SPN FIC - Maybe There's Such a Thing as Too Much Stephen King (7.02)
CHARACTERS: Sheriff Jodie Mills
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 1440 words
She and her uncle Charlie loved Cujo and Christine and Salem's Lot, stories about tainted beer that dissolves people's bones and giant rats swarming the basement of an old factory. Uncle Charlie would buy the books new, because he was grown and had a paycheck, and would pass them on to her so they could cackle about vampires and tommyknockers and haunted old cars; so they could roll their eyes in unison when her mother winced.
Maybe all those stories were prep work.
THERE'S SUCH A THING AS TOO MUCH STEPHEN KING
By Carol Davis
She's never been a big fan of feeling lightheaded. "Woozy" isn't a good thing when you're the sheriff, so she carries a couple of power bars around in her pocket. Every fall, she's the first one to line up for a flu shot. Nine times out of ten, she'll draw the line at a couple of beers, or a single glass of wine or champagne.
When the anesthesiologist approaches her in pre-op, she asks, "How long does this stuff take to wear off?"
"A few hours," he says.
When she frowns, he asks, "You want to bite on a bullet instead?"
She considers it.
It's only a few hours. Sioux Falls General has a pretty good safety and cleanliness record, and her doc's apparently great at follow-up. She's not likely to die alone, in the dark, on his watch. The Department can get along without her input overnight, and she's set the DVR to catch the shows she'd watch if she were at home.
Things happen, though.
"Everything's going to be just fine," the anesthesiologist assures her.
"Uh-huh," she murmurs.
~~~~~~~~
Turns out, there's something worse than lightheadedness.
They told her "You might feel a little queasy afterwards," and if that's not the understatement of the year, she'd like to know what is. She asks for small sips of cold water, and a cold cloth for her forehead. She lies as still as a corpse, and white-knuckles the blanket, and starts to believe that if projectile vomiting were an Olympic event, she might have the gold locked up.
Across the room, the older woman who's here for foot surgery chatters on and on. Distraction, Jodie thinks.
Distraction is good.
Distraction will get her through this.
She gave birth, for crying out loud. This is just some lingering…unpleasantness. Nothing she can't soldier through.
It would be easier if that woman in the other bed would just stop talking.
When Dr. Gaines comes in to see how she's doing, she smiles frozenly, moving her lips as little as possible and her body not at all, because if she moves, if she says more than a few words, if she admits out loud that her stomach has finished Power Wash and is now going through the spin cycle, she is going to upchuck everything north of her knees.
She gave birth, all right.
She also had MORNING SICKNESS, for four solid months.
But she can't think of that now.
She will not think of her husban holding her hand, stroking her cheek, feeding her saltine crackers and gone-flat ginger ale.
Dr. Gaines beams at her, and she thinks, I want to kill you where you sit, you grinning, spotless son of a bitch.
This was supposed to be a simple appendectomy.
Nothing is ever simple, she thinks.
Not any more.
~~~~~~~~
She sleeps a little, finally, and when she wakes there's no light at the window. It's night, then, and more sleep would be good; lots and lots of sleep will get her through this. She doesn't bother to ask herself if she's still nauseous, if anything hurts, because it doesn't matter. She's going to slide right back into sleep.
She is.
But the part of her that's Sheriff Mills twigs to the sound of her roommate's voice, to the distress and the fear in it, and to the curt impatience in the other voice, the voice of their doctor. The wrongness of it is a nudge at first, then a bright light, then a siren. There's no one in the room other than the three of them, and that's all wrong. Gaines wouldn't come down here to fetch anyone to the OR himself, and definitely not all by himself.
No nurse.
No orderly.
When she was just out of school, brand-new to the SFSD, she apprenticed at the side of her uncle Charlie. "Listen to your gut," he told her time and again, and for a moment he's here beside her, leaning down to whisper into her ear. Listen to your gut. The nod she gives him is a tiny, tiny movement of her head, and her eyes are closed as Dr. Gaines wrestles her roommate's bed through the doorway and out into the hall.
"Now, that's not weird at all," she murmurs.
She could go back to sleep - should go back to sleep, because she's in a hospital, everything is fine and clean and safe here, and if something's happened that seems odd, it's because she's hanging on to the ragged edge of a dream. Maybe they've simply found another room for Mrs. Hackett, a nice, private room with a view of something other than a wall, and she was arguing the transfer because she too was only half awake.
That's it.
That's got to be it.
Jodie's eyes again slide slowly closed.
And Uncle Charlie barks into her ear: HEY!
The bed's about as comfortable as a park bench, but it's warm, and her stomach has finally settled down. She could sleep, ought to sleep, let her body heal, take advantage of the relative quiet now that Mrs. Hackett's gone.
But she was Uncle Charlie's protégé, and what he taught her stuck.
She should be dressed, she thinks as she pads barefoot down the hall, the cold metal rod of her IV stand clutched in one hand and the chill of air conditioning floating up inside her flapping hospital gown. She should be dressed, and armed, should have backup somewhere close at hand; should at least have a radio.
