Triage
Hugo Brooke would never exactly what it was he dreamed as he lay on the cold, stone floor of Dr. Micki’s storeroom, but he would remember the colors. Bright, bold flashes of red and gold with no form or substance, or great slashes of grey rising up before him and blocking out a multicolored sky he did not understand. At some point he was sure he was running from something without a face or name or body, and then a while later (or just before?) he was falling from a height he could not remember climbing toward something he could not see.
He didn’t scream as he became aware of the hands shaking him awake, but he did jump more than he would’ve admitted. Micki’s face eventually swam into view and he jerked forward as the events of the night rushed back into his mind. He looked past Micki and saw the dog dead the table where the man had first placed her.
No, a small, distant part of his brain corrected him. She isn’t dead, she’s just asleep.
And he saw after a moment this was true. Her massive, swollen belly gently shifted with each shallow breath she took and her large, pointed ears twitched from time to time of their own accord. Slim, translucent tubes had been connected to her wrists (Hugo wasn’t sure if dogs had wrists, but he didn’t know what else to call the parts of her legs that connected to her paws. Ankles?) and Hugo watched as they steadily fed liquids of different colors into her system.
Qzine, he remembered Micki saying. It’ll knock the teeth outta anything, from fever to gout. She’d said this more to herself than to Hugo (he’d quickly learned she had the habit of talking to herself while she was working) but he could still remember her preparing the dose to administer. What else had she pumped the dog full of? Something to rehydrate her and some sort of synthetic nutrient enzyme, he thought. Hugo’s head felt much too foggy to grapple with the details of a medical emergency such as this, so he looked past the dog to where he knew the man lay.
The table he lay atop of had been wheeled next to the dog’s own perch at some point after Hugo had fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember exactly when that had been. He glanced at his wireless and discovered it was almost half-past 8 o’clock. It had only been a little over 12 hours since he’d first arrived at Micki’s clinic, and he had no idea how so much could have happened in such a short time. He studied the man again. He was nowhere near as intimidating as he was while awake, but Hugo was still glad to be on the other side of the room.
“Want some coffee?” Micki asked, rubbing her eyes as she spoke. When she finished she flashed him another of her conspiratorial smiles, albeit a much more tired-looking version than the one he’d seen when he’d first met her, and he decided coffee was exactly what he needed.
“Thanks,” he muttered, feeling the dryness of his throat and a sudden, urgent pressure from his nethers as he pulled himself upright. “Might need to make a stop first, though.”
Micki nodded toward a door near where the man lay prone. “Washroom’s in there. It’s not as nice as the one for the patients’ owners out front, but it should do.”
Hugo was not thrilled about having to go so near the man in order to piss, but a quick assessment of his bladder assured him of the trip’s necessity. He nodded to Micki and she departed to get the coffee ready. He began towards the washroom but couldn’t help and linger near where the two patients lay. They looked so different to him now, unmoving and stuck full of needles and tubes. He continued to the small, tiled room and quickly relieved himself, feeling his shoulders relax for the first time in about 12 hours.
When he’d finally pissed all he had to piss he washed his hands and glanced up at himself in the washroom’s mirror. He looked as bad as Micki; light circles had formed under his eyes and his expression seemed dazed and far-away. He felt pretty dazed at the moment, so he assumed it was inevitable his face would betray at least some of that emotion.
He was trying very hard not to think too hard about what had happened last night, but as Micki poured his coffee into a spare mug she kept in her office and he felt its warmth spread through the cup and into his hands he couldn’t help but look back. If for no other reason than to try to sort out what had actually happened and what he’d made up while he was asleep, part of him needed to relive the night’s events and at least attempt to make sense of them.
ⓍⓍⓍ
He’d felt his mouth gape open as Micki had actually moved toward the dog as the man had asked her to. His gut had screamed at him to run away from this and drag Micki with him, but he was still on his knees after the man had kicked his legs out from under him.
Micki had approached the table slowly, the dog’s dark, glittering eyes never leaving her, and reached out a shaking hand to touch the dog. It had let out a thundering growl when Micki’s hand had gotten close to it, and Hugo remembered feeling himself shrink back from it as every primal instinct demanded he flee from this dangerous unknown.
“What’s her name?” Micki had asked, her voice only slightly shaking. She’d never taken her eyes off the dog, but Hugo had known she was asking the man.
“Le Fay,” the man had mumbled, swaying as he knelt behind Micki. Hugo had wondered how long it would be before the man passed out and Hugo could drag Micki out of this place. “Third of her name. Lex’s pack.”
