by Jones, K. J.
Dr. Jenkins palpated the back of Eric’s head. Eric tried to get free of him, not knowing who he was. The doctor checked for any head injury, then shined a penlight into Eric’s brown eyes. “He’s good. Dehydration and a psychotic break.”
“Okay,” said Mazy. “Good. No head injury.”
She seized Eric from behind and put him in a headlock that cut off the blood supply. It was a notorious cop move forbidden by modern departments. He passed out.
The doctor checked his vitals. “He’s good.”
“Finally, get some peace and quiet.”
“There’s another IV. I’ll administer.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, sir.”
Once the doctor added another saline bag to his daughter IV tree, he looked at Chris.
“He has a bullet in him still?”
“Yeah,” said Matt. “I couldn’t get it out. I should have tried harder.”
The doctor palpated the wound in Chris’s fat roll. “I feel it.”
Mazy asked, “Is it the infection that smells like that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is he going to die?”
“I’m going to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. The antibiotics have to do their work.”
“The infection is in his blood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Shit.” She looked out to the bay, shaking her head.
“We drank the river water,” said Matt. Finishing the bottle, he opened the next. His strength rapidly returned. This time, he could twist the cap himself. “We had nothing else to drink. The water’s fresh. But there’s dead bodies in it. Human and animal. That caused constant diarrhea and vomiting.”
“How is it treated?” Phebe climbed onboard and heard them.
“Flush it out with liquids.” Matt raised the sports drink bottle. “We are so blessed you guys found us.”
“Thank Phebe and Ben and Tyler for that.” Brandon unpacked an infirmary loot bag. Emily and Nia helped organize it.
“Are those waterworks?” Phebe asked Matt.
“I’m fine,” responded Matt. “Just something in my eyes.”
“Sure.”
“Smartass.”
“Exactly.” She smiled at her dear friend.
“I’m grateful you’re not dead.” He reached out for her. She took his hand. “All of you. We thought you didn’t make it with all the boat attacks.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that I was a ghost.”
“Yeah. How’s the pregnancy?”
“Still here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Morning sickness?”
“All the time, except morning usually. Except for today. Once you make a rule based on patterns, it changes.”
The doctor moved to Matt. “Let me take a look at your face wound.”
“I’m gonna have a bad scar.”
“Scars are manly. Women love a scared man.”
Matt smirked, too exhausted to laugh.
The doctor removed the bandage and examined the wound. “You took antibiotics, didn’t you?”
“Whatever I had. Gave ‘em to Chris, but it didn’t do anything. If I live … and he …”
“He’ll be fine. You do have an infection, though. Let’s check your temperature.”
Matt had a hundred-degree fever. But he refused the antibiotic bag. “Chris needs all of ‘em. I’ll just clean the wound and put antibiotic gel on. It’ll be fine.”
Phebe said, “He likes being a tough guy.”
“I just need the shits to stop.”
“Keep drinking,” said the doctor.
“I know this.”
“Of course you do. Tell me about this man.” The doctor pointed at Peter.
“Drug withdrawal. He’s an opiate addict. He was weaning down, but we had none with us. He slammed into cold turkey. He was vomiting badly. Tachycardic. I was afraid we’d lose him. He had seizures.”
“Geez.”
Phebe muttered, “Oh, God.”
“I think he’s through the worst of it. He fought hard. But then he got so dehydrated from the vomiting and diarrhea that he passed out. I could get some help from Eric. He kept the fire going. Retrieved the rotten water. But we had no supplies. No food.”
“No boiling water either then,” said Dr. Jenkins.
“No, sir. That water needs a good five-hour boil-off of the shit in it.”
Angela, listening to them, spoke up. “Should I treat his face wound, doctor?”
“Yeah,” responded Jenkins. “Irrigate the wound. Um, flush it out with the sterilized water and put on some antibiotic gel.”
She went to the task.
