#and arguably the only medical trauma caused by me rather than the drs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

craniumculverin · 5 years ago

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Crude Fortuity (part 2)

It’s not as many scenes as I wanted to have done, but I decided to stop nitpicking and just post what I have done! Some of this has been written for like 2 years now, for pete’s sake... Enjoy!

A brisk wind whips through the tents, the sound of taut canvas joining that of the camp’s weary denizens. The fires built for light and warmth are but embers save for one or two that are more sheltered, drawing those still awake. Percy is quite content to remain sequestered away from the rough voices and occasional shouts. One of the tents closest to where he’d been working until dusk had been designated as a sickbay, which is where he currently sits, recording the day’s events.

Luckily, aside from the two that had abruptly ensured his stay, many of the cases he’d seen were relatively minor, and thus could sleep without supervision. Hypothermia had been the most widespread problem, some minor lacerations and a few instances of frostbite, fewer of which required amputation. Quite a fortunate outcome, medically speaking. Of the three and a half dozen or so men only five had been found dead, and right before nightfall all had finally been accounted for. Quite fortuitous indeed, considering how many had been trapped. The two unconscious forms currently occupying the other end of the tent, however, were anything but fortunate. They’d taken up most of Percy’s time, and rightfully so.

The arguably worst off was a Mister Lorcan Quinn, a young Irishman of diminutive build, about 19 years of age. When he was laid out on a table he’d been unconscious and terribly pale from blood loss and exposure. Besides multiple fractures to his right leg, numerous abrasions and extensive bruising, his left leg had been crudely amputated below the knee, a makeshift tourniquet of rope tied just above - it was so tight and slick with blood Percy had given up on removing it in the end. Truthfully it’d likely been the only thing that kept the boy alive during the apparent trek down the mountain, but the damage it had caused had been an issue in and of itself. As the doctor rushed to stop the flow of blood, it also became evident something had occurred prior to the amateur amputation.

“…Both tibia and fibula appeared to have suffered severe comminuted fractures prior to where cuts were made, as large bone splinters were still present in surrounding tissue, some of which would have had to be removed. The bones had been twisted severely at the knee - tendons and muscle damaged beyond recognition. Likely to have been broken or mangled in a way that trapped him, thus the amputation. Most probable to have been done with an ax, with extreme force, done in 2-4 swings.

Due to the severity of the knee’s condition, massive blunt trauma caused by crude technique, extensive tissue damage from the rope, and lack of viable skin to create a flap, further amputation was required. Patient awoke as sawing of femur began but quickly passed out. Procedure went fairly well, assistant performed admirably despite inexperience. Setting of fractures in right leg left to assistant and two other men, done quickly and precisely. Bandaging finished and treated for remaining injuries and hypothermia once in sickbay.”

Percy sighs as he finishes his entry, writing slightly askew from having to balance the journal on his knee. He curses his inability to find a pencil and hopes he wasn’t using his good blue ink - the lamp he’d been given is too dim to tell, and too low on oil to make any brighter. Pausing to let the page dry, he removes his spectacles to rub at his tired eyes before placing them back on the bridge of his nose.

Looking over to the prone forms across from him - particularly Mister Quinn, who’s shivering required an extra blanket - Percy feels a little resentful. As of yet no one has bothered to see that he himself has somewhere to sleep, and frankly he didn’t want to leave the decently warm tent to inquire about it. They’d given him a chair at least, one with a sturdy enough backrest. What little luggage he’d packed aside from his medicine chest sat in the corner, a number of coats and shirts inside suitable to sleep under. He could make due for tonight, if it meant not having to interact with anyone until morning.

The doctor flips to the next page for his final record of the night, glancing up at the other occupant of the sickbay’s cots. The snoring man’s bandaged feet hang over the edge, a few dry pairs of stockings stretched over them. His hands are wrapped as well, but neither are anywhere near as thickly bandaged as his head. A small frown crosses Percy’s features as he dips his pen, unsatisfied with how he’ll have to start this particular entry.

“Patient: Alfred (surname unknown)”

He huffs after finishing just the one line. Why no one in camp would come forth with the man’s full name was a mystery, and the Captain had been too preoccupied to be of any assistance on the matter. Surely at least one of these loggers would be privy to such information? In lieu of a surname Percy opts to include a more thorough description - some way of properly identifying him.

“Blond, green eyes, fair skin, strong nose. Likely English accent. About 6 feet in height, solidly built. Age anywhere from 20-25 years.

Severe head trauma resulting in large laceration over right parietal, no fracture or depression, unable to detect possible intracranial hemorrhaging. Likely moderate to severe concussion. 3 broken ribs, at least 2 partially fractured. Moderate to severe bruising across body, primarily front of torso, legs, and arms, unable to detect possible internal trauma or bleeding. Moderate abrasions, lacerations to face and hands. Minor abrasions, blistering to feet. Beginnings of frostbite to all extremities, particularly hands. Hypothermia.

Patient was found carrying Mister Quinn at the outskirts of camp after the avalanche and resulting landslide. Reportedly collapsed as assistance approached but remained conscious, became distraught when Quinn was taken from him. Put up weak resistance at first before being half-dragged into camp. Appeared confused and unable to form intelligible speech, no other immediate signs of brain trauma. Repeatedly tried to get up during procedures and had to be held down. Eventually forced to be made unconscious by way of chloroform when-”

“Dr. Hewlett, you awake?”

Percy’s eyes close of their own accord at the sudden intrusion. “Yes, come in.”

The flap of the tent’s entrance is pulled open, letting what little warmth that had accumulated out into the night. The Captain pokes his head in, quickly frowning. “Where’s your cot? Told Ben to bring one for you soon as he was done with whatever he was up to with those bloodied rags.”

Ah, that explains it. Benediktus, the camp’s New Pthumerian “doctor” turned assistant, had been sent to use what was left of the boiling water to wash out any bandages that could be reused. Given the nature of the task and his apparent perfectionism, he was likely still at it, much to the chagrin of the cook.

“Ben is likely still at work on his last task I’m afraid. Is there something I can do for you Captain?”

“There isn’t, just wanted t’check in before I make m’last rounds. I’ll have a cot and blankets brought in,” the man pauses as he inspects the cramped space, “unless you want t’sleep elsewhere? Not sure a third will fit comfortably with your equipment and such…”

“I’d rather sleep here. Neither of these men are stable enough to go unsupervised for long.” And they were better company than anyone else he’d have to share a tent with, being unconscious for the foreseeable future.

“Alright then…” The Captain gazes over to the slumbering patients, a surprising amount of worry etched into his weathered features. As explosive as the man’s temper was, Percy had quickly come to realize he cared deeply for those working under him. He knew every man by name, and as soon as they’d all been found his demeanor gradually shifted from a demanding tyrant to a concerned leader - strict and immensely gruff, but concerned. A much more pleasant man to deal with than Percy’s initial interaction had led him to believe.

After a short time the Irishman must have realized he was lingering; he clears his throat and stomps his boots before entering, shutting out the chill outside air. “Is there anything else I can d’for you Doctor?”

“Thank you Captain, I do have one request,” Percy shifts to better face him, motioning to the larger of his two patients. “What is Alfred’s surname? I couldn’t find anyone that knew, or were willing to say.”

The stout man is quiet before bursting into laughter. “Pwaw hahaa! That’s all? Sorry Doc, I’ll have t'check the ledger for his full name - Alfred’s never been fond o' using his, ever since I first met the lad. As t’why the others won’t say, he tells anyone that asks something different. T’mess with them, I think.”

“Really? How odd.”

The physician leans back in his seat as he considers his strange patient. The other man grunts in agreement, then shrugs his broad shoulders. “Aww he’s prolly just a bastard or a runaway is all. People are strange about such things… Anything else before I away?”

Percy is silent for a moment before his eyes light up. “Ah yes! I am curious - why do you call yourself ‘Captain’? A strange choice of title, for such an occupation.”

The Irishman’s face instantly falls into a grimace. “I don’t, but the men do. I figured it’d save time and confusion if you just called me by that bloody nickname. If you want t’call me by m'proper name it’s Murry Buckley, though by now most o' this lot likely’ve forgotten it.”