Hugo hadn’t understood what that had meant at the time and he didn’t feel any closer to understanding as he sipped his coffee. He wasn’t even sure the dog’s name was Le Fay, he realized. It could have been Leafy or Lefty for all he knew, but for some, unshakable reason he was sure the man had called her Le Fay.
“Hello, Le Fay,” Micki had said, some of the shakiness evaporating from her voice as she’d prepared herself to go to work. Again she’d attempted to touch the dog and again the dog had let her know what a bad idea that was. She’d turned toward the man and said: “I want to help, but I’m not going to be able to do much if I can’t get my hands on her.”
The man had pulled himself to his feet (Hugo had somehow known how much even this much movement cost him) and Hugo had first noticed his shape. He towered above Hugo, still on the floor, but his body seemed twisted and misshaped in the tattered cloak he’d been wrapped in. He’d shifted beneath the cloak and then a pack had thudded to the floor beside his ruined feet, and Hugo had realized the pack had misled him; without it under the cloak the man’s back had no hump, but he still seemed stooped and somehow less than he should have been.
The man had moved shakily past Micki to Le Fay, each step somehow seeming as sure as is it was desperate. Hugo had seen the dog’s tail began to wag weakly as the man had approached and she hadn’t so much as bared her teeth as he began to gently stroke the fur along her back. He’d leaned forward then and it seemed to Hugo he’d whispered something to her, but looking back now he was sure the man hadn’t said anything. He’d simply gotten close and then abruptly kissed her cheek (eliciting another feeble tail-wag) before stepping back.
“She’ll leave you be,” he’d said with a nod to Micki. He’d moved back toward Hugo but stopped short, suddenly shooting out an arm to support himself against a wall. He’d slowly drooped to the floor near where Hugo sat, and Hugo hadn’t known what to do. Should he leave Micki here with this guy? It had been clear to him that she intended to do what she could for the dog no matter the circumstances surrounding them, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to abandon her.
The man had become aware of him at that point, and his large, bloodshot eyes had slid in Hugo’s direction. Hugo remembered shivering as the gaze settled on him. He’d realized he was still on his knees and had quickly shifted so that he was sitting with his back, like the man’s back, was against the wall. There was a good ten feet of space between them, but Hugo had still felt too close to the man to relax.
Micki had left the dog to turn to the man at that point.
“I need to know what’s happened to her,” she’d said, her mouth tight with worry. “I can’t treat her unless I know what needs treatin’.”
“Dragon’s breath,” the man had croaked out, his dark eyes slithering off of Hugo and back to Micki. “She’s got the dragon’s breath.”
“Dragon’s…?” Micki had looked to Hugo, but all he’d been able to do was shrug. “What is that?”
“The foulness of the air,” the man had said, clearly frustrated that he hadn’t been understood. He’d shut his eyes as he’d searched for the right words to make them understand. “That which brings the fever and the pains.”
“Radiation?” Micki had asked, her eyes widening. “Are you telling me she’s been exposed to radiation?”
The man had been silent, and Hugo had thought he’d passed out for a moment. After a second, though, he’d shaken his head and muttered, “I don’t know that word, healer. We caught the Dragon’s Breath as we crossed the ruins, that’s all I know, say true, say true…”
His speech had devolved to mumbles near the end, and Hugo had again somehow understood the monumental effort the man was putting into staying awake. Micki had left the dog and moved toward the man, kneeling before him when she got close.
“What’s your name?” She’d asked the man, all shakiness now gone from her voice.
“Aedus.” The man had replied. Hugo hadn’t realized the man had given a name at first and had instead tried to piece together the meaning of the word “ee-duss” before the man had continued, struggling for breath every few words. “Fifth of my name… of the old Belle blood.”
“Alright, Aedus,” Micki had said, choosing as Hugo had chosen not to dwell on whatever the old Belle blood was. “I need you to tell me Le Fay’s symptoms. I need to know as much as you can tell me.”
“There’s blood on her breath,” the man had said, his eyes still closed. “She can’t keep her food down more than a minute... Her fur comes away even as I stroke her... Fever burns her up inside and she shakes so…”
The man had continued muttering and mumbling to himself until Micki had reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder to silence him. This had caused the dog, which Hugo had quite forgotten about up to that point, to let out her fiercest growl yet. Micki hadn’t paid any attention to her and had kept her hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You say you caught this… breath while you were in the ruins. Is that what you call the Wastes? The land outside the City?”
“Say true,” the man had said, some relief creeping into his haggard voice as he was finally understood.
Micki had nodded at that, but her mouth hadn’t gotten any less tight. “What breed is she?”
