Four huge shiny Harleys slam to a halt, atop each a huge biker, black-clad, and steely-faced.I look around for more staff but I’m the only one outside.
And then, from the first bike, a thud.The rider has hit the ground, his limbs splayed and eyes closed.He’s out for the count.
“Fuck.”I rush to him and when I stoop at his side I see the pool of blood leaking through his cut.“What’s happened to him?”I demand of the tall biker now at my side.
“Shot.Guts.”His voice is gruff and he sneers.“Fucking assholes.”
“We’ve got to get him on a gurney.Inside.”
“You a doctor?”Another biker grunts at me.
“What do you think I am, a goddamn florist?”I turn to the doors.“I need help out here!”I yell.
No one appears.
“Help please!”
Still no one.
“We’ll help,” the first biker says.
“Okay, grab that gurney.Get him on it.”
Within seconds the bikers have their buddy on the gurney.His hair is dark, a few strands are stuck to his damp brow, and he has a thick layer of stubble that melts down to an intricate neck tat.
His steely blue eyes harness mine.“Fix me up, Doc, I’ve got revenge to dole out.”
“Where does it hurt?”I ask.His blood pressure is low if his pale lips are anything to go by.
“My fucking belly.”He clutches his side with bloodied hands and groans.
“Anywhere else?”
He shakes his head.
I try to move the gurney but it’s too heavy.“Help me,” I snap at the two bikers at my side.
Together we push him into the department at speed, and luckily the first bay is empty.I hook him up to oxygen and snap on latex gloves.
The two tall bikers yank the curtains closed, sealing us into privacy, and then shove their hands on their hips.A wall of muscle and attitude.
I don’t have time to order them out, or the inclination, so quickly undo my patient’s leather patch-strewn cut and then yank up his t-shirt.He has a gunshot wound to his right side.It’s bleeding profusely but it appears to be a deep graze that’s nicked a vein or maybe a small artery, rather than something that’s blown half his torso off.I slap on several wads of gauze and apply pressure.
“He gonna live, Doc?”one of the bikers asks.
“Yes, he’s bleeding but from what I can see there’s no internal damage.I’ll stem the flow then stitch him up.”
“Good job.”
I look at my patient.His full lips are a better color with oxygen.
“Doctor Mesa.”Todd appears.“What can I do to help?”He gives the bikers a once-over, seemingly not surprised to see them watching over their buddy.
“Can you get a line in?We’ll give him some fluids.A liter of saline.He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Sure thing.”Todd rushes off.
“What’s your name?”I ask the biker on the gurney.
