Code Crimson
The automatic double doors of Mercy Central’s emergency trauma bay parted with a pneumatic hiss.
"Twenty-eight-week gestation, severe abdominal trauma, active maternal hemorrhage, fetal distress!" Torres yelled as the medical team swarmed the gurney.
Bright surgical lights flared overhead. Dr. Sarah Linwood, the chief of trauma obstetrics, stepped forward, gloved hands immediately palpating Emma’s abdomen while an ultrasound wand was pressed against her gel-smeared skin.
The monitor hummed, displaying a chaotic grayscale image.
"Placenta is fifty percent detached," Dr. Linwood said, her face severe beneath her surgical mask. "We have less than ten minutes before total fetal hypoxia. Prep OR Three for an emergency Cesarean section right now!"
David tried to follow through the doors, but a nurse blocked his path. "Sir, you have to wait outside."
"That’s my sister!" David yelled, his voice cracking against the sterile silence of the hallway. "And my nephew!"
Emma looked back at him from the rolling bed, her vision tunneling into darkness. Her lips moved, forming no sound, but David knew what she was saying: Fight for him.
"I’m here, Em!" David called out as the heavy double doors swung shut, locking him out. "I won't leave!"
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He stood alone in the hallway, the fluorescent lights reflecting the dark red blood on his hands and coat. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he hadn't called in ten years: Marcus Vance, Julian’s estranged, disowned older brother.
"Marcus," David said the moment the line connected. "Your brother just tried to kill his wife."