“…Well that was sensible of you. That’s all for now Mister Buckley, thank you.”

“Thank you, Doctor. These two would be goners without you, I have no doubt about that. And the other men you saw to as well - I truly appreciate your efforts.”

“Hmm Lorcan yes, absolutely - he was practically dead when he came to me. But Alfred… hmmaybe,” ponders Percy aloud as he watches the two patients. “His head wound probably would have closed on its own. Eventually. But inflammation and discharge would've been an issue, not to mention his chances of… Anyway! You’re very much welcome. I myself appreciate being allowed to stay here for a time.”

“…Right,” the Captain gives him an odd look, “I’ll eh, I’ll make sure that cot gets t'you. G'night Dr. Hewlett.”

“Good night Mister Buckley.”

----------

One would think being stuck in a logging camp so soon after a natural disaster would be stressful, what with the questionable terrain and so many antsy workmen, but as far as Percy is concerned it's really quite dull.

His time is primarily spent cooped up in the sickbay tent or directly outside at the tables, his responsibilities keeping him anchored to where he can easily be found amidst the rows of canvas and piles of equipment. It's hardly the natural beauty he'd expected to appreciate during his time here, and to make it worse Buckley is adamantly insistent that he stay within the camp proper until their surroundings are deemed safe. Given that more than half of camp is either buried under snow and mud or is where the men are working, that leaves Percy just enough space to feel much like a caged animal, restless as it paces along the bars.

There's technically something to do with his free time - even in the midst of seeing to the injured on that first day, Ben had eagerly asked he impart any medical knowledge he'd be willing to share. He later agreed, despite having mixed thoughts on the matter; it's something to put his mind to besides the very few instances that someone requires medical attention, yet also involves having to plan on regular interaction with the young man. However, it turns out the student's shockingly wide range of duties keep him far too busy or exhausted to hold a focused conversation, and when he can he tends to stop in unannounced and for too short a time. While hashing over lectures is pleasant enough, doing so has begun to feel rather meaningless as the boy never lingers long enough to finish any. Percy may as well just open a textbook to a random page and tell him to start reading!

Speaking of, the physician had cracked open his neatly packed chest of books as soon as he'd made adequate space in the sickbay to do so. Many of the tomes he simply couldn't leave behind also happen to be those he enjoys rereading, which he quickly decided on doing - only to realize a logging camp may in fact be the worst place to attempt such an activity. Maybe once the men are spending more time sawing logs and climbing trees they'll stop shouting all the time, and with such colorful profanity.

So, with such a severe lack of things to occupy himself, he's taken to observing. Everything.

How the fog grows and shrinks along the foothills as time passes, what sorts of wildlife can be seen along the outskirts of camp, the cloud patterns and wind directions in relation to the terrain, the unfamiliar types of trees and plant life, where paths have formed from foot traffic and which are used more, how the Captain maintains order and directs the men, the sorts of roles present within the camp, which men tend to do what, who interacts with who and how, all the while sorting out which names belong to which faces. None of it is in the slightest bit interesting, but it's something to pass the time.

And of course he properly sees to any and all medical complaints the workmen might have, as he'd promised. He's not negligent after all, just bored out of his mind.

As for his two long-term patients, neither have been able to remain conscious for an extended period of time. It's a day and a half full of incessant humdrum before either finally come to, and unsurprisingly it's the young Irishman. While the redhead has simply been in too weak a state, Alfred had developed a fever during the first night, which, along with his head trauma, has made it difficult for him to stay awake for even a minute at a time. According to Mister Quinn - or simply Lorcan, as he prefers - his coworker would "snap out of it soon as he gets hungry enough." Percy sees no point in rebuffing his deplorable grasp of medicine as, despite the constant pain and soreness he's sure to be experiencing, the boy is already talkative enough without further prompting. The doctor has to repeat himself thrice just to get his name out amongst all the questions and chatter.

Once word to both the Captain and the cook - whose name is actually Cook, poor man - has been sent, Lorcan finally quiets enough to take in an explanation about the extent of his injuries and what has become of his leg. He wearily pushes away the covers to examine his new stump as Percy finishes, condolences left to hang in the air. A decent amount of time passes of him blankly staring at the mass of bandages - then he heaves a sigh and winces through a shrug, expression belaying a sense of minor annoyance.

“Guess I’ll be working for m'dah after all. A boring job for me back home then, hurrah."

He throws his hands up in mock celebration, earning him a bemused look and raised brow from the physician. “My, you appear to be handling all of this exceptionally well. I’ve had men make more of a fuss over losing a single finger than you are with most of a leg. May I inquire why that is?”

Something dark crosses Lorcan's features before he shivers and wraps bruised arms around himself as best he can. “T'is better than being dead out in the middle o' nowhere. T'die in the country God forgot…”

“Hm…" Percy idly considers the patient as he moves to gently cover his residual limb - much like a listless cat eyeing a possible plaything, contemplating if it's worth the trouble of pouncing on. "…If it’s not too upsetting, could you recount what you remember? Of how you came to lose it, I mean - from my understanding such an injury isn’t common to receive from an avalanche or landslide.”

The hint of humor goes completely unnoticed as the young man is absorbed into his thoughts, a frown crumpling his freckled features. Lithe fingers begin to pick at the stitching of his blankets.

“…I woke up with m’leg trapped under a tree, likely the one we’d been up when it hit. I d’know how long I was out before that, but… I already knew m'leg was done for. All that blood… and the pain was- I was ready, wanting t’die by the time I heard Alfred call out,” Lorcan looks over to his slumbering compatriot and dryly chuckles. “I was gonna ask him t', t'just- …But he was out of his head with how hard he must’ve gotten knocked. Thought he could somehow get the both of us out of there alive, all on his lonesome.”

“A belief that turned out to be true.”

Lorcan is shocked when he turns back to Percy, before disbelief quickly blossoms. “We weren’t- the others didn’t come find us up there?”

“No. At the time they were all occupied with digging out those still trapped under the snow and debris. Alfred carried you to the edge of camp, where the two of you were found.”

There's a brief silence as the two stare at one another, and then Lorcan bursts into laughter.

“Hahahahaaoo damn! Of course he did, the lunatic! Couldn’t leave behind anyone what showed him a lick o' good will! Bloody idiot!” Despite the harsh words, tears well up in the redhead's eyes as his voice begins to waver. “Gonna get him- himself killed for sure one of these days, with that stupid loyalty of his! Pigheaded l-loon!”

He suddenly turns away and clutches at his curls for something to hide behind, no longer able to keep from outright crying. Percy quietly moves to focus on the contents of his medicine chest to let the boy gather himself. There’s evidently some history here, concerning Alfred risking his personal well-being for others' sakes, and it seems he may have done so for Lorcan at some previous point. Unless the boy is simply wont to being ridiculously over-emotional. Hopefully neither of these possible traits will interfere with their recovery in any way, or his time tending to them.

A few sniffles are heard as Percy finishes noting what and of how much he'll need to restock upon reaching civilization. Lorcan is rubbing his reddened nose along his forearm when the physician pointedly turns to face him, his bleary eyes glancing up before sheepishly breaking eye contact. His voice is somewhat hoarse as he tries to casually continue the conversation as though nothing had happened.

“…Didn’t take him long t’take his ax t’my leg though, that’s for sure. Smiling like a madman he was!”

“An ax? Goodness!” exclaims Percy, brows raised in faux shock. He’d obviously figured that out right after getting the residual stump clean enough to see the damage, however practicing a little more sympathy and interest than he usually bothers with may be appropriate, given the youth’s sensitive nature - and it's proven to do wonders when he has to stay in constant contact with a patient.

Still, Percy is ever curious. “How many swings could that have taken? Alfred seems like a strong sort, it couldn’t have been too many… The pain must’ve been truly exquisite!”

“Hell if I know Doc - I was screaming my throat raw just from him tying the rope ‘round it. Once he put the ax t’me I must’ve been out like a light! Just heard him say t'close m'eyes after stuffing his gloves in m'mouth… What’s ‘exquisite’ mean?”

