By the time it had, Summers and Dr. Andrews had already gotten Nimoux to the infirmary. The instant they arrived, the whole staff pounced upon him with such vigor Summers could barely get out from under the many arms trying to grab him and carry him to the medical bed in the intensive care side of the small facility. Even though she knew her place was at the Bridge, she couldn’t make herself leave and instead watched as they transfused new blood into Nimoux, did an exploratory thoracotomy and discovered the bullet had struck Nimoux’s liver, as Dr. Andrews had feared. Fortunately, it had missed his right lung, although the medics said it had been a narrow miss. At least Nimoux hadn’t died en route to the infirmary drowning in his own blood. They worked and they worked fast! It was fascinating to watch, and a bit gruesome, as the men and women in scrubs and masks, with white gloves, now drenched red, rushed about trying to give what aid they could. Certainly all of them would have recognized him, Summers was sure.
