Fragile Bonds:
Fragile Bonds:
Former Republic of Congo, Africa- 2087
Blood covered her from the forearms down and stained the front of her cotton sundress; the fabric was soaked through with gore, turning it from a spring green to a sickening coppery brown. She’d been working on victims for hours, it seemed; stitching and cutting and wrapping as quickly as she could. Her medical knowledge was limited, just a CPR certificate and basic first-aid training under her belt, but she made the best of what she had and plowed on forward.
A baby screamed.
It had been days since the last bombing campaign. Or was it weeks? She couldn’t tell; it’d been so long since she’d seen the sun. The windows were boarded up against the tremors of explosions and return fire; the backup generators were timed to kick on at night so she worked by weak candle light during the murky days, alongside the other volunteers who stayed behind to save the citizens of Pax Vallus.
Someone shouted for more water.
The man she worked on, in his elder years, cried out pitifully when her needle pierced his flesh. But she couldn’t stop. If she didn’t suture him quickly, he’d bleed to death right there on the tile. And she’d seen too much of death in her short life.
A fight broke out in the back of the OR.
Her job was done; there was little else she could do for him now. The gauze she wound around the stitching would protect against infection for a time. And then she moved on; she didn’t dare look back.
The noise of the sick and injured rang through the small one story hospital, reverberating off of the slate walls and pushing further in on her mind, drawing the walk to the nurse’s station out longer than usual. She had to take care to not accidentally step on the bodies laying shoulder to shoulder in the halls, all of them moaning and grabbing and begging for her.
A young woman, probably around her age, clutched onto the hem of her dress as she passed. She looked up at her with horrible blue eyes, eyes yellowing with infection, and asked for her baby. The crude stitches keeping her leg attached to her hip oozed through the stiff hospital gown loosely covering her.
With little effort, she pressed forward, pulling free of the woman’s grasp. There was nothing she could do. The baby was most likely dead by now, and she’d had enough of death.
The lights flickered on.
Rotting bodies covered by sheets blocked the entrance to the garden, so she detoured to the lobby, made into temporary lodgings for volunteers and defenders who risked their lives to keep marauders from their supply stores. It was crowded, like every other inch of the hospital, with people sleeping wherever they seemed to fall.
A stack of clean clothes sat on the floor in the center of the room. She grabbed another dress from it, changed where she stood, and took a look around. Because of the bombings, she’d taken to sleeping in corners of the room where the most cover was. But it seemed all the corners were taken. She frowned.
“There’s room over here.”
Two men were leaned up against one another beside the receptionist’s desk to her right. There was just enough space for her between them. Without question, she walked over and managed a small smile.
“Thank you.”
The two helped her kneel. She settled in, looking up at the men, and struck her hand out.
“Carter.”
The man to her right shook her hand first.
“Pickering.”
Then the man to her left.
“Taki.”
Their fragile bond, a simple exchange of last names, was a comfort; it separated them from the victims, it separated them from the dying. It meant they were safe with each other until the next bombing campaign.
Then they’d be nameless again; possibly injured, possibly dead.
She’d be alone in the morning, wandering the hall of the victims, to sort through the slaughter. But not now.
Now, she was safe. Now came fitful sleep, the fullest sleep she’d had since the war began