“Intensely felt, as in pain that is 'agonizing' or 'severe',” says Percy somewhat listlessly. He’d gotten his journal out to make an addendum, but alas, his curiosity is to remain unsatisfied. His guess is still at around three swings.

“Oh. Then yeah, it was the exquisitest pain I ever felt!”

The boy attempts to shift himself further upright only to lean too far on his stump. He jolts backward with a yelp, gripping at his blankets as all color drains from his face. Before he can do any further possible damage to the immense amount of work, Percy jumps up to push him down to lay against the flimsy cot. He checks for any fresh blood seeping through the strips of fabric, a distinctly calm but chiding tone in his voice as he works. “You won’t be very active any time soon, I’m afraid - bed rest is of utmost import for a proper recovery. Don’t try to do anything without assistance until told otherwise, you’re in quite a delicate state. Should we both do our best, your chances of survival are still less than desirable.”

“Great, okay, sounds good,” Lorcan deafly wheezes as the doctor’s nimble fingers painfully press and prod, “don’t feel much like a walk anyway. Not that I could.”

About a half an hour of constant one-sided gab passes before Ben asks to be let in with three dented cups of steaming soup in hand. Assuming the third is for the New Pthumerian himself, Percy stands, expecting to be asked for another impromptu lesson. But the student merely shakes his head as he’s offered the seat and hands the older man two of the cups. “It’s not for me sir, I’m needed back at the stove. Cook said to bring it for Alfred in case he woke up as well. Wouldn’t let me leave unless I did, sir.”

“Oh? Mister Cook must be confidant of Alfred also waking today if he’s willing to risk rations going to waste. Thank you Benediktus.”

“It won’t go t’waste, I’ll eat it if it gets t'cold before Alf is up!” says Lorcan, panting around a mouthful of the too-hot food.

The pale assistant bows slightly before seeing himself out, allowing Percy the space needed to sit back down to his meal. Inspecting it reveals it’s the same three main ingredients that every dish has been comprised of thus far - potatoes, salt pork, and beans. Cook added some kind of local herb to alter the flavor at least, and soup is new to the menu. Chewing on a bit of tough pork, the doctor wonders how many of the men have suffered from scurvy since becoming loggers.

“Sometimes we find berries in the wild, or catch fish and trap rabbits and the like. Around here are hermit-types living in the hills that sometimes give us veg they couldn’t eat or sell, though it’s usually started t’rot.”

Percy looks up to see Lorcan watching him with a mischievous grin. “You looked like you were thinking about how shite the food is - which is fair, ‘cause it is. Not even Cook can change that, though at least he bothers t’try.”

Swallowing is difficult with how little chewing has accomplished, but the physician manages. “Not- ahem, not necessarily, no. Just that what’s on hand is rather nutritionally lacking. I’m surprised all these men can handle such long hours and hard labor on so little.”

“Eh, t’is not so bad,” the redhead licks his spoon clean before setting the empty cup on the nearby makeshift nightstand, “Sometimes Cap’n bags an animal, what with having the only gun. He’s already shot down a wild pig since we set up this camp - took Alf ages t’cut up! Huge, monstrous things they are here, can get big as a coach! Still get extra meat with how much was dried.”

Percy looks up as he pokes at a chunk of gristle. “Alfred butchered it? Why not Mister Cook?”

“‘Cause he wasn’t ever trained at butchery like Alf was.”

He halts his meal to arch an eyebrow. “He was a butcher before becoming a logger?” Seems like quite a step down in terms of lifestyle and earnings.

“He wasn’t, but he did work for one way back - before enlisting in the Army.”

That causes the other brow to rise as well. “A soldier turned logger, with a history of butchery… Interesting choice of career changes, to say the least.”

“And he wanted t’be a priest before all that!”

Lorcan's gleeful excitement suddenly disappears and he leans closer as he hurriedly glances in his friend's direction, obviously uneasy. “Don’t go spouting off that last part though, and don’t let him know I told you any of that! I don’t think he’d like me sharing it! Oh, and never call him Alf like I do! He hates that!”

“Never, and I won't say a word,” Percy says as he finishes his soup, making note to be careful of what he says around the lose-lipped youth.

His cup is placed atop what luggage he couldn’t fit beneath his cot, next to the third serving. He pauses to consider whether or not to actually wait or just split it with Lorcan now. Why let hot food go to waste by going cold on such a chilly day? As he reaches for it a quiet gasp catches his attention. Turning, the doctor sees Lorcan wide-eyed and fully focused on the sickbay’s other occupant, prompting him to swiftly make his way between the two cots to inspect his feverish patient.

Alfred’s eyes are open, blearily staring at the ceiling. Resting a palm against what little of his forehead isn’t wrapped reveals his fever has come down some since morning. The waking man clenches his eyes shut and weakly tries to shake Percy's hand off, grumbling. “Responsive to touch-” He gently turns Alfred’s face toward him, forcing one eye open, then the other. A hand knocks into his elbow, clumsily trying to push him away. “-pupils are of equal size, coordination isn’t overly impacted, no hand tremors…”

“Alfred, you awake? You alright?” Lorcan anxiously leans back and forth, trying to see around the physician's bent form. Alfred squints up at Percy and mumbles before swallowing, voice hoarse and gravelly from disuse.

“Whadda… we havin’…?”

Both Percy and Lorcan pause to stare at him out of confusion, but the younger's exuberance soon returns. “Soup! With the same old taters and meat as always, but this time Cook did something t’make it taste different!”

“Smells good…”

"Able to swallow unaided. Comprehending and responding to speech, his own is minimally slurred though this may be from just waking… Southern English accent…"

“Don’t it though?“ Lorcan laughs and claps a hand on his remaining knee. “What’d I say Doc! The smell o' food wafts across that snout o' his, t'is only a matter o' time 'til he’s awake!”

“Lack of facial movement is due to swelling… Hemorrhaging seems unlikely, concussion doesn’t appear to be overly severe…”

“So it would seem,” says Percy absentmindedly as he starts checking the dressings over the head wound. A few chunks of blood-clotted hair had already been cut out of the way to clean and close the injury; now that what remains has been washed and dried, he sees that more will have to be removed to keep redressing from becoming a hassle. “Perhaps I should just cut it all off - trim the beard too, keep those whiskers from getting caught in his cuts and scrapes.” Once his mind is made up he realizes the blond has been staring at him, expression blank save for a hint of slack-jawed confusion. Percy smoothly draws away to retrieve a flask and the third cup of soup before returning. “Do you need help to sit? You’re parched I’m sure, have some water.”

"I’m alright,” croaks Alfred, clearly having trouble moving with the pain of his battered ribs and limbs. Eventually he figures out how to rock forward until he can get his elbows wedged behind his back. Once fully upright he doesn’t take the proffered flask, instead looking across to Lorcan with an air of utter perplexity. “Why’s you only have one leg Lorcan?”

The redhead’s smile falters. “’Cause you cut it off, ya dolt. Don’t you remember?”

A second passes before Alfred’s bruised features try to distort in disbelief. “I wouldn’t do that! ‘Least not to you… ‘less you really deserved it, or…” He trails off as his gaze drifts back to the doctor, face falling into open-mouthed puzzlement. Then he squints harder. “…Who’re you?”

Percy flashes a pleasant smile as he empties a hand to extend to the bewildered man. “My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett. I’m a physician that has been tending to you and Lorcan for a few days now.”

“Oh…” He looks down to the hand before taking it into an awkward, bandaged grasp to give it a weak shake. “Call me Alfred.”

“Very well Alfred.”

The blond doesn't relent his grip on Percy's hand as he continues to dumbly stare up at him. An awkward silence grows heavier with each passing second as Lorcan looks back and forth between the two, even more baffled than the physician. Then Alfred knits his brows together. "Your hair is white.”

Percy stifles a sigh and forces his smile to remain extant. “Yes, it is. Drink please.”

The water flask is held directly in front of Alfred’s face, which he finally takes. He can’t quite get the cap off, but once Percy’s done away with it he drains the contents in a few gulps. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, his drooping eyes light up on seeing the cup still in the doctor’s grasp.

