Burden of Guilt





PREVIOUSLY:
"I think he's right," Mark said firmly. "We could help you back to the van, maybe find some dry clothes." He fixed Benton with his own menacing stare to quiet his objections. "I still have my bag in there, and we'll be able to help you better. It's a no win situation, Carter, but the better option is to get you to the van and get you warmed up." Mark gestured for Benton to follow him, indicating that they needed to speak privately. Peter looked down. "Carter, don't do anything stupid, like trying to get up." They began to speak, both thinking their patient couldn't hear them. They couldn't have been more wrong.

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Carter shivered on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself as tightly as his broken body would allow. The shaking sent painful vibrations through him, jostling his destroyed ribs. Benton had warned him against getting up, not that he really could. He was having a hard enough time taking shallow, unfulfilling breaths, let alone attempt standing up, unaided. He closed his eyes to block the nauseating double images he was seeing. Another symptom of concussion, he mused. The pain was overwhelming, and, unlike his previous injury, he couldn't make himself slip into unconsciousness. When he tried to focus on internal thoughts, his mind drifted back to the incredible throbbing that threatened to overtake him. All that he had left to concentrate on were the loud, angry voices, engaged in a heated discussion a few feet away.

"Peter, you know we have to move him, and disagreeing in front of Carter is not going to put his mind at ease," Mark told the defensive surgeon.

"You want to talk about ease? How are we supposed to get him to the vehicle? He has to stand and then walk the entire way there. It's gotta be at least a mile. No matter how much we help him, he's not going to be able to remain upright the entire time. We..."

"He's going to have to, we don't..."

"Don't cut me off, Dr. Greene!" Peter responded angrily. Peter fixed Mark with an intense stare that clearly communicated his intolerance for interruptions. Satisfied that the other doctor understood the message, he went on. "I am well aware of the effects of hypothermia. That water is not cold enough to put him in deep shock. I'm sure his core temperature is way above 97 degrees. That's safe. Moving him a great distance however, isn't, and will probably cause more damage. We don't know the extent of his head injury, and moving him around could aggravate a severe concussion, you know that." Peter's voice was stern and firm, and he hoped Mark would realize that he was correct.

"I appreciate your surgical opinion, Peter," Mark said, putting a slightly sarcastic emphasis on "surgical." "The problem is, we don't know anything. He could be suffering cold shock; you know that can be the result of immersion in cold water. That could cause hyperventilation, which in turn might affect his broken ribs. We need to get him out of the street and into some warm clothes. Walking will help his circulation, and we can treat him better in the van until help arrives." Mark's words were spoken with calmness and determination.

"We'll move slowly and carefully to safer conditions. Now, rather than arguing over things out of our control, let's work on a situation we can do something about." Mark turned around and started back towards the injured man.

Carter listened carefully to their heated debate. As a doctor, he understood each man's opinion on the matter. Each option was not very desirable, and each one had its own set of problems. He didn't know whose side to take, but in the end, it probably didn't matter. It was going to hurt no matter what they did, and he rather be in the warm van than this cold, numbing puddle of water. His clothes were completely soaked through, and pressed down on his battered chest like an iron weight. He didn't know which was worse, the creeping numbness in his limbs, or the horrible pain emanating from his head and chest.

He opened his eyes when he felt both doctors kneeling beside him. Mark's concerned face was in direct contrast to Benton's angry scowl. Two expressions he was used to receiving, he mused unhappily. Just not in these circumstances.

"Carter, we're going to help you into a sitting position," Mark said gently. "After you're acclimated, we're going to help you stand."

"I-I know. I can do it. I-I'll b-be able to walk." Carter looked to Mark, and then to Benton. "W-w-with some help fr-from the two of you."

Mark slid one hand under Carter's shoulder, firmly gripping it with the other. He nodded to Peter to do the same with the injured man's other side. Peter grudgingly placed his hands in the same fashion as Mark's.

"We'll lift you halfway; help you sit up," Mark told him. "Okay, on three. One...two...three." Both doctors gently lifted Carter up, carefully supporting his shoulders. Mark kept his hands behind Carter's back, while Peter moved his left hand to the doctor's chest to keep him from falling over.

