2019-10-19 - Okay, That Kind Of Hurts

It's a cool evening in the trailer park. Cloudy skies, that everpresent feeling like it's about to rain in the Pacific Northwest fall, the usual.

Outside of Alison's trailer at space 22, the particular sound of a full bore scream can be heard by anyone within earshot. It's not the kind of scream that you hear out of anger, but more outright terror or grave pain. Her car is parked properly in the spot, and the door to the trailer is closed and locked. Nothing other than the scream seems amiss with the situation.

Occasionally, someone dies suddenly. And when that happens, the detectives have to be called out, even if it is quite obvious it is a heart attack or an overdose or what have you. So when a denizen of the tailer park's artery decides to give way to one-too-many cheeseburgers, Gabe gets the call. It's not much by way of paperwork. He's done it a million times. And it's not even much by way of police presence. He is just wrapping up and heading to his unmarked car when --

He makes a break for the door of the trailer, banging hard on the door. "Gray Harbor Police Department! Everyone okay in there? If you don't open the door, I'm going to have to come through it."

Alison 's in the bedroom of the trailer, not close to the door, so her screams would have travelled somewhat inside the otherwise unoccupied home. There's no particular acknowledgement of the urgent knocking for a while, no other voices or sounds, until her screaming fades into sobbing, and a wet, gasped cry for help.

Another loud knock on the trailer door. "Gray Harbor PD! Is everyone okay in there?" One, two, three. Gabe pulls out his Department-issue Sig Sauer 9mm from his holster in his Joseph A. Bank sport coat, and then lines up along the side of the trailer door and BAM.

It never stood a chance. He sweeps the entrance, clearing it, making sure no one is about to shoot or stab. "Gray Harbor PD!" Yes, he's said that before.

The trailer's empty, save for a few dirty dishes, and pieces of laundry. There's small piles of used tissue papers here and there, but not completely strewn all over the place. There's no obvious sign of a struggle or anything other than a sick person who's been couped up at home for a while.

Alison's not super coherent at the moment, but she's with it enough to realize that there's someone else in her trailer. She's not generally a fan of cops, but given the circumstances, and her recent experiences serving no small number of them at the Grizzly, she's willing to take any help she can get. Between wet sobs, she chokes out, "In the bedroom, please!"

The doors within the trailer are left open, the bathroom and bedroom substantially more of a mess with clothes and used tissues than the rest of the trailer.

Gabriel sweeps his pistol left and right, making sure that there is no one else in the trailer at least so far. "I'm Detective Quintanilla with the Gray Harbor PD!" As he has been making clear. He moves forwards into the bedroom, weapon still drawn, in case someone might be hiding there or something. "What's going on?"

Alison 's in her bed, all tangled up amidst white sheets. The sign of her distress would be pretty obvious, once he looks at the bed, however. There's quite a bit of blood, especially in the area of her left shoulder. The short woman is trying to grab at her shoulder, which is bleeding profusely from fresh, deep wounds, but there's nothing there to grab at. They look like.. claw marks, almost. Deep, ragged, diagonal from near her neck to over the shoulder blades. One big swipe.

The redhead's not obviously injured otherwise, but her pale freckled cheeks are flushed with tears, nose bright red. If Gabriel's familiar with the signs of the flu that have been going around, it'd be pretty clear.

When Gabriel ensures that there is no one else in the trailer with them, he holsters his weapon and then moves to see what it is that is going on with Alison. He pulls back the sheet, clinically, to see her shoulder mark.

"You need me to call an ambulance?" he asks, her, eyes meeting hers. He is concerned with the gash, yes, but he knows most people in the trailers are uninsured. Amublances. ERs. That's real money.

Alison 's quite naked under there, but she doesn't exactly look or smell great. Her red hair's ragged, frizzy and unwashed, skin coated in sweat. Her blue eyes are bugged out, looking at the cop, almost in the kind of way that'd seem like she's not entirely there. Between sobs, she gets out, "The bear, the diner, they.." and she's going back to grab at her shoulder again, getting her hand even bloodier than it already was.

The poor girl's mind is absolutely baking in the fever. She's either not even realizing that he's there, if he's real, what's not, or anything that'd help her give a coherent response.

Gabriel has seen enough naked, injured (and oftentimes dead) bodies in his life that Alison's doesn't register to him in anything other than a clinical sense. Flu by itself wouldn't warrant an ambo, but that gash.

