Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (31 page)

All the while I can’t stop thinking about what a goddamn ridiculous plan this is. Then again, there’s another persistent thought that trails just behind that one. Having a doctor around,
saving
a doctor, might potentially make our lives much easier. Maria points out a patrol who pass just a few feet in front of us, their cigarettes leaking thin, silvery snakes that mingle with the short puffs of their breaths. They’re close enough for me to smell the cheap tobacco. They laugh and chitchat, passing out of view behind one of the semitrucks. Maria takes me by the hand and together we pad across the little river of gravel between us and the store.

“Here’s the door,” she says. “It shouldn’t lock. We busted it when we escaped the first time. Take this.”

She shoves a crinkled piece of paper into my hands.

“What’s this?”

“A map. It’s not very good, but it should give you an idea of how the hallways go. It’s not a maze in there or anything but it might help.”

“Thank you,” I say, squinting down at the hieroglyphic mess of squiggles and squares. “Good luck getting back.”

“Ha,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. “Same to you.”

I don’t wait for her to leave and carefully pluck open the back door. I’m worried the patrol will be back soon and I’m not ready to waste another second. It’s a suicide mission anyway so I suppose I might as well get it over with quickly. I crouch along the wall, moving through the icy, dark hall, keeping my hand on the wall for balance. Maria’s map is more or less incomprehensible. Dead Sea Scrolls are more legible. It indicates, I think, that this back door is the employee entrance and—judging by the amount of cigarette butts scattered across the floor—the favored place for smoke breaks. The hall has three offshoots, two of which have doors and one of which is a connected corridor. There is a vague indication of where I should go, a suggestion of little red tic marks on the map, and I remember Dobbs mentioning a blast so I go forward, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of an explosion.

Voices come and go, echoing down the halls, bursting out of vents high up above me. It’s miserable. There’s no reliable way to tell whether the guards are just around the corner or down at the end of another hall. It’s like walking in a winding, hollow pipeline where everything echoes and clangs. I pass what looks like a break room. It’s empty except for a few tables and vending machines with the glass smashed in. Everything, every color and tile, is sterile and cold, and the idea of living there long-term makes my skin crawl. That’s not to say the arena was anything glamorous, but at least it had plenty of colorful tents. Maybe it’s just the circumstances, maybe it’s really not so bad and only seems this dismal because I’m sneaking around like some ludicrous, low-rent ninja, clutching a scribbled map with a vain, dim hope.

“You’ll eat it, you faggot, and you’ll like it.”

I stop, feeling my blood turn to ice water. A door slams close by, too close, and a lighter
flick-flick-flicks
but doesn’t catch flame. I hold my breath, all too aware that if he lights up the hall he’ll see me flattened against the wall.

“Not again. Damn thing,” he says, shoving the lighter and the unlit cigarette back into his pocket. This is the first and only time in my life I’ve felt such a deep and profound kinship with the intrepid, Dumpster-diving scavengers of the night, our masked friend the raccoon. The guard’s shadow falls over my head and then ripples, passing over me and away. I find myself just a foot or two in front of the last door at the end of the hall. It’s one of the doors marked on the map. The guard disappears down the adjacent corridor, muttering to himself about the faulty lighter as he goes. I know he can’t actually
hear
my heart hammering against my rib cage, but it seems like any person with a pair of working ears
should
.

I let a moment pass, just in case the guard decides to come back, but there’s nothing, just the far-off clatter of footsteps and voices. I breathe out all at once, letting the air shudder out of my lungs. Even so, I don’t feel much relief. I kiss the map and stick it into my pocket alongside the apple orchard card and my mom’s Post-it.

The door’s lock is busted, hanging off by one mangled screw. They’ve hammered two brackets on either side of the door, a wooden plank sitting across the brackets. I lift the two-by-four off the brackets and open the door, bringing the plank with me—

Shink!

A tin plate smashes into the wall near my head, some kind of grainy, gray substance raining down on me.

“I told you I’d rather die than eat that poison!”

“It’s not poison,” I say, licking a bit of the porridge off my fingers. “Runny, kinda gross, but not poison.”

“Who are you? You’re not the jailer.”

“The jailer is long gone,” I say. “I’m Allison and your friend Nanette sent me.”

