Photo Credit: Vitalii Borkovskyi

In this medical fiction tale, an ED physician at a women’s clinic defends her sanctuary from violent men, using her ED skills and frozen turkey legs to survive.

This medical fiction tale is one of a collection of stories that are like “Final Destination” meets “The Monkey’s Paw” (W. W. Jacobs, 1902). As such, they are tragedies that appeal most to readers who enjoy the inexorable pull of a story arc that leads to doom. The technical details surrounding the event are drawn from real cases in the US OSHA incident report database or similar sources and are, therefore, entirely realistic, even if seemingly outlandish.

Dr. Maude Pamela Fitzgerald, an emergency medicine physician with unwavering convictions, boundless stamina, and a razor-sharp practical mind, opened a women’s health clinic following her retirement at age 65. Based on decades of experience, she knew with absolute clarity that preventable serious illnesses disproportionately affected women and that comprehensive reproductive care and safe housing for survivors of abuse could significantly reduce those cases. Determined to make a difference, Maude purchased 353 State Street, an affordable property in a high-need area, and, with financial support from like-minded clinicians, established a facility that seamlessly blended the functions of an ER, reproductive health clinic, and shelter.

Maude prioritized patient outcomes above all else, with family values coming a close second. Though she had no family of her own, she treated her staff as one, and for many, their colleagues at the “St. Maude Hotel” became closer than their own kin. By the time she passed away at 85, succumbing to an embolism while seated at her well-worn oak rolltop desk, the clinic’s traditions—like celebrating birthdays, Easter, and Christmas—were firmly established. Among these, Thanksgiving had held a special place in Maude’s heart. She’d been a deeply thankful person, cultivating daily rituals to express gratitude for her life, health, friendships, and the kindness of strangers.

As a child, she’d been profoundly moved by a BBC documentary about the Khoisan people of western Cape and Namibia. It showcased an elder hunter thanking the animal he was about to slaughter, ensuring its death was as calm and painless as possible while expressing gratitude for the food, leather, and other materials it would provide. This mindfulness had left a lasting impression on Maude, shaping her worldview and guiding her approach to life and work.

In honor of Thanksgiving, Maude had established a clinic tradition: the staff would prepare a feast together, share a meal, and then distribute hot, nourishing meals to residents and anyone in the neighborhood in need. Every staff member left with food for their friends and families, a handwritten note of thanks from Maude, and a small cash bonus. The tradition endured after her passing, celebrated with a mix of solemnity and joy, embodying the gratitude and generosity that had defined her life.

Across town from St. Maude’s, Frank Shannon nursed a bourbon, the burn long dulled by familiarity, though it did little to numb the resentment simmering within him. Bitterness clouded his thoughts as he brooded over the wreckage of his life. He was supposed to be the head of the house, the master! Where did his wife Camilla get off insulting him about his election vote? The argument had escalated—she shouted, he struck her, and she walked out. Now, she was staying in some local women’s shelter, and he was drowning his sorrows in alcohol as separation turned to divorce.

At least he had friends who understood. Matt Cervantes, a school buddy, was a man of many skills—he could hoist a transmission, grill a perfect steak, or throw a punch if the pool hall got heated. Matt’s hands, however, had also landed him in trouble. When Matt caught his wife’s gym instructor with his hand on her backside, he knocked the guy out cold with a single punch that fractured his jaw. But when his wife screamed and slapped him, Matt hit her, too. Now she was staying with her mother, the kids were gone, and her lawyer had his sights set on Matt’s boat and contracting business.

Matt understood Frank’s frustration; he’d been there himself. The two men bonded over a shared mindset of victim-blaming and justifying violence.

As Frank stared into his dwindling bourbon glass, half-listening to Matt’s gruff advice, they were joined by Henry Guthrie, a man with his own hard-earned experience in life’s pitfalls. Henry’s fiancée had kicked him out after his bachelor party antics—antics that involved a stripper named “Hot Candy.” Fueled by alcohol and egged on by his friends, Henry had taken her into the next room for “special services,” paid for by an extra hundred bucks his buddies had pooled. Unfortunately, while he was preoccupied, his friends had snapped photos through the doorway. The images made their way from one loose-lipped friend to another, eventually landing with his fiancée via her sister’s hairdresser. That was the end of the engagement.

Henry lost the girl, the deposit on their new apartment, and the expensive ring, which she decided to keep. But if there was one thing Henry excelled at, it was finding things. As the IT guy at a local truck dealership, he knew his way around technology. Taking a quick snap of Frank’s divorce papers, he used text recognition software to extract key phrases. Within minutes, Henry was scanning Reddit threads and cross-referencing similar cases. It didn’t take long—he found a post mentioning St. Maude’s, a local clinic described in language matching the divorce filing. A quick Google search later, and he had the address and street view on his phone.

Henry leaned back with a knowing smirk. “Looks like I found where she’s staying,” he said, sliding the phone across the bar toward Frank.

By closing time, the trio had pieced together that the clinic was woman-owned, provided abortions, and operated a shelter for women. Fueled by anger, alcohol, and a distorted sense of righteousness, they convinced themselves it was an abomination that needed to be destroyed. Their crude plan was as blunt as their language: “trash the place,” “bust out” Camilla, and drag her back home. The entire strategy boiled down to brute force and bravado, relying on clenched fists and misplaced conviction.

After a final round of shots, they staggered out to their pickups and set off into the night, their makeshift crusade underway.