“That breakfast? What are we having?” Percy wordlessly hands it to him before excusing himself to go stick his head out of the tent, hoping to catch a passerby to report to the Captain.

“I already said, it’s soup,” Lorcan gingerly leans forward to get a better look at his friend’s face, “you feeling alright Alf? Hearing okay?”

Alfred pauses shoveling food into his mouth to think. “Ah guht ah headehk tha’ hurths ah lot,” he says through meat and beans, swallowing before he continues, “and breathing hurts, and my head hurts. A lot. My hands-”

He frowns as if he’s just noticed why his fingers can hardly bend. Percy returns with the chair to sit closer, noticing Alfred’s unnerved expression as he looks between his wrapped hands and bundled feet. “You had signs of frostbite in a few of your digits. You’re lucky to have not lost any, however it’s likely the affected areas will be especially sensitive to cold from now on.”

“Oh,” the blond says flatly, before gobbling down the rest of his soup.

The cup and spoon are forgotten - and retrieved by Percy - as he settles into vacantly staring at the tent's entrance. Or, perhaps more accurately, whatever happens to be in front of him. Lorcan is openly worried as the doctor comes back from setting their emptied cups outside, casting a sidelong glance his way as he sits.

"Is he… okay?"

Percy can't resist giving him a vaguely curious look. "Why? Isn't he always like this?"

"He… isn't…"

"Ah. Well I figured as much," his tone suddenly turns matter-of-fact, "he has a concussion, which is the cause of his odd manner and may plague him for some weeks. Otherwise, considering his injuries and the exertion of getting back to camp, he's doing remarkably well."

"Oh, okay. Good." The youth is still troubled as he watches Alfred, but seems a little more at ease. "So he's not gonna stay like this then?"

"There is possibility of permanent changes to his overall demeanor, but I believe it's quite an unli-"

"You're both too damn loud," Alfred gruffly mumbles. A drawn out groan escapes him as he rests his head in his hands. "Why do I have such a God-awful headache…?"

"You got hit on the head really hard, got a bad bump and passed out," says Lorcan in a surprisingly confident tone. This time Percy's curiosity is genuine as he stares at the boy. "It's worse than when you got decked in that nasty fight outside the last camp - you need t'sleep and rest up, lay low and all that."

"Oh." Alfred appears to think over his friend's words. "…I got in another fight? Did I win?"

"You didn't. We both lost and got the beating of a lifetime. But that's not your fault, just is how it is."

"…Oh."

The blond sounds disappointed as he fiddles with the bandages on one of his hands. He looks over at Lorcan to say something but stops short on seeing the sickbay's doctor, silently observing the two. Percy matches his gaze, both concerned and impressed at how little appears to be going on behind those dull green eyes. Perhaps permanent changes to one's faculties following a concussion may be more likely than he'd originally thought… Lorcan's sudden assertiveness melts away as he looks between them, his anxiety now almost palpable in the sudden quiet. Interesting - and here he'd suddenly sounded so sure of himself. Was this sudden change just some sort of show, trying to impress the doctor for some reason? Or maybe it was meant to be something familiar for his debilitated compatriot; a tone and voice Alfred would be more used to hearing from him? Something to help anchor him to the present, since he's unable to-

"Who're you…?"

Percy's brows rise as he brings his focus back to the man in front of him. Without missing a beat he smiles and uncrosses his arms to offer a hand. "Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician. I've been tending to you and Lorcan for a few days now."

"Oh," says Alfred as he awkwardly takes it in his own, "you can call me Alfred."

"Very well Alfred."

The doctor's hand is allowed to be gently pulled away as Alfred dazedly blinks. "…I'm gonna sleep now."

Percy nods ever so slightly, still smiling. "You do that."

Alfred dips his head in a sort of nod, then eases himself back down. After getting comfortable his breathing instantly evens out, and soon snoring once again pervades the sickbay. Lorcan is the first to break the silence that has fallen over the tent's other occupants. "You sure he's okay?"

"…He will be, with time."

----------

With the monumental task of getting his logging camp back in working order, the Captain isn't able to drop by until the next morning, just after breakfast.

Despite having been awake just minutes prior to scarf down his food, Alfred is asleep when the foreman enters and somehow remains so as Lorcan loudly greets him, eager to finally talk at someone other than Percy. "Cap'n hey! How's the camp? We still have a job out here, still in business? And who's dead? Doc said men died but didn't give any names! Have y'heard from the employer yet?"

Mister Buckley pauses in removing his cap to give the voluble boy a tired frown. He sits in the chair Percy had offered with a sigh, the hat coming off to reveal a bald head in stark contrast with his wildly bushy cheeks. "Calm down Lorcan, it's not even been a week. We're still just getting our bearings - I'm only just figuring out who to send to the nearest town, and even that's hardly a priority right now! No word's gotten t'our employer so no word's come from them, and as for the men… Well, none o' that's anything for you t'worry about. How are y'feeling, lad?"

Lorcan visibly deflates at the lack of news, but brightens on being asked his status. "Horrible! Everything hurts, I'm more bruised than not, m'legs hurt like a bitch even though one of 'em is- M'leg is gone! That's a damn good indicator of how I'm doing!" He winces after leaning forward too far as he gesticulates, but quickly sits back when he sees the flash of concern in the Captain's face. "But! I'm still alive somehow, and Doc says m'stump's doing well, and that he'll give me something for the pain it's causing. So it's not all bad, I guess."

"The morphine is for your overall pain," Percy chimes in from where he sits on his cot, still focused on once again trying to read one of his books. "I doubt it'll have any affect on the amputated limb sensations you're suffering. Unfortunately there's very little known about the phenomena, and even less on treating it."

"Oh that, I still get such pains m'self from time t'time," Buckley mutters as he shifts his walking stick to eye his wooden hand. "It'll hopefully die down for you like it did for me, but I've heard one can suffer these phantom pains constantly - for years, even a lifetime. Only time will tell."

Lorcan frowns and momentarily falls silent, lip quivering as he again stares at the remainder of his leg. He suddenly shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head, only to stop with a roguish grin directed at his superior as he jabs a thumb in Alfred's direction. "Anyhow, enough about me - let's talk about Alf! He got knocked in the head and now he's stupid! Useless as a toothless saw he is, dull as one too!"

The Captain's brow furrows as he glances at the slumbering, bandaged blond, then twists in his seat to give the doctor a questioning look. With a heavy sigh Percy sets aside his attempted reading, casting the giddy redhead a disapproving glance before addressing the foreman. "Alfred has a significant concussion. He's having trouble retaining new information along with remembering events directly before and after he sustained his head injury. However his cognition will improve in due time, so no, he's not 'stupid' or 'useless' now."

Buckley instantly relaxes back to his neutral frown. "I'm familiar with those too, aye - apparently had a few m'self over the years. Explains why he's sleeping so soundly for once." He suddenly turns back to Lorcan with a scowl, jabbing his own finger at him. "Don't you go spouting rumors about Alfred like that! The last thing I need right now is for him t'get riled up again and lose me even more men!"

The physician raises a brow as Lorcan scoffs and waves him off. "Aw y'know I'd never do that, he's m'best mate! Besides, every time he's really pummeled one of the guys it's been for good reason. Remember when-"

"I remember every damn time he's caused me trouble, thank you very much!"

"Come on now, he's just one logger! He can't've done that much."

"Oh? How's about I list off what he's done just since you joined up!" The captain leans forward to shove his remaining hand out to start counting. "Got in a fight with a driver for talking bad about his own wife! Got in a fight with other workers over going out t'solicit some doxies! Knocked out a prospective employer for- wait, no, I told him t'do that… But! I didn't tell him to stomp his face in, which he did anyway! Gave some village bloke a blackeye for striking his mouthy brat! And in the camp before last, he beat a couple o' newly-hired men into a bloody pulp! Over something as silly as possibly planning t'rob a nearby-"

Something between a snort and a scoff erupts out of Lorcan. "Possibly?! They asked if I wanted in on it when I caught 'em talking! Were gonna use your employering them as their alibi, was the only reason they joined up! Christ Cap'n, Alf wouldn't've bothered beating 'em that badly if they were just thinking about it!"