The movement took his breath away and he wrapped his arms around his body to steady himself. He waited a few seconds, then slowly opened his eyes. His vision was a little clearer, but the fire in his head had returned with a vengeance. It was as if all his injuries were competing for his attention.

"Carter, just give it a few seconds," Mark said warningly. He kept one hand behind Carter's shoulder, and with the other grabbed the jacket that had slipped off, awkwardly attempting to wrap it around him.

"It's alright. I-I think I can stand up now," Carter said in a weak voice.

"Carter, just rest a minute, we're not in a rush," Peter reassured him, glaring at Mark.

"Let's...just get it over with, it's freezing out here," the doctor whispered.

Carter gathered all his strength and began to stand. Both his companions held him underneath his armpits, just in case he couldn't make it all the way up. Carter was very unsteady on his feet, and wavered for a few seconds before Benton steadied him. Mark took Carter's left arm and draped it over his own shoulders so the young man could lean on him.

Carter ached all over. He put most his weight on Mark, and wrapped his right arm around his middle. Benton kept one hand behind his back and the other on his elbow as he led him forward. Carter slowly dragged his feet in an approximation of walking and they inched their way up the road. His lungs screamed for more air, but all he could manage were short, shallow breaths. His head felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to the inside of his skull. The pounding was increasing in strength and intensity, and he used it as a rhythm for his feet. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

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After twenty painful minutes, the trio was still diligently forging ahead. It had had taken ten minutes to walk from the van, but a lot had changed since then. Now, their destination seemed to move farther away with each step they took. Carter's headache increased with every awkward step, and it was taking its toll on the rest of him. He was putting more weight on Mark, and was beginning to lose his sense of equilibrium.

Sensing that Carter was losing his balance, Peter tightened his grip on his shoulder. "Hey, Carter let's slow down. The van is only a little ways down the bend."

The group slowed their pace as the rain continued to pour down on them. Carter was beginning to feel very sick to his stomach as the dizziness increased. Suddenly, a wave of nausea crashed over him. "Hey, stop!" he said with urgency.

"What's the matter, Carter?" Mark asked with concern.

"I'm going to be sick," he managed as he bent down and let the nausea took over.

"Easy, man, let us help you," Peter said. Both doctors lowered him gently to the ground as the younger man began to lose what little contents were left in his stomach from lunch. "Try not to strain yourself," Benton remarked, noticing that Carter was throwing up nothing but bile.

"It's the concussion, Peter," Mark said rhetorically, as Carter to crumble to the ground, exhausted and in pain. Mark slowly rubbed his hand in circles on Carter's back to try to calm the tremors that rocked his young colleague's body.

"I told you this wasn't a good idea," Peter stated simply. Mark just knelt next to Carter in silence, waiting for him to recover enough to continue.

The retching had destroyed what little strength he had left. Carter was miserable, and his chest was on fire. The strains of being sick seemed to rip him apart from the inside. Breathing was becoming ridiculously laborious. How had the simplest function of the human body become the hardest thing in the world to accomplish?

"I can't go on." His voice broke with pain and defeat.

"Yes, you can. It's just around the next bend. Then you can rest, and warm up, and we'll get help." Mark knew his words sounded hollow and unencouraging, but they were so close! He didn't look at Peter, whose eyes must have been smoldering with anger.

"No, I can't," Carter responded wearily.

"Carter, since when do you back down from challenges? Now that van is only a few steps away and you are going to get there. You understand me?" Peter added firmly.

It was that voice again, challenging him to overcome another obstacle. Carter had spent six years of his life trying to prove his mettle to Peter Benton, and he would not give up on that tonight. He wiped his mouth with his rain-drenched sleeve, and nodded to let them know he was ready, not wanting to waste his energy on speaking.

Carefully he was helped to a standing position once again. Both men put an arm around his waist and they continued their trek to the inviting warmth and safety of their broken down vehicle.



Part 4
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