by Connor Mccoy
Christian was at his shoulder, “The quartermaster thinks Arthur is ready to travel, Doc. Do you want to take a look before we move him?”
Glen went to Arthur, who seemed to be struggling to stay conscious. “Hey there, Mr. Davis, are you ready for a ride?” There was blood on his face, and he was lying with his knees drawn up and his arms around his abdomen. “The quartermaster tells me you don’t have any broken limbs.”
“They mostly aimed for my soft places,” Arthur croaked. “I think one of them was wearing pointed-toe cowboy boots. Shit kickers and I was the shit.”
“Do you know why?” Glen asked.
“No. Do you?” Arthur narrowed his eyes.
Glen realized the man thought they might be responsible for his beating and almost was shocked. But then why wouldn’t he believe that? They had reason to hate him.
“No, I don’t. We have far more reason to keep you safe than to do you harm,” Glen said. “It’s you who will decide our fate, after all.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur said. “But you also may have reason to keep me from watching too closely.”
“Not our style,” Christian cut in. His voice was hard. “If we were the type of people to do this, you wouldn’t have taken our side, would you?”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Arthur croaked. “Does anyone have water? I have blood in my mouth.”
“If you can wait, I’d prefer we took care of that back at the clinic,” Melvin said. “I’d rather you didn’t vomit on the way.”
Arthur nodded and closed his eyes while the men rolled him onto a third sheet. They then lifted and settled him onto the trailer. He groaned as they set him down, but otherwise seemed unharmed by the transfer.
The trip back seemed faster to Glen, trotting alongside Arthur, performing the role of ambulance attendant and keeping an eye on the injured man. They slowed as they reached the museum and proceeded more sedately down the driveway to the clinic door.
There was already a small group of people waiting to be seen, but Robbie herded them aside, making room for the trailer to park stern end against the bottom step. The waiting patients tried pushing forward to see Arthur, but the boys held them back with threats of non-treatment for those who did not listen to instructions.
“Quartermaster,” Glen said, “go in and make sure the women have a bed ready. Tech, help me carry Arthur in.”
But then the door opened, and Mia and Sally quickly came down the stairs, each grabbing a corner of the sheet on either side of Arthur’s feet.
“Third door on the left,” Sally said. “There’s a bed made up.”
They lifted and carried Arthur in carefully, maneuvering him gently down the hall and through the door to the examination room previously known as the dining room. Mia left the room to set up in the reception area, along with Melvin and Christian who would begin seeing patients. Sally stayed to help Glen.
As she left Mia heard Glen call Sally “Nurse,” and Sally’s curt reply, “That’s P.A. to you, Orderly.” Mia smiled. Sally would have them all under orders by the end of the day, but Mia personally thought P.A. would be shortened to P. by the end of forty-eight hours.
She double-checked that her desk was ready, notebook open and waiting for the list of patients, then she opened the door and asked the people waiting to come in. They flooded into the hall, lining up in an orderly manner without being told. They came one by one, or mother and children, to her desk to be logged in and sent into the kitchen to wait for their names to be called.
She’d found a stack of green sheet notebooks in the museum’s business office – now the clinic’s office – and she used them to record the patient’s name and ailment, but she assumed that, eventually, they would need to make files for each patient so they could see the treatment history. She wondered where she might find file folders in this city, maybe a law office or bank? And paper for the doctors to make notes on. She and Christian would have to work on that.
She’d been afraid when she’d taken on the job of receptionist, well, office manager really, that she would be lonely, stuck here at her desk all day. But the patients were friendly, and Sally and Christian made a point of stopping in to check on her as they looked at the list for each new patient. It wasn’t lonely at all.
And when the patients stopped on the way out to offer payment, Mia was surprised and pleased by the variety of offerings. Their first patient of the day, a middle-aged woman with a festering cut on her hand, offered a dozen eggs. It was a much-needed source of protein that got Mia to thinking about raising chickens. She’d have to ask Robbie if it was worth the trouble.
A dozen red potatoes made her think of growing vegetables when the spring came around again. A quart of milk made her think of cows, but she put that out of her head. Cows would require too much food to be worth the amount of milk they might produce. But maybe goats.
When Sally came to get her next patient’s name, Mia asked her, “Have you ever tried goat’s milk?”
“No.” Sally raised her eyebrows. “Do you have some?”
“No, no. I was just thinking about it, that’s all.” Mia looked down at her ledger. “Roger Tinker, possible broken arm,” she said. And Sally went off again. She wondered if goats were any easier to keep than cows.
She almost rejected the herd of rabbits that a boy with painful acne and an aching tooth had brought in. “Fresh, I promise.” She steeled herself and sent Robbie to the basement with them, so they’d stay cool. Just because she didn’t have the stomach to eat bunnies, that didn’t mean the others should be deprived of the opportunity to eat meat.
When Christian came to relieve her for lunch and a bathroom break, Mia went to see how Arthur was doing. He was sitting up in bed, sipping water and looking far better than when they’d brought him in. His face was bruised and swollen, his nose broken and the skin around his eyes black and purple, but his eyes were bright, and he smiled when she popped her head around the door.