Meanwhile, at St. Maude’s, Dr. Jo Gallegos, MD, moved through the ED with the intensity of a hornet, her energy propelling her from one crisis to the next. Dr. Jo embodied the perfect mix for an emergency medicine physician: razor-sharp focus, ruthless practicality, and boundless compassion. Her hazel eyes could sweep the chaotic ER in a heartbeat, triaging patients with clinical precision—the blue-lipped, silent woman immediately prioritized, the screaming teen with broken fingers left for later. Dr. Jo’s mantra was simple: if you could scream, your basic systems were intact enough to wait.

Her care was universal and impartial, extending equally to heiresses nursing black eyes, and belligerent streetwalkers battling fentanyl habits. For Dr. Jo and her team, identity didn’t matter—only the patient’s condition and the fastest path to healing. Everyone received the same unwavering attention and the same goal: get them healthy and send them out stronger than they came in.

When the three angry men arrived at St. Maude’s and discovered the residence doors bolted and the office locked, they turned their attention to the still-open ER and clinic. Dr. Jo had just finished assessing a concussion—one of those all-too-common cases of women “walking into doors”—and was in no mood for confrontation. So, when Frank barged in, demanding to “fetch his wife,” and the encounter escalated, her patience evaporated.

Words were exchanged, tempers flared, and when Frank jabbed a finger into her chest and spat out “useless piece of trash,” he expected her to shrink back. Instead, Dr. Jo surged forward, driving her knee hard into his groin. Frank crumpled to the floor, but his buddies, Matt and Henry, continued advancing, their hostility unmistakable.

Assessing the situation in a heartbeat, Dr. Jo decided against a stand-off in the middle of the ER, where her staff and patients were at risk. She spun on her heel and bolted deeper into the facility. As she ran, adrenaline sharpened her thoughts: she needed distance, and she needed better weapons.

Whether it was the thought of weaponry or the subconscious association of the kitchen with safety—a place where countless cups of coffee had been sipped and the scent of cooking lingered—she found herself there. The kitchen did, in fact, offer tools, though not the formidable arsenal she’d envisioned. After locking the door and shoving a table against it, she ended up holding a mostly frozen turkey leg and a fire extinguisher instead of a chef’s knife or a cleaver.

“Well… it’ll have to do,” she muttered, jamming the turkey leg into the extinguisher’s trumpet-like nozzle in a moment of improvisation. The door rattled violently as the two angriest of the trio launched themselves at it with a fury that sent the table sliding. The barricade gave way faster than she’d hoped. Matt was the first to force his head and shoulder through the gap. Pausing to grin smugly, he shouted back to his friends, “Found her!”

Dr. Jo leveled the extinguisher at Matt’s face and squeezed the trigger. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened, and Matt burst into mocking laughter at her seemingly pathetic attempt at defense. Then, with an ear-splitting PHNOOMP, the extinguisher unleashed its payload. A plume of white powder and carbon dioxide engulfed Matt’s head while the turkey drumstick rocketed from the nozzle. The leg, heavy with frozen meat, struck him square in the throat.

The impact snapped the frozen bone, and a jagged shard pierced his windpipe. Matt’s laughter turned to choking, his hands clawing at his neck as blood, mucus, and turkey fragments clogged his airway. Violent, desperate coughing sent a pink spray across the room, but the real damage was deeper. Dr. Jo’s clinical instincts told her his windpipe was intact—but the shard that had nicked his jugular vein was another story. Without immediate surgery, Matt wouldn’t make it.

Before she could dwell on that, Henry lunged through the doorway. She quickly reloaded her improvised weapon and fired again. This time, she aimed lower. The second turkey leg slammed into Henry just below the breastbone, doubling him over as the force drove meat shards into his diaphragm, leaving him gasping and incapacitated.

Frank came next, barging in before she could reload. Thinking fast, she turned the extinguisher on him, blasting a face full of powder directly into his eyes and nose. As he reeled back, coughing and blinded, she swung the metal canister like a bat. It struck the side of his skull with a resonant clang, the sound ringing out like a brass dinner gong. Frank staggered, then crumpled to the floor, leaving Dr. Jo standing amidst the wreckage, extinguisher in hand, heart pounding like a war drum.

At that moment, the security team arrived, swiftly restraining Matt, who was too busy choking and clawing at his neck to resist, and Frank, who lay unconscious. In the chaos, Henry took advantage of the distraction, diving out the nearest window and vanishing into the night. While fleeing seemed like a survival instinct, it proved to be a doomed choice for two reasons: the police would inevitably track him down, and the thawing turkey leg had injected a lethal dose of E. coli into his system. By the time they found him curled up in his parents’ basement, he was already beyond saving.

Matt’s fate was sealed before he even made it to the county hospital, his jugular bleed proving fatal despite the EMTs’ best efforts. As for Frank, he briefly regained consciousness in a state of delirious religious ecstasy, likely triggered by his epidural hematoma, before slipping into a permanent coma.

Dr. Jo, however, carried on. She finished her shift, scrubbed the extinguisher powder from her face, and headed out to meet friends for Thanksgiving dinner. This year, though, she skipped the turkey—opting instead for tofu and roast potatoes, a quiet nod to the night she’d survived at St. Maude’s.

After three months in a vegetative state, Frank was declared clinically brain-dead. As his next of kin, Camilla made the decision to have his ventilator turned off. His heart stopped exactly three minutes and fifty-three seconds later.