My Cult Leader Boss Thought I Was a Broke Temp Medic Until My Sleeve Slipped in the Infirmary Tent
The barn was a prison of old wood and rusted metal, but my mind was racing. Caleb’s life hung in the balance. I couldn’t let Silas burn that letter. Not now, not with what I knew.
I still had my field kit, secreted in my boot. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I pulled out the stethoscope ring, the small, rigid steel band that held the diaphragm in place. It was slender, strong, and just the right shape.
The iron latch on the barn door was old, its mechanism exposed and worn. I knelt, pushing the steel ring into the narrow gap between the latch plate and the door frame. My fingers ached, but I pushed harder, applying precise, subtle pressure.
A soft *click* echoed in the silence. The latch sprang open.
I pulled the heavy timber door inward, creating a gap just wide enough for me to slip through. The muddy courtyard was deserted. Elias and Jonas were gone, Silas too.
I moved quickly, staying low, skirting the edge of the compound toward the recruits’ barracks. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant, acrid smell of burning wood from the guard shack.
I found Caleb in the infirmary tent, curled on a cot, shivering violently despite the blankets. His skin was clammy, his lips tinged blue. His pulse was weak and thready under my fingers. The lead poisoning had combined with the exhaustion, pushing him into septic shock.
Ruth, the cook, knelt beside him, wringing her hands. Her face was pale. “He’s getting worse, Mara. He can’t keep anything down.”
“He needs help now,” I murmured.
From my boot, I pulled out a small, sealed vial. Atropine. A powerful antidote for certain types of poisoning, including heavy metal exposure causing cardiac distress. It was a long shot, but it was all I had. A syringe, pre-filled, was tucked beside it.
“Hold his arm still,” I instructed Ruth, my voice calm despite the urgency.
Her eyes wide, she gripped Caleb’s wrist. I swabbed a patch of Caleb’s arm with an alcohol wipe, my movements swift and practiced. The needle slid in, pushing the clear liquid into his vein.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and distant. He moaned, a soft, pained sound.
“It’s okay, Caleb,” I whispered. “Just hold on.”
I felt for his pulse again. Still weak, but maybe, just maybe, it had gained a fraction of strength. The atropine would buy him some time, enough to stabilize him until we could get him real medical attention. But we had to move him, and soon.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours