Induction

I lounged in the rocking chair by the front entry flipping through a six-month-old celebrity gossip magazine. The newest Disney child actor to shed her squeaky clean image made for an exciting story. I was thinking about what fate might have befallen the little tart when the squawk of radio sent me toppling off the front of the rocker and stumbling for the railing to remain on my feet. The doctor had told me we were in possession of one of the few camp radios in case there was a medical issue in the field and they needed help.

“Doc. Come in, Doc. Over.”

Snatching the radio up, my hands trembled with the fear of what could be happening. “This is Emma… er… the nurse. Doc Robbins is out to lunch. What can I do for you?” I waited for a response and gave myself a mental head slap. Duh. “Over.”

“This is PFC Sotter. ETA to clinic is thirty minutes. We’ve got a soldier with a minor laceration that needs wound care and infection prevention. Over.”

“Roger that, PFC. We’ll be here.” Dammit, I forgot again. “Over.”

Scenarios started to play through my brain in rapid fire. I knew there was a recovery team on the way back to base. They’d been gone before we arrived on the island. I also knew the cut was not a zombie bite, because the camp had a strict policy on bites. If you are bitten, you are infected: one hundred percent of the time. Victims are given the option of a self-inflicted bullet to the brain, or they could opt for what’s behind door number two: execution by comrade. In the new world, where infection is lurking everywhere, any cut, scrape, or blister was taken seriously and treated to prevent a staph infection, tetanus, or worse.

I may have been given the title of nurse, but the fact that I was technically an unlicensed student with an extremely limited scope of experience had my nerves getting the best of me. Better to be safe than sorry, I say. So I did what any self-respecting nursing student would do. I ran to get the doctor. He was still waiting in the lunch line when I found him, and his annoyance at being summoned back to work was visible on his face. He left me in line in his place to bring his meal back to the clinic.

You would think the camp meals were bland and delivered in portions just big enough to sustain life, and you would be half right. The portions were minuscule, but the food had been excellent thus far. Judging by the mouth-watering effect the smell of beef stew had on me, today would be no exception. No way was I passing up the opportunity to cut in line and not get a meal for myself.

I may have felt a small twinge of guilt. But when I saw the stew was accompanied by a fresh baked biscuit, I was guilty no more. The biscuit didn’t stand a chance of making it back to the clinic intact. My willpower held out all of ten paces before that flaky delight was leaving crumbs down the front of my shirt. Even worse was my inner struggle to not eat Doc Robbins’ biscuit too. Biscuit? What biscuit? Fear of reprisal saved that little biscuit from meeting its maker by way of my eager tummy.

A Ford F350 was parked in front of the clinic. The shiny blue paint was visible only on the roof. The body of the behemoth truck was covered with a thick coating of both fresh and dried blood. A crack in the windshield reminded me of the bull’s-eye on a dartboard. The concentric circular pattern had multiple fractures with small chips in the glass. Stuck inside the chips were bits of flesh and hair. One tangle in particular caught my eye and made my stomach do a flip-flop.

A clump of blond locks threaded through the small opening. Dangling inside like a pair of fuzzy dice was a chunk of scalp nearly two inches in diameter. I made the executive decision to stop the vehicle inspection and passed by, intentionally turning my gaze upward. When the stench hit me, I quickened my pace and took shallow breaths through my mouth.

Two soldiers leaned on the railing as I approached. They were both laughing as they puffed away on cigarettes.

Mmm, I miss cigarettes, I thought. It had been nearly five years since I gave up smoking, and I still craved those evil little cancer sticks whenever I caught a whiff. It was no big mystery; smoking is bad for you. So after years of enduring the riot act from Jake, I woke up one day and threw a full pack in the trash. Is it irony that I quit to avoid an early death by lung cancer and now every day was a gamble on whether or not I’d see tomorrow? Perhaps I should reevaluate that decision. I think I would prefer that death to the other, and more likely, option. But, I digress.