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James Axler – Zero City

“Need more, we’ll get carpet,” Jak added, dropping his load of curtains and valances on top of the pile.

“That’s enough for now,” Mildred said, easing off the boy’s Army boot. Drawing a knife, she slid the pommel of the weapon upward along the inner sole of his bare foot. Then she did it again, watching his unresponsive toes.

Doc sat on the edge of the fountain, watching the process with growing unease. He remembered a farming accident from his youth in Vermont and how the local country doctor had done the same thing and what the awful verdict was.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked, sitting on his haunches.

Sliding the sock back on the limp foot, Mildred looked at him directly. “Your son has a concussion, no way to tell how bad. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any loose bone fragments. Might be okay if there’s no internal clotting. Couple of ribs, right hand and his left leg are broken, but no compound fractures, thank God. Right arm is dislocated. Painful as hell, but also not serious. Probably landed sideways, breaking his leg, which slowed his momentum enough to stop the impact from smashing his skull open.”

Mildred knew she was sounding callous, and her old teachers at medical school would have had a fit about her talking to a patient’s parent this way. But those days were long gone. Ryan needed information hard and fast. There was simply no time for courtesy.

Ryan gave no outward sign of concern at the news.

“Partially bit through his tongue. I can fix that with needle and thread good as new, and I have two antibiotic tablets I’ve been saving for an emergency.”

“Use them,” Ryan snapped in a voice she had never heard before.

“I had already planned on doing so,” Mildred said softly. “However, it’s his back that worries me. I’m not getting any autonomic reflexes. It may only be a temporary condition, or there could be significant damage to his spinal cord.”

“Oh, hell,” J.B. whispered in the background.

“A broken back,” Ryan muttered, his knuckles clenched white. “Is…is he in pain?”

“No.” Then much as she hated to, Mildred told him the truth. “But he might be crippled, or blind, or completely paralyzed for the rest of his life. Spinal injuries can go a lot of ways, most of them bad.”

Ryan’s face underwent a series of somber expressions in a heartbeat. Blind. Paralyzed. Unable to fight or run, his son would be as good as dead. Worse, he would endanger the rest of them. His hand brushed against the stock of his 9 mm pistol and jerked away as if struck by an electric spark. Guilt flooded his being.

Tilting her head, Mildred brushed a coil of beaded hair out of her face. “Don’t even think about such things yet. There’s still a lot we can do first.”

He took a deep breath. “Name it. Anything.”

“First and foremost, we immobilize the boy completely. He can’t be allowed to move an inch in any direction. God, what I’d give for a paramedic airpack.” She shook away those thoughts. “We need wood for splints, and rope, or better yet, something flat like a belt to hold him down. And a flat board to get him off this cold floor.”

“Blankets no good?” Jak asked, frowning.

“Can’t cushion his back. It has to be hard.”

Ryan took a lantern from the floor. “Let’s move.”

In orderly fashion, the rest of the companions separated throughout the food court, the flames of their lanterns bobbing behind counters and disappearing into back rooms.

“What are you not telling him?” J.B. asked softly.

Mildred glanced sideways at the man, the light reflecting off his wire-rimmed spectacles. “A four-story fall onto polished tile,” she stated barely above a whisper. “What do you think I haven’t told him yet?”

In only a few minutes, Ryan and the others returned with a collection of paneling, a door with hinges still attached, chair arms, shelves and numerous belts.

“Packing strips from the mail room,” Doc said proudly, proffering a handful. “A most fortuitous acquisition.”

“Damn near perfect,” Mildred agreed, examining a woven cloth strip. “Good work. Jak, start cutting the buttons off those coats.”

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