Her head hung back. Crimson soaked the torso of her dress and ran down the steely’s legs. Creed shut the door. The automaton descended swiftly into the laboratory with Jonny close behind.
Fortunately, Dixie’s design meant it understood emergencies. It was built to break up fights, administer sedatives, and get medical care for the injured. For Anna, the best medical care was right in her own laboratory.
Dixie placed her on the operating table and rolled the backrest down so that she lay flat. From the cupboard, Jonny removed a pair of shears and sliced off Anna’s bandage a few layers at a time, blood-soaked cloth curling back as though afraid of her wound.
Jonny snapped his fingers at Zero and wished he could articulate what he wanted. However, Zero understood emergency medical care. It brought gauze, a long bandage, and wraps from a cupboard, set them on the rolling platform, and pushed it to the table.
The tinker guessed that Anna had lost at least two pints of blood. Her face appeared pale, the first hints of cyanosis creeping into her fingertips. Creed stood at the other side of the table, lips pursed and mouth wrinkled in worry.
Once Jonny removed the bandage and the handkerchief beneath, so bloody it looked more like an organ, he sliced open her dress. Anna’s blood oozed rather than poured. Jonny took a scalpel and medical pliers from the platform and examined her gut. Skin, fat, and muscle were a torn mess. The bullet must have entered her intestines, but perhaps had not perforated the colon.
Hands shaking, Jonny thought he wasn’t the right person to remove a bullet. He had the crazy thought that maybe Creed would know what to do, but one look at the man’s face and stance, shoulders slumped, jaw clenched, told him no. The automatons could administer shots, and apply bandages, but not perform surgery.
Jonny had studied anatomy and knew the healing units he and Anna had developed well. He could do only his best. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he willed away his anxiety as best he could and entered a state of concentration.
He filled a basin with vodka and soaked scalpels and forceps in the alcohol, then placed them on a fresh linen cloth. He then put his already-clean, but not yet sanitary, hands into the liquid, rubbed backs and fronts, and shook them dry. With clean, cold metal, he moved flesh, fat, the torn area of her rectus abdominis, and pink bits of intestines aside. He found the cupronickel projectile and mentally registered relief. Anna’s descending colon had been scraped, but not pierced.
Relying on his sense of touch and memory, he pushed small forceps into the wound, worrying he would cause more damage as the smooth backs of the cups slid against her flesh. At last, unsure if he had gone deep enough, he clasped them together and pulled them slowly free.
As the forceps left her belly, the bullet fell beside them on her abdomen. Forcing himself to breathe steadily, Jonny picked it up between thumb and forefinger. The metal in front had split, revealing the lead inside. He dropped the bloody slug onto the rolling cart.
Zero had also brought surgical thread and needles. Using gauze to sop up blood that slowly filled the wound, Jonny relied on the many Tesla bulbs above to see well enough into the bullet hole. As time stood still, he sewed together the layers with catgut, ending with tight, silken stitches in her skin.
That done, with the reddened tools now laying on the cloth, Jonny removed a second bottle of vodka from a cabinet, poured about three ounces onto a linen handkerchief and washed drying blood from the wound. He glanced at Creed, who had moved farther back and was pacing, but Jonny thought the older man’s gaze looked calmer.
Jonny went to the cabinet of healing units, their steel sides gleaming under the bulbs. Some were still unfinished, some made to be bolted to bone. Others had straps, so Jonny picked one of these and rushed back to Anna’s table. He placed the oblong machine, about eight inches wide, on her belly, just over the stitches, then looked at Creed.
As Jonny gestured, Creed kept pacing, and the tinker thought perhaps he had misinterpreted Creed’s look moments before. The man didn’t appear calmer, but dazed. The tinker couldn’t understand how a man usually so effective under pressure could remain so shocked. What was going through the Creed’s mind? Why didn’t he understand?
Jonny breathed hard. He needed human help that moment. “Hhhhh…” Jonny intoned. His heart pounded and his cheeks warmed. “Hhhhhhhelp! Help… me!”
