“That’s good, right, Doc? His pressure?” asked Greg, arming away sweat.
“Well, it’s not bad. You boys catch a name before you hightailed it outta there?”
“Naw. Like I said, he’s been out of it.”
“Okay. Alex, draw up a couple fifty-cc syringes of saline and irrigate the hell out of this, would you?”
Alex was glad for something to do. As she pulled up the fluid, Greg said, “You can save him, right?”
“We are certainly going to try. He might lose that leg, but one thing at a time. Greg, get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch your death. How’s that arm of yours? Either you boys hurt?”
“Naw, everyone got out okay, Doc,” said Greg, flexing the arm where he’d been wounded three weeks before.
“Good, I didn’t want to be patching you up again. What about the others?”
“They’re about a day behind.”
“All right. Now you two get on out of here and let me work. Paul, get me a surg kit; we’re going to be doing some cutting here, and I want some Cipro in him right now.”
Paul pulled a small glass vial from a mostly empty med cart. “Boss, that’s the last of—”
“The last of the Cipro, I know. Just do it, Paul. Alex, you can stop irrigating. Cut away the rest of his clothes, so I can see what I’m doing.” Kincaid glanced at her over his mask. “Let’s just hope this poor boy stays out.”
As Kincaid cleaned and debrided the wound, she worked a pair of heavy surgical scissors through the boy’s pants, cut those away, and then attacked what was left of his shirt. Slicing through flannel, she suddenly recoiled. “Oh, gross.”
“What?” asked Kincaid.
“I think …” The boy had another large bite wound, raw and weeping and filled with what looked like white rice—and then the rice moved. “I think they’re maggots.”
“Really?” Kincaid took a long look and then nodded. “Excellent.”
“Excellent?” Alex goggled at him. “What’s good about maggots?”
“Because they eat the dead stuff and leave healthy tissue behind,” said Kincaid. “See the margins there? That’s all viable tissue. Alex, see if you can scoop a couple dozen of those little guys onto some gauze.”
“Sure,” she said faintly, not at all sure she wouldn’t pass out. She couldn’t get rid of the image of flies buzzing over the boy’s
wounds, landing and laying eggs.
And then she thought, Hey, wait a minute.
“You want some help?” asked Paul, although he sounded like he’d be just as happy if she refused.
She did not disappoint. “No, I’m good.”
“Oh, we are going to give you bad boys a regular feast,” Kincaid said. “Warm you maggies right up.”
“They look pretty warm to me,” said Alex. “They’re moving all over the place.”
“He is the only person I know who would get excited over a bowl of maggots,” Paul observed as he pumped up the blood pressure cuff again. “Ninety-five over sixty-two.”
“I like the sound of that,” Kincaid said. “Paul, get us another catalytic heater in here and then see if you can scrounge us up a plastic container and an apple.”
“You want to eat?” asked Alex. “Now?”
“Eventually.” He winked at her over his mask. “Apple’s for the maggies. Old fishing trick. The maggies’ll keep somewhere cool and dark for a couple weeks.”
“We could start our own maggot farm,” said Paul.
“That is a very good idea,” said Kincaid. “We find somewhere warm enough. Flies’ll die otherwise.”
“I was joking.” Paul rolled his eyes. “Be right back. Boss, I hope you and your maggies will be very happy.”
“Oh, we will,” Kincaid said, “we will.”
Great, now she’d be babying maggots for the foreseeable future. Alex thought it would be a really long time before she looked at rice the same way again.
Presuming, of course, she ever saw rice again.
“That’s it,” said Kincaid. After peeling out of his gloves, he dragged the mask from his face and sighed. “Wish I hadn’t had to cut away so much tissue to find healthy muscle, but can’t be helped. Between me and the maggots, though, those wounds might just granulate in. They won’t be pretty, but if he’s lucky, he won’t lose the leg.”
“Is he going to make it?” asked Alex.
Kincaid’s mouth set in a grimace. “If things were even halfway normal, I’d say only fifty-fifty. He’s already arrested once, and he’s septic. Fluids’ll help, but we only got a couple more bags and no more antibiotic. If his blood pressure falls again, I got nothing left to give him.”
“Maybe it won’t,” said Alex. “Maybe you got to him in time.”
“Maybe. Be a damn shame, all this effort and risk for nothing. Just got to hope for the best.” He looked behind Alex. “Greg, take this girl home before she passes out.”
“Just waiting on you, Doc,” said Greg from the door.
Night had fallen hours before. Now she glanced at Ellie’s watch and saw that Mickey said it was pushing ten. Untying her mask, Alex said, “Have you been there the whole time?”
“All”—Greg checked his pocket watch—“six hours and twenty minutes.”
“And it’s way past my bedtime,” said Kincaid. He looked as if he was going to fall down, and when he dropped into a chair, he let out a long groan. “Many more nights like this, and I’m going to be old before my time.”
“You need to rest,” Paul said. A huge butterfly splotch stained the chest of his scrub top, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his ruddy scalp. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“I heard that,” said Kincaid.
“You should get some sleep,” Alex said. She was dead tired and she could smell herself. “I can watch him for a while. All I need to do is wash up a little bit.” When Kincaid opened his mouth to protest, she said, “Come on, if something bad happens to you, we’re screwed.”
“She’s got a point,” said Paul.
Kincaid grumbled some more but eventually gave in. “I’ll bed down here. You come get me in four hours,” he said as Paul ushered him out. “Don’t you forget.”