"Hey. Hey. You're okay." Gabe places the sheet up against her shoulder, applying direct pressure, as with his other hand he reaches into his pocket to call dispatch to ask for EMS.

Alison flinches from the additional pain brought on by the detective's hand against her skin, but doesn't twist away from his assistance. Her words seem to calm her slightly, but she's still writhing around from the injury. "Are they gone?" she gets out, eyes closing as her head wrenches back. She groans, voice shifting into a soft sob.

"It's just the two of us here," confirms Gabe as he keeps the pressure applied against the wound, waiting for the ambulance to roll out. "What's your name, hun? You have insurance?" He was a beat cop for six years. He's been out to the trailer park plenty.

Alison relaxes somewhat, laying heavily on the bed and Gabriel's hand. "The bears were.. what.." She's still panting, eyes running with tears, nose dripping with snot, occasionally puncuated with wet sounding coughs. Her eyes stay bugged open the whole time. "Where's my paycheck?" And she's twisting around again.

Gabriel applies more pressure to the wound an in the process makes sure that Alison presses back against the bed. "They can't do much for the flu, but I don't know if these gashes need stitches. I can make up something for how you got them, but I need your name or else you really need to go to the hosptial."

Alison squirms against the bed, the instinct to fight back kicking in, but she's in no shape whatsoever for that. And to be honest? She's not in any shape to be fighting on a good day either, never mind being in the peak of the flu and having taken a bear claw (not to be confused with the pastry) to the shoulder. "Al.. Alison.. but the bears!" More struggling against Gabriel and the bed, stopping only when the pain from her shoulder makes her. "Fuuuuuuuck!"

The rising sound of the siren from the ambulance approaching becomes audible before too much longer. This only serves to make the waitress freak out more, kicking at the sheets and struggling against Gabriel. "Don't let the bears in!"

"They're not bears. Those are the EMTs, Alison. They're going to take care of you." Gabe puts significant pressure on the wound. He looks around the messed up trailer. "Can you get on some clothes?" So she has a little bit of dignity when the EMTs cart her off. "What is your last name, chica?"

The redhead groans considerably at the increased pressure against her bloody wound. "Is.. is Summers. Clothes? But I already.." She's looking around the bedroom, seemingly confused by her surroundings. "Who the fuck are you?" And then she looks down and realizes that she's not dressed. "Oh fuck. I'm sorry!" she gets out before she tries to cover herself up with the sheets, but it's not easy when only one of her arms really works.

She reaches out towards a pile of clothing near Gabriel, but can't quite reach before grimacing in a fresh volley of pain across her nerves. It's at this moment, unfortunately, that the stress on her body becomes a bit too much, and the contents of her stomach unload into the bed, just as one of the EMTs knock on the outside of the trailer. "Officer call for an ambulance?"

Thankfully Gabe had just gotten off the bed when Alison ralphs all over it. He comes back with a bra, panties, jeans and a shirt for her, not necessarily matching but all there, at least.

"In here!" he calls to the EMTs. "Detective Quintanilla." He flashes them his detective shield. Fancy. "Alison Summers. I answered her screams. Best I can tell, she has that flu going around, got disoriented, walked outside, got attacked by a wild dog or something, then came back here and undressed before the shock wore off and pain set in." That is a wildly false story. But who would believe the real one?

Alison groans and stirs around. "Fuck. Sorry." She takes the clothes and wiggles into them under the sheets, getting about as far as panties and jeans before one of the EMTs comes over to take a look.

The paramedic pulls the bloody sheet back and looks her over. "Jesus. A dog?" He checks the rest of her torso. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks as he pats down her legs, checking for other injuries. "I--don't think so." the redhead replies, after which the two men discuss for a moment, then come back and tell the officer that she's going have to be taken to the hospital. One of them has a good look, then covers the wound with gauze and a bandage, and then they're helping her into a stretcher.

At the end of the day, Gabe is no EMT. So when they come in to take over Alison's care, Gabe steps back and lets them do it. He looks a little worried but when they announce that Alison will need to go to the hospital, he nods.

"They're going to take good care of you, Alison." As they wheel her out, he gives his badge number for their run sheet and then heads for his unmarked car. Just another day on the job.