Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (32 page)

“Fuck,” I say, leaning back hard on my heels. I’m supposed to be
avoiding
doing surgery this way.

“What is it? Oh God, did you kill me already?”

“No … your …
your arm
. Son of a bitch, how did I not think of this before?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Who knows, if this goes well maybe I can talk you through helping your friend, right?”

“I hate you.”

“Now sterilize the blade,” he says, smiling and going on. “Use the biggest knife on the tool. Give it a good burn on every side. Get one of those Ts out and rip off a few strips. Rinse your hands in the hydrogen peroxide, wipe them off on a T and then get some of that on the blade too. Good. Good. Dry off the blade and we’re ready to rock.”

“Jesus.”

“Take a deep breath, Allison,” he says, turning serious for a moment. Hearing my name, hearing him use a consoling tone of voice, helps. Not a lot, but enough to make me think I can handle this. When I look up at him his smile is gone. He’s not bad-looking once he eases off on the asshole grins. And the seriousness, the quiet pleading in his eyes that makes me steady my hands and turn back to his legs. It doesn’t matter if he can help Ted. Julian deserves to live too, even if he is a complete mongoloid.

“Take one of the strips and tie it tightly around my thigh a few inches above the metal. Damn it! Christ! Not
that
tight.”

“
Sorry!
Sorry, is that better?” This is already hard. Harder than he made it sound, anyway.

“Yes, that’s fine. You just need to slow the blood flow,” he says, wiping the back of his forehead with his left hand. He’s sweating too, the droplets collecting in his stubble. “Think of the shrapnel like a compass, okay? I’ll give you directions that way, so north is toward my belt, south toward my feet. Got it?”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“
Got it?
”

“Yes. Got it. Jesus, your legs are hairy. I can’t see a damn thing.”

“You’re going to insert the tip of the knife just to the east of the metal, touching it, okay? Then you’ll make a small incision, not too deep, and pull the knife east. East not south, never south, okay?”

“Sure,” I say, my voice trembling as I lift the knife. I’m waiting, waiting, hoping I won’t actually have to go through with it.

“Don’t worry, Allison, you’re doing fine.”

The knife goes in and it’s easy … Well, easy
ish
, less resistant than I expected. I hold my breath, forcing my hand to stay steady. I do as he says, dragging the knife an inch or two. The blood comes to the surface at once, outlining the path of the blade. It makes my hand start to shake so I pull it away.

“That’s normal. That’s supposed to happen,” he says gently. “You’re doing great. Now you’ve got some wiggle room so grab the metal. Don’t yank, just pull in one smooth motion. Draw a line with your eyes from the end of the metal out and away and follow that line. Smooth, just pull, don’t struggle against it, just let the path decide itself.”

I pull firmly but slowly, taking great care to try and feel how the metal is lodged in his leg, what the shape of it is. He’s lucky because it’s almost completely straight, not bent or curved, just dented here and there. It’s not so bad except for the blood bubbling up around the metal and the bright sheen of red coating the shrapnel itself. That’s when I start to smell it, the strong, coppery odor of human blood and my stomach starts to go again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re doing fine, you’re doing great,” he says, reading the pallor of my face. My lungs are starting to ache from holding my breath for so long but it helps to keep me steady. I can’t stop now, I have to just keep pulling, carefully, slowly, but with purpose. The metal seems to go on forever but then it comes free, the pointed end dripping a little as it comes away in my hand.

“You did it,” he says and we both breathe out at the same time.

“Fuck,” I say, dropping the shrapnel on one of the Ts. “Piece of cake.”

“That was just step one, sweetie. Now comes the real fun.”

Julian nods toward the iron, his blue-green eyes dancing with mischief.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes, because I’m bleeding now so there’s no going back. Pick it up, Allison. You know what to do.”

I can feel the heat of the iron even around the handle. The flat bottom is smoking, red-hot. I go fast, with a quick, hard strike before the doubts can start to form.

Julian claps a hand over his mouth but I still hear “Gaaagh-haagggghwhyamInotdrunk!”

Julian’s muffled squeal quickly dies down to a long, drawn-out hiss. If he keeps that up the guards will be joining us for his recovery. I pull the iron away and the flesh is sealed and bright red, the wound closed, cauterized. His leg smokes, and the smell of his burnt leg hair stamps out the stink of the fuel. There’s a distinctive pointed shape to the closed wound, like a Star Trek insignia, but with a few decorative dots.

