Free Disaster Status by Candace Calvert

lens zooming in on dozens of fish floating belly-up.
    One of the children turned to his mother. “Did that kitty drink the poison water?”
    The TV clip faded to black and was replaced by what appeared to be an interview with Pacific Point city officials, backed up by several police officers and firefighters, including Scott. He’d changed into his uniform, and his expression was all business. One of the officials gave a reassurance that the pesticide contamination was likely limited to the immediate dump site. No further animals or people had been affected. Water sampling continued. “There is no reason for panic. We repeat: no reason for panic.” The clip finished with information regarding tonight’s town meeting.
    Erin crossed the last stretch of carpet leading to the ER’s back doors, fighting the awful feeling that the dead cat and the bloated fish were only the beginning. And trying to forget the look of fear in Sandy’s eyes.

+++

    “Slow breaths, Mrs. Alton. Try to relax . . . your hand too, please. Ouch.” Leigh grimaced.
    “But I’m scared, Doctor. Please, you have to help me!”
    “I’m trying. Nice, slow breaths. That’s better. Let go of me, please.”
    The patient, a morbidly obese forty-eight-year-old blonde, dropped her death grip on Leigh’s arm to reach for a yellow plastic emesis basin. “Oh . . . no,” she continued, her moan interrupted by violent gagging. “Not again. I’m so sorry.” She wiped her mouth on the towel Leigh offered, belched loudly, and then moaned again. “My stomach hurts so much. Do you think it’s those pesticides, then? Have I been poisoned?”
    Leigh glanced at the three patients on the other gurneys, hoping no one had heard. More panic was the last thing she needed; the hospital operator had been forwarding calls to the ER all morning. She’d moved to Pacific Point to find some much-needed peace in her life, distance from her problems. Dealing with citywide chaos wasn’t conducive to any of that.
    She patted her patient’s arm, now damp with perspiration. “Show me again where it hurts. Put one finger on the spot where your pain is the worst.”
    Leigh turned and mouthed a thank-you as Erin pulled the privacy curtain around the gurney, then hastily called after her, “Start an IV here, would you? Normal saline. Let’s give a half-liter bolus to start. Pull some blood for a CBC and chem-20. I’ll write the complete orders when I’m finished here. Thanks.” She turned back to her patient. “Now, where’s that pain?” Leigh lifted the hospital gown.
    Mrs. Alton’s pudgy hand hovered over her abdomen for a moment, then indicated—with the tip of a raspberry-tinted acrylic nail—a spot at the base of her right rib cage.
    Right upper quadrant abdomen. And colicky in nature. Leigh layered one hand over the other, then rocked her palm against the ample rolls of flesh, pressing her fingertips in as deeply as she could to palpate the organs beneath. “Deep breath, please.” Edge of the liver, gallbladder . . . She watched her patient’s face for a reaction and saw her pupils dilate.
    Elaine Alton flinched with pain.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. But tell me, why are you concerned this could be related to—” she lowered her voice—“a pesticide exposure?”
    “The fish,” Mrs. Alton explained, attempting to smother another bilious belch.
    “You mean the fish that died? In the TV news report?” Leigh suppressed a groan. Why on earth did the station keep rolling the tape of that poor little girl and her dead cat? And when is the stable going to return my call about my horse? “You got worried after you saw the report about all those dead fish?”
    The woman shook her head as Leigh lifted her stethoscope to her ears. “I mean the fish I ate. Last night.”
    Leigh stretched the earpieces away from her head. “You think you ate poisoned fish?”
    “Maybe. How can I know? My hubby got it down at the pier, and he saw them