"And how the hell d'you know that?! He's prone t'overdoing it regardless of who or why, damnit! The one time I agreed t' let the lot o' you that hang around all year off for a day, I get word he got drunk and broke someone's jaw! Over bumping in t'him!"

Face a mottled red at this point, Lorcan seems at a complete loss as he gapes in disbelief. His voice comes high and drawn out once he finds it. "That guy broke a chair over his head! During a fisticuffs tourney! Not even the bloke's mates felt bad for him after Alf was through with him! Who told you that?!"

Buckley's own reddened features make a minute shift from furious to contemplative. The tent feels utterly devoid of sound as the two Irishman glare at each other in some odd sort of battle. Even with the sudden lull, Percy is still far too entertained to interrupt, let alone cease his covert notetaking.

The Captain is first to break, his shoulders lowering as his expression turns more curious than infuriated. "…Was Alfred and that man in a match when he took a chair t'his head?"

Lorcan flings his hands up. "Yes!"

Buckley straightens in his seat, still frowning. "Well that was just unsportsmanlike, that was."

"Thank you!" The vexed redhead's hands are thrown in the other's direction before they're dropped into his lap.

"Would you all jus'… please shut up…"

The three turn as one toward the source of the weak request, who is now very much awake. Alfred's face is set in an aggravated grimace while he attempts to cover his ears, turned as far away from the raised voices as his injuries will allow. Percy is immediately up and maneuvering around Buckley to lean over the blond, a touch regretful for forgetting his patient's current sensitivities in lieu of some enthralling snippets of his past. To their credit the two Irishman look exceedingly sheepish, the older moving himself and the chair closer to the entrance to be out of the way. Once he's settled he gives Lorcan a glance before addressing his other employee, voice lacking most of its previous volume.

"Apologies Alfred, y'know how Lorcan and I can get going… How are you, lad?"

There's a long pause as Alfred merely grumbles, blankly squinting up at Percy as he makes sure no dressings have come loose from his head or hands. When he answers he closes his eyes with a frown, as if watching the physician takes up too much of his concentration. "Head hurts a lot. Chest hurts like hell… When's breakfast?"

"You had it not ten minutes ago, mate," says Lorcan, concern once again lacing his unusually quiet voice, "salt pork with wild radishes and broth? You said it tasted bad?"

Alfred's expression twists into something even more sour. "Oh… yeah, it tasted bad." He opens his eyes to dully stare up at Percy again, wincing at what light there is within the sickbay's canvas walls. "…Who's this? 'S'hair's weird..."

Percy makes no reaction even as Lorcan snorts in amusement, but it takes a moment for Buckley to angrily splutter his shock. "Don't be rude, boy! That's the good doctor, he's the one that saved you and Lorcan's lives! You've been living in the same tent for days now, y'could at least remember his name!"

"Lay off 'em Cap'n, Doc wasn't lying about his memory…"

Lorcan suddenly sounds exceedingly tired from behind Percy as he straightens after finishing his inspection. "I have a better chance of learning t'read just from being near all o' Doc's books than Alf does of remembering past a few hours ago. Dr. Hewlett's been patient as a saint, he has - introduces himself every time Alf asks."

"I believe repeated phrases and experiences may help form new memories faster, particularly for cases such as this," the physician quietly comments to the Captain before turning back to Alfred, hand extended. "My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician. You and Lorcan were badly injured some days ago, I've been tending to you since."

His words are met with a rankled, blank stare that lasts long enough to become unsettling. Without looking away, Alfred slowly draws a hand from where he'd buried them under his pillow to take the offered hand. He gives it a rigid shake. "…Call me Alfred."

Pain erupts in Percy's hand and he's suddenly wrenched downward. Another hand slams into his chest to halt his descent, the fingers curling into an equally crushing grip on his shirtfront. Their faces are mere inches apart, but the chilling, furious intensity of Alfred's glare freezes him in place.

"Don't call me Alf. Or Fred. I hate that."

The doctor barely manages to keep his alarm in check as he forces himself not to struggle. He gives a shallow nod. "Duly noted."

A suffocating silence fills the meager space for the span of a second, and then a red-faced Buckley takes an incensed breath only to be cut off by a frantic Lorcan at full volume. "He knows already, mate! I already told him! You like him, remember?! Remember you told me that - you said it just this morning!"

Alfred's expression returns to one of agony as soon as his friend starts shouting, forgetting his grip on Percy's captured hand just enough for it to be pulled free. The grip on his shirt falls slack as soon as he tries to lean away; he straightens and shuffles back until his calves bump into the other cot, massaging his aching hand as covertly as possible. "What a shockingly strong grip for being wrapped as such, in an overall weakened state - and with the pain of frostbitten digits! Goodness, what an extraordinary tolerance for…" He forces that thought to a standstill, lest he start thinking up experiments he has no way of making seem necessary, let alone acceptable.

Lorcan's loud assurances send Alfred rolling into the canvas wall as he cringes in pain. A choked sob escapes as he curls in on himself and grasps his head again, eyes clenched tight enough to draw tears. "Fffuuuckkin' Christ, just… shut up! How can I like him if we jus- I don't like him! Same as I don't like anyone right now! Just sod off, all of you!"

"Alright, we're done here."

The Captain curtly stands and dons his cap with a grimace. "He can throw a tantrum which means he's feeling fine enough. I'll try to check in t'night before lights out, but no promises. Lorcan, keep your voice down. Alfred, don't you dare strike anyone, especially Dr. Hewlett - I'll have you sacked if you do!"

Alfred flinches at Buckley's sudden unrestrained volume and practically snarls on hearing his name, spitting grumbled curses at the man as soon as he stops talking. Meanwhile Lorcan simply nods and remains silent where he lays, anxiously glancing between his friend, boss, and doctor. Very much content to put more space between he and his decidedly unpredictable patient for now, Percy follows the Captain out into the overcast daylight, quickly shutting the flap behind him when a pained, angry hiss comes from inside. As soon as he turns the old Irishman bids him to follow to one of the further tables nearer to Cook's firepit, already hobbling there himself.

"M'sorry about that Dr. Hewlett," he says ruefully once they're out of earshot. "Lorcan and I fall int' arguing easily - or rather, we get t'discussing loudly. I wasn't thinking. I know for m'self how bad light and noise can be with a head injury, so I don't blame Alfred for getting so bothered. Are ye alright?"

Percy simply hums, too intent on organizing his thoughts to respond. He ceases rubbing his sore hand to cross his arms against the chill, finally looking away from the sickbay to focus on the other man. "I take it this sort of… volatile manner isn't uncommon for Alfred? Until now he's been nothing but amiable; I'd never have guessed he'd be anything but."

Buckley sighs and sits at the end of a bench as if already weary of the topic. "Aye he's- he can be a temperamental lad. Like a kettle that doesn't whistle every time its come t'a boil, if that makes sense. Little t'no warning of when he'll… But I don't think you've anything t'worry about, Doctor, it's not too common an occurrence when he acts out. Plus Lorcan seems t'think he already likes you. Heh, aren't you lucky…"

The physician tilts his head slightly, gaze drifting as he taps a finger against his arm and quietly weighs his words. "…Pardon my eavesdropping, but from what you'd shared with Lorcan, it sounds like he's quite prone to acts of violence. I would think I should've been made aware of that as soon as we knew he'd live. Especially when he's in such a delicate state right now, mentally speaking."

The Captain grunts, absentmindedly fiddling under his jacket's cuff at whatever keeps his fake hand strapped on. "I'd've mentioned it beforehand if I thought it'd be an issue, honest. It's not- Look, Alfred can be a hotheaded eejit at times, but he's no rampaging madman. More often than not he gets violent because someone has acted out of line - and he's usually good about knowing where the line is, and when it's a matter o' talking or striking! He's a pain in m'arse when he wants t'be, but he obeys every order I give and makes sure the rest o' the men do as well. I'd honestly say he's only a touch more heavyhanded than someone in a peacekeeping position ought t'be, in this line o' work… And, if he really is fond o' you..."