Creed’s gaze snapped to him and he stepped forward. He lifted Anna gently and helped Jonny wrap the belt around her. It buckled to her side, and Jonny pulled it tight. Seconds later, Creed bolted up the stairs, but Jonny had this under control. He removed the face of the healing unit and pushed up the main lever.
The front plate glowed orange briefly as the engine started, pulling in its first wave of ether. As the gears spun, he reattached the cover.
Jonny kissed Anna’s cheek, her skin cold against his lips. She would need blankets, water, and maybe chicken soup. He rolled the back of the operating table back up. That way, even if she didn’t wake soon, he could gently feed her water.
As he gazed at her, his heart seemed to lurch. Her chest wasn’t moving. Jonny felt her carotid artery, leaving a bloody fingerprint on her neck, and felt no pulse. He spun the table back down as swiftly as he could and, with his hands together, pressed repeatedly on her chest. “W-w-work! Pump!” He tore off the ether unit cover and turned up the flow, then went back to the chest compressions.
Boot falls skipped down the stairs, but Jonny’s gaze fixed on Anna. Creed stood before him a second later, and Jonny glanced at him in fear.
If Anna died, he could always bring her back. It had worked on Creed. He knew he could do it alone, but she might suffer other damage. He might make a mistake.
“Wake up!” he cried.
Anna’s first breath, a great gasp, startled him. He gazed at her face, breathing hard.
“It hurts.” Anna’s voice was barely audible as she looked back at him. She raised a hand to his face, then let it drop. “Did you just say something?”
In his gratitude and relief, Jonny sobbed, tears spilling from his eyes for the first time in years. Had he spoken? He didn’t care so long as Anna would be all right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Near four in the antemeridian on that busy August tenth morning, clouds covering most of the stars but the street lights casting stark shadows, a cart pulled by two dark horses rolled up to the Crowder’s Mortuary. Three men in black sat in the seat. The driver, in the middle, pulled hard on the reins. The horses whinnied and stopped, the air ripe with the smell of their recent droppings.
The three men climbed to the road and went straight to the front door, while fog drifted in from the south as though in cahoots with them. An onlooker might see these three as aspects of the Angel of Death, visiting the morgue to extract souls from the corpses inside. His derby pulled low, the driver unlocked the door and the men entered. One held a sphere made of curved brass bars. He depressed a button and the Tesla bulb inside it illuminated the room.
As a matter of public record, Crowder's family had prospered in the gold rush, providing funeral services for Santa Cruz’s newly wealthy. The economy had steadied itself, and Crowder’s Mortuary now served everyone. Most bodies came here before burial, whether their former inhabitants had departed from disease, accident, or murder.
The driver glanced briefly over the display coffins before heading straight back to the morgue, the others behind. There, they found rows of body cabinets, refrigerated units that had surely made Crowder’s job more pleasant.
The driver passed two medical tables with slanted troughs in the sides meant for draining blood, both scrubbed to a shine. A rack of tools and several standing lamps congregated against a wall.
Maxwell Gregg removed his hat and tossed it on one of the tables. He admired a tidy man like Crowder and thought he’d prefer it if the man worked for him. He almost regretted their current mission, but Crowder would survive. The assistants he had brought were strong and perfectly up to the task of lifting.
The big men pulled open drawers, wheels inside rolling, and soon found Nancy Hartgraul, Luis Mierdino, and Rico Olimo.
“Check the rest, then take them one at a time to the cart.”
The man with the ball of light tossed it to Gregg, who held it aloft so all had a decent view. They rolled out a few other drawers and found the dead marshal, Boris Orange, a bullet hole in his skull. “That one’s useless. You can leave him.”
Gregg had been right about Anna’s laboratory, and that she had resurrected Creed. The steely brain hadn’t even been that important to him, just that knowledge. In time, could he convince her to help him with his new business venture?
