#plot reasons

6:30pm

Frankie gave no thought to the blood coating her clothes and hands; she needed to focus on keeping pressure on the wound. Her patient’s life depended on it; as the van was driven at a near breakneck speed. Her keen eyes kept checking the young man’s vitals as much as she could without her necessary medical devices. It was hard not to think back to Pitt Fest, to not think of what they had just escaped from by the skin of their teeth.

Despite not being shot, the experience would leave no visible scar, just as long lasting. Frankie would have to live with the knowledge and memory of the utter panic and devastation wrought by whoever pulled the trigger.

No amount of preparation or emergency medical training could measure up to facing an active shooting. She had felt helpless, as if she had been wading through waist deep water before another tidal wave had struck. Forcing her under, struggling to resurface as terrified people rushed past her.

Frankie, in her scramble for supplies, had mistakenly taken her partner’s jacket from the cab of the ambulance, only to use it as a blanket, carefully draping it over the shivering form of an injured festival goer who had delicately placed in the back of a van. One that would leave her, the one transporting her directly to the nearest trauma center.

She knew that her friend would have done the same; it was a replaceable article of clothing. She had done it to preserve body heat. To give the patient a fighting chance for making it to the hospital alive. Yet, she could not see the events that she had put in motion.

ROBINAVITCH, each letter was dripping in the blood of another.

It was far from a pleasant sight; she didn’t have time to linger on such thoughts as the blood of her patient soaked through the bandages that she carefully wrapped around the gushing wound. She pulled each layer tighter than the previous one to hold the dressing underneath in place. Her hands applied further pressure, but still the blood continued to flow. This wasn’t good. 

“What’s our ETA?” She shouted out to the van’s driver. As she tried to calculate how long she had before her patient slipped deeper in the danger zone. Frankie felt every shift, every turn that the van took as they inched closer and closer to its final designation.

“Five minutes out” Keeping his gaze fixed on the road, the driver answered, carefully negotiating the many bends and turns. She still did not know the name of the Samaritan who had stepped up, swiftly offering his work vehicle to transport the wounded. It had a moment of showcasing the best of humanity as others followed by example.

With the passenger in the back on the other side of the patient, Frankie took a second to glance at them. “We’ve almost here” A tired smile graced their lips but their eyes remained fixed downwards upon the more severely injured party, the husband. From the little information that Frankie had gleamed from the wife, he had been shielding a mother and her young child, trying to get them out of harm’s way, only to take the full force of shot to the chest.

The wound was deep, but she couldn’t truly assess how serious it truly was. Frankie was certain of one fact, it hadn’t been instantly fatal as her patient was still fighting for his life. The very fine threads that held him still hovering between this world and the next. The minutes were ticking by; his life was ebbing in tandem.

“As soon as those doors open, let the staff do their job,” she confidently spoke to the wife, knowing that genuine sense of panic would rapidly descend as soon as they rolled into the ambulance bay. The EMT mask clicked back into place.

“I need you to take over, keep pressure on the wound whilst I checked him over” Frankie watched as she actively listened, replacing her hands upon dressing. “Sam, my husband’s name is Sam,” the wife said, smiling lovingly down at him, concern slide in beside it. Today would remain forever etched in their collective memories, regardless of the outcome.

“I’m Lara” Frankie nodded; at least she had their names; she could refer to them by instead of just wife or patient. “Frankie,” she replied as the van came to a screeching halt. The metal van’s chassis muffled the voices, but she could hear and distinguish a few words.

Red, Pink, Yellow 

The emergency protocols were already underway; they were categorising all incoming traffic, trying to ensure that nothing was missed. As the back doors were pulled open, Frankie seized this opportunity to speak. 

“Male, in his 40s with a single GSW to the chest” The words flowed naturally as if she was rolling a gurney through those ambulance bay doors with a doctor and nurse ready to receive her report from the field, just like any normal day. This was far from normal as she watched the doctor deliver his own assessment, taking her words to heart as someone slapped a red band on his wrist.

Frankie could finally relax as she silently watched the handover continue on as they carefully helped Sam out of the van and onto a gurney. Before his wife Lara followed, with a green slap band on her wrist. She smiled as exhaustion settled in as Lara briefly turned to mouth ‘thank you’ before disappearing out of sight.  ----------------------------------------- 7pm

The chaos that erupted in an instant dwarfed the ordinary sounds of whistles and alarms. This was exactly where she thrived. Santos was born this for, as she rushed from patient to patient, noting the variety of injuries and wounds that came from a massive casualty. This experience would allow her to climb the ranks in medicine and discover her place in the field.