“Ah. A rescue! And a woman … The plot thickens.”

I lean the board against the wall and take a few steps into the room. It’s a storage room, the walls lined with half-empty shelves, an emergency light buzzing overhead, filling the room with a cold, yellow glow. After a cursory glance I spot a basketball, a rusted canister and a pack of cotton Ts. There’s a man sitting against the far wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his right arm in a makeshift sling.

“
You’re
Julian?” I ask.

“Yes, Julian Clarke.
Doctor
Julian Clarke.”

“You don’t look much like a doctor.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“Very funny,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Can we skip ahead a bit, we need to get out of here before your friend gets back.”

“I hope you’re stronger than you look, sweetheart,” he says, nodding toward his legs. “We’ll be on our merry way if you can carry all two hundred pounds of me.”

That’s when I notice the dark stain on his rumpled khakis, a big bloodstain right on the inner thigh above his knee. Yes. Perfect. A doctor who looks more like a
Survivor: Iowa
participant than a surgeon, who can’t walk and can’t use his right arm. I make a mental note to crucify Nanette—
slowly
—if we ever make it out of here.

“Then I guess you’re stuck here forever,” I say, shrugging and turning back to the door.

“That’s the spirit.”

“Well what do you want me to do? If you can’t walk then I really don’t have much use for you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, honey.”

“Okay, one: stop with the bullshit pet names. Two: either throw out a suggestion or get prepared to have your ass dragged out of here.”

“Your eyes as sharp as your mouth?” he asks, still reclining against the shelves. If obnoxiously smug had a poster child, Dr. Clarke would be candidate #1. He looks a bit like Dobbs if Dobbs had spent most of his life in air-conditioned offices and expensive medical schools instead of on the open range. He has a high forehead with a scraggly head of brown hair like the tufts of a lion’s mane, a flashy smile and a big Grecian-vase nose.

“My eyes are just fine, thanks very much,” I say. “What did you have in mind?” His eyebrows jump.

“Practical answer or primal deep freeze?”

“Practical, please.”

“See that?” he asks, nodding toward the rusted can on the shelf.

“Yeah.”

“Go poke around behind it. I think I saw some brown bottles when they tossed me in here.”

The rusted can is an old gasoline receptacle, but behind it, just as Julian said, are a few dark brown plastic bottles. Rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, Vaseline … I report as much.

“Grab those T-shirts, the rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide,” he says. I reach to grab them and hesitate. “Ugh, Jesus,
please
.
Please
, oh mistress mine, would you bring them here?”

“Sure, no problem.”

This is about when a horrible, gross feeling begins in my stomach because I’m beginning to guess his intentions. I’m almost flattered at the idea that, after only a minute or two of meeting, he trusts me this much. Then again, what choice does either of us have? If I can just imagine my mother, imagine a healthy, happy Ted and all of us bouncing along the road to Colorado …

“Have a seat,” he says, patting the floor with his uninjured hand.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“Arm or leg?”

“Well, both?”

“Arm is a long story, best left for later when we have more time. Leg happened in the explosion. Like an idiot I was trying to grab some things on the way out of here and it didn’t work out so great. As you can see, my leg is now the proud owner of about three inches of steel.”

“Can I ask what you were trying to grab? Do I want to know?”

“Two words, babe: Pinot Grigio.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“What? I’d rather lick an elephant’s ass than spend the rest of this hell sober. After an hour or two around my brother it’s either get a little soused or fucking fratricide.”

“I knew you looked familiar.”

“We can chitchat later. Let’s stay focused, shall we?” he asks. I scoot closer to him on the concrete floor, lining up the bottles and the package of shirts next to his leg. “Good. Now reach into my pocket.”

“Yeah. Sure. Nice try.”

“Look, baby, if I wanted you to grab my junk I’d just fucking ask. No, I want you to get my knife.”

“They didn’t pat you down?”

“Yes, a bunch of gunslinging Iowa country boys are really going to jump at the chance to feel me up. They figure that whatever I’m packing is smaller than what they’re packing, and they’re right. What am I going to do? Stab them to death with a pocketknife? They’ve got shotguns.”

“You’d be surprised what you can do with everyday objects,” I say, smiling to myself.

