Free Deadly Diversion: A Medical Thriller by Eleanor Sullivan Page A

Huey’s arm and inflated it. It deflated downward quickly. “80 over 30,” Tim said, grabbing Huey’s wrist. “No palpable pulse,” he reported.
    A squiggly thread rippled across the monitor’s screen. Asystole.
    “V-fib,” I said out loud. Huey was in ventricular fibrillation now.
    Four minutes had passed since the alarm had sounded. Huey’s face was bright blue, his eyes still staring at the ceiling.
    Dr. Lord came through the door, breathless.
    I reported our progress. “He’s in cardiac arrest. No pulse. Shocked 360 joules times three. No response.”
    He glanced at the monitor. The wiggly line continued.
    “Epinephrine,” he ordered. “One milligram, IV push.”
    Tim was already drawing it up. Swiping the access port on the IV tubing with an alcohol wipe, he plunged the needle into the stopper and injected the epinephrine.
    The screaming alarm was the only sound.
    “Shock,” Lord ordered.
    “Stand clear.” I shocked him again.
    Nothing.
    Frowning, Lord said, “Epi again.”
    Tim gave it.
    “Shock again, 360.”
    No response.
    “Stat blood gas,” Lord said.
    Tim grabbed a blood gas kit off the code cart, turned Huey’s hand over and expertly inserted the needle deep into the inside of Huey’s wrist. Dark red blood backed up into the syringe.
    “Is that venous blood?” Laura asked.
    “Nope, I got the artery. His blood is so saturated with C02 it’s turned it dark.” Tim put the syringe in ice and handed it off to a student. “Get stat blood gases,” he ordered as she scooted out the door.
    “Push epi again?” Tim asked Lord.
    “Yes.”
    We continued alternating shocks—360 joules—with epinephrine as Lord ordered it.
    “Other drugs?” Tim asked finally.
    “It won’t help now,” he said, rocking back on his heels.
    “Don’t quit yet,” I said, my voice rising. “This is just what he worried about, that we wouldn’t keep trying if he coded.”
    Lord shook his head.
    “Please. Please keep trying,” I begged even as I stared at Huey’s still, blue face.
    Cyanosis colored Huey’s arms and legs bluish-purple, and streaks of purple and blue mottled his chest. Even with the jelly pads, the paddles had left bum marks where I had shocked him.
    The respiratory therapist came in to report on Huey’s blood gases that Tim had drawn. She handed me the lab printout strip.
    “His 02 is 37, C02, 65,” I read.
    Incompatible with life.
    “How long’s it been,” Lord asked, “since the alarm?”
    I looked at the clock. “Thirty-three minutes.”
    “Too late now,” Lord said. “Stop drugs.” He moved to the bedside. He checked Huey’s neck for a pulse, listened to his chest and, finally, bent over with his ear next to Huey’s mouth. He shook his head and glanced again at the monitor now humming a straight line across the screen, whining our failure. “We’re calling the code,” he said.
    “You’re calling the code.” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I glanced at the clock behind me on the wall. “I have the time as 0749 hours,” I added, for the record.
    “Yes, patient pronounced, 0749,” he said, and walked out of the room.
    I stood a moment after the others had gone, feeling the emptiness. Even in death Huey looked somehow alive, as if his spirit was too strong to let go. He still stared at the ceiling, a surprised expression on his face. Sighing, I peeled off my gloves and threw them in the trash.
    “You okay?” Jessie asked me back at the desk.
    I clutched Huey’s chart to my chest and swallowed.
    Ruby snorted.
    “What?” I asked her.
    “Now we got a room.”
    “Huh?”
    “Well, we do,” she said, lifting her chin. Loose flesh jiggled underneath. “They got a accident victim in the E.R. needs a room.” She picked up the phone.
    I opened Huey’s chart and glanced at the record for the PCA pump. “He got a fresh morphine syringe on his pump right before he coded.”
    “Wasn’t he due?” Tim asked
    I checked. “Yep.”
    “So what’s