by neetha Napew
“Dean,” Ryan said softly, almost dropping the light.
“Still bleeding,” Mildred stated quickly. “That means he’s alive.”
“How do we get there?” Krysty demanded, looking around. “The enclosed stairs stop on this level. Where are the ones leading to the basement?”
“This way!” Doc shouted, gesturing with the LeMat.
Staying at the railing, Ryan gauged the distance, then jumped over the banister. He landed next to the boy, missing the granite rim of the fountain’s basin by only inches. The others arrived minutes later, charging out of the enclosed stairwell. They maneuvered through the rows of tables and found Ryan kneeling solemnly alongside his son.
“There’s no pulse,” he announced woodenly, holding the boy’s small wrist in his hand.
Pushing the man aside, Mildred expertly placed two fingers on right side of the lad’s throat just under the mastoid bone. “There’s a pulse,” she said, resting a palm on his forehead. “But it’s weak and fast, and the skin is clammy.”
Already her tone was shifting from concern to impartial. Never think about the person you were treating. Concentrate on fixing the injuries-later on there would be time for celebration, or mourning.
“He’s in shock.” Ryan frowned, having seen enough in his life to recognize the symptoms. “Got to keep him warm. Krysty!”
“On it,” the redhead said. Placing the Steyr on a table, she shucked the bearskin coat and passed it over.
“More,” Mildred said, tucking the fur over the boy.
“Done.” Krysty holstered her blaster. “Jak, cover me.”
The Cajun followed her into the darkness, and soon there came sounds of smashing wood and ripping cloth.
Glancing around, Ryan saw they were in the center of a food court, rows of garish plastic signs proclaiming delicious snacks long decayed into dust. Rows of plastic tables encircled the fountain with the weird metallic sculpture. On the other side of the court was the iron-lace framework of the elevator, adjacent to more public rest rooms, phones and drinking fountains.
Rising, Ryan removed his palm from the floor and flexed his hand. “Bastard tile flooring is ice cold. We’ve got to get him off this.” He started to slide his arms under the boy, but Mildred pushed the man away.
“Don’t touch him until I say so,” the physician ordered brusquely. Then she ripped open the boy’s shirt. His hairless chest was smeared with blood and heavily scarred in spots, but there were no cuts or slashes readily apparent. But his forearm was thick with partially dried blood.
“Clawed,” she said, probing the tender flesh. “Some minor discoloration, but no signs of toxic striation.”
“The mutie is poisonous?”
“Apparently so, but none got in the wounds.” Then she muttered, “However, that isn’t what I’m worried about.”
Suddenly shuddering, Dean began to have trouble breathing. Ryan started for him and stopped. As careful as if she were handling antique glass, Mildred took his head and tilted it backward an inch, the raspy noise easing somewhat.
“Tissue damage to his throat, just a bruise really, but it can swell and close off his breathing. I better prep for a trach just in case it gets worse.” Whipping out a knife, she placed a small piece of soft plastic tubing from a fish aquarium alongside her switchblade knife and a packet of cotton wadding. The med kit held the big instruments, but Mildred always carried small medical items in her pockets just for a case like this.
Then she cursed, bumping her head against the rounded corner of one of the plastic tables. “For God’s sake, give me some room to work. And more light!”
With his back to the wall between two fast-food counters, J.B. stood guard while Ryan and Doc started to remove the obstructions. The tables were bolted to the floor, but that didn’t hinder the men from clearing a space around the patient and doctor.
As Doc tipped the plastic tables sideways, Ryan set the lanterns close to the shiny plastic tops to reflect the light and amplify the meager illumination. As bright as it was, there was no overhead illumination, and for one fleeting instant, Ryan felt he would have given his remaining eye for a single working lightbulb.
Concentrating on her task, Mildred carefully probed behind the boy’s ears for any telltale swelling, then checked his nose for a trace of clear fluid.