“I’ll ask later. Get the knife. There should be a lighter in there too.”

Inside his left pocket is a small Swiss Army knife, just big enough to have a few of the basic tools. It’s a nice one, engraved with his name. There’s a lighter too, a sleek silver Zippo. It’s at this point that the bad feeling in my stomach really starts to have fun, making my insides squish and squirm with discomfort. I’m not great around blood and I have this feeling that—

“Surgery 101: don’t do anything I don’t fucking tell you to. Got it?”

“Whoa, whoa,
surgery
? I’m cutting that thing out of you?”

“Unless of course you’d rather use your teeth. Yes, you’re cutting it out of me. Is that a problem?”

“I’m just…”

“Afraid?”

“
No
. I’m just not great with … you know … blood and veins and gore and stuff.”

“Sweetie, if you lasted this long then you must have seen some bad shit, am I right?”

“Sure.”

“And judging from that sinister smile a second ago you’ve killed a person or two. Still right?”

“I … Yes. Still right.”

“So you can use a weapon
against
someone but you can’t use a weapon to help me? Besides, since you’re here and not Maria or my brother I figure you need my help. They said the magic word ‘doctor’ and you risked your life to get me—it’s that or you’re going for sainthood. So what happened? Someone on the outside get hurt, someone you care about?”

“Okay, put like that,” I say, swallowing hard, “there’s just … more pressure with this. And anyway, how have you not
died
?”

“If I pull on the damn thing and don’t have a way of staunching the blood flow then I’ll bleed out. To death. Time is running out as it is, I probably would’ve attempted it on my own if you hadn’t shown up. It’s … You know, it’s complicated, all right?”

“Fine,” I say.

“If I could use my damn arm it wouldn’t be such a problem, but as it is…”

“Right, right. I get it. So how do we start?”

Julian straightens his injured leg out, crooking the other one beneath him. I move closer, slowly, feeling my stomach lurch and do a quick audition for Cirque du Soleil. Somehow this is so much worse than bashing the undead in the head with an ax. One wrong move, one slip, one hesitation and I could kill an innocent man with my incompetence.

No pressure.

“You’re sweating,” he says. “Good, that’s step one, anyway.”

“I’m about to cut your leg open. Some manners, please.”

“First things first,” he says. “We’re, uh, going to need some more supplies.”

“What?”

“Don’t panic. We can probably just use stuff in here.”

“Like what?” I ask, glancing around at the spare shelves. Julian also looks around with me, scanning the miscellaneous items scattered here and there.

“It’s not going to be
pretty
but—”

“Will it work?” I ask.

“Probably.”

“That’s good enough,” I say, shrugging and getting to my feet. It’s his leg. “What do we need?”

“Grab that camping hot plate and … That, there. Is that an iron? Get it.”

I collect the large, clumsy hot plate and the iron, bringing them back to Julian and the other supplies. It feels like we’ve been thrust back into the Middle Ages. I can almost imagine an arrow shaft sticking out of his leg. I unbox the iron and grill, wary of Julian’s intentions.

“You’ll have to get a flame going. Is there a fuel canister?”

I glance in the box and pull out a round canister the size of a sweet potato, and other than that there’s nothing in the box but a few loose parts.

“That’s it, that’s the fuel. There’s a hookup there, shouldn’t be hard to figure out,” Julian explains and then points to the back of the hot plate. I’m sick of being ordered around, but part of me is curious just to see where he’s going with this.

“Is it going in? Nice, that should work. All right, get a flame going, hot, as hot as you can manage. Put the iron on it and just let it sit.”

As I kneel next to him again, the plan begins to take gruesome shape in my mind.

“Right then, no time like the present. Let’s get to it. Cut off the pant leg a few inches above the wound. You’ll need space. I know the light in here is shit so get close if you have to.”

The hot plate hisses away, the flame turning bluish as it heats the iron. I can smell the fuel burning, the bitter and sweet tang that reminds me of barbecuing in the summer. I do as he says, feeling like an idiot as he gives me the step by step, enunciating clearly as if I were a toddler. It doesn’t matter. I can put up with his attitude if it means he makes it out of here and Ted gets aid. And then I remember …