But he'd get away. If I wasted time getting dressed.
You're in a hospital, the voice of reason says. There's nothing going on here, aside from over-billing and a lousy selection of channels on the TV.
Two years ago, she would have listened to that voice.
Would have gone back to sleep.
She should have gone back to sleep.
~~~~~~~~
Two years ago, she would have thought It's the drugs.
Would have thought her doctor and her nurse were looking at her this way - with these too-bright, phony smiles - because it's the middle of the night and they're tired and frayed and are just doing their best to encourage their patient.
But two years ago, her child came back as a zombie.
Her child murdered and ate his father.
She's lightheaded now, for sure, and her stomach seems to be lodged somewhere up between her ears. She's tender and sore from the surgery, and from hitting the corridor floor like a sack of bricks. Part of her would like to cry.
Less than arm's reach away, Gaines is beaming at her, but somehow, it's not Gaines. It's not even human, and two years ago she would have slapped herself upside the head for letting something that nonsensical crawl around in her head.
But two years ago, this town was overrun with zombies, and she stood in her living room, numb and confused, watching her son eat his father's intestines.
She's not confused any more.
Lightheaded, but not confused.
She watches Gaines and the nurse leave her room, waits until the sound of their footfalls becomes faint and distant, and dammit all to shit her mind's on a Tilt-a-Whirl. She can hear Uncle Charlie's voice whispering to her as she yanks the IV out of her hand and thrusts her legs out from under the covers. She should have called for backup before, shouldn't have gone pitter-pattering after Gaines on her own, not in this condition, but that's water under the bridge.
She was a little girl once, she thinks.
She and her uncle Charlie loved Cujo and Christine and Salem's Lot, stories about tainted beer that dissolves people's bones and giant rats swarming the basement of an old factory. Uncle Charlie would buy the books new, because he was grown and had a paycheck, and would pass them on to her so they could cackle about vampires and tommyknockers and haunted old cars; so they could roll their eyes in unison when her mother winced.
A little while ago, she watched her surgeon eat her roommate's liver.
Maybe all those stories were prep work.
Uncle Charlie was her mentor, after all.
Her legs won't cooperate this time, not at all, because she's pumped full of drugs. If she lets go, she'll slide way under the surface, and it could well be that she won't wake up. The best she can do is grab at the phone. Pull it down beside her on the floor.
And call for backup.
"Bobby Singer?" she stammers, after the call's been answered on the third ring. "My surgeon is a monster."
This time, she won't faint.
* * * * *
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 1440 words
She and her uncle Charlie loved Cujo and Christine and Salem's Lot, stories about tainted beer that dissolves people's bones and giant rats swarming the basement of an old factory. Uncle Charlie would buy the books new, because he was grown and had a paycheck, and would pass them on to her so they could cackle about vampires and tommyknockers and haunted old cars; so they could roll their eyes in unison when her mother winced.
Maybe all those stories were prep work.
THERE'S SUCH A THING AS TOO MUCH STEPHEN KING
By Carol Davis
She's never been a big fan of feeling lightheaded. "Woozy" isn't a good thing when you're the sheriff, so she carries a couple of power bars around in her pocket. Every fall, she's the first one to line up for a flu shot. Nine times out of ten, she'll draw the line at a couple of beers, or a single glass of wine or champagne.
When the anesthesiologist approaches her in pre-op, she asks, "How long does this stuff take to wear off?"
"A few hours," he says.
When she frowns, he asks, "You want to bite on a bullet instead?"
She considers it.
It's only a few hours. Sioux Falls General has a pretty good safety and cleanliness record, and her doc's apparently great at follow-up. She's not likely to die alone, in the dark, on his watch. The Department can get along without her input overnight, and she's set the DVR to catch the shows she'd watch if she were at home.
Things happen, though.
"Everything's going to be just fine," the anesthesiologist assures her.
"Uh-huh," she murmurs.
~~~~~~~~
Turns out, there's something worse than lightheadedness.
They told her "You might feel a little queasy afterwards," and if that's not the understatement of the year, she'd like to know what is. She asks for small sips of cold water, and a cold cloth for her forehead. She lies as still as a corpse, and white-knuckles the blanket, and starts to believe that if projectile vomiting were an Olympic event, she might have the gold locked up.
Across the room, the older woman who's here for foot surgery chatters on and on. Distraction, Jodie thinks.
Distraction is good.
Distraction will get her through this.
She gave birth, for crying out loud. This is just some lingering…unpleasantness. Nothing she can't soldier through.
It would be easier if that woman in the other bed would just stop talking.
When Dr. Gaines comes in to see how she's doing, she smiles frozenly, moving her lips as little as possible and her body not at all, because if she moves, if she says more than a few words, if she admits out loud that her stomach has finished Power Wash and is now going through the spin cycle, she is going to upchuck everything north of her knees.
She gave birth, all right.
She also had MORNING SICKNESS, for four solid months.