“No sign of a skull fracture,” she announced, feeling a wave of relief. “That’s good news.” Furiously pumping the handle of her flashlight, charging the battery to maximum, she gently used a thumb to peel back an eyelid, shining the beam directly into Dean’s eyes. The pupils dilated very slowly.
“Goddammit,” she cursed. Shifting position, the physician started to unlace the boot on Dean’s right leg, her dark fingers lost in the shadows.
Krysty and Jak arrived just then with their arms full of draperies. “No blankets,” Krysty announced, depositing her bundle near the boy. “But these are good and thick.”
“Need more, we’ll get carpet,” Jak added, dropping his load of curtains and valances on top of the pile.
“That’s enough for now,” Mildred said, easing off the boy’s Army boot. Drawing a knife, she slid the pommel of the weapon upward along the inner sole of his bare foot. Then she did it again, watching his unresponsive toes.
Doc sat on the edge of the fountain, watching the process with growing unease. He remembered a farming accident from his youth in Vermont and how the local country doctor had done the same thing and what the awful verdict was.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked, sitting on his haunches.
Sliding the sock back on the limp foot, Mildred looked at him directly. “Your son has a concussion, no way to tell how bad. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any loose bone fragments. Might be okay if there’s no internal clotting. Couple of ribs, right hand and his left leg are broken, but no compound fractures, thank God. Right arm is dislocated. Painful as hell, but also not serious. Probably landed sideways, breaking his leg, which slowed his momentum enough to stop the impact from smashing his skull open.”
Mildred knew she was sounding callous, and her old teachers at medical school would have had a fit about her talking to a patient’s parent this way. But those days were long gone. Ryan needed information hard and fast. There was simply no time for courtesy.
Ryan gave no outward sign of concern at the news.
“Partially bit through his tongue. I can fix that with needle and thread good as new, and I have two antibiotic tablets I’ve been saving for an emergency.”
“Use them,” Ryan snapped in a voice she had never heard before.
“I had already planned on doing so,” Mildred said softly. “However, it’s his back that worries me. I’m not getting any autonomic reflexes. It may only be a temporary condition, or there could be significant damage to his spinal cord.”
“Oh, hell,” J.B. whispered in the background.
“A broken back,” Ryan muttered, his knuckles clenched white. “Is...is he in pain?”
“No.” Then much as she hated to, Mildred told him the truth. “But he might be crippled, or blind, or completely paralyzed for the rest of his life. Spinal injuries can go a lot of ways, most of them bad.”
Ryan’s face underwent a series of somber expressions in a heartbeat. Blind. Paralyzed. Unable to fight or run, his son would be as good as dead. Worse, he would endanger the rest of them. His hand brushed against the stock of his 9 mm pistol and jerked away as if struck by an electric spark. Guilt flooded his being.
Tilting her head, Mildred brushed a coil of beaded hair out of her face. “Don’t even think about such things yet. There’s still a lot we can do first.”
He took a deep breath. “Name it. Anything.”
“First and foremost, we immobilize the boy completely. He can’t be allowed to move an inch in any direction. God, what I’d give for a paramedic airpack.” She shook away those thoughts. “We need wood for splints, and rope, or better yet, something flat like a belt to hold him down. A
nd a flat board to get him off this cold floor.”
“Blankets no good?” Jak asked, frowning.
“Can’t cushion his back. It has to be hard.”
Ryan took a lantern from the floor. “Let’s move.”
In orderly fashion, the rest of the companions separated throughout the food court, the flames of their lanterns bobbing behind counters and disappearing into back rooms.
“What are you not telling him?” J.B. asked softly.
Mildred glanced sideways at the man, the light reflecting off his wire-rimmed spectacles. “A four-story fall onto polished tile,” she stated barely above a whisper. “What do you think I haven’t told him yet?”
In only a few minutes, Ryan and the others returned with a collection of paneling, a door with hinges still attached, chair arms, shelves and numerous belts.
“Packing strips from the mail room,” Doc said proudly, proffering a handful. “A most fortuitous acquisition.”
