BY THE THIRD DAY he was walking much better, able to take all of his weight on the injured right leg.
J.B. was healing fastest. It was just a question of giving the musket-ball wound a thorough clean then sprinkling in some antibiotic powder and tying on a fresh bandage.
Ryan lay on his stomach on the tiled floor, while Mildred knelt beside him, poking with a finger at the double arrow wound, ignoring him when he winced. “This should be healing better, Ryan.” She sat back on her heels. “The rest here will make all the difference. Been doing too much running around, keeping both the entrance and exit wounds open and bleeding.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Sure will try to keep myself quiet while we’re inside the redoubt.”
Krysty came in, leaning against the doorframe. “Not making him holler enough, Mildred,” she said, smiling at Ryan to take the sting from her words.
“Just finishing bandaging the invalid.”
Krysty nodded, her fiery hair tumbling around her perfect face, her green eyes glinting at her friends. “You been telling him he should rest more?”
Mildred tied the last neat knot and stood up, patting Ryan on the shoulder. “There. All done. If we move on the day after tomorrow, I can bandage it one more time before the jump. Not doing too badly, though.”
Ryan pulled on his shut and tucked it in. “Thanks a lot, Mildred.”
“Welcome, kind sir.” She bobbed him a curtsy.
“Jak and J.B. getting along well?” Krysty asked. “Boy seemed to be moving easier.”
“Definitely. But dear John Dix isn’t used to being still in one place for three long days. Getting to him. Fieldstripped the Uzi thirty-seven times and the Smith & Wesson scattergun sixty-eight times.” She laughed. “No, I’m exaggerating.” A measured pause passed. “But not much.”
BY NOON OF THE FOURTH DAY, everyone was ready to move. They’d all had enough of the claustrophobic concrete walls of the small redoubt, and the pleasure of hot baths and reasonable food was beginning to wear thin.
“Getting cabin fever, Ryan,” Jak said.
“Yeah. Know what you mean. If I see another rad-blasted can of Aunt Abbie’s All-American Avocado and Artichoke Dip, I swear I’ll scream.”
They’d just finished eating breakfast and were all sitting around one of the Formica-topped tables in the brightly lighted refectory.
The greasy plates were all neatly stacked at one end, and the seven plastic mugs, holding the dregs of the coffee sub, were piled with them.
“I can’t stand any more of Rik’n Mik’s Lemon Meringue Pie mix,” J.B. added.
“I bemoan the lack of a decent Lafitte in the candlelit cellars. Or a halfway drinkable Mouton Cadet.” Doc shook his leonine head sadly. “Or even a bottle of anything that remotely resembled wine.”
“How about you, Dean?” his father asked. “I haven’t seen you turn your nose up at anything here.”
The boy considered the question, picking his teeth with a long fingernail and investigating what he’d excavated. “What do I hate most about the food?”
“Yeah.”
“Feroze’s Frozen Grits.” He pulled a face, quoting from the label. “So good you can’t stop comin’ back for more.” He shook his head. “Yuck!”
“Least we got plenty of hot water for washing up,” Mildred said, yawning. “And I believe that today’s rota has Doc and Jak on that particular duty.”
“Makes fingers wrinkle,” the albino protested. “Not man’s work.”
“How wrong you are, young fellow,” Mildred said briskly. “And standing on that bad leg can help to give it some gentle exercise.” She whirled. “And just where in the blue blazes do you think you’re creeping off to, old-timer?”
Doc stopped in midstride, halfway to the door, his face flushing at being caught. “I swear that you are my personal nemesis, Dr. Wyeth, sent from the idle godlings of Olympus to persecute me.”
“Just collect up the dishes and get out in the sluice room, Doc.”
“I believe that you are a reincarnation of Torquemada, cruel leader of the Inquisition. I swear that no moral woman could be so cruel.”
“Watch my lips, Doc. Do. the.dishes!” Doc looked at his hands. “Ah, me. I shall never play the viola da gamba again.”