But she can't think of that now.
She will not think of her husban holding her hand, stroking her cheek, feeding her saltine crackers and gone-flat ginger ale.
Dr. Gaines beams at her, and she thinks, I want to kill you where you sit, you grinning, spotless son of a bitch.
This was supposed to be a simple appendectomy.
Nothing is ever simple, she thinks.
Not any more.
~~~~~~~~
She sleeps a little, finally, and when she wakes there's no light at the window. It's night, then, and more sleep would be good; lots and lots of sleep will get her through this. She doesn't bother to ask herself if she's still nauseous, if anything hurts, because it doesn't matter. She's going to slide right back into sleep.
She is.
But the part of her that's Sheriff Mills twigs to the sound of her roommate's voice, to the distress and the fear in it, and to the curt impatience in the other voice, the voice of their doctor. The wrongness of it is a nudge at first, then a bright light, then a siren. There's no one in the room other than the three of them, and that's all wrong. Gaines wouldn't come down here to fetch anyone to the OR himself, and definitely not all by himself.
No nurse.
No orderly.
When she was just out of school, brand-new to the SFSD, she apprenticed at the side of her uncle Charlie. "Listen to your gut," he told her time and again, and for a moment he's here beside her, leaning down to whisper into her ear. Listen to your gut. The nod she gives him is a tiny, tiny movement of her head, and her eyes are closed as Dr. Gaines wrestles her roommate's bed through the doorway and out into the hall.
"Now, that's not weird at all," she murmurs.
She could go back to sleep - should go back to sleep, because she's in a hospital, everything is fine and clean and safe here, and if something's happened that seems odd, it's because she's hanging on to the ragged edge of a dream. Maybe they've simply found another room for Mrs. Hackett, a nice, private room with a view of something other than a wall, and she was arguing the transfer because she too was only half awake.
That's it.
That's got to be it.
Jodie's eyes again slide slowly closed.
And Uncle Charlie barks into her ear: HEY!
The bed's about as comfortable as a park bench, but it's warm, and her stomach has finally settled down. She could sleep, ought to sleep, let her body heal, take advantage of the relative quiet now that Mrs. Hackett's gone.
But she was Uncle Charlie's protégé, and what he taught her stuck.
She should be dressed, she thinks as she pads barefoot down the hall, the cold metal rod of her IV stand clutched in one hand and the chill of air conditioning floating up inside her flapping hospital gown. She should be dressed, and armed, should have backup somewhere close at hand; should at least have a radio.
But he'd get away. If I wasted time getting dressed.
You're in a hospital, the voice of reason says. There's nothing going on here, aside from over-billing and a lousy selection of channels on the TV.
Two years ago, she would have listened to that voice.
Would have gone back to sleep.
She should have gone back to sleep.
~~~~~~~~
Two years ago, she would have thought It's the drugs.
Would have thought her doctor and her nurse were looking at her this way - with these too-bright, phony smiles - because it's the middle of the night and they're tired and frayed and are just doing their best to encourage their patient.
But two years ago, her child came back as a zombie.
Her child murdered and ate his father.
She's lightheaded now, for sure, and her stomach seems to be lodged somewhere up between her ears. She's tender and sore from the surgery, and from hitting the corridor floor like a sack of bricks. Part of her would like to cry.
Less than arm's reach away, Gaines is beaming at her, but somehow, it's not Gaines. It's not even human, and two years ago she would have slapped herself upside the head for letting something that nonsensical crawl around in her head.
But two years ago, this town was overrun with zombies, and she stood in her living room, numb and confused, watching her son eat his father's intestines.
She's not confused any more.
Lightheaded, but not confused.
She watches Gaines and the nurse leave her room, waits until the sound of their footfalls becomes faint and distant, and dammit all to shit her mind's on a Tilt-a-Whirl. She can hear Uncle Charlie's voice whispering to her as she yanks the IV out of her hand and thrusts her legs out from under the covers. She should have called for backup before, shouldn't have gone pitter-pattering after Gaines on her own, not in this condition, but that's water under the bridge.
She was a little girl once, she thinks.
She and her uncle Charlie loved Cujo and Christine and Salem's Lot, stories about tainted beer that dissolves people's bones and giant rats swarming the basement of an old factory. Uncle Charlie would buy the books new, because he was grown and had a paycheck, and would pass them on to her so they could cackle about vampires and tommyknockers and haunted old cars; so they could roll their eyes in unison when her mother winced.
A little while ago, she watched her surgeon eat her roommate's liver.
Maybe all those stories were prep work.
Uncle Charlie was her mentor, after all.
Her legs won't cooperate this time, not at all, because she's pumped full of drugs. If she lets go, she'll slide way under the surface, and it could well be that she won't wake up. The best she can do is grab at the phone. Pull it down beside her on the floor.
And call for backup.
"Bobby Singer?" she stammers, after the call's been answered on the third ring. "My surgeon is a monster."
This time, she won't faint.
* * * * *