“Damn near perfect,” Mildred agreed, examining a woven cloth strip. “Good work. Jak, start cutting the buttons off those coats.”
The Cajun nodded as a slim knife appeared in his pale hand and he started to slice.
“Krysty, lay that door right here. Anybody find boards for splints?”
“Bookcase shelving,” Ryan said, setting the wood nearby. “From the security office. Way too wide, but we can split them lengthwise.”
“Excellent.”
“Here,” Jak said, handing over the garment.
Laying the coat across the door, Mildred rolled some miscellaneous fabric into a tube and laid it sideways at the low end of the door, then another, smaller roll, near the top.
“Okay, listen up, people,” she spoke brusquely. “First thing, follow my lead and move on my command, not one second earlier. We have to do this in unison, or we may kill him right here and now. Understand?”
Ryan started to speak and stopped.
“Okay, everybody gathered around. You too, John.” J.B. shouldered his blaster and joined them. “I want everybody except Doc to take ahold of the loose clothing on a limb. I’ll hold his head. But not his body,” Mildred reminded. “Just the clothing, and try to shift him as little as possible. That’s vitally important.”
While the others did as directed, Doc positioned himself at the door. Good thing they had removed the knob so it lay flat on the floor.
“Now be careful!” the physician admonished, her hands cupping the boy’s head, fingertips resting under his jawline. “We’re only lifting Dean an inch. Soon as he’s off the floor, slide the door underneath, and keep those supports in position at his knees and neck.”
“Understood,” Doc rumbled nervously.
“On my call,” she said, watching their intent faces. “We go on the word mark. Not a second before. Ready? One, two, three-mark!”
The companions lifted in unison, and Dean moaned as he cleared the floor, his clothing tearing a little from the strain.
“Now!” Mildred barked.
Doc eased the door underneath, the loose hinge scraping nosily. “In position.”
“Good,” she grunted. “We go down on three. One, two, three!”
The companions lowered Dean onto the makeshift platform and stepped away. Releasing his head from her grasp, Mildred quickly inspected the boy again. “It’s okay for now.”
“What next?” Ryan asked, feeling the cold rush of adrenaline as if he were in combat.
“Get my new medical kit,” Mildred said. “I don’t need the instruments yet, but it’s best to have them close just in case. “
Then she added, “And when you get the chance, thank God I have something to work with.”
“My turn,” Jak said, rising and heading for the enclosed stairs.
“Doc, go with him as cover,” Ryan ordered. “There might be more of those winged things running around outside.”
“Sir, consider me Perseus of Greece,” Doc said, and he followed the teenager out of the circle of light.
“Mildred, anything else?” Krysty asked. She knew death was just part of the wheel of life, but this was a friend, the son of her lover, a child she loved very much. Sometimes the wheel of life needed a good solid kick in the ass.
Opening her canteen, the physician sat in one of the plastic chairs built into the tables and took a swallow. “Yes,” she decided, screwing the cap back on. “We better start moving our supplies over here. Especially that brazier. And find something to use as a bedpan. We’re going to be here for a while.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Ryan countered, sitting on the rim of the fountain, the kinetic sculpture behind guttering like a Christmas tree from the light of the lanterns. “Once you’ve bandaged his breaks, we can carry him to the redoubt. There’s a full medical hospital on level five. Everything you’ll need.”
“Yeah, sorry, Millie, but we can’t stay here. Whatever was out there might come back,” J.B. added. “With friends.”
Mildred gestured tiredly. “Then shoot him in the head. We take Dean on the road, and it’s the same thing. At least chilled by a friend is faster.”
A minute of silence passed.
“Absolutely?” Ryan demanded, elbows on knees.
“Hell no. Until he wakes up, there’s nothing I know for sure. Except that he’s damn lucky to still be alive.”
Dean lay on the ground, shivering and trembling, his complexion a deathly white.
“Mebbe we could all lift in unison like before,” Ryan suggested, eying the impossible stairwell.
