Identity
folder
+M through R › Resident Evil
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,730
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Resident Evil
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,730
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters. Capcom et al. own the creative rights to all of them, and I am in no way making a profit from any of these writings.
Resident
* * *
On the other side of the call room door, a male voice shouted over the beeps and wheels of a vital signs monitor:
“We have a Code Blue over in 12—where’s that AED?”
“I thought 12 was DNR.”
“No, that’s Mrs. Colgate over in nine!”
She gripped the round table and planted her feet on the floor. She froze in her chair and stared at the call room door. Instinct was difficult to unlearn.
She glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the wall.
9:13 p.m.
A little under two hours and she was done for the night. It was quiet for a Friday. She needed to see her interns, check on labs, fill prescriptions, and get her sign-out for whoever was working night float. Running around to different floors wasn’t fun when you were tired.
You think this is bad?
Every chore came with the same fine print:
It could be a lot worse.
The voices continued to bicker in the hallway. She shifted in her chair and looked down at her crossword puzzle. White and black boxes were arranged in patterns that reminded her of checkered floors and chess pieces. She’d barely spent a day in the frying pan, but some things couldn’t be unlearned. What she’d seen, the things she’d done, would stay forever.
She rubbed at the chain that hung from her neck. In her other hand was a black pen. She tapped it against the surface of the Washington Post crossword puzzle. If another person were in the room, they probably would have told her to stop. Placing her pen down, she fished the keepsake out from underneath her dress shirt collar. She ran her thumb along the ridges, numbers, and letters.
Last name. First name. Blood type. Social security number. Military branch. Mask size. Religious preference.
Black and white boxes blurred together. Forgetting about 23-across, she stared down at the page. Her eyes drifted to the table to the wall in front of her. The blue door turned wooden brown, the silver handle became a bronze doorknob, and everything needed a special key.
Everything was worse at night. Work didn’t leave room for excess junk, but sometimes, it was like being a kid again and watching a scary movie right before bed.
She tensed and nearly jumped out of her chair when the door to the call room swung open. A blue scrubbed male flung himself inside. Shutting the door and turning around, his body language stiffened when he saw he wasn’t alone.
“Hey.” He adjusted his scrubs and rubbed his nose.
“Hey,” she said. Her heart rate slowed. “Everything okay?” Outside, the commotion over the Code fell quiet as the voices traveled down the hall.
“Yeah. I’m great. You?”
She smiled. “Doing okay.” She looked down at her crossword. The puzzle’s theme was music. 23-across: seven letters, and the last two were T and A—Cave’s adolescent killer.
The intern mumbled something, then covered it up with a laugh. He shuffled to the fridge and cracked it open, removing a bottle of water. She eyed him as he milled about, taking note of the sweat that formed under his arms, staining his blue fabric. He took a long gulp of his water before screwing the top back on and placing it back in the fridge.
She lifted her head to get a better look at him. He glanced back at her and did the same. He wasn’t one of her interns, but she’d seen him around. She glanced down at his nametag.
Dr. Robert Rakowsky, MD.
He placed his hand on his hip and took his phone out of his pocket.
She tightened her lips and nodded. “Hang in there,” she said. “You’re doing good.”
Robert looked down at the floor. He muttered his thanks and scratched the back of his neck.
She had a reputation for being approachable, but she wondered what people would think if they knew what she’d lived through. Maybe if she were taller she’d command more of a presence.
The idea was enough to make her smile. As far as work was concerned, she usually let her knowledge and skills do all the talking.
Good thing you’re the modest type.
Robert lingered as he idled about the room. Most days, she would’ve given any scared intern a listening ear and some advice on the side, but it was the end of her day and she was tired. She traced circles on the table with the edge of her pen as she stared at the incomplete puzzle.
“Were you in the army or something?”
She looked up at him and tilted her head. “Sorry?”
He pointed at her neckline. “Doesn’t that mean you were in the army?”
She looked down. “Oh,” she said. “They actually belonged to a friend of mine. He was a Marine.”
Robert was silent. He looked to the wall, the floor, back at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Coen. William. A Pos. 214846839. USMC M. No Preference.
“It’s all right,” she said.
Silence was followed by angry shouts in the hallway.
“See you around,” he said.
“Good luck.” She looked up from the table in time to see Doctor Robert leave the call room.
The door shut and the room was quiet again. She glanced up at the clock again. The call room intercom sounded:
“Dr. Chambers, you’re needed in seventeen. Dr. Chambers to room seventeen.”
Her pager beeped and vibrated inside her white coat. She grabbed it and saw Code Blue – 17 on the display. Room 17 was Anish’s patient, the liver failure guy.
