S1W21: “Dirty Water”

© 2012 Phylicia Joannis

Chuck silently sipped the coffee in his hand. Judging by the acerbic after-taste, it wasn’t fresh. No surprise there, the hospital café looked like a ghost town. Chuck grimaced as he took another sip. He had to find a way around the police officers if he was going to find out what, if anything, the technician remembered.

“Can I get you anything else?” an elderly woman in a pink uniform asked him. Chuck shook his head, taking a peek across the cashier’s pink smock to the counter behind her where the coffee lay.

“You might wanna change the water,” Chuck grumbled before downing the rest of the tepid beverage.

He walked to the side of the counter to throw away the empty cup when the cashier called out to him.

“Recycle that, please,” she said simply.

Chuck looked at the side of the counter. Four black bins with different colored tops stared back at him. The first was blue, the second green, the third, yellow, and the fourth red.

“Which one do I…” Chuck trailed off as the cashier assisted another customer.

Chuck looked on the side of the bins, hoping for a symbol or picture indicating what each bin was for.  He found none. Chuck hovered over the blue bin, but paused as an orderly taking her break grunted and pursed her lips. He switched to the red one, then looked at the orderly, but she had already moved on.

Chuck crushed the cup, irritated, and left it on a nearby table.

***

I massaged my neck and looked out the window to the blackness beyond.

“How long are we gonna have to wait in here?” I whined.

“Just be patient,” the Congressman assuaged, but the edge in his voice spoke to the discomfort we were all feeling.

It’d been hours without any further contact from the voice in the robotic drone, and we’d all become restless.

I stared at Dreadlock, whose bloodied bandage had taken on an oddly yellow tint. He was asleep, but he was sweating.

I nudged the Nurse. “Is… that normal?” I asked, pointing to his leg.

The Nurse looked where I pointed.

“Oh no!” she gasped as she grabbed shears and a pair of gloves from her bag. She cut away the bandage and Dreadlock stirred.

“What’s wrong?” he asked groggily.

“Your wound,” the Nurse didn’t look up. “I think it may be infected.”

“Infected?” Dreadlock stared at his leg, alarmed. “It’s not enough that it’s broken?”

“I’m sorry, but given that we’re stuck underground in a tunnel with all kinds of bacteria…” the Nurse trailed off as she peeled away the final layer of his bandage.

The smell was the first to grab us. The sight pulled my stomach to the floor.

“Ugh, what is that?” the Complainer looked on as he plugged his nose. Yellow pus oozed from a dark red ring around Dreadlock’s wounded leg and I cringed.

“Why is that red circle there?” I asked.

“The infection is spreading,” the Nurse explained. “The ring shows how far the infection has gone, like a stain on a sponge. This is not good.”

“Well, what do we do?” Dreadlock asked with an edge of panic.

The Nurse looked at Dreadlock, eyes full of hesitation.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dreadlock’s eyes lit up with alarm.

The Nurse shook her head helplessly. “You need a hospital. Your wound needs to be cleaned and for that I’d need boiling hot water and sterilized tools. We don’t even have a bottle of tap water between us.”

“So what happens to me?” Dreadlock frowned.

“I’ll try to suture your leg and keep the infection from spreading, but that will only work for a little while.”

“What happens if the infection spreads?” I asked the question Dreadlock had in his eyes.

The Nurse shrugged. “He could lose his leg, or go into shock and…” she trailed off.

“Please, Miss, whatever you can do,” Dreadlock pleaded with her. “Look I know you don’t like me, but-”

“Treating your wound has nothing to do with whether I like you,” the Nurse cut in. “If it did, you’d already be dead. I’m not giving up, but I don’t have the tools here to help you.”

“What was it you said you needed?” the Congressman asked.

“I need water to clean the wound,” the Nurse looked up at him. “Unless it’s boiling hot it does no good though. We may as well be pouring toilet water on his leg.”

“What if we can get you water and somehow heat it up?” the Congressman asked.

“I could make do with the gauze and supplies I have in my bag, but I’d still need to sterilize my shears,” the Nurse eyed him curiously. “What do you have in mind?”

“When we were outside I saw water dripping from a broken pipe,” the Congressman replied. “If we could find some way to gather and boil it, I think we could make this work.”

“And we’d have drinking water as well,” the Climber piped in.

“How are you going to boil water?” I asked with raised eyebrows.

“There’s plenty of wood and debris outside,” the Congressman answered. “I’ve got a lighter in my bag and judging by the way this fellow smells, so does he,” the Congressman pointed to the Complainer.

“He does smell like cigarette smoke,” I conceded. I’d been under his arm long enough to know.

“I happen to have quit, thank you,” the Complainer defended.

“Oh really?” the Congressman mocked. “How long ago did you quit?”

The Complainer shrugged. “How long have we been in here?”

“Just give the man the lighter!” the Nurse scolded.

The Complainer handed it over to the Congressman, and he began looking up and down the car.

“I think that corner should be far enough away from anything flammable,” he mused.

“You’re not gonna light a fire in here?” I asked, alarmed.

“We don’t have many options,” the Congressman sighed.

I frowned in protest.

“What are we gonna put the water in?” the Nurse asked.

“Does anyone have a ceramic or metal or even glass bowl?” the Congressman asked.

Silence answered him.