“Looking for company?” she asked.
“If you have time to spare,” he said and gestured at the bowl in front of him. “A little company might help me forget what I’m eating.
“Just let me grab my lunch, and I’ll eat with you,” she said.
There was leftover oatmeal in the pot in the apartment, and she ladled herself a bowl. She’d given up expecting food to be flavorful. If it filled her stomach, then that was all she could ask for. She carried it back to the clinic.
“So, what do you usually eat?” she asked when she was settled. “I noticed the food smelled good when I was at the Court.”
He cringed. “Sorry about that. The cook doesn’t feed people she feels might be executed. It seems like a waste to her. But yes, we have a kitchen full of workers and a good supply of fruit and vegetables. We often have meat as well, but I never ask what I’m eating. I really don’t want to know if I’m eating someone’s pet. But usually, it’s fish.”
“Usually it’s oats,” Mia looked at her bowl and wrinkled her nose. “But at least I’m not starving somewhere.”
“I’ll have to see if I can get you some spices for your oats,” Arthur said. “You could have a little variety.”
“Do you think you could? That would be wonderful.” She took a bite and chewed, thinking how to ask the questions she wanted the answers to. Probably best to just be blunt. “Do you know who did this to you?” she asked.
“No, it was dark. But I have three possibilities.” He took a tentative bite of his food.
“Let me guess, we are one of the possibilities?” she said.
“As a matter of fact, yes. It didn’t escape me that you might not want someone watching over your every move.” His eyes searched her face.
“Not our style,” Mia said. “We have enough work without adding another patient to the load. Who else?”
“It did occur to me that someone from the Court might want to teach me a lesson. Or it could just have been a random attack.”
“Seems a bit brutal to be rand
om,” she said. “But I guess these are brutal times.”
“Well, it also could have been the family and friends of someone the Court put to death. That’s probably closer to the truth.” He sighed and looked down at his hands. “People don’t understand that if they want the rule of law, there are going to be consequences. Laws must be enforced to be effective.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be walking the streets alone at night. You’d be safer if you stayed here,” she said.
“But then you’d be under observation twenty-four hours a day. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Everyone needs some downtime.”
“Well, you’d better go home during daylight then. So this doesn’t happen again.” She spooned another bite into her mouth, dropping some onto her shirt.
“Darn it!” She lifted her shirt and licked the food from it. “Washing oatmeal out of clothes is such a pain.”
She noticed Arthur was studying his bowl and blushing. Her face got hot, and she pulled her top back down over her belly. She’d been around Glen and Christian so long she’d forgotten that not everyone was comfortable with bare skin. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m all covered up again.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I just can’t seem to get used to this culture of easy acceptance of people’s bodies. I was raised to look away when a woman’s torso was exposed. It must be deeply ingrained because I still do it, even now.”
“No harm in that, Arthur. A little respect goes a long way.” She smiled and ate the last bite.
“What is your name?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem fair that you know mine, but I don’t know yours.”
“Melvin Foles,” she said automatically. “But you can call me M.”
“M for Melvin?” he asked.
“You could say that.” She smiled at him again. “I’ll come and see you again later. We could play a quick game of cards.”
“Sounds delightful. Do you think you could find out when I’m going to be released? I’d like to know.”
“Sure,” she said, but secretly thought it would be at least a day or two. The doctor would want to be sure there was no internal bleeding.
“See you later, then,” he called as she left the room. Already the place had become too quiet for him.
Chapter Seven
Arthur’s injuries kept him in bed for five days. The doctor let him get out of bed when his pee was clear, and he could urinate without pain. His ribs still were sore, at least one had been cracked, and he was taped up like a mummy. His nose was broken and along with possibly a cheekbone, but he would heal, and once healed no one would know the difference, or at least that’s what P said.
He’d been unsuccessful at getting any of them to tell him their names, but he was getting to know their characters. The Doctor checked on him twice a day, was briskly efficient but careful not to cause undue pain. The Tech appeared only when they wanted to change his sheets or wash him. He was the muscle, be he also handled Arthur with care. The Quartermaster checked in once daily to see if he needed anything. The man also was treating patients, if what M said was true.
He saw M and P the most. P as in charge of his daily care and checked in every couple of hours to take his temperature and examine color and amount of his urine. She joked about never wanting to be a nurse, but she seemed to take to the work well enough. M came in for lunch every day. She chatted about the foods people brought as payment, and the day a jar of honey arrived she was ecstatic. Finally, a little flavor for her oats.
To be fair, they hadn’t been eating only oats. The Quartermaster made an excellent rabbit stew the first day Arthur had been here and had reworked it the next day for lunch. The second time around it was so spicy that Arthur’s mouth burned and his eyes watered, but he was grateful to eat something with flavor in it.
On the day that Arthur finally was allowed to observe the team, he started by following the Doctor. It shortly became clear that the Doctor favored women and children and made the men wait while the Quartermaster took people strictly in order.