Matt cringed and sucked air during the irrigation. Despite the pain, he told her, “Get a sterilized scalpel and a mirror please.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to cut off the infected parts.”
“Doctor?”
“Why not wait a little while on that, son,” said the doctor. “Your body may fight it off.”
“Or go gangrenous. Is it?”
“No,” said Angela. “Just puss.”
Phebe said, “We got Imodium. Could that help them?”
“Yes, please,” said Matt. “Something to cork this up.”
6.
Peter reached a point of rehydration in which he could resume projectile vomit. Awake, he complained of being cold. He shook. The withdrawal symptoms had returned. But the doctor said his vitals were improving.
He was still unaware of his surroundings and called out for Phebe. She sat at his side. Even holding his hand didn’t get it through to him she was alive. The disposable gloves she wore didn’t help him feel her. But she was yelled at for even thinking about removing them.
Headstrong Matt was up and dressed. He took a handful of Imodium and ignored the doctor about such action not being the best treatment for chronic diarrhea. Matt had learned the doctor was a plastic surgeon. That wasn’t a real doctor to him, so he ignored him. The medication at least slowed things down and permitted warnings for when he needed to rush to the bathroom. He had resorted to using girly wipies in his condition.
Eric was at the house. Awake, but still insane.
The next challenge was to remove the bullet from Chris’s side. Matt’s hands hadn’t grown strong. His muscles were still crampy. His grip poor. And limbs shaky.
He supervised the plastic surgeon.
“You got it?”
The doctor pulled the bullet out with large medical tweezers. He dropped in a Styrofoam cup Angela held.
“Scrape away some of the gangrene. It’s dead skin. Phebe, do the irrigation with the sterilized water.”
“Karen’s doing it,” Phebe said through her face mask. She stood at the periphery.
“I’m Karen,” the teenager said.
“Hi. How are you?”
Karen politely nodded to him.
Since no room could be sterilized well enough, they did the surgery on the newly cleaned deck. The UV in sunlight killed a great many pathogens.
“Do I suture now?” Dr. Jenkins asked.
“Since it’s not bleeding, it should remain partially open to drain.”
“Why isn’t there more blood?” Karen asked.
“The tissue is dead around it.”
7.
“Help me with this cooking,” said Angela.
“Why?”
“Miss Nia Jackson!”
“Why are we doing all this domestic maid shit?”
“Excuse me? No, ma’am. You need to respect your mother.”
“The black females do domestic activities. Oh, and in a slavery house. How history repeats.”
Angela looked at her daughter as if an alien took her over.
“Should we get guns and do guard duty then, miss?”
“I’d prefer that over this shit.”
“Who will do this shit then?”
“Let somebody else.”
“I do not want to eat a
nything Phebe and Emily made. The microwave doesn’t work.” Angela wrestled with her temper, reminding herself that Nia had been through a lot. “I would appreciate your help here.”
Nia blew out air and rolled her eyes.
Angela gripped a wooden spoon and shook it at her daughter. “Miss Nia Lenora Jackson, I’m warning you for the very last time with your attitude and backtalk. You are getting on my last nerve.”
“I’m too big to beat, Mama.”
“Nobody’s too big to beat.”
“You’re not grandmamma.”
Her grandmother was old school with a wooden spoon or a switch branch. Or anything else she could grab fast to reprimand backtalk. Angela had refrained from corporal punishment of the children. But she was reconsidering this position.
Nia stepped towards the doorway. “You can’t hit me.”
“Do as you are told.”
“You lost your mind.”
The tweener took off.
“Nia,” Angela screamed after her. “Nia Jackson!”
Rupert in his grave could have heard her, but Nia seemed not to. The girl disappeared in the yard.
“Lord, save me from this hard-headed child.”
8.
Eric’s hand visibly shook as he lifted a spoon to his mouth. Vegetable broth from a box, heated by an open fire in the kitchen oven by Angela. A blanket wrapped around him. He wore shorts and nothing else. Jayce watched him anxiously.
