“Sir!” the officer barked, saluting.
The young baron ignored that for the moment. “Sergeant Jarmal, divide the men into thirds. One group starts clearing the tunnel, the second finds that high school Zanders mentioned and begins fortifying it, the third salvages anything useful from the wreckage.” Leonard paused for longer than he meant to. “And the dead.”
“Yes, my lord!”
“It appears,” Leonard said grimly to nobody in particular, “that despite my wishes, we’re trapped here until further notice.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sweaty and bloody, Mildred stumbled out of the tent in the basement of the building. The exhausted physician was holding a lantern. Every other lantern the companions owned was inside the bedsheet tent, backed by a mirror, the glow infusing the food court with almost noontime clarity. The air of the entire level reeked with alcohol, and the floors shone from a fresh scrubbing.
Five anxious faces watched her approach. Nobody spoke. Ryan sat in a chair holding a full cup of cold coffee. Earlier in the day, it had been steaming hot Krysty sat nearby, her hand on his. Doc crossed his fingers. Trying hard to appear calm, J.B. and Jak both looked as if they were about to defuse a bomb.
“He’ll live,” Mildred reported, removing her homemade surgical mask and mopping her damp brow. Just a few layers of white cloth cut from a shirt and boiled clean, but it served the job. Her gown was a kitchen apron, bleached white and boiled in antiseptic mouthwash.
Ryan started to rise, then sat down again. Krysty squeezed his hand, while 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. 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.”