Gregg doubted it, but he had someone nearly as good. Dr. Gilmore had succeeded in bringing back Margarita Fullerton. Boyd had brought back a hero, Gilmore, a beast. Perhaps the doctor just needed more subjects to perfect his craft.
The time might come to pick Anna's brain, as it were, but she was so high profile that, unless many things changed, trying would be a fool's errand. No, Gregg figured they couldn't be too far off from doing this the right way. The syndicate had Gilmore’s schematics, and Fullerton herself. All they needed was time.
Gregg's assistants loaded the bodies into the cart, side by side, and it shook each time they dropped a corpse. When they had finished, Gregg retrieved his derby, stepped outside, and locked the door.
A light went on upstairs and caught Gregg off guard, but it was no matter. They had what they came for. The three men took their seats and with a lash of the reins, Gregg got the horses moving. He faintly heard shouts from the mortuary and realized his men hadn’t closed the drawers, so Crowder had already discovered that bodies were missing.
Nearly every time Jonny spoke that night, he would stop, brows lowered, mouth slightly agape. Words came out stuttered, and he could manage phrases no longer than three words. Creed suspected that the intense rush of worry and excitement while saving Anna’s life had jogged something loose in Jonny’s mind, or shifted something back in place. Wonder would fill the young man’s face every few minutes while he and Creed spoke, then worry would return as he glanced at Anna.
“That f-f-fight. At-attack. Here.” Jonny pulled aside his blond hair and showed Creed the curved metal plate. “Anna.” He tapped it.
Creed suspected that the ability to speak well again was all there in Jonny’s head, waiting to come out with practice. Meanwhile, Creed listened patiently.
“Later. Y-y-” Jonny shut his eyes. “You.”
“Did you die as well?”
“N-no. J-just hurt. Bad-badly.” He pointed at Anna. “Here… here. Stay.” He patted his belly and winced.
“I agree,” Creed said. “It’s not the time to move her. When she can, I’m sure she’ll be happier in her bed.”
“Yes.”
“What about the doves?” Creed asked. “As I understand it, they rely on her.”
“May. B-bell.”
“Maybelle?”
Jonny pointed to Creed with a nod. “Knows th-things. Sh-she—”
Creed wanted to give Jonny more time to get the words out, but the tinker frowned, clearly frustrated. “She can fill in for Anna,” said Creed, “for now.”
“Yes.”
“Listen,” Creed said, bowing his head. “Cantrell helped Anna tonight.”
Jonny's upper lip twitched into a scowl. “Helped? Got… shot?”
“No, not exactly. That wasn't his fault. It was some outlaw, one of Maxwell Gregg's men, I'm sure of it. I'm going to be working with Cantrell.”
“You trust… him?”
“After he turned me in? Not so much. But I wanted you to know.”
Soon, Jonny brought Dixie back upstairs, presumably to clean it and take it back to its guard post. He smelled the faint aroma of the vodka Jonny had used to disinfect the operating tools and found the second, nearly full bottle on the young man’s desk. Since his resurrection, he had taken no drinks, but now he grasped the bottle and strode to the far wall.
Creed sat on the floor beside a bookcase, leaned back, and gulped down a quarter of what remained. It didn’t burn as he thought it might. He placed it beside him and tilted the brim of his hat over his eyes.
As though understanding he needed sleep, the lights went out. He jerked forward, not expecting this, then settled back. Though Creed needed less sleep than before his rebirth, he quickly dozed off.
Creed awoke to the sound of footsteps. The lights flared, but he kept his eyes shut until he heard water sloshing. He removed his hat and saw Jonny beside the operating table with a wooden bucket of water. The young man undid the belt with the healing machine attached and ran his fingers over Anna’s belly. He then set it aside, undid the buttons on her dress, and began washing her skin.
Creed put the hat back over his eyes for the sake of Anna’s privacy but heard her snort awake.
“Doesn’t hurt as much,” she said, her voice still quiet but no longer a whisper.
“Good,” Jonny said.
Creed listened to the water splashing and dripping for several more minutes, then heard rustling cloth. Anna groaned as if in stiffness or pain.