Julian’s eyes are watering but there’s a smile through the cascade of tears.

“You did it! You fucking did it,” he says, grabbing my shoulder and shaking. I put the hot iron aside, noticing the transfer of his skin. It looks like rubbery wax molded across the top of the iron.

“So,” I begin, sitting back and wiping at the sweat on my face and neck, “can you walk?”

“Patience!” he says, chuckling. “Can I have a second or two? You
did
just burn the living hell out of my thigh.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Heh, look at that, it’s still smoking.”

“Something tells me you liked doing that a little too much.”

He lets go of my shoulder and leans back with a great heaving sigh. We sit in silence for a moment but I can’t rest, can’t stop thinking about Ted and his shoulder. What if he’s already dead?

“All right, let’s go,” Julian says, staring at me.

“Hmm?”

“Your friend, let’s go help him.”

“And how do you know it’s a him?” I ask. I get to my feet and extend a hand. It takes a moment or two of wrestling to get Julian up on his feet. He inhales sharply through his teeth, bouncing a little on his left foot as he feels the pain of the surgery. With his left hand he steadies himself, using my shoulder for balance. He’s tall, which wasn’t easy to tell when he was sprawled out on the floor.

“Honey, I know,” he says, “because I have eyes and because you walked your crazy ass in here to get me, a doctor.”

“It’s not like that, he’s just a good friend.”

“Well well well then … My day just gets better and better.”

“Just … No. Gross,” I say, shaking my head. “We’re leaving.”

“Lead the way, baby.”

COMMENTS

Isaac says:

November 1, 2009 at 12:03 am

You’re updating, which means you made it out. That’s a relief. And leg surgery? Well I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m sure as hell impressed!

November 2, 2009—The Comfort of Strangers

I have seen inside Ted.

“A toast!”

I turn, startled out of my thoughts. It’s Julian and he’s brought a bottle, hobbling up to me, the pain flickering in his face, in the tension of his body, but not in his voice. I’ve offered to keep the first watch, and maybe all the watches, since I can’t fathom resting until I know Ted is safely out of danger. Renny is with him and has promised to let me know as soon as he’s awake.

She was kind enough to let me know there’s a glimmer of wireless about twenty yards southeast of the camp.

“A toast?” I ask, turning to face Julian. “To what?” He joins me on the low concrete retaining wall at the north end of the encampment. He still smells of the hydrogen peroxide, of the rubbing alcohol, and I do too.

“To you, of course,” he says. “Or to us! Or—no—to something better: to potential! God knows you’ve got it.” He takes a big swig from the bottle and as he raises it to his lips I see the Johnnie Walker label wink in and out of view.

“Where the hell did you find that?” I ask, enthusiastically taking the slender bottle from him. I absolutely need a drink.

“Stole it from Sam,” he says. “Fuck, sorry, I mean Dobbs.” He scoffs, taking the whiskey back from me. His faces scrunches up as he swallows and his lips smack together with supreme satisfaction. I have to admit, I feel the same. I haven’t had booze this good since … Since sharing a drink with Collin.

Fuck.

“Won’t he be pissed?”

“Sure, but I’m his big brother. That’s what I’m for!”

The biceps tendon adheres the biceps muscle to the shoulder and stabilizes the joint. Four separate muscles originate on the scapula and pass out and around the shoulder where the tendons unite together to make up the rotator cuff …

“Hello? Allison?” he says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Jesus. I didn’t know.… I guess I’m so used to it, to surgery. Never shakes me up anymore.”

“I thought I was going to kill him. I think I held onto the same breath the whole time.” I can’t stop looking at my hands, at the blood still wedged in the cracks. Ted’s blood.

“Heads up.”

I follow Julian’s hand and see the decomposing Groaner shuffling toward us. He’s all but trumpeted his arrival, letting out one long depressed grunt. It’s as if he already knows we’re armed and ready. I pull the pistol out of my back waistband and drop him with three shots to the head. I might have done better but my hands won’t stop shaking.