Buckley's gaze turns vacant and his demeanor to one of amused ponderment as he spins a lock of facial hair between his fingers. He abruptly stops to haul himself back to his feet with the help of his cane before looking at Percy once more. "Far as I know, the only person Alfred's ever actually claimed t'like is Lorcan, and we've all seen now what he's willing t'go through for him. I think you've less to fear from the lad than most, Dr. Hewlett."

A chortle escapes Percy before he can think to stop it.

"Oh I'm not fearful, Mister Buckley, not for my wellbeing," he says with an amused smirk. "If this information affects anything, it's my concern for Alfred's recovery and the state of your operation. You already have to make due without him and his 'peacekeeping' for a number of weeks; it'd be a shame if his volatile nature were to somehow lengthen that time."

Another grunt comes from the Captain at the thinly-veiled warning, understandably far more weary than before. "Between you and Lorcan being his only company for the time being, I certainly hope that volatile nature of his finds no reason to show itself in the first place… If you'll excuse me, Doctor."

With a nod the older man turns to trudge up to where the majority of the men are gathered, still hard at work clearing out the remaining debris from their previous worksite. Percy watches him for only a few seconds before he retreats back to the sickbay, his lack of layers having thoroughly chilled him through. Rubbing his hands together nor blowing into them relieves the numbness beginning to nip at his fingers, but a satisfied smile graces his lips regardless. Despite the need for warmth he slows the closer he draws to his tent, every snippet of information he's gleaned within the last hour running through his mind.

The only intriguing, possibly worthwhile thing to be found in this bustling camp, and it's one of the two men he has to stay in nigh constant contact with. Time will tell if this is as much a blessing as he hopes it could be, or more the curse he's already begun to suspect it is… No, it's a blessing and a curse, really. But he won't squander this chance just because it's unpleasant and far from optimal.

Nothing is pleasant at the moment, but it'd be even less so without the distraction of a temporary study subject.

----------

It's not as cold this morning when he wakes up.

His breathe doesn't come out in such huge puffs of steam as he stares up at the ceiling of the tent. Alfred runs a hand over where his head feels itchy, finding fabric instead of skin or hair. His head hurts really bad. For a few seconds he's lost as to why before he remembers he got hurt. Really bad. He breathes in deeply and winces when the inside of his chest burns, but it's not as bad as he thought it would be. It's too much to open his eyes all at once, so he tries to slowly ease them into a squint. On looking at his hands he can see they're not bandaged, and wiggling his toes reveals they're in a similar state. Alfred's smile is lopsided but genuine; he's getting better.

Sitting upright is also easier than he expects, so he tries standing as well. That's much harder but he manages, wavering when the pain in his head skyrockets and his vision goes dark around the edges. Eventually he can see Lorcan asleep in the cot next to his, which is good. With just the one broken leg now it'd be strange for him to be anywhere else.

Alfred looks over to the other end of the tent where the flap is, wanting to go find food. Sitting with a periodical in hand is a spectacled man with odd hair, passively watching him from his place blocking the exit. He's familiar, but…

Alfred knits his brows together and frowns. "Who…?"

"Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician," the silver-haired man says coolly as he closes the magazine and sets it aside. For some reason it feels like they should shake hands, but there's no offer, and it feels like he shouldn't offer either. Obviously because they've… met before?

"Right, right," Alfred sheepishly mutters as he scratches at his stubbly cheek. Of course he already knew Dr. Hewlett's name, and that they'd met. He's Alfred's doctor. "How long has it been since what happened… happened?"

"Six days. An earthquake caused an avalanche which in turn caused a landslide that toppled the tree you and Lorcan were up. You carried him to camp and have been in my care since. Your head hurts because you have a concussion, you've already eaten breakfast, and it's nearly noon."

"Oh…kay…"

Having his questions answered before asking them is unsettling. Hewlett is an unsettling man.

"Yes, so I've been told. Please sit down."

Alfred's eyes go wide - did he say that out loud? He instantly sits as he was told, ignoring how the room wobbles in response as he rubs at his mouth, cheeks tinged red. The doctor remains seated, smirking now as he continues to stare at him in silence. It was annoying and uncomfortable, Alfred decides. He's never liked people staring at him for very long, like they're sizing him up - especially if he's not looking nice. It makes it more difficult to ignore like he's supposed to, when people annoy him. If he doesn't he otherwise might accidentally punch them. It makes them stop, but usually just makes things even more annoying in the end.

"Does that happen often? You 'accidentally' harming people?"

This time Alfred flinches and makes a noise treacherously close to a meep. Hewlett outright chuckles at him as he leisurely stands, causing the blond's ears to burn - from embarrassment or anger he couldn't say. The throbbing pressure in his head intensifies so much he presses it into his hands to keep it from bursting, hissing as he draws a breath. God, but his head hurts something terrible…

"Yes, I'm aware. There's not much else I can do to help with that, I'm afraid. Here."

Alfred just huffs when the doctor mind-reads again, but looks up when legs come into view. A few strips of jerky are in an outstretched hand, a tin cup in the other. Suddenly remembering why he wanted to leave, Alfred's face brightens. "Ah, thank you!"

Dr. Hewlett hums and remains there long enough for the foodstuffs to be snatched up before returning to his seat. He doesn't pick up the periodical but instead pulls out a little book from his breast pocket, along with a pencil stub. For a while the only sounds in the tent are of scribbling, the occasional page flip, and Alfred gnawing on cold jerky. Eventually his meal is gone and he gulps down the tin's remaining water before setting it on the nightstand. Then he just sits.

He's not sure what to do now that he isn't hungry, so he tries to think. It's easier than it used to be, he's fairly sure, but it still doesn't feel right. His head hurts worse than a hangover, but it's also… really foggy, like it's caught in a raincloud. Thoughts get lost before he can find them and he can't remember things the way he usually does. It isn't a good feeling… Can he still read? Alfred suddenly sits a little straighter as panic starts to bubble up. He can't stand the idea of not remembering how to read - it's one of the only things he's got in life! He looks to Dr. Hewlett for an answer but gets none; the man doesn't even look his way. He must not have been thinking loud enough this time. "Can I still read?"

Now the doctor looks up, mild surprise in his expression. "You can read?"

Alfred is annoyed again. "Can I?"

Hewlett seems confused for a moment before his eyes light up. "Has the concussion specifically affected your ability to read? Is that what you mean? Hm…" He picks up the magazine and comes closer to hand it to him. "Can you tell me what's written on the cover?"

Alfred has to concentrate to make his eyes focus, and then even harder to figure out how to say words he's never read before. "…The… assehh- ass-ee-luhm journal, of men-tall science… i-issue t-twaahgh!"

The headache grows so intense that his vision blurs and darkens before he can finish, each throb accompanied with a spike through the back of his brain. A whine works its way out as he drops the magazine to hunch over and grip at his dressings in a bid to lessen the dizzying pain. The presence next to him silently disappears as the world shifts and turns unnaturally, only to reappear again.

Alfred doesn't want to talk anymore. He's about to blindly throw a punch when the doctor softly speaks up. "Here, lay down. I've something to cover your eyes to keep out the light."

For a moment he wonders if Hewlett is really talking to him; his tone is more gentle and kind than Alfred has heard directed at him in a long time. He blindly settles back into the cot and then something weighty and fabric is laid over his eyes, making it so he doesn't have to keep them shut as tight. It doesn't make his headache go away but it makes the ache around his eyes stop. "Thanks…"

"You're welcome. You can still read by the way."

"…That's good," Alfred winces at his own voice, "Is there anything you… for pain…?"

"I'm afraid not. Everything I have on hand would likely tamper with your recovery," Hewlett sighs. It sounds as though he turns away as he mutters, "Medicus curat, natura sanat…"

Already trying to will himself back to sleep, Alfred frowns. "…'Nature heals?' Why're you… speaking Latin…?"

"You know Latin?" the doctor quietly exclaims, more surprised than before. He gets no reply, as instead soft snoring begins to fill the small space.

Hewlett watches his strange patient for a moment longer, before retrieving the little journal to flip to a certain page and add to its contents.