“Marshal,” she said after a while, “would you do me the honor carrying me to bed upstairs?”
Creed moved his hat from his face to the top of his head and saw that she now wore a nightgown, the bulge of the healing unit underneath. “I thought you needed more time.”
“This unit is working better than we anticipated.” She patted the bulge at the side of her belly.
“Of course.” Creed wished he had put on his silver mask, embarrassed by the smile that crossed his lips. He strode to the table, where Anna wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and lifted her, one arm around her back, one under her knees. She seemed light as a child and that warmth where his heart used to be spread through his chest.
Creed checked the clock in Anna’s bedroom, reading ten twenty-one. He and Anna had slept at least a few hours, and Jonny had probably just slept off his exhaustion before coming back down.
The sheets, woolen blankets, and quilt were a jumble, showing that Jonny had probably tossed considerably in his sleep, but the young man adjusted them to make the bed comfortable for Anna, and Creed set her down. She pulled the top sheet and one blanket over her.
“Thank you,” Anna said, her smile adoring. Creed wondered what had happened. Hadn’t she treated him in a matter-of-fact way until now? Yet piercing his confusion was that feeling of compassionate warmth. How could she touch him so deeply with a look?
Anna and Jonny may have replaced his eyes, but not his tear ducts. Wetness formed beneath Creed’s lower lids. He gave a curt nod and looked toward the window.
When one entered Anna’s room, there was a door on the right wall and a door on the left. The left was slightly open, and Creed saw a bath within. Jonny went to the one on the right and opened it.
“Bed. F-for you.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “You should stay here. It’s the safest place for you.”
Creed approached Jonny and looked in. The small room, perhaps five feet by twelve, had a bed large enough for a tall man, certainly better than what had greeted him in the marshals’ jail house. Creed stepped in and let the tears run down his cheeks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jonny awoke to the sound of insistent knocking. Though a heaviness in his head threatened to draw him back to sleep, he forced himself to sit. H
e glanced at the clock, which read four fifteen. He had slept not quite six hours. Yawning, he stepped to the door.
Opening it, he found Maybelle Templeton on the other side. Her perfume smelled of sweet alyssum, contrasting the heavy smell of bacon from the kitchen, and curly red hair cascaded over her shoulders with loose ringlets laying against her forehead. “Jonny. Can I speak with Anna?”
“She… She’s sleeping.”
Maybelle stared at him as though her face had been frozen in ice. Jonny straightened up, proud he could communicate again, even with difficulty.
“Oh.” Maybelle blinked. “You can talk! And… blood? What happened?” Maybelle looked over Jonny's shoulder. “Anna, what happened to Jojo?”
Jonny held a hand out to keep her from barging into the room. He tapped his chest. “Jonny. Not J-Jojo. Please.” He gestured toward the work clothes he still wore, with patches of Anna’s blood on his legs and chest. He hadn’t bothered to change them both in his concern for her and his exhaustion. “From Anna. Sh-she… needs sleep.”
“It's all right,” came Anna’s groggy voice. “Let her in.” Johnny stepped back and closed the door behind Maybelle. Her short skirt showed off her stocking-clad legs, and her frilly pink orchid overskirt billowed as she rushed to Anna’s side.
“I'll fill you in shortly, May.” Anna placed her hand over the dove's. “Get the girls together. You and Jonny are going to have a talk with them. You’re in charge of the brothel for the next week, time for me to heal. If you have any questions, go to Jonny first.”
“Hard to…” Jonny pointed to his mouth.
“You need to practice,” Anna said. “Tell the girls who aren't with men. I'll tell the others later. Hold a meeting in the third-floor parlor.”
After Maybelle left, Johnny and Anna spoke, kissed, and had a look at her wound. It already looked better, skin knitting together around the stitches. Jonny stripped then gave his face, chest, and hands a cursory wash in the bath tub. He dressed in clean clothes: denim pants, a bib shirt, thick socks, and his leather boots.
Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1) Page 23