“Nice,” Julian says, beaming at me. The man has no levels, there is only one. Big, white teeth glaring at you like the broadside of Moby Dick’s ass. Tail. Fin. Whatever. “I can see we’re in good hands.”

My hands are starting to steady and they look beautiful almost, perched on the tops of my thighs like two weary doves resting after a long flight. I can still see the muscles parting under the knife, the tissue, the
blood
 …

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“For what? You did it all, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that. And no, I didn’t do it all. I couldn’t have done that without you, not in a million years. So … thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, handing me the bottle.

“And thank you,” I continue, “for being nice.”

“I
could
be a lot nicer.”

I toss him a sideways glance to see if he’s kidding. He isn’t. And so, “Forget it,” I say, shaking my head.

“Roll those eyes any harder and you’ll be picking your corneas up out of the dirt.”

“Do you ever stop? I mean … ever?”

“Nope.”

The whiskey is a good, burning mouthful of honeyed smoke. I can feel the clear path it marks down my throat, warming as it goes. We sit in silence for a moment, the colorless, gray world stretched out in front of us, riddled with pain, riddled with danger. I wonder how many are coming toward us right now, how many are hobbling on broken legs, torn limbs, and all to get to us. What must their pain be? I hope they don’t suffer. I hope their existence is numb.

“If it’s not Ted, then who is it?”

Julian pries the bottle out of my hand and pauses with it halfway to his lips, waiting for my answer. For a total gimp he sure doesn’t seem too hindered, in the physical sense anyway.

“Oh Jesus, I can’t just turn you down because—shock and horror—I don’t find you attractive? I know that, being a doctor, you’re probably used to chicks throwing themselves at you or whatever but that’s not for me.”

“Okeydoke,” Julian says, shrugging his shoulder and nodding toward the field in front of us. Another Groaner limps toward us and I take aim. “But who is he?”

“He’s just … a guy. A married guy. A dumb married guy that I’ll never see again. Satisfied?”

“Not really,” he says, sipping the whiskey. “But it’s a start. I take it that against all fucking odds the wife’s still in the picture?”

“Yup.” The gun fires, hitting the Groaner square in the forehead.

“Ah-haaa. And you don’t much care for her?”

“Nope.”

“You tell him that?”

“Aren’t you a fucking doctor? Where the hell is your bedside manner? What kind of doctor are you anyway? No, wait, let me guess—OB/GYN?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I already offered to show you my bedside manner and, if memory serves—and it does—you turned me down.” He stops, hesitating for a moment before taking another swig of whiskey. Then, squinting away from me and into the distance he says, “I was a pediatrician.”

“Wow. Kids?”

“Kids.”

“That’s gotta be tough.”

“It is.” His voice is already deep and low, but it drops another register before he says, “But when things go right it’s just exactly where you wanna be.”

“See, that’s nice. That’s a nice change for you. I like you better when you’re being, you know, not a dick.”

For a moment I’m sure he’s going to retort, but he’s quiet, rubbing the edge of his jaw thoughtfully. The light is so strange here, so purely dark and yet glittering with stars. Without the lights of Iowa City to bleach out the moon and stars the glow from the sky is hypnotizing. I think about pointing this out but keep it to myself. Julian has changed his pants, abandoning the one-legged trouser look for a scuffed pair of dark khaki dungarees. He dresses like an Australian cattle herder, a roughneck, and yet it’s not quite a stretch to imagine him in a doctor’s coat.

“So,” he says after the long silence, “does Married Guy actually know that you’re torn up about this?”

“None of your business, really.”

“You got somewhere pressing to be? No? Didn’t think so.”

“You’re a man,” I say, humoring him. He hands me the whiskey bottle. “Would
you
know?”

“Phew, that’s loaded. But,” he says, gesturing with a little bow and a hand pointed to his chest, “if it were
me
, maybe I’d want someone to just smack me over the head and say, ‘Hey moron, your wife’s a bloodsucking harpy.’ ”

“That’s not my job. That’s not even my place.…” I should stop there, but the whiskey is starting to work and when that happens I feel like talking. And I have to admit that, unfortunately, talking helps. “A friend of mine used to say that, you know, if you like a guy who has a girlfriend then it’s fair game to tell him so. If he likes you better than her then there you go; if not, then at least you tried. But with married people it’s not fair to even plant that seed, you know? It’s just … destructive.”