Mike Mullin - Ashfall

“Is it a compound fracture?” the doctor asked.

“What?”

“Is the bone sticking through his skin?”

“I don’t think so, but we didn’t take his pants off.”

“Hmm. Okay, follow me.” The doctor plucked the oil lamp off the desk and left the exam room. In the hall he yelled, “Belinda! I’m leaving for a trauma call.”

A woman’s voice came from the open door of the other exam room. “Crap, it’s going to take me all night to finish this line by myself.”

“It’s just a fracture. I should be back in time to help you finish up.” The doctor ducked through another door and started stuffing supplies into an old-fashioned, black leather doctor’s bag.

When he finished, I turned to head back toward the waiting area.

“Car’s in back.” The doctor turned the other way.

“You have a car?” I asked as we followed him.

“It’s not really mine, but yeah.” The doctor opened the back door, letting daylight and a cold breeze into the hall. He blew out the lamp and left it on the floor just inside the door.

There was only one car in the parking lot-an antique sedan with a huge triangular front hood and big fenders humped up over its white-wall tires.

“Nice.” Darla whistled appreciatively. “This is what you’re driving?”

“Only car in town that runs decent,” the doctor said. “Hop in.”

There were no seatbelts in the car, but Dr. McCarthy drove so slowly that it didn’t worry me much. Max gave him directions, and soon we were rolling down Stagecoach Trail back toward the farm.

“So what is this thing?” Darla asked. “It looks kinda like a ’39 Ford I saw once.”

“It’s a Studebaker,” Dr. McCarthy said. “’41 Champion.”

“Beautiful car. But I thought all doctors drove Mercedes-” Darla said.

“No, Beamers,” Dr. McCarthy snorted. “I had one. After the ashfall started, the ambulance couldn’t make it here from Galena. So I used my BMW. Ash got in the air intakes and tore up the engine. Pretty much all the cars in town were wrecked by the ashfall. Gale Shipman kept this beauty in his garage under a tarp. Man, he was mad when the mayor told him he had to lend it to me. I don’t know if he’ll ever speak to either of us again.”

“What in the world were you giving that guy at the clinic?” I said. “It looked like… Froot Loops?”

“Yep, Kellogg’s Froot Loops,” Dr. McCarthy said.

“Why?”

“We ran out of Special K.”

“Never heard of a doctor prescribing breakfast cereal,” I said.

“I work with what I have. All those people in the clinic have scurvy-it’s caused by vitamin C deficiency. We’re all going to get it if we can’t find anything to eat other than pork. It simply manifests in children and seniors first.”

“And breakfast cereal has vitamin C?”

“Yep, exactly. We found a whole truckload of it abandoned up on Highway 11. I’d have preferred a truckload of multivitamins, but I’ll take what I can get. Don’t know what we’ll do when we run out, though.”

“How is it that you’ve got pork to eat?” Darla asked.

“Factory hog farms. There were three of them near Warren. Had better than ten thousand head of hogs. Whole town pitched in to butcher them and preserve the meat. Still, most of it would have spoiled if we hadn’t gotten this cold weather so early. Saved our bacon, so to speak.”

Darla groaned. “At least you don’t have to worry about getting enough to eat.”

“You don’t have to worry, either,” Max said. “We’ve only run out of food twice, and that was before you got here and built the corn grinder.”

“Yeah,” Darla said, “But with your dad hurt, we won’t be able to dig up as much corn. And losing that greenhouse-”

“It’ll be okay,” I said. I didn’t want Max to worry about the food situation, although truthfully, I was a bit worried myself.

“Turn here,” Max said, and Dr. McCarthy cranked the wheel over, turning down Canyon Park Road. A few minutes later we stopped in the road in front of the farm’s driveway. We had only shoveled one path in the snow from the house to the road, nowhere near wide enough for the Studebaker. All four of us jogged down the driveway toward the house. Aunt Caroline and Rebecca left the damaged greenhouse and joined us.

Uncle Paul’s skin was gray and sweaty. Anna had cut off his left pant leg. Livid bruises blotched his leg around the break, and it was grotesquely lumpy, but there was no blood. Dr. McCarthy knelt by his leg and examined it for a moment.

“How’s it look, Jim?” Uncle Paul asked.

“Not bad. Wish I could X-ray the break, but I think it should set fine.”

“Good, good.” Uncle Paul exhaled heavily.

“I’ll get to work, then. Now the good news is that I still have some fiberglass casting tape.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“We’ve been out of painkillers for weeks.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I need a pail of water.”

“I’ll get it,” Anna offered.

Dr. McCarthy took a thin stick wrapped in leather from his bag. The leather was dented and scarred with tooth marks. A deep frown creased Uncle Paul’s face, but he reached up and took the stick from the doctor, put it in his mouth, and chomped down.

“Let’s have the adults hold his arms and legs,” Dr. McCarthy said. “The less he moves around, the better.”

I wasn’t sure who he meant at first. Aunt Caroline knelt and took hold of one of her husband’s arms. Dr. McCarthy was looking at me, so I grabbed my uncle’s other arm.

“Who’s the strongest?” Dr. McCarthy asked.

“Alex,” Darla said.

“Darla,” I said.

“Well, one of you should hold his left leg above the break. I need it immobilized while I set the bone.”

“You do it,” I told Darla.

Darla held Uncle Paul’s thigh, and Max grabbed his unbroken leg. Dr. McCarthy gently ran the fingers of his left hand along the break. With his right, he took a firm grip on Uncle Paul’s ankle. A low moan escaped Uncle Paul’s lips around the stick. Rebecca and Anna stood to one side, holding hands and watching.

“Everyone ready?”

I nodded.

Dr. McCarthy pulled back on the ankle, straining with the effort. Uncle Paul screamed, a trumpeting sound muffled by the leather-wrapped stick locked in his teeth. All his muscles clenched, and I had to lean forward, using both hands and all my weight to keep his arm forced against the floor. His face turned into a flaming rictus mask of pain. Even over his scream, I could hear the bones grind as Dr. McCarthy straightened his leg.

The scream ended abruptly and Uncle Paul’s arm went slack in my hands. “Check his breathing! Make sure his airway is clear,” Dr. McCarthy ordered.

I bent lower and put my cheek against his mouth. I felt a puff of breath against my skin. “He’s breathing fine.” I put my fingers against his neck. “Pulse feels strong.”

“Okay, good.” Dr. McCarthy had straightened the leg and was wrapping it in a cloth bandage.

Aunt Caroline swayed. I grabbed her upper arm. “You okay?” I asked.

“A little woozy,” she said.

“You should lie down.” I helped her stretch out on the couch.

Dr. McCarthy ripped open a foil packet and removed a bright purple strip of fiberglass tape. He dunked the tape in water and wrapped it around the break, over the cloth bandages. Darla helped, holding Uncle Paul’s leg off the floor to make it easier to wrap. Dr. McCarthy wrapped three more strips of fiberglass tape over the bandages, completely immobilizing the leg and ankle.

“That should do it,” Dr. McCarthy said as he repacked his bag. “If you see any red streaks or if the leg starts to smell bad, come get me again. Aspirin or willow bark tea would help with the swelling, if you can manage it.”