Whether that it was down here in the Pitt, facing the unpredictability of emergency medicine, or with a ten blade in her hand cutting away with the best in surgery. 

It was intoxicating as she danced between the yellow and pink zones, focused on being present in the most pressing cases. Knowing that the chance to prove herself would come, then she could help alongside the attendings in the red zone.

Show off the mad skills that she knew she possessed. Some might see as arrogance; to her, it ran deeper, to the bone. This was a defence mechanism, a drive to survive against the odds stacked against her.

Trinity Santos had to be the best, at the top of every class. This was her way out, to provide to all her doubters that she could, no would make it as a Doctor. Her past did not define her, yet it shaped her through all she had endured.

None of that mattered here and now; she needed to remain focused, no matter how much her feet throbbed, no matter how much she wished she could find a quick space and take a quick five-minute nap. 

Heading to the yellow zone

Pink, unconscious, with no visible wounds

Moving to up to red

The calls came from all around the department as gurneys whizzed past, new patients at the beginning of line and ones who had been there since the very start. Treatment changing by the second as their conditions either stabilised enough to bump the ever-growing surgery list or deteriorated in a blink of an eye. Thinking on the fly, improvising treatment, this was a rush but fall out would come, eventually.

Yet, it was something ordinary that caught her eye, a jacket that she had seen a fair few times through the shift. The standard issue jacket that all incoming paramedics wore. It was part of their identity, making them easy to see amongst the throngs of darting bodies that navigated the corridors of the department.

They had folded the jacket and set it aside, but as Santos approached, more details became visible. Dried out blood stains littered the fabric, yet it didn’t match the wounds on the patient laying in the bay. It was far too big; it would swallow them whole if they had been the one wearing it.

This was not its original owner. Without a second thought, Trinity slipped her gloved hands beneath the folds, lifting it up to get a closer look, only to find a name staring right back at her as the fabric unfurled. One that she had come to know in the last twelve and a half hours.

Robinavitch, Dr Robby. Countlessly questions arose as the sound of her name brought back to reality.

“Kid, are you alright? You were staring off into space…” Dana, the brisk but maternal voice at the very heart of the Department, trailed off as her gaze found their way on the jacket, to the embossed name. An awkward silent crept in without warning; Santos still with a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue.

The ever present charge nurse knew something; she held the key to her rapidly growing desire for answers to this most delicious of riddles. Yet, nothing came in the seconds that followed. Instead, a wall had risen suddenly between the two of them.

“I’ll take that, focus on the patients” Trinity had wanted nothing more than to bite back defiantly and prod deeper. Before she had the change to inquire any further down the rabbit hole, Dana had carefully plucked her prize and turned on her heel, making her escape. Trinity knew her place on the totem pole, one of the lowest rungs, but this encounter had been the strangest of the shift thus far. ---------------------------------------------------

6:20pm Pitt Fest

You had lost track of time; silence between gun shots and the piercing fearful screams had only gotten shorter. This was how you had been judging time by, as you wandered through the haze. A crippling sense of utter confusion, pain, and blind fear had overruled your innate desire to flee. That very human nature to escape from a perceived threat, one that was too real.

Jake

Leah

Frankie

Each face flashed before your eyes as you continued on stumbling past the turned over tents, tables and countless decorations and bunting spread across what once had been a pathway. You had to find someone, anyone, to make sure that they were safe. Your gaze shifted left, then right, searching for the smallest sign of life. You lost your radio in the first stampede, tramped under the many pairs of fleeing.

Your phone hadn’t been faring any better; the signal had long since jammed up as the number of people attempting to reach out steadily climbed by the second.

You had tried calling, texting Jake’s number a fair few times but it no longer connected, the messages remained unsent. Communication over the airwaves had broken down quicker than you had thought it might; all you could rely on was your senses. No matter how hard each step felt, you had to continue forward.

It was eerie to think about how less than an hour ago, music had flooded from every direction. New meeting oldies, merging into an interesting middle ground. It had been fascinating to watch as people danced along, stumbled over misremembered lyrics, and laughed like there was no tomorrow.

It had been a wonderful to witness as you had wandered through the thoroughfare as you had tried to retrace your steps back to the delicious notes of mouth-watering flavours that had caught your attention when you first had arrived. You had never found the vendor, you couldn’t remember even sampling any of the wide range of foods available.

So much of it wasted away, mixing with the mud and ground beneath your feet. Your stomach answered the question that hadn’t even been asked. The world started to spin as you took a few more steps, but your next thought never came, as a shoulder barged forcibly into you, knocking you clean off your feet.