1
The sliding door creaks loudly as the security clearance signal echoes through the air. Corroded metal scratches the frame audibly and a young woman strolls into the clinic. The alarm fades as the door feebly returns to its original position. The woman’s dark, matte hair clings to her face as her dull, shifty eyes scan the room. The woman does not smile as she continues to step between worn reclining chairs and rusted medical trays. She purposely avoids eye contact with the floor associates in the room.
The phlebotomist stares at the woman incredulously, wondering why anyone would be roaming around the clinic at 2:30 in the morning, let alone wandering the blood donation ward. She’s about to ask the woman to come back later when the nurse overseeing her shift interrupts her train of thought.
“Come on, M, can’t you give us nightcrawlers a break?” he asks, his voice sounds smug and amused. “We have fresh meat in the building and she’s not used to your crazy. I’ll take care of you tomorrow.”
The phlebotomist angrily scowls at the nurse for being called out during such a strange situation. The woman doesn’t react to his request and calmly studies the phlebotomist, her icy glare staring seconds too long before she looks away.
“I transferred from a different branch, that doesn’t make me fresh meat,” the phlebotomist argues. “The other colonies I’ve worked at least have the decency of setting a standard schedule. Some things in this world don’t have to fall apart.”
The nurse responds with a mischievous grin and gestures grandly to the woman who’s already turned away from the conversation to take a seat in one of the chairs. She rests her grimy head against the cracked, hardened plastic film covering the seat and closes her eyes. Her deep breaths sound raspy and coarse, like there are twigs rattling inside her ribcage.
“Guess she’ll have it her way,” the nurse says with a mirthless laugh. “Have fun with your patient, Nancy. I’ll check in on you in a bit.” He leaves the clinic area before the phlebotomist can protest.
Nancy gestures helplessly behind the woman’s back and reluctantly gets the proper tools to draw the woman’s blood. The old latex gloves feel sticky as she peels them from the weathered, cardboard box. She winces at the thought of how formal clinical protocol has declined substantially for routine medical procedures since the Fall. She pulls the gloves over her fingers and stretches her hands inside them carefully, her fingernails threatening to tear the latex apart.
“Now tell me, since my associate neglected to,” the phlebotomist starts, grabbing a cotton ball for alcohol and dropping her tools carelessly on the medical tray. “Is it customary for anyone in your colony to donate blood at this time of night? Based on my previous experience, this sort of behavior doesn’t seem…” Nancy struggles with the proper word as she sterilizes the needle. “Normal.”
“You talk too much,” the young woman says, breaking her silence. “If I would have known they had changed the work schedule I would have done this myself.” Her head turns slowly and her eyes flicker open when her head is pointed in the phlebotomist’s general direction.
Appalled, Nancy gathers the rest of her supplies and struggles to keep herself composed. She’s dealt with many rude patients before, but since the Fall she’s gotten used to everyone being more grateful towards medical professionals. “Next time, come at reasonable hour and I won’t feel the need to ask questions.”
The woman continues to stare and the sudden fear of being alone in the clinic with this stranger crawls against the phlebotomist’s skin. The woman’s dull eyes look lifeless and menacing, as if one wrong move will push her over the edge.
“I’m just saying,” Nancy mutters, grabbing the woman’s arm harshly and wrapping a thick, green tourniquet around the bottom of her biceps. “There’s a right and a wrong way of doing things. We both know what path you’re choosing.”
“That’s too low,” the woman says, not even looking down at her arm to check the phlebotomist’s work. “Place it up higher. You won’t get the needle in the first time if you put it on that low.”
Nancy sighs and rips the tourniquet off the woman’s arm, repositioning it a little higher so the woman won’t argue again. She stares at the woman’s face as she twists the tourniquet as tightly as possible without seriously affecting the blood draw. Reaching for the alcohol, she sloshes the solution carelessly on the entry site and lets the liquid slide against the woman’s skin. The phlebotomist may not be able to escape this situation entirely, but she’ll make sure this rude excuse of a survivor has bruising.
“I need two pints,” the woman says, her eyes now shut. The woman’s hand opens and closes automatically without the phlebotomist needing to ask her to keep her blood flowing.
“The regulated donation amount is one pint. The government has reduced that amount to one half pint due to our current circumstances. There’s no logical reason for you to donate two pints.” Nancy looks around for her male companion but he’s still nowhere to be found. “Besides, you’ll faint after giving one and a half pints. You’re rude as hell but I don’t want to kill you.”
The woman opens her eyes and stares intently at the phlebotomist. Until now Nancy didn’t notice that the woman’s eyes had any color at all. With her sitting so close, she sees they’re the color of slate. Cold and unyielding to their beholder.
“Two pints,” she repeats, her voice firm. “If you won’t do it, have the other nurse come back.”
The phlebotomist scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “No, I won’t. You’re absolutely crazy.”
“Okay,” the woman says, snagging the needle from Nancy’s hands in one smooth motion and adjusting the tourniquet higher on her arm. “I’ll just let myself bleed to death. It’s fine.”
“Just listen to her, Nancy,” the male nurse chimes in, an impish grin wide on his face as he walks back into the clinic. “Don’t try to reason with her, we’ve all tried to before. As you can see, it’s never worked.”
The phlebotomist shakes her head and involuntary tears form in the corners of her eyes. “Please don’t make me do this.”
The woman adjusts the needle and places it against her vein, the blood pulsing rapidly beneath the surface of her skin. Staring at the woman’s arm, Nancy notices the scars along her arms and hands. Jagged claw marks and dark, rigid patches of flesh where her skin didn’t have the strength to heal lines every inch of skin the phlebotomist is capable of seeing.
“Here are the bags,” the male nurse says, attaching a long tube to the end of the needle. “Give her the two pints when you’re done.”
“Give them to her?” the phlebotomist asks, her voice puzzled. The male nurse takes over the phlebotomist’s duties and draws the woman’s blood. Nancy watches him but can’t muster the courage to fight against the woman’s absurd request.
“You owe me, M,” the male nurse says, his eyebrows rise as he looks at her dirty jean pockets. “What do you have in store for me this time? I heard what you gave Jay last week, but let me tell you, I’m more than willing to do this for half of what that was worth.”
“No,” she says, staring at the phlebotomist once more. “She’ll tell.”
“Shit,” the male nurse says, scratching his head angrily and rolling his eyes in Nancy’s general direction. The phlebotomist winces when she notices he isn’t wearing gloves. “I guess that’s what I get for trying to mess with the new girl. Go do inventory, Nancy. She doesn’t need your help now."
“What are you going to use the blood for?” the phlebotomist asks, her voice wavering at the possibilities this woman must have running through her mind. She knows better than to tell on her based on the quickness of her actions and the scars embedded along her skin. Nancy can’t even look at the woman and settles for staring at the blood running through the cloudy surgical tubing dripping languidly in the collection bag.
The woman doesn’t respond and has her head propped against the head rest again, her lips curl into a vague, ugly smile.
“What are you using it for?” the phlebotomist repeats, staring at the male nurse for an answer.