Blue Death

Kane was nodding at Burke. Burke looked down at him again, and then his face turned fuzzy, faint. Kendall could hear the clatter of instruments, but everything else was getting dark. A warm glow spread through him and the noises faded. For a few seconds he thought he had never felt so wonderful in his entire life. His head was moving, tilting. Then came a ripping and tearing deep in his neck Then again, and somewhere in the most primordial layer of his consciousness he felt himself bucking. But nothing seemed to be moving. Not his eyes, his arms, his legs. There was something in his windpipe, tearing and pushing its way in, and he screamed, but no one heard him. He felt himself bursting inside, bucking against the pain. And then there were voices over his head. “What the fuck?” “Jesus, Ed, what’s the matter?” “I don’t know. He’s not getting the gas. He’s not asleep. Goddamn it!” He felt a hand on his arm, then his chest, trying to keep him down. His throat was on fire, choking him, but his eyes would not open. He screamed, he thought. Air, he needed air. He bucked and bucked. “Hold him down, goddamnit! Give me the Fentanyl from the cart, Patty! Hurry up! I’ve gotta put him out! I’ve gotta get this tube in!” Pressure on his arm, his chest. His head pushing against a wall, his throat on fire. A knife went into his arm. The pressure faded. Then he felt the air, sweet blessed air. Then, darkness.