The Heroic Surgeon

“Excuse me, but you don’t look as if you do!”

He couldn’t say it surprised him. He wasn’t back to normal, and wondered if he ever would be. Normal…It felt like another man’s life when normal had even been applicable. But he wasn’t thrilled to know she thought so, too. In fact, it chafed. More, even, than Roxanne’s revulsion.

A surge of despondency and irritation wouldn’t be contained. “Just hook Mikhael to the first unit, give him 400 ccs for now. Save the rest for afterwards. He’s bound to lose more blood when I explore his injuries and during definitive repairs. I’ll take care of the rest.” She opened her mouth. His taut words closed it. “Allow me the courtesy of assuming I know my own limits.”

A heartbeat later she hurled back an equally tense rejoinder. “It’s against all safety protocols, donating more than 750 ccs of blood! What if—”

“If I’d been shot, I would have lost far more than 1500 ccs, and I wouldn’t have had the luxury of replacing the blood volume, like I will now.”

“But Mikhael may not need all that blood!”

“If Mikhael doesn’t need it, someone else will.”

Her grudging concession was in her every move as she unhooked the blood bag from his needle and hooked it to Mikhael’s cannula, her motions precise with suppressed annoyance and resignation.

He hooked the second blood bag on. Fumbled it on, more like. Something warm and weakening was seeping through his limbs, shooting his co-ordination to hell. He could deal with everything. Danger, violence, madness. Desperation, terror, agony. But not what Gulnar was offering him now. Caring.

No one had cared what happened to him in a very long time.

Hah! No one had ever cared what happened to him.

He’d been taught that indelible lesson six years ago, when the illusion of being a needed part of a relationship—a family—had been eradicated. When he’d stopped fooling himself into thinking he counted beyond what he could provide.

But Gulnar was showing him he did. As another human being only, sure, but she still did care. About a stranger, someone she’d just met. Just on principle. She was taking it very hard, the idea of endangering him, even to save the young man she was torn up over.

And her caring hurt him, breached his defences. He couldn’t afford that now.

Forget her. Forget yourself. Get this done.

Still clenching and unclenching his left fist to help the blood flow, he turned to Mikhael, reassessed his vitals. His pulse was slowing down, his breathing deepening. Good. Their measures were stabilizing his general condition. On to his specific injuries.

Dante undid the abdominal bandages, noted no renewed bleeding from the two entry wounds. He raised his eyes to Gulnar who had finished delivering the blood and rechecking Mikhael’s blood pressure.

She answered the question in his eye. “BP 100 over 70.”

Her whisper raised goose-bumps all over his body. She was dimming. But she’d carry on until she was extinguished. He knew nothing about her, yet he knew this, knew the lengths she’d go to for others.

He checked her pulse. Fast. Thready. He must do something about it, now!

She moved out of his reach, darting glances towards their captors. He’d totally forgotten about them.

About everyone.

The captives had slumped back into their despair now they’d understood who he was, how his presence would probably mean nothing to most of them. The militants had turned their backs on them, the occasional looks over their shoulders expressing how bored they were with it all, how they hated escorting him in to save even one enemy. But they had their orders.

“You need resuscitation.”

She shrugged. “Not more than any other uninjured person here.”

“But you are expected to help me. You’re no use to me if you faint. Just one liter of saline…”

She cut him off. “May mean life for one of the injured people. I’ll go give them blood and fluids.” She rose and moved away before he could say anthing else.

Dante turned to Mikhael, gave his wounds another careful palpation. He knew the bullets hadn’t caused much damage here. He’d finished a full exam by the time she’d got back.

She sank to her knees beside him, checked Mikhael’s BP again. “Holding. So—what do you think? Mikhael’s blood pressure is a strong indication there’s no ongoing intra-abdominal bleeding.”

He nodded. “Whatever blood loss he suffered from the abdominal wounds was hepatic in origin.”