday night?” Canton shook his head. “I figured that’s what this is about. Heard through the grapevine he might have been carrying some sort of virus.”
“It’s a possibility,” Mulder responded. He knew the CDC would probably be rounding up all of the possible risk candidates by midafternoon. He gestured at the blood on Canton’s uniform. “Most likely something blood-borne.”
Canton shrugged. “Well, then we’re in the clear. The John Doe had no external wounds. No blood at all.
Actually, we hardly had any contact with him—other than lifting him into the ambulance and working the 101
THE X-FILES
Velcro straps. He didn’t crash until he was in the ER. We didn’t even intubate—the two ER kids took over, and we went back into the field.”
Mulder moved his gaze from Canton to his partner, Emory Ross. Neither one looked the least bit ill. “And you’re feeling all right? No signs of fatigue or fever?” Canton smiled. “I worked out for two hours this morning. Hit two-fifty-five on the bench. What about you, Ross?”
Ross laughed. He seemed much younger than Canton, and it was obvious from his eyes that he looked up to his wide-shouldered partner. “I played pickup basketball for forty minutes before our shift started. Didn’t score very many, but I got a handful of rebounds.” Mulder felt relief, and a tinge of excitement. He wasn’t a doctor, but it sounded as though the two paramedics were not going to be felled by lethargy. Mulder walked with the two men toward the changing rooms located in the corner of the ER, just beyond the admissions desk. “I was told the John Doe was brought in from the scene of a car accident on the FDR Drive?”
“That’s right,” Canton answered. “Found him unconscious but stable in the breakdown lane, maybe twenty feet from the lead car. We already had one of the drivers in our wagon—a woman with a pretty severe
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