The man’s brows had drawn together at this. He’d thought for a moment and finally said, “She’s of Lex’s pack.”
“Okay, I don’t…” She’d glanced at Hugo, but all he’d been able to do was shrug. She tried a different approach. “How old is she?”
“She’s seen two winters now.”
“Okay, and how long has she been pregnant?”
“She’s in her third month.”
Hugo knew as much about pregnant dogs as he did sealing wax, but he’d known from Micki’s expression this hadn’t been the answer she’d expected.
“Three…?” She’d looked over at Hugo, but, as she’d caught sight of the blank look on his face, she’d quickly turned back to the man. “You’re sure? She’s been pregnant for three months?”
“Say true,” the man had said, as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet.
“Do… Do you know how many puppies she’s going to have?” Micki had asked, clearly still flummoxed.
“Five pups.”
“What kind of therapy has she had?”
The man had not had an answer for this.
Micki had tried again: “Is she on any medicine right now? Prenatal vitamins? Hormones?”
Again the man had only shaken his head in a sad, confused sort of way.
Exasperated but undaunted, Micki had plowed on: “Do you know if the puppies healthy? Or are they sick like she is?”
“They’re weak now,” the man had said, his face darkening even though his eyes had remained closed. Hugo had heard the dog whine over on her table (he’d forgotten about her again), and the man had shaken his head. “They’re not lost yet, say true.”
“Alright, does Le Fay have any allergies to any medications?”
The man’s brows had drawn back together at that.
“Is she allergic to anything?” Micki had asked again.
Again the man was silent, his face blank as he stared back at the doctor.
“Is there… Are there any medicines that make her sick?”
The man had shaken his head at that and closed his eyes again, and Micki nodded to herself as she’d stood and moved back toward the dog. She’d outlined her plan to treat the radiation poisoning to Hugo while he hadn’t been paying attention and then had set to work inspecting everything from the dog’s teeth to the wetness of her nose to the color of the skin on the underside of her paws. She’d moved without fear, confident in the man’s assurances that Le Fay would let her work in peace, and had quickly moved to the medication safe to retrieve the much talked about Qzine.
Hugo hadn’t been able to follow most of this. He’d finally understood what Micki and the man had been saying; this man was not from the City. He wasn’t from any City, as a matter of fact; the man had come from the Wastes.
A cyclone of emotion had swirled through him as this realization had set in. Panic had been in there, certainly, but also a healthy dose of excitement and more than a pinch of curiosity. Naturally, Hugo had never met anyone from the Wastes before (when could he have?), but this man (Aedus, he reminded himself) did not fit the description of the typical fallout. Granted, he’d never seen a fallout himself and only had the BID’s propaganda to base his mental image of one on, but he was still surprised at how little the man resembled a radiated terror from beyond the Wall.
The lighting in the storeroom had been dim at best save for the circle of light produced by the harsh fluorescent buzzing above le Fay. As Micki began to move from the dog to the medicine lockers she flipped a few switches and several other glaringly bright lights flared to live overhead. It was at this point that Hugo had gotten his first good look at the man.
He was still sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, but even hunched as he was Hugo remembered it being obvious how large he was. His wide shoulders drooped around him and his thick, well-muscled arms hung limp beside him. His dark hair had been pulled back, but Hugo could tell he had grown it long. Thin strands had stuck tight to the man’s forehead as he began to sweat.
The most striking thing about him, easily, had been his tattoos. Aside from some tan, weather-worn patches of un-inked skin around his eyes, nose and mouth (and possibly his ears, Hugo hadn’t quite been able to see those through the man’s tangled mop of hair) every inch of visible skin seemed to be filled with swirls of vibrant, bold colors. When Hugo had first seen them they’d looked like nothing more than amorphous, technicolor blobs of varying shapes and sizes, but as he’d continued to stare at them they seemed to swim together to form at least somewhat recognizable shapes. Wasn’t that some sort of animal crawling along the man’s neck? And there, running along his bicep, wasn’t that a tree? Or maybe a lightning bolt?
Hugo had been able to distract himself by trying to piece together the man’s odd body art and had actually managed to calm himself down a bit when the dark eyes had creaked open and slid in Hugo’s direction again. He felt himself shiver as they scanned his face.
“And who are you?” The man had asked, his voice barely a croak by that point.
“Hugo,” he had croaked back, surprised into an honest answer by the man’s abruptness. As he’d realized he was still staring he’d quickly looked away and muttered an apology.
“No need for sorries,” the man had assured him sleepily, his eyes half-closed and (thankfully) off of Hugo’s face.