“Are you a father?” Arthur asked him as he examined a child who was suffering from malnutrition.
“I was once,” the doctor said. “Not any longer.”
He turned his attention back to the child, and Arthur thought he was wrong. He may not realize it, but he approached the children differently than the others. Like a parent, rather than just a concerned adult.
He was about to question the doctor about this when there was a commotion in the hall and M’s voice rose above the clatter. “We’ve got an emergency here, I need a room.”
The mother stood up and gathered her daughter into her arms. “We’ll wait,” she said and took her child back into the waiting room.
“Here!” the Doctor called, and handed Arthur a bottle of alcohol and a rag. “Sterilize,” he said.
Arthur sterilized the table, the chairs, and the counter surfaces. By the time he had finished a man had come in carrying an unconscious toddler. They laid the child on the table and Arthur pressed himself against the wall out of the way, while the Doctor went to work.
“P.A., I need you,” the Doctor yelled, and within seconds she was in the room, gently pushing the father out of the way, back across the hall into the waiting room, before she was back in the room and assisting the Doctor.
“What happened,” the Doctor asked P.
“She fell out of a window, twenty feet, onto hard packed dirt. Her father picked her up and brought her straight here.”
“How did she land?”
“Flat on her back,” P said. “It knocked the breath out of her, but she started breathing again immediately, luckily, or we’d have bigger problems than a concussion.”
P and the Doctor went to work assessing the injuries as if he weren’t in the room observing. They examined the child from head to foot, and Arthur heard words like “broken,” which he understood, followed by words like, “medial epicondyle,” which he wasn’t so sure of.
Being an observer had become uncomfortable. He was trying not to be in the way, but it was clear he was superfluous, and it felt unforgivable not to be helping under the circumstances. He was considering the best way to push past them and out of the room when the Quartermaster stuck his head in the door.
“I could use a hand if you’re not busy,” he said and disappeared again before Arthur could respond.
He squeezed past as unobtrusively as he could, not bothering to apologize, because that just would be another distraction from the child. Out in the hall, he felt a sense of relief but also realized that he was shaking. This was not easy work.
The Quartermaster stuck his head out of a door down the hall, “down here,” he said, and Arthur went to join him.
A young man was sitting on the table in the examining room, dripping blood from a wound on his leg. He was shaking, and every time the Quartermaster even came near him he jerked his leg away, causing it to bleed more copiously.
“I just need you to hold his leg still,” the Quartermaster said, “the poor kid is trying, but he can’t stop jerking it away. If you could just sit here and grasp his ankle.” He indicated a low stool.
Arthur sat and rested the boy’s ankle on his knee. There was a deep gash on the inside of his calf, and it made him feel queasy. He looked out the window into the courtyard while the Quartermaster cleaned and stitched it, keeping up a quiet dialogue with the patient. Every so often the boy would jerk or gasp in pain, but he held tight, and it wasn’t too long before the work was done.
“You need to come back tomorrow to have this checked,” the Quartermaster said as he rolled a sterile bandage around the offending leg. “If it’s good tomorrow, then we’ll see you again in two days. Meanwhile, stay the hell off bike that gave you this,” he said, pointing to the boy’s leg, “and try to rest. It will heal faster if you do.”
The boy slid off the table, and the Tech helped him hobble to the waiting room, where a couple of girls were waiting for him. One of them was covered in
blood and Arthur concluded she must have carried him to the clinic. The girls each took a side and kept him steady as he hopped out of the room.
“What’s the hell, bike?” Arthur asked the Quartermaster, who looked at him and shook his head.
“They modified a bicycle so that if you pull a lever, a saw blade pops off the forks and punctures the enemy’s tire. It malfunctioned, which I told them it would do, but nobody listens, do they?”
“Apparently not,” Arthur said. “Could you use my help? I feel useless with the others.”
“Sure,” the Quartermaster said. “P is helping Doc, M is checking people in, and Tech is performing triage. I could use a hand. I gotta warn you, though, I tend to get the cases that come with a lot of blood and mud. The Doc’s skills are wasted on basic stitches and clean-up, so they come to me.”
Arthur swallowed and nodded. Not his forte, but better than feeling useless while someone else saved a child’s life. At least he hoped they had saved her.
“Is every day like this?” he asked. “All these emergencies?”
“I haven’t really been working the day shift all that long,” the Quartermaster said. “But I think so. There hasn’t been a night in the last year or more that I haven’t dragged dead bodies to the street to be taken away. Many of these patients would die if we didn’t treat them.
“Even minor wounds can kill if they get infected. And around here, everything gets infected. I know a woman who packs wounds with moldy bread and botanicals she’s collected. Antibiotics work better, of course, but she does save some.”
“What do you think the biggest health issue has been since the EMP?” Arthur asked.
“The lack of vaccinations,” the Quartermaster said. “I’m afraid all the old diseases are going to start cropping up again: measles, chickenpox, typhoid, bubonic plague. If those take hold, we’ll start losing huge sections of the population. We’ll lose our workforce because it’s the young who don’t have immunity.”