Rebecca placed her hands on her knees and rose from her chair. She jogged to the door, leaving her pen and crossword puzzle on the surface of the table.
* * *
On the other side of the call room door, a male voice shouted over the beeps and wheels of a vital signs monitor:
“We have a Code Blue over in 12—where’s that AED?”
“I thought 12 was DNR.”
“No, that’s Mrs. Colgate over in nine!”
She gripped the round table and planted her feet on the floor. She froze in her chair and stared at the call room door. Instinct was difficult to unlearn.
She glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the wall.
9:13 p.m.
A little under two hours and she was done for the night. It was quiet for a Friday. She needed to see her interns, check on labs, fill prescriptions, and get her sign-out for whoever was working night float. Running around to different floors wasn’t fun when you were tired.
You think this is bad?
Every chore came with the same fine print:
It could be a lot worse.
The voices continued to bicker in the hallway. She shifted in her chair and looked down at her crossword puzzle. White and black boxes were arranged in patterns that reminded her of checkered floors and chess pieces. She’d barely spent a day in the frying pan, but some things couldn’t be unlearned. What she’d seen, the things she’d done, would stay forever.
She rubbed at the chain that hung from her neck. In her other hand was a black pen. She tapped it against the surface of the Washington Post crossword puzzle. If another person were in the room, they probably would have told her to stop. Placing her pen down, she fished the keepsake out from underneath her dress shirt collar. She ran her thumb along the ridges, numbers, and letters.
Last name. First name. Blood type. Social security number. Military branch. Mask size. Religious preference.
Black and white boxes blurred together. Forgetting about 23-across, she stared down at the page. Her eyes drifted to the table to the wall in front of her. The blue door turned wooden brown, the silver handle became a bronze doorknob, and everything needed a special key.
Everything was worse at night. Work didn’t leave room for excess junk, but sometimes, it was like being a kid again and watching a scary movie right before bed.
She tensed and nearly jumped out of her chair when the door to the call room swung open. A blue scrubbed male flung himself inside. Shutting the door and turning around, his body language stiffened when he saw he wasn’t alone.
“Hey.” He adjusted his scrubs and rubbed his nose.
“Hey,” she said. Her heart rate slowed. “Everything okay?” Outside, the commotion over the Code fell quiet as the voices traveled down the hall.
“Yeah. I’m great. You?”
She smiled. “Doing okay.” She looked down at her crossword. The puzzle’s theme was music. 23-across: seven letters, and the last two were T and A—Cave’s adolescent killer.
The intern mumbled something, then covered it up with a laugh. He shuffled to the fridge and cracked it open, removing a bottle of water. She eyed him as he milled about, taking note of the sweat that formed under his arms, staining his blue fabric. He took a long gulp of his water before screwing the top back on and placing it back in the fridge.
She lifted her head to get a better look at him. He glanced back at her and did the same. He wasn’t one of her interns, but she’d seen him around. She glanced down at his nametag.
Dr. Robert Rakowsky, MD.
He placed his hand on his hip and took his phone out of his pocket.
She tightened her lips and nodded. “Hang in there,” she said. “You’re doing good.”
Robert looked down at the floor. He muttered his thanks and scratched the back of his neck.
She had a reputation for being approachable, but she wondered what people would think if they knew what she’d lived through. Maybe if she were taller she’d command more of a presence.
The idea was enough to make her smile. As far as work was concerned, she usually let her knowledge and skills do all the talking.
Good thing you’re the modest type.
Robert lingered as he idled about the room. Most days, she would’ve given any scared intern a listening ear and some advice on the side, but it was the end of her day and she was tired. She traced circles on the table with the edge of her pen as she stared at the incomplete puzzle.
“Were you in the army or something?”
She looked up at him and tilted her head. “Sorry?”
He pointed at her neckline. “Doesn’t that mean you were in the army?”
She looked down. “Oh,” she said. “They actually belonged to a friend of mine. He was a Marine.”
Robert was silent. He looked to the wall, the floor, back at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Coen. William. A Pos. 214846839. USMC M. No Preference.
“It’s all right,” she said.
Silence was followed by angry shouts in the hallway.
“See you around,” he said.
“Good luck.” She looked up from the table in time to see Doctor Robert leave the call room.
The door shut and the room was quiet again. She glanced up at the clock again. The call room intercom sounded:
“Dr. Chambers, you’re needed in seventeen. Dr. Chambers to room seventeen.”
Her pager beeped and vibrated inside her white coat. She grabbed it and saw Code Blue – 17 on the display. Room 17 was Anish’s patient, the liver failure guy.
Rebecca placed her hands on her knees and rose from her chair. She jogged to the door, leaving her pen and crossword puzzle on the surface of the table.
* * *