“A crash, then,” said Justin numbly. “They crashed the truck.”
“Uh, yeh,” said Sharp, glancing quizzically at his companions. “That’s what I just said, hey? So we got him outta the truck, patched him up best we could, and he told us where you was, and now… well here we are, hey?”
“May we,” said Justin gesturing towards the car, “may we treat our friend? If he has a broken leg, we should attend to it as quickly as possible.”
“Huh?” said Sharp. “Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead. You dudes is whitecoats, eh?”
“Well,” said Justin, motioning Cass and two of her people forward, “I am a doctor, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeh, that,” said Sharp, bobbing his head, completing the bird look. “Anyhows, we don’t got the, like, right gearage to fix him up.”
After a quick inspection, Cass and her people ran out with a litter and carefully moved Dr. Poole from the car to the MedCenter as both groups looked on. Justin noticed that the woman—what had the man called her? Teresa?—was staring at him. Nervously, keenly aware that she was without a doubt the prettiest and sexiest woman he’d ever seen, he glanced at her and she looked away. Confused and frightened at the whole situation, he left the two groups to stare at each other and followed the litter into the truck.
Trying to concentrate on his work, he gave Dr. Poole a cursory exam and found that indeed, the man had a fracture of the right femur. Not too bad, really, in that it was still all in one piece and still contained by the skin, but the swelling was alarming and Dr. Poole’s generally bad condition—sunburned, dehydrated, and malnourished—made it imperative that he be treated at once.
Problem was, he was an epidemiologist, and most definitely not a surgeon. He knew where everything was and how it was all connected, and they had a full surgical suite, but he hadn’t cut anything open since the learning dissections of med school, twenty years ago. The very idea of wielding the scalpel and forceps made him start to sweat. But what choice did he have? Were any of the others any better qualified? And besides, maybe he wouldn’t have to cut Dr. Poole open. Maybe they could set the leg first and then see how it went from there. Unsure of what to do, Justin was still vacillating when Dr. Poole groaned weakly and opened his eyes.
“Kaes?” he managed, through chapped, blackened lips. “Is… is that you?”
“Yes, Dr. Poole, it’s me,” said Justin, managing a smile. “You’re in the MedCenter. You have a broken leg.”
“Oh, God, that’s right,” grimaced Poole. “The crash… But, what about the others? Gonzalez? Michaels?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Justin said, hanging his head. “Apparently you were the only survivor.”
“What?” said Poole querulously. “No, that’s not right—there were others! Schyevsky and Michaels, they were going for help!”
Justin shook his head slowly. “According to these people out there, they apparently died in the attempt. Exposure, maybe, or dehydration. Perhaps they succumbed to wounds sustained in the crash. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Jesus,” moaned Poole. “Those poor people! But what about Lampert? Is he still alright?”
“Yes,” Justin nodded emphatically. “We’ve managed to maintain half power here in the Center, and he is as well as can be expected for his age. And, judging solely by the way he complains, I’d say he’s not going anywhere soon.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Poole, slumping. “What about my leg? How bad is it?”
“Simple fracture. We still need to do some imaging on it, but, from what I can see, it hopefully will only require setting and a cast.”
“Well,” said Poole, “at least that’s some good news.”
“Yes, but you should rest now. We’ve got you on IVs for the dehydration and the morphadrine should kick in pretty soon, but there’s something I need to know first.”
“And that is?”
“These people, the ones who brought you,” said Justin, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “they say that they found you, that you’d crashed the truck. Is that true?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” said Poole, wincing. “I don’t recall all of the details, exactly, but I remember that we were being chased by some crazy maniacs on motorcycles, and then the road sort of petered out and, well, we just kept on going, right off a good twenty-foot drop. After that, things get kind of fuzzy.”
“But you were being chased? By Outlaws? Survies? On motorcycles?”
Poole nodded. “Three of ‘em, as I recall,” he said blearily. “Didn’t get a good look at ‘em. Usual road freaks, I suppose.”
And then Poole mercifully slipped into the arms of the drug; his eyes closed, his breathing deepened and became more regular, and his head lolled to one side like his neck was made of warm rubber. Justin had a great many more questions for the man, primarily to do with the away team’s efforts, but they would obviously have to wait. With an affectionate pat on the older man’s sun-scorched hand, Justin left Cass and her staff to take care of Poole, ordered a full set of imaging, and then left the chamber. He knew that he should get back outside, but he was so deeply enmeshed in his thoughts that he had to stop, lean against the MedCenter bulkhead, and try to puzzle things through.
These people, what had they called themselves? Bloodclaws? What should he make of them? Could they be trusted? They didn’t seem aggressive or violent, at least not so far, aside from the weapons that hung on them like Christmas tree ornaments. Maybe they were just regular folks, trying to survive in an unforgiving world. Maybe they could help out. Surely if he explained the importance of their mission, this Sharp person would understand and want to help.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe they were only pretending to be friendly. They were some kind of violent survie gang; the name alone told him that! And everyone knew about them. After all, these could have been, for all anyone knew, the very maniacs who’d chased Poole and the others off of the cliff in the first place! A knot of cold fear suddenly leapt into his throat. What should he do? Then a familiar and annoying sound, that of the Old Man, cut into his thoughts and he swore to himself and went to see what the problem was this time.
Moving quickly, he stalked down the length of the vehicle to the clean room and let himself in. As always, the climate-controlled, artificially lighted space was neat, spotless and more than occupied by its only full-time resident. The orderly named Greg was also there, sitting nervously in the hard chair, and rose as Justin entered.
“Dr. Kaes, I,” said Greg, then stopped, obviously terrified. “What’s going to happen? Those people out there—”
“People?” said Lampert suddenly. “What fucking people? Doc, this jackass won’t tell me anything. So c’mon, give. What’s goin’ on out there?”
“Dr. Poole has returned,” said Justin carefully. “Some local people rescued him, after the away team accidentally crashed the truck. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have time to—”
“Local people, huh? And these are, what? Like Joe Lunchbox and Sally Housecoat? Just regular folks, out for a drive or somethin’?”
“Well, no,” said Justin. “But they seem peaceful enough.”
“Uh huh,” said Lampert snidely. “And I bet that little Freaker chick in St Louis seemed pretty friendly to good old Chang, too! Right up until she stuck a shiv into his ribs! Damn it, Doc, when are you gonna start wising up? I mean, here, tell me this: how are these people of yours dressed? Are they wearin’ jeans and T-shirts? Business suits? White lab coats?”