Mind's Eye by Douglas E. Richards Page B

repeated this demonstration with Kosakowski. “Look, I can do this all day, but you need to start helping this poor girl.”
    Of all the Twilight Zone shit , thought Kosakowski. What the fuck is this?
    “Not Twilight Zone ,” said Hall. “Reality. Now hurry up. And remember: I can tell the instant you even think of trying anything.”
    Kosakowski nodded and left the room, mumbling to himself. Hall read from his mind that he was totally freaked out and was fighting to not even think a disloyal thought, let alone act on one.
    Hector Garcia bent to his task while Hall looked on.
    “This girl was lucky,” said the paramedic after his examination. “Clean shot through her inner thigh. Didn’t nick anything important, like bone, or even worse, her femoral artery. And you did well bandaging the wound. I can stitch this up with a half dozen dissolving stitches, and spray some quick-clot foam on it. Once I bandage her and give her an infusion of Lactated Ringer’s and antibiotics, she’ll be good as new in no time.”
    “Lactated Ringer’s?” said Hall suspiciously. “Doesn’t she need blood?”
    “No. I’ve had a lot of experience with this. From her blood pressure, blood oxygenation levels, and other indications, she’s lost a lot of blood, about twenty percent. But this isn’t enough to require a transfusion. But she does need volume resuscitation to maintain good pressure.” He paused. “Trust me. I’m giving her the best care I can.”
    Hall nodded. “I don’t need to trust you. I know you’re telling the truth. And thanks,” he added sincerely. He tilted his head. “If her blood loss wasn’t enough to require transfusion, why did she go into shock, then?”
    Garcia shrugged. “The less you weigh the more you feel the impact, in general. And it isn’t full-on shock. Her blood pressure dropped enough for her to feel faint, and her psyche just went with it. She’ll be alert in no time.”
    Kosakowski returned with everything needed for an infusion. Hall had monitored him while he was out of sight, and while the man was still wondering what parallel universe he had suddenly fallen into, and fearful for his life, he continued to have no plans for a double-cross.
    The men positioned Megan on the steel gurney, and Kosakowski started an IV while Garcia went to work, cleaning and patching her wound. A bag of clear liquid soon hung from a hook on a thin steel pole, with IV tubing leading from the bag, through a pump, and into the back of Megan’s hand.
    Five minutes later Garcia was finished, and Hall knew the paramedic was satisfied with his work, and certain Megan would make a full recovery. Which was good enough for Hall.
    “How long until you’ve infused enough . . . what did you call it?”
    “Lactated Ringer’s,” said Garcia. “Another forty minutes should do it,” he said.
    Hall had been deep in thought while the paramedics worked, and had come up with a plan, having decided that staying at the hotel would be too dangerous. He had also realized another mistake he had made, so on his way out of the room he removed Megan’s cell phone from her purse and tossed it gently under a bush, so it couldn’t be used to track them.
    Hall explained what he wanted to the two men, and within minutes they were in the ambulance, en route to the Bakersfield Amtrak station.
    The station was a twenty thousand square-foot brick and glass structure that Hall had learned in cyberspace had opened at the turn of the new century, and served as the main hub for both train and bus transportation to and from the city.
    Hall instructed them to take a circuitous route so they would arrive just after the infusion was complete. Halfway there, Megan opened her eyes, and she continued to gain strength by the minute.
    While Kosakowski drove, Garcia also cleaned and re-bandaged Hall’s wound, which he deemed to be fairly minor, a diagnosis Hall had already made on his own.
    Finally, the IV line was removed from Megan’s hand