The infirmary was one of the few buildings in Grand Caverns that used Old World structural materials. It was built on the foundations of a large warehouse whose steel columns and trusses remained strong. This skeleton allowed for the massive warehouse to be refurbished by replacing any Old World panelling with large, roughshod wood trunks.
She arrived at the same time as a galloping horse and rider. The rider was holding steady a man draped over the back of the horse. Flora immediately ran to him.
“You a healer?” the rider asked.
“Healer’s assistant.”
“Fine, help me.”
Flora helped the rider with the man’s limp body, hoisting him through the air into the infirmary. There were already three beds being used, occupied by men who were moaning or dead. One man was screaming behind a curtain, the silhouette of a frenetic surgery projecting on the translucent screen.
Healer Stormwind glanced up from winding a bandage around a man’s arm to catch Flora’s eye. “Take that one to the back, next to the pit. I’ll be there soon.”
She didn’t like going to the back of the infirmary, especially near the pit, but it wouldn’t be a good time to argue.
Flora and the rider placed the man on an old cot next to the pit. The rider left without a word.
The pit was made of an amalgam of finely mortared quartz and other light rocks. It was a beautiful piece of masonry installed in the infirmary decades ago. Fortunately, it was rarely used, for it was where they were supposed to place the newly dead. The smooth white surface would be a stark contrast against tortured limbs and spilled blood.
The patient was a gruff-looking man, with a buffet of hair adorning his chin and other smooth, dark strands covering most of his arms. His complexion was pale, though, and his leather shirt was soaked in crimson and perforated with what looked to be a bullet hole. Flora checked the man’s pulse and breathing. Nothing.
She fought back a wave of nausea and began chest compressions. “One, two, three, four…”
“How long has he been dead?” Stormwind appeared and Flora stepped aside.
“I don’t know.”
Stormwind checked his pulse. “Get rid of the body. We will need the bed. More are coming in.”
“Where do we put the body?”
“There’s a cart, outside.”
“Not in the pit?”
“Curator’s orders.”
“Oh, okay.” It was a relief that she wouldn’t be working next to a pile of dead bodies, but she wondered why the curator would care about such a trivial thing.
A voice yelled, “Three more coming in!”
She didn’t have time to contemplate the matter any further. With help from another assistant, she lifted her dead patient by the ankles and swayed him through the aisles toward the front door.
In the center of the courtyard was a large cart. It already had two dead bodies draped over the back gate, uncovered. Flora and her helper added the third.
A crowd was gathering outside the infirmary, drawn by the bells. Some were crying, some were looking in horror at the dead men in the cart, and some were making derogative statements about the Spokes. A few of Chief Darkwind’s deputies were managing the crowd.
She tried to control her breathing. She tried to force her eyes not to focus on the corpses. Mind over matter, she thought. They are just flesh and bone. People live, people die.
More horses were galloping in, carrying additional injured. She overheard one of the horsemen talking, saying they had the Spokes on the run, and that it should be over soon, but more wounded were coming.
Flora’s next patient was very much alive. His face was a mask of anguish, and blood was pulsing out from his abdomen. He looked to be barely older than Talon. She needed to ascertain the nature of the wound, but she was having trouble focusing. She tried to contain her nausea. “Just flesh and blood,” she said to herself. “Like water and wine,” she said again aloud.
She cleaned the wound until Stormwind came over. He immediately dove his forceps into the man’s abdomen, seeking out the bullet. The mask of anguish on the man’s face exploded into a scream. He convulsed on the table.
“Hold him!” Stormwind yelled. Another assistant came over to take the side opposite Flora.
She couldn’t contain it any longer. The tendrils of nausea were escalating up her throat. She propelled herself to the edge of the pit just in time to spew out her half-digested lunch.
“At least we’re using the pit for something,” Stormwind said, barely glancing her way, no humor in his voice.
Flora felt faint and was slow to get up from her perch over the edge. She pushed herself and then stumbled back over into the cot, nearly knocking it over.
“Whoa!” Stormwind exclaimed in tandem with another cry from the patient.
Flora put her hands on her knees.
“Get yourself together, Flora!” Stormwind barked. He continued to wrestle with his forceps as he aggressively interrogated the man’s flesh.
Flora stumbled out the back of the infirmary and found a seat on an outcropping of Old World concrete. She tried to fight off the dizziness and nausea, but it wouldn’t relent.
Flora had always hated the sight of blood, but she’d hoped she could be put on less invasive procedures. Who knew there would be such a bloodbath just days after she’d completed training?
They needed the money and… Reed had insisted she take the position. But now she’d made a fool of herself and maybe even jeopardized the life of a patient.
Her worries ascended, making a foul cocktail with her physical distress. She worried about whether they would cut her from the infirmary staff. She worried about not having enough rations for Talon, Skye and Clover. She worried about what Reed would say, and what he would do.
A teardrop propagated down her face, but she caught it with her thumb and wiped away the wetness before it could get past her cheek. She couldn’t let them see her like this. There were patients inside that needed her.
She tried to think of the only thing that brought her happiness. She tried to think of Granger. She entrenched herself in his memory, forcing out the worry, forcing out the nausea. It helped. She could feel the army at the gates of her mind begin to recede.
A few minutes later, when she was confident she had regained control, she gritted her teeth and marched back inside.
WE NEED TO MOVE
Upon seeing Jakson’s gutted throat, Noke only said, “We need to move.”
“But what about Cecile?” Owen objected.
Noke coughed, lurched over and spat out pink phlegm. “Forget about her,” he said. “She probably ate it, or maybe she’s been taken. Either way, they know where we are. The only reason they’re not attacking is because of our rifles, but it won’t last. We need to move.” Noke pointed through the woods.
Preston and Owen hoisted Noke again and pushed forward through the trees. Noke would take the occasional step with one of his legs, giving them brief respites from carrying all his weight. A few times the awkward trio stumbled after a difficult step down or a hidden tree root. Noke cringed but never cried out. Then they would lift him up and push forward again.
Preston encouraged them as they went. “We’ll get you all fixed up Noke. Don’t worry. Then we’ll come back together and take out every single one of those bastards.”
They travelled without incident for what seemed like a mile, intersecting with the rough path they came in on. From that point on the going was smoother. Birds chirped, the wind blew, and leaves fell around them. There was no sign of Essentialists.
“I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” Noke said.