Zero looked over at Denny, who shrugged noncommittally, and then back to Justin. “Well…” Zero said sheepishly, “I was kinda hoping that you would work on them.”
“Me?” Justin said sharply. “But those people need operations, complex procedures! I may be able to administer first aid, but I can’t perform surgery!”
“Why not?” asked Zero. “We have everything you’d need, back at the House. Scalpels and forceps and all of that, plus uni-plasma, whole blood, monitors, anesthetic, all kinds of drugs and anti-biotics and such.”
“But,” Justin protested helplessly, “but I’m an epidemiologist! I can’t go cutting into people! What did you do with the wounded before I came, anyway?”
“Our best,” Denny stated. “It’s not like we had any choice, so we just plain did what we had to do. Dug out the slugs, stitched up the holes… some lived, some didn’t.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Justin, holding his head. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Zero clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Doc,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do it if you’re not up to it. We’ll muddle through. We always have.”
Justin knew that the man was clumsily applying some sort of reverse psychology, but that didn’t change the situation; if he didn’t operate on the wounded, Denny would. And it didn’t sound like Denny was all that great with a scalpel. Finally, heaving a sigh that went right down to his toes, Justin nodded.
“Alright,” he said miserably. “Against my better judgment and every rule of medical ethics, I’ll do it.”
“Good man!” grinned Zero. When Justin didn’t say anything, he again patted him on the shoulder. “Try to look at it this way, Doc—we all have to do stuff that we’re not really qualified to do. I mean, look at me! Do you think I was trained to lead a post-apocalyptic community? Hell no! But we all gotta do what we can. Right?”
“Yes, of course,” said Justin, “but this is different. This involves people’s lives.”
“Thing is,” said Denny gravely, “these people are sure to die if we don’t do something. If I work on ‘em, they just might not. And if you work on ‘em? Well, I’d say they stand a lot better chance. A hell of a lot better.”
“Yes, yes,” said Justin irritably. “I said I’d do it and I will. Now where are the patients?”
Eight hours later, with the last suture in place and all of his patients still alive, Justin stripped off the micro-pore gloves, tossed them into the waste bin with bits of organ and tissue and wads of bloody sponges, sighed deeply, and looked at his two assistants.
“Well,” he said thinly, “we did the best we could. Thank you both for your assistance.”
Cass, looking somewhat frazzled and very tired, only nodded.
“You’re welcome,” said Denny. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did a fine job.”
“Yes, well,” Justin said, “I hope that it was good enough. That hepatic lobectomy was very difficult.”
“I know,” said Denny. “But it’s something that I wouldn’t have even tried. I would have had to oversew the liver, most likely, and who knows if that would’ve worked? No, you should be proud, Doctor. Seriously.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Justin. “But I don’t feel very proud. Let me ask you, though, does this sort of thing—gun battles, that is—do they happen very often?”
“Maybe once or twice a month,” said Denny. “Depends on the time of year. We get a lot more attacks in the summer, but it slacks off in the winter.”
Justin shook his head. “Amazing. Simply amazing. But, as for the wounded, do you have people to monitor their conditions? Because I could really use some rest.”
“Sure thing,” said Denny. “We’ll keep an eye on ‘em. You go get some sleep.”
Justin exhaled slowly and deeply, rotated his cramped shoulders, and nodded. After a quick check to see that all four of his charges were still stable and receiving adequate post-surgery care (which, a bit surprisingly, they were), he collected Cass and followed her to their new quarters on the third floor of the House. Fortunately—and probably primarily due to the look on his face—no one asked about either the battle or the aftermath, and Justin was free to stumble over to an unoccupied bed, flop down, and fall into an exhausted slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Don’t miss the 5th Annual International Street Games! Featuring star Mugger Felix “the Mangler” Hernandez and Handgunning rookie sensation Argument Lewis! Live from the mean streets of downtown Detroit, the 3-day event will also include Safecracking, Freestyle Pimping, Fence Jumping, Hood Chase, and Busted Bottle Matches! Street Games! The only Real sport in the world, punkass!
It was hard for the Hunter to sit back and watch the firefight at the Farm. A strong part of him thrilled at the sights, sounds, and smells of battle and yearned to open up with everything he had on the scumbag attackers, but he’d kept himself in check and, with one notable exception, caused neither side any harm. But he’d wanted to help the defenders, mainly because he liked these people. Baron Zero, the Farm, the House, indeed the whole setup, from what he could see and hear from outside observation, was about the best post-Fall enclave he’d ever seen. They had electricity, fresh food, some kind of mercantile system, you name it! In short, a real society. And, unlike New America, the next best in his estimation, it wasn’t run by the Governor. Hell, that fat bastard would never have even considered leading his people in a fight! No, this Zero dude seemed much more like the Hunter’s kind of people.
Through the scope on his slugthrower, he’d kept an eye on the tall guy from the CDC, the one they called Doctor Case; after all, with the Old Man safe inside the House, Case was the only one of the group in which he was technically interested. He’d watched as the fight had broken out and the slugs had started flying, and then (with some admiration) as Case did his doctor thing.
He was still watching when the scrawny banger chick with the bald head had popped up out of the smoke and had made to drill Case between the eyes. Quick as lightning, he scanned the battlefield, but no one noticed Case’s predicament; the doctor was about to be shot dead. Deciding in a millisecond, the Hunter zoomed back in on the enemy woman, sighted his shot, and squeezed the trigger. Among the greater noise, the report from his rifle, coming as it did from almost a half mile away, had gone unnoticed, but the attacking woman had flopped over, head-shot, and died. You owe me one, Doctor, he’d thought.
The rest of the fight didn’t concern him, but he was glad to see the defenders finally win out. With the society they were building, they (unlike the dumb-ass survie gang, who undoubtedly lived for nothing more than their next beer), deserved a chance.
Having watched Case, the Old Man, and the others present themselves to the House’s authorities, the Hunter had considered doing the same, but then decided against it. Even if the CDC folks had never seen him, there was always a risk that someone else might recognize him and tip his hand. After all, he had built something of a name for himself. No, better to stay out in the open, where he could watch and listen and take to the road if things went sour. Besides, with his parabolic mics and high-powered scopes, it was almost like being there, anyway, and he’d managed to not only glean the names and occupations of each of the surviving CDC crew but also of the various officials and methods of Baron Zero’s House. Not that the information really helped him in any tangible way, as these peoples’ names and jobs weren’t anything of concrete value, but then again, he also knew that knowledge was always power. In addition, he’d been able to affix a name to his target: Mr. Howard P. Lampert.