Down and Dirty: SEAL EXtreme Team Short Story by Kimberley Troutte

Chapter One
     
     
    Steps. Shit, there had to be a
dozen of them leading up to the hospital entrance. Coming straight from the
funeral, Lieutenant Commander Nick Talley was still in his naval dress uniform.
He’d be damned if anyone caught him using the wheelchair access. As he hoisted
himself up the steps, one grunt at a time, a SEAL motto ran through his brain— The
Only Easy Day Was Yesterday .
    Today was proving to be a
helluva hard day.
    Wiping the sweat off his lip,
he took a deep breath and flinched. His ribs were just bruised, but hell, he’d
broken bones that hadn't hurt this badly. Plus, he ached in places no one could
see. At the top of the steps, he steeled himself for what he'd find inside. The
glass doors opened, and the pungent odor of disinfectant hit his nose. He hated
hospitals almost as much as gravesites. Did fate have to keep punching him in
the balls?
    At the Information Desk, a
little old lady who resembled his Granny Mo—blue hair and all—was head down in
her crossword puzzle. The tag stuck off-kilter to her yellow sweater read: “Hi!
I’m Lucille. Can I help you?”
    “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m looking
for a woman they brought in this morning. Car accident.”
    “Heavens!” She smiled up at him,
pressing her gnarled fingers to her chest. “Seeing a handsome man in his blues
does my heart good. Real good. My husband was a Navy man too, God rest his
soul. Now, what was the patient’s name?”
    “Jill Connor.”
    “Let’s see.” Squinting at the
computer, she dragged her arthritic fingers slowly down the list of hospital
patients. “Yes. Here she is. Oh.”  Her lower lip trembled. “Dear.”
    A fist strangled his vocal
cords. “She didn’t survive the accident?”
    “Now, don’t think the worst. She’s
had surgery, which means her visitors are restricted.” The woman rose and came
around the desk. Taking his arm, she said quietly, “You might not be able to see
her today unless you are an immediate family member. Are you family, Lieutenant
Commander?”
    Nick didn’t answer. He knew
better than to lie to his elders.
    “I thought not. But she is
important to you?”
    Jill Connor was a dying man’s
last wish and a promise Nick shouldn't have made. “She’s the only thing important
to me right now. I have to see her.”
    Lucille nodded and gave his arm
a gentle squeeze. “All right then.” She wrote on a visitor’s card and handed it
to him. “Take this to the nurse at the station on the third floor. She’s a bit
of a stickler about visitors, but this note should get you in. Good luck,
Lieutenant Commander. I hope your lady friend gets better fast.”
    Once inside the elevator, he glanced
at the visitor’s card. Lucille had scrawled, “Brother of patient.”
    Nick’s heart pounded. His hand
shook. The ringing in his ears started up, and his vision began to tunnel. Shit,
it was happening again. The card filled with blood and splattered the linoleum
tiles beneath his feet. “Son of a bitch!”
    He dropped the card and ground
it under his heel. Blood soaked up his pant leg as if it were a thick straw. No
matter how hard he stomped, he couldn't stop the flow. He was panting when the
elevator opened on the third floor.
    A man got on. “Good afternoon.”
    Nick nodded, picked up the card,
and smoothed out the wrinkles on his pants. No blood in sight. Visions attacked
him when he least expected them, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do
about them.
    The nurse glanced at the “brother”
card and buzzed him in without question. People saw what they wanted to see,
and a decorated hero usually went where he wanted to go. Nick scrubbed his
hands thoroughly at the washing station and was grateful that no blood circled
the drain. He followed the nurse down a long corridor that reeked of cleaning
supplies, and to him, death.
    “This is her room,” the nurse
said.
    He hung back while the nurse
messed around with the IVs going into tanned, muscular arms. A swimmer’s