“He’ll be okay,” Angela reassured her son.
Jayce nodded, hoping she was right.
But when Eric finished, he picked up the pot and headed for the door.
“Whoa.” Jayce rushed to block him. “What are you doing? Save some for the guys.”
“Heidi’ll be hungry.”
“No, no.” Angela came over to assist. “Only people who come to the table can be fed. Okay, Eric? Come on, baby. Let’s sit back down.”
“But Heidi’ll be hungry.”
“She’ll be alright. Let’s sit and drink some more sports drink. Sound good? Doesn’t that sound good, Jayce?”
“It sure does. Let’s do that, Eric, huh?”
Voices on the other side of the piazza door. A knock.
“I got him.” Angela put her arm around Eric and walked him to the table at the rate of a shuffling old man in an assisted living facility.
Jayce opened the door. Emily had Matt.
“Doc says he’s ready for a little broth, so here we are.”
“It can’t be fatty,” Matt said.
“We got ya.” Jayce re-bolted the door. “Bring your half-naked ass inside.”
Matt tried to smirk. His muscles weren’t obeying his brain’s commands. He had to lean on Emily for help. But he could raise his face to look around.
“What is this place?”
“Historic Charleston. Isn’t it nice?” asked Emily.
Angela pulled out a chair. “Right here, Matt. I’ll fix you a nice bowl of vegetable stock.”
Emily helped him sit at the table and pushed him in.
“Thank you, Em. I appreciate your help in my state.”
“No worries.”
He wore shorts. The result of days of starvation, he had lost weight. Since Eric had always been too skinny, it wasn’t as noticeable as it was on Matt. A stocky build naturally, his face was thinner. Love handles gone.
“Are there facilities?” Matt asked.
“We set up a kind of outhouse over yonder,” Angela said.
“Yonder,” Matt repeated. “I should be with Chris.”
“You gotta get yourself better first. You’re no good to anyone in this condition. Now, eat your broth.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emily chuckled. “Never argue with your attorney.”
Angela smiled. “Or your mother. Would somebody do me the favor of looking for my youngest child, please? She’s rebelling against me.”
“I’ll go get her,” said Jayce. “Em, take my riffle and do the door, please.”
“Sure.”
The big brother walked towards the back of the property. He bet Nia was with the chickens or doing something back there since she hadn’t passed him at the door.
9.
Dock Cat jumped onto the bed and walked across him. She laid down on his stomach, making it hard to breathe. “Dock, get off.”
“Hey, hey, shh.”
“Pheeb?”
“Open your eyes.”
Peter slightly opened one eye. “Too bright.”
“Are you a vampire now?”
Eyes closed. A small smirk on chapped lips.
His hand suddenly moved excitedly. Lids flashed open. He moved to the side of the bed.
“Oh. Geez.” She grabbed a basin just in time.
“Just kill me.” He laid back after vomiting clear liquid.
“Not happening, soldier. You’ve been too much of a pain in the ass to find and rescue to kill you now.”
His hand reached out and planted on her masked face.
“Are you real?”
“In the sense that I am sitting here next to you on the Molly.”
“The Molly? She okay?”
“She is.”
He tried to lift his head to look around. Neck muscles didn’t work. “Where’s she-beast? Come here, girl.” He patted the space beside him.
“You need to rest.”
“What’s wrong with my hand?”
“There’s an IV in it.”
“Why?”
“To hydrate you.”
“Did I drink too much again?”
“Go to sleep, idiot.”
“Kill me. Muscles hurt. Cold.”
“Take this little pill before you pass out.”
“Feeding me drugs now?”
“Yeah. This one, I’m told, will help with nausea.”
“Okey-dokey. Am I in my room?”
“You’re in Julio’s room.”
“Where’s Jule?”
“Sleep now, hon.”
Chapter Six
1.
