Carter and Alger dash outside to the car, a silver sedan with telltale black scuff marks on the left front bumper. Alger relays that Gamma took the car out during the storm's recession. Gamma is sprawled in the back seat, crusted blood smeared on the side of her face. She's not in a party mood. "Oh, John, it's terrible, it hurts," she whimpers. Carter checks out her leg and notices that it's shorter and externally rotated, the sign of a broken hip. "I thought it was best if I drove home," Gamma rambles. "I didn't know how much I was bleeding, so I slipped..." Carter, startled, realizes she was in an accident. "I think I hit a dog," she wails. Carter's heart sinks, noticing that this puzzle piece connects a bit too perfectly into the jigsaw of Julie's hit-and-run. "It was supposed to be sunny," Gamma sputters helplessly.
I love the DSL commercial in which the kindly woman learns sign language online, then delivers a fresh-baked pie to the deaf child next door and cluelessly signs, "I baked your dog for you." The look on the kid's face is so perfect that it could double as a Mastercard ad: "Pie ingredients: thirty dollars. DSL connection: Fifty dollars. Computer: Seven hundred dollars. Making your adolescent neighbor shit himself with fear: priceless."
We reenter the accident scene from above, noticing that a bunch more emergency vehicles have reported to the scene. Faintly, we hear Weaver dishing out instructions to Gallant -- a nice touch, given that it's in no way clearly audible, so within the context of the shot, it's just another noise in an ongoing catastrophe. Lopez runs over for the Hourly Power Update: The "auto re-closer" is stuck open, so the power gurus are trying to bypass it, but for now, no one's putting out the sparks of Tingly Lesbian Attraction. "I don't care," Weaver shouts over loud rain and zipping sparks. "Just shut it down!" Lopez bellows that it's not quite so fucking easy as all that, even though you'd think a crisis team at the plant would be trained to handle the repercussions of The Storm quite quickly.
A mishap diverts Weaver's attention back to the Easy-Bake Baby Belly. "Dammit!" trembles Weaver. It seems, while groping around inside Vicki, Weaver knocked over Rex the Wonder Preemie's wet bar and the broken glass severed a uterine vein. (I couldn't resist resurrecting Rex; my apologies if I'm using the Preemie in vain, but he's just so damn irrepressible that even my inattention can't keep him down.) Frantically, Weaver demands a clamp and tells Gallant to keep the saline on hand and ready for an infusion. "Doesn't she need any blood?" he wonders. Gallant has failed to notice that they're IN THE BACK OF AN AMBULANCE. "I don't have any blood!" snaps Weaver, frustrated. She wants Gallant to push the baby down toward her from the top of the uterus; just then, an ambulance that isn't incapacitated pulls up in the background. Weaver gets Lopez to call ahead to County General and make them have an assortment of doctors prepped to handle the case. Cut to the Easy-Bake Belly, composed mostly of thick red flaps of skin and pint after pint of goo, all of which have served as Rex's prison. Weaver gingerly frees him, lifting his clammy form from the morass and filling me with a highly rational fear of all things red. Rex looks wan; his nine-month bender has taken its toll. Gallant grabs a bulb syringe and sucks goo from the robot fetus's nose and mouth.