#bloodborne #bb #ripper!au #alfred the executioner #executioner alfred #alfred bloodborne #percival hewlett #donc-desole ocs #original content #oc

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penpenhooray · 8 years ago

Text

Sample of "Murder in Balboa Morgue”

It’s been a while since I’ve posted any writing, and someone really wanted me to post a piece of my original work (looking at you @litamaxwell45).

So this is the first part of my first original novel: Murder in Balboa Morgue (was originally named “New Moon Dawning”). This novel follows Dr. Jasper Madison, a medical examiner and a werewolf who survives by eating the flesh of his autopsy patients. The doctor is confronted by Detective Alec Sawyer, who is also a Huntsman, a monster hunter who thinks Jasper is the one responsible for a string of violent murders. To save his own skin from Alec’s silver gun, Jasper has to clear his name and find the real killer

Warning: This is a long read. Also, there are detailed depictions of an autopsy, so if medical-based gore is disturbing for you, you may not want to read.

Doctor Jasper Madison hated having alcoholics as patients. They were arguably the least rewarding patients to deal with. And that went double for drunk drivers. They were always messy from the time they came in to the time they were out the door, and at the end of the day, the doctor would have next to nothing to show for all his hard work. Luckily for the doctor, it was very rare indeed that he would be faced with a drunk driver. But some nights, there would seem to be a bad moon rising and the doctor’s luck would run out.

Such was the case of Thomas Clark, the doctor’s newest patient. Mister Clark had decided that the best way to spend his Saturday night was to drink into the wee hours of the morning, then go for a joyride of ninety miles-an-hour down I-8, leaving angry messages for his ex-girlfriend along the way. It was the center median that had cut his joyride short, as well as landed him in Dr. Madison’s care.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me it was worth it?” The doctor murmured as he read over his patient’s file as said patient lay on the table.

Mr. Clark didn’t answer.

“No,” Jasper shut the files with a muted snap before setting it aside, “I don’t suppose you would.” He perused the tools he had laid out on his work tray, finally picking up a scalpel, “They never do.”

Mr. Clark didn’t so much as flinch as Dr. Madison made the initial cut under his clavicle, nor as he was split down to his navel. Then again, Dr. Madison’s patients never did.

It took little effort to peel back the flesh away from the incision, revealing the thoracic cavity, but Jasper couldn’t help but to let out a defeated sigh. The ribcage was a disaster, with a shattered sternum and at least five broken ribs.

“Damnit man, you’re a mess…” The doctor shook his head, going through the process of removing the broken ribs and using bolt cutters to break those that were not already broken. It took longer than usual to remove the chest plate (if only because Jasper made sure to locate all the tiny bone fragments and place them so that they could be easily put back in place), but soon he could see the entirety of Thomas Clark’s internal organs.

At first glance, Clark’s organs didn’t look much better than his ribcage had: a complete disaster. The crash had ruptured Clark’s stomach, and Jasper had to resist the urge to cover his nose as he was assaulted by the stench of cheap, semi-digested booze. He would have to ladle that slop out before sewing up his patient again.

Jasper looked up at the clock hanging on the wall of his morgue. 5:35am. Day shift was scheduled to clock in at seven, but if Jasper knew Amalia, she’d arrive almost a half hour early, just to get a start on her day. That left him with less than an hour. Not much time at all.

As if to punctuate the need to hurry, Jasper’s stomach chose that moment to let loose a burbling growl. The doctor sighed, pressing a gloved hand to his gown-covered stomach.

“You better have something worthwhile in there, you lush…” Jasper muttered to the patient on the table, scooping out the vile stomach contents while surveying the rest of the internal organs.

The liver was a no-go, that much was certain. Not after reading Clark’s file and finding that he had been struggling with alcoholism for years. Not that Jasper was against brined meat, it was delicious; he simply preferred to do the brining himself. Booze-pickled liver did not a healthy meal make.

Same went for the kidneys, no doubt those poor things were toxic by now.

The small and large intestines looked relatively healthy, but they had unfortunately been exposed to Clark’s alcoholic stomach acid for far too long. Jasper wasn’t going to take his chances with those. And as the doctor’s luck would have it, that appeared to be the fate of all of Clark’s organs south of his stomach.

That left the heart and the lungs. Neither of which Jasper held out hope for. Considering the state of Clark’s ribcage, the heart and lungs may have the worst of the trauma.

But he didn’t have the luxury of being picky. And so he returned to the drunk driver’s chest cavity.

It didn’t take a full autopsy to see that the right lung had sustained several punctures from the broken ribs. If Clark hadn’t died upon his cranium meeting his windshield, no doubt the man would have drowned in his own blood. Jasper was still trying to decide if the man deserved such a mercy. With practiced ease, Jasper set about removing the lobes of the lung, hoping that one of them might have spared damage. No such luck. And in removing the right lung, Jasper could see that the heart was in no shape to be taken either. Much like the liver and kidneys, Jasper knew that there was a good chance that the heart wouldn’t be in good shape, and seeing the tell-tale signs of Alcoholic Cardiomyopathy had only confirmed his suspicions.

The left lung, however, was not as pitiful. It too, had received a few punctures from broken ribs, but the damage had been shallow. Normally, Jasper wouldn’t take anything less than a perfectly intact organ, but his stomach, having voiced its opinion, had made the decision for the doctor.

The left lung it would be, then.

With only a passing glance at the clock, Jasper quickly made his way to the supply closet, stripping his gloves as he went. The gloves went into the haz-mat disposal bag while Jasper retrieved an evidence bag and a fresh pair of gloves. No way would he risk contaminating the one viable organ in Clark’s body with the slop from his stomach.

The gloves went on with fluid movements as Jasper returned to his work. The evidence bag was placed on the table next to Jasper’s bolt cutters. And once Jasper was satisfied with his gloves, he picked up a fresh scalpel.

Jasper was able to free the lung from the chest cavity without so much as a nick in the surrounding muscles or tissue, his hands steadied by years, decades even, of practice and muscle memory. Not that anyone would have noticed a fresh cut if Jasper’s hand had slipped, not among the carnage Clark did to himself.

Normally, Jasper would have rinsed the tissue off before placing it into the evidence bag, but he decided he would clean it at home, considering the time crunch.

On the evidence bag, where Jasper usually recorded any pertinent information about a specimen, as well as his signature, only two letters were written.

T.C.

Jasper sighed once more, carrying the bag with him to his office. As he set the organ on his desk, he reached under his desk to retrieve a large Coleman lunch box stored there. It was an unassuming thing, as most lunch boxes were. Which was rather the point.

The doctor lifted the lid and peered into the container, where the remains of Jasper’s dinner had been (chicken pot pie with mashed potatoes and green beans). Nothing of note to anyone who should open it.

Then Jasper took a pen from his desk, pressing the ballpoint into the hinge joint, just below the screw…

With a pop, the lining of the lunch box came loose, allowing Jasper to remove the false bottom that had stored his dinner. With a small smile, Jasper placed the lung in the hidden compartment of the lunch box, before setting the false lining back into place.

Best purchase he had ever made, that lunch box…

Now that Thomas Clark’s lung was safely tucked away in its new home, Jasper could concern himself with closing up the cadaver that was on his table, as well as filling the void in Clark’s chest where his lung had once been.

The Union Tribune sitting on his desk would suffice.

Jasper made quick work of the Sports section first (it wasn’t as if he needed to read about the Chargers’ game— he had watched it the previous night), crumpling the paper to fit the proper shape. The Opinion section followed shortly, both making their home in the chest cavity. Once Jasper was satisfied, he set to the arduous task of reassembling the chest plate. Now more then ever, the doctor cursed the drunk driver and his inability to keep his ribcage in one piece.

The skin was folded back in place next, as Jasper prepared his needle and thread for the sutures to hold everything together one more. And, while Jasper had more experience sewing up his clients than any other medical examiner in the city, if not the country, he knew that he couldn’t rush his sutures. One sloppy stitch could cause tearing, or force another ME to remove the sutures to begin again…and the last thing Jasper needed was for anyone to look inside Mr. Clark again.