“One more jostle and he could die,” Mildred stated. “We had to do it the first time, but never again. He’s not going anywhere. Not down the hall, not across the hall. Nowhere.” She pointed. “That’s why a jacket is under his leg to keep it from shifting position.”
Sitting upright, Ryan chewed over this unwelcome information. “For how long?”
“Couple of days at least. Maybe a week. I can’t tell until he stabilizes and I can chance trying some tests.”
J.B. whistled. “Trapped here for a week. Possibly with more of those winged things roaming the streets. Not to mention the wolves and the sec men from the ville.”
“They might be able to help, but probably not,” Krysty said, her hair coiled protectively against her nape. “Always best to plan for the worst. It comes true more often than not.”
“So we dig in for the duration. Should be safe enough once we seal this building,” Ryan observed, running stiff fingers through his black hair. “Okay, we definitely have got to do something about the skylight. Mebbe we could replace the glass so it isn’t obvious where the accident happened.”
“This will never be a hardsite,” J.B. stated. “Front door is a joke, and there must be a hundred windows to this place. It’s a frigging glass box.”
“We can nail boards across the inside of the office windows and jam the hallway doors shut. That’ll give any attacker two things to get through,” Ryan suggested. He had felt helpless watching the doctor work, but this was a combat matter now, and he was back in control. “However, this bastard central air shaft is begging for attack.”
“Mebbe we could lace barbed wire across the railings,” Krysty suggested. “That would give us a good three levels of protection. Nothing is going to fly through that. Probably find some in the local hardware store. Nails, too.”
“Sounds good. But first we recce the whole building to make sure that we are alone here,” Ryan declared, a hand on his blaster. “Then we go get the big conference table from the first floor. Set it over Dean to hide him from sight and protect from any more falling glass.”
“That will do for a start,” Mildred said. “And then dump furniture into the elevator shaft till it’s jammed solid. That’s an express route down here.”
And to Dean. A chilling thought. “Which leaves the stairs as the only way in or out. What the hell. We can’t retreat anyway.”
A crash made everybody draw weapons as the door to the stairwell burst open and ru
nning figures emerged. Postures relaxed only when the companions recognized Jak and Doc. However, the two men bore serious expressions.
“Gone,” Jak said bluntly. “Med kit gone!”
“Along with the Hummer!” Doc added, radiating ill-controlled anger. “The M-60 and a lot of rifles off the wall.”
“We’ve been jacked?” J.B. cried in disbelief.
“Indeed, sir. Curse the Visigoths!”
“Shitfire, we were only here a few minutes!”
Mildred checked her wrist chron. “Well over an hour.”
“More than long enough,” Krysty said, her red hair a wild, fiery corona.
Then Doc added, “But the rockets are still in the pawnshop. They took the useless predark blasters and left the LAWs. That I do not understand.”
“Illiterate,” J.B. stated. “Couldn’t read boxes.”
“Any tracks?”
“Impossible to see in the night,” Doc reported, resting on his cane. “Even if the moon were full, the sky is solid with clouds.”
“Storm coming,” Jak agreed knowingly. “Big one.”
Irritably, J.B. pushed back his fedora. “Swell. That’ll erase any tire tracks we could trace.”
“Then we find the bastard tonight,” Ryan stated gruffly. Retrieving the Steyr, he checked the clip. Taking out the half-full clip, the man slammed a new clip into the loading recess and worked the bolt, chambering a round. “Doc, stay here with Mildred and Dean.”
The physician stood, clicking back the hammer on her revolver. “If I have to operate, we’ll need that kit badly. However, this could be a trap to lure us outside.”
“Sure as hell hope so,” Ryan stated, starting for the stairs. “That would mean they’re still nearby.”
Chapter Nine
Outside, the streets were as dark as pitch, the sky a swirling, mottled mixture of greens and reddish-orange. The only faint light came from the twin searchlights steadily sweeping the clouds in an endless pattern.
Spreading out in a standard defensive pattern, the companions moved down the block and into the alleyway. The canvas sheet lay crumpled in a corner near an overturned garbage bin.