“You’re… you’re Aedus, right?” Hugo had asked timidly, unsure if it would be best to keep the man occupied or let him occupy himself.
The man had replied with only a nod. His mouth had opened, Hugo remembered, but it had been as if he hadn’t had any voice let and he’d quickly closed it. His eyes had finally closed completely again, and Hugo had taken this opportunity to complete his assessment of the man.
The cloak he’d wrapped himself in had looked like little more than a thin, ragged swath of cloth tied around his neck. It hid his torso completely, and on his lower half he’d worn only simple, dark pants which ended suddenly halfway down his calves. His feet had been what had horrified Hugo the most; they had been barely recognizable. They had swollen to almost twice their size, and even under the colors of his tattoos the skin pulsed a sickening combination of purple, pink, black and blue. Hugo had seen rivulets of dark blood run from cracks and cuts along the man’s feet and lower legs to join the ever-growing puddle of red spreading around him.
“Oh, shit,” Hugo had said to himself, only then becoming consciously aware the man was sitting in a pool of his own blood. “Micki!”
“I’m a little busy here, sweetheart,” Micki had called back to him, not looking up as she injected yet another serum into the dog.
“Micki!” Hugo had called again (he remembered how shrill his voice had sounded then, but chose not to dwell on it).
The veterinarian had finally looked up and followed Hugo’s gaze to the man. Immediately noticing the blood, she’d gasped and scrambled over to him to take stock of his injuries. She’d opened his eyes with her thumbs and gently slapped his face until he’d shaken his head slightly and grunted at her.
“Hugo, I’m gonna need your help,” Micki had said, turning to him and fixing him with a hard stare.
“Wha…?” Had been all he could manage.
“Go grab one of those tables and wheel it over here.” She’d jerked her head toward a corner of the storeroom where three or four metallic tables, identical to the one Le Fay now panted atop of, had sat waiting.
“Now, Hugo!” Micki had called to him after a few seconds had passed and he still hadn’t moved.
And so he’d moved. He’d pulled himself to his feet (trying as he could to ignore the pain in his knee from where the man had kicked him) and hobbled the table over to her.
“Grab his feet.” Micki had commanded, her warm, genial glint in her eyes replaced with a hard look of determination.
Hugo hadn’t needed to be told twice that time. Micki had moved behind the man and wrapped her arms around his chest while Hugo had (as gingerly as he could) gotten a grip on the man’s hideously damaged feet. On the count of three they’d hauled him up and onto the table’s gleaming, polished surface.
The dog had been absolutely livid by this point. She’d been clearly incapacitated by whatever Micki had pumped her full of, but she’d still struggled against her swollen belly as she’d tried to haul herself to standing. Her entire snout had become layers of wrinkles as she’d drawn her lips back as far as she could to give Hugo and Micki the best view possible of her impressive set of teeth.
“That’s enough of that,” Micki had said, slightly out of breath. She’d moved quickly around the dog and jabbed her rump with a hypodermic Hugo hadn’t even noticed her pick up. Le Fay snapped furiously in her direction, but Micki only whispered to her (keeping plenty of distance between her hand and the dog’s mouth) until her snaps became less enthusiastic and her glittering eyes began to close.
Micki had proceeded to stripped the man of his cloak, then the simple vest he wore beneath (Hugo had thought the vest had been covered in some sort of tartan pattern, but it had been difficult to tell with all the blood soaked into it) and finally his dark trousers. Hugo had desperately held his curiosity back and had resisted the urge to check and see if the man’s tattoos, which completely covered his torso and legs, had extended to his nethers. Aside from the cloak, vest and pants the only other article on him had been a thick band of woven cloth worn around his neck with some sort of stone or pebble set over his throat, which Micki had left alone in her haste.
From here Hugo had only passing recollections. The man had been shot several times (Hugo had never seen a gunshot wound in person before, and he did not care to see one again), and Micki had surprised him by taking this in stride. Or, at least, he’d thought she’d taken it in stride. She hadn’t said much while she’d worked, stitching here and there or digging into the man’s gut to retrieve the last bullet; she’d kept her head down and her hands moving the entire time.
Hugo had helped prop the man up while Micki had attended to the wounds on his back, but after that she’d let him know she could take over on her own. He’d washed the blood off his hands and slumped back to his former place on the floor, watching as she loaded needles and cut wrapping from large spools in her seemingly limitless supply cabinets.
He’d started to shake as the full weight of the evening’s events had pressed down upon him, and at some point he’d leaned his back against the storeroom’s cool wall and closed his eyes.