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J.B. slapped him on the back.
"Told you so," the Armorer said, grinning. "Dean's tough as shoe leather."
"He's young and strong, and everything went textbook perfect. Oh, he'll have
some scars, but the rib will be fine and there's no danger of paralysis or
blindness."
Walking to a punch bowl filled with bottled water and contact-lens cleaner, a
mild solution of boric acid, Mildred washed her bare hands clean, using a
spare toothbrush to scrub extra hard under her fingernails.
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Apparently, in predark days, business executives traveled unexpectedly a lot.
Most of the offices here had travel packs in the desks. The old materials were
a perfect mix for surgery mouthwash, soap, floss.
And the first-aid box in the receptionist's desk had given her enough iodine
solution for postop, once she revitalized the dried crystals with sterile
water.
"So he'll be okay," Ryan said without emotion.
Patting her hands dry, Mildred snorted. "You should be so healthy."
On a nearby table, a glass pot of MRE coffee was simmering over a candle. J.B.
poured Mildred a cup, added two sugars and brought it over. She accepted the
brew gratefully and slumped into an empty office chair. Mildred took a sip and
for the first time in a long while didn't grimace in distaste. By God, even
this military boot cleaner was good after six hours of meatball surgery.
Homemade masks, flour, water and newspaper to make papier-mache for the cast,
fishing line for sutures, vodka to wash the floor& Hawkeye Pierce, eat your
heart out.
Seeing her actions, Ryan drained his own cup untasted and stiffly stood. "Can
I see him?"
"Sure. You couldn't wake Dean with a bomb. I shot enough sodium pentathol into
him to keep him asleep for hours. Had to guess at the dosage, it was so old
and weak. But he'll be out for quite a while."
"You sure?" Ryan asked, taking a spare mask off the small pile on a restaurant
countertop.
Typical concerned parent. Mildred kept her voice soothing. "Yes, Mr. Cawdor,
everything went fine.
Dean will be his old self in a few months."
"Months?" Krysty repeated. "Mildred, we can't stay here that long."
J.B. offered the physician a refill, but Mildred waved it off. Sleep was what
she needed most now.
"Don't have to. We can leave as soon as Dean wakes. Maybe tomorrow."
"Hallelujah." Doc sighed.
"We just have to take it real easy going over those dunes," Mildred continued,
fighting a yawn. "I don't want my fine stitching to pop and have to go in
again. I'm out of 4-0 silk, and you folks can't afford the blood."
It was true. The companions were exhausted from the transfusions. Just prior
to the operation, Mildred had taken a pint and a half from each of them, the
maximum that could be safely drained without endangering the giver. Only
Ryan's blood type matched his son's, so the rest went into mason jars and they
were swung overhead at the end of a rope for hours until the clear plasma and
the blood cells
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separated. Mismatch blood types, and a patient suffered horribly. But anybody
could accept anybody's plasma. Some mighty fine engineering there by the Lord,
as her father used to remark during his Sunday services.
Not bothering to try to stifle her next yawn, Mildred noticed a lack of
enthusiasm from the others.
"I said he's going to be fine," she stated irritably. "Why all the long
faces?"
"Skyscraper on fire," Jak said, resting his elbows on his knees, his snowy
hair tumbling down to hide his scared features.
The physician frowned. "Still? I thought J.B. said the fires died from the
cocktails he and Doc used on the muties."
"This is the new baron's work," Ryan said, stepping from the bedsheet tent,
carrying the other lantern.
Mildred was right; the boy seemed fine. He put down the lantern he had brought
out and turned off the wick. No sense wasting fuel. Dean would sleep
regardless, and they were low on juice.
"Set fire to a whole building, just to get rid of us?"
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"More likely to flush us out of hiding," J.B. stated, polishing his glasses on
the sleeve of his new shirt.
Smelled a bit musty, but it was nice and thick.
"Me, specifically," Krysty said, tearing open an MRE pack. Suddenly her
appetite was back with a vengeance. Using her teeth to open a foil envelope of
corned-beef hash, she dug in with the attached plastic spoon. One hundred
years old at room temperature, and it tasted like ambrosia.
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