And so Jasper forced himself to take his time, the pace of his breathing matched by the steady rhythm of his needle. In, out, in, out; forceps gripping the curved needle with practiced ease as he guided it through the flesh in consistently even stitches.

Outside the morgue doors, an elevator chimed. The previously peaceful cadence of the sutures was destroyed, as the noise caused Jasper’s heart to stop for a moment. His eyes flew to the clock. 6:10. That couldn’t be right, Amalia wouldn’t come in nearly an hour before her shift, no matter how diligent the young medical examiner was proving to be. Something was wrong.

Looking back at his sutures, Jasper realized he had only gotten partway up the sternum, and any trained eye could spot the anomaly with Clark’s chest. The stitches became hurried now, Jasper’s usually steady hands shaking ever so slightly as his heart began to race.

But over the sound of his heart beating in his ears, Jasper could hear the footsteps as they made their way down the hallway to the morgue doors. They were heavier than Amalia’s steps, and the strides were longer. The shoes didn’t have the slight squeak to them that Amalia’s impractical high-tops possessed, nor did they scuff against the tile like Amalia tended to do early in the morning.

As Jasper listened to the detailed footsteps outside, his nostrils flared slightly, catching the first whiff of the intruder. It wasn’t the rose perfume that the doctor had long since attributed to Amalia; it was soap, plain and simple. With perhaps a bit of Old Spice.

Before the door to the morgue even had a chance to open, Jasper knew exactly who would be providing him with his company, “You’re in early, Alec.” He murmured, not looking up from his sutures.

From the doorway of the morgue, the visitor, Alec, shook his head incredulously, “You gotta tell me how you do that, Doc.”

“Sew sutures? I doubt you’d find much use for them out in the field.” Jasper chuckled, sparing a glance at the taller man. “Wouldn’t you rather be slapping the silver bracelets onto people rather than sew them up?”

“Guilty.” Alex snorted, “But you know what I was talking about.”

“How did I know it was you?” The doctor chuckled, “Because there is only one other person who would come in at this time of day, and she does not clunk around like you do.” Jasper nodded, moving as quickly as he could to sew up the section of Clark’s body that covered the left side of the chest, “So what last minute paperwork has you coming into the office at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday?”

Alec sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, ��Chief gave us a deadline to turn in all closed case reports by nine this morning…”

Jasper resisted the urge to smirk, “And I take it there may be quite a few that need to be completed?”

“No need to rub it in, Doc.”

“I won’t need to, I’m sure Miss Azarian will do it for me when she gets in.” The doctor couldn’t help but laugh at Alec’s cringe at the mention of his partner.

“Don’t remind me, Miri is going to kill me when she realizes she’ll have to help me in order to save both of our hides.”

Jasper simply shook his head, binding off the suture he had been working on. While talking to Alec always proved to be an enjoyable venture, the sooner Clark was back in his drawer and away from prying eyes, the more at ease he would feel.

“So what has you in so early, Doc?”

“I’m actually about to end my shift.”

“Whoa, Jasper, weren’t you out sick just a day ago?”

Jasper waved his hand dismissively, “Just a twenty-four hour bug, I’m feeling fine already. Besides, I don’t mind working the evenings. I’m a bit of a night owl.”

Alec snorted, “Some days, I’m pretty sure you don’t sleep at all.”

While technically that wasn’t quite true, Jasper wished that the detective wasn’t so damn observant. It would get him killed. “Trust me, I get plenty of rest when I’m off the clock.”

“Yeah right.” The corner of Alec’s mouth quirked up slightly in a crooked smile, “Don’t think I haven’t seen those Facebook pictures of you at just about every event the city has to offer.”

“That’s because I have a social life, Alec.” Jasper tied a knot over one end of the Y incision, moving to close the other side, “It’s amazing what you have time for when you don’t put off your paperwork for the last possible moment. Which reminds me, if you’re on such a deadline, why are you down in the cellar with me and not working at your desk?”

Alec shrugged his broad shoulders before crossing his arms in front of his chest, “I’m taking a break, thought I’d come visit the only other living soul in the building—”

“And see if I have any interesting bodies.” Jasper gave Alec a knowing look. The younger man was certainly not shy when it came to Jasper’s more gruesome patients; in fact, the detective seemed to throughly enjoy the bodies that had become victims of strange and violent deaths, “I’m afraid the only body I have at the moment is Mr. Clark here, and despite the carnage dealt to him, his death was an ordinary case of intoxicated driving.”

“Drunk driver, huh?” Alec raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to the body, “Not exactly your clientele, Doc.”

“No, I’ll admit it’s not.” Jasper chuckled, “In fact, the only reason Mr. Clark here has an appointment with me would be because of Miss Wantanabe— she’s in 314.” He clarified at the sight of Alec’s curious expression, waving his hand toward the refrigerated drawers, “Mr. Clark was not kind enough to limit the damage of his choices to a single fatality, and the family of Kara Wantanabe obtained a court order for my services to confirm that Mr. Clark was indeed drunk when he caused the accident that cost both him and Miss Wantanabe their lives.”

The detective blinked, “The family got a court order?”

“I believe there may be a lawsuit hanging in the balance.”

Alex let loose a low whistle, “There must be some serious money on the line to go through all the legal hoops to get a full autopsy on a drunk driver.”

“I didn’t ask, I simply do my job.” Jasper smiled softly. Never mind the fact that the subpoena had been for blood tests, not an autopsy… “I’ve found in my years of working this profession that the problems of the dead are much more straightforward than those of the living.”

“No kidding, the dead can’t sue.”

“Indeed.” Jasper laughed, finishing the last knot to secure Clark’s flesh back in place. Now the hole where lung used to be wasn’t visible. “So how are those reports coming along? Think you’ll be able to meet the chief’s deadline?”

Alec snorted, “I’ve was staring at my computer screen for nearly twenty minutes before I realized I wasn’t typing. Seems my brain is still in bed.”

“Well Starbucks is now open if you need your caffeine fix—”

“Come on Doc, you know I don’t drink that swill. I gotta have some standards.”

It was then that Jasper finally noticed the plastic travel mug in Alec’s hand, hanging by his hip. The doctor chuckled, “The French press is in my office, you just need to turn the electric kettle on.”

Alec didn’t need to be told twice, making his way through the morgue and into Jasper’s office, “You still have that fancy Kona coffee?”

“You mean the actual Kona coffee? Yes, it’s in the drawer under the kettle.” Jasper carefully removed his gloves before disposing of them, “While you’re at it, go ahead and made me a cup as well.”

“Caffeine at the end of your shift, Doc?” Alec poked his head out the office door, “You won’t be able to sleep for hours.”

“That would be the point, Alec.” Jasper chuckled, moving Clark so that he could transfer his body to a refrigerated drawer. “I have an appointment I must go to in a few hours.”

“What could be so important that you would forgo sleep?”

“Mass.”

“You’re kidding me.” Alec gave Jasper one last incredulous look before the whistle of the kettle drew his attention from the doctor, retreating into the office once more.

Once Jasper was sure Alec was preoccupied with the kettle and the coffee, the doctor set to the task of moving Clark’s body. For most, it was a task that required two people. Jasper grasped the body under the shoulders and knees, hefting it from one slab to the other with so much effort as one might have transferring groceries.

Alec poked his head out of the office doorway, “Hey, I forgot, how much coffee to I put in for two cups…” the detective trailed off as he stared at Clark’s body, “Did you move him by yourself?”

Jasper, unable to think of a convincing lie, nodded.

“Jeez Doc, you could have just asked me, I would have helped.” Alec scoffed, leaning against the doorway, “What’dya do, roll him?”

“Basically.” Jasper nodded, eagerly clinging to Alec’s explanation. With a fluid motion, he slid Clark’s body back into its drawer, closing the door securely behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. “Now, let’s get our coffee situation sorted out.”

Alec grinned, tossing the bag of imported Kona coffee beans to Jasper, “You’re a saint, Doc.”

Jasper felt his stomach twist in knots as he walked into his office, his eyes drifting to the lunch box on his desk.

No saints to be found here.

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#original work #medical gore #gore #autopsy #werewolf #rougarou #monster hunter

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