Tyler crashed on the cot in the room with Peter. Stubborn Matt was asleep next to Chris in the master bedroom of the Molly. He refused to not be involved with medical treatment.
Chris’s condition had not dramatically improved over the hours. He ran a high fever. His saline and antibiotic bags had been changed once. Everyone who normally prayed did so for his recovery. Earlier, the pray-ers formed a prayer circle for Chris.
The group had taken massive losses. They earned a blessing. Or so Nia announced. She was found tending to the chickens where fertilized eggs had already been laid. Now, the girl was safely asleep in the house under insomniac Ben’s watch. He was up in the attic.
Phebe had marina guard duty.
Big Moe croak roared somewhere out in the dark.
“Yeah,” she said. “You tell ‘em, Moe.”
She felt a world better since finding the guys. It was easier to repress the mourning for her friends now that the panic of losing the guys was alleviated.
She walked the docks. A starry night. Crescent moon played peek-a-boo with clouds. A gentle warm breeze came up the bay. Sloshing fish and alligators from the dark water. A couple of insects trilled, but it was too early in the year for a full chorus. Frogs were silent. She was learning the normal sounds.
Guard was boring. She had taken a nap on the cot earlier. But baby-making fatigue still clung to her. She drank a can of vanilla Starbuck’s Doubleshot Energy coffee. It would taste a lot better if it was chilled. She checked a man’s watch found in Rupert’s stuff. Two more hours before shift change. Mullen was next up. She’d never be able to get Tyler to relinquish the cot. She considered the saloon couch.
A sound she didn’t recognize. She squinted into the dark, not wanting to waste batteries by shining light only to turn out to be Big Moe and his friends.
She stood up and scanned the dark under the celestial illumination. Deep shadows. Palm frons rattled with the breeze.
She scanned across the docked boats.
“Really?”
A dark figure of a skinny man stepped gingerly. He had left his skiff and now headed for the Molly up the dock.
She could smell the man’s BO as he passed her. The anti-nausea medication helped her, too. Or a heave would give her position.
He moved to the stairs. She stepped out of the shadows.
“How long do you want to live?” she asked.
He startled. “Wondering where you were at, little lady.”
“Hands up where I can see them.”
“Sure. Sure.”
Only one went up. He turned around fast. She squeezed the trigger. He fell against the steps.
Headlamp on. Her bullet hit him dead center face – a zom fighter shot. In his hand lay a handgun. She took it, checked the bullets – only two -- and stowed it under her belt. Then a body search for anything useful. He didn’t even have extra bullets in his pockets.
“Ben, you copy?” She spoke into the throat mic. “Over.”
“I read you. Over.”
“I got a lone unknown armed male down here at the marina. K-I-A. Over.”
“Shit. Plans for his remains? Over.”
She considered the question. Big Moe did his funny croak roar. She smirked. “I got an idea. Over.”
“Do I want to know? Over.”
“Can’t you see me? Over.”
“They taught us not to watch women through the scope. Over.”
She chuckled. “I’m going to feed nature. Over.”
“Gators? I’ll watch that. Out.”
She dragged the smelly stranger by the collar of his dirty shirt to the edge of the dock. “Moe. I got something for you.” She shoved the dead man off.
The body splashed into the water. She watched via her headlamp – this was worth the batteries. The biggest alligator came swimming along. Big Moe himself. Eyes reflected red in the artificial light. Only the top of his head and a bit of his swaying tail were above the surface. Until he reached the fresh meat. Massive jaws emerged. Sharp, thick teeth chomped down.
“Ugh,” she grunted.
The jaws closed on the body and the thrash began, churning up the water.
“Whoa.”
Ben’s voice, “Is he taking it? I can’t see it. Over.”
“Oh, he’s taking it. I wonder if that makes us his friends. Over.”
“Right up until he gets hungry. Over.”
“Isn’t that kind of mutual? Over.”
