The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

“Yes. A doctor. For my leg.”

CHAPTER 74

Situation Room

Clocktower HQ

New Delhi, India

Dorian lingered by the door, surveying the situation room. It looked almost like mission control for a NASA launch. Several rows of analysts were speaking into headsets and working computers that controlled the drones. On the long wall, a patchwork of screens showed telemetry from the drones: scenes of mountains and forests.

Dmitry had been coordinating the search. The burly Russian looked as though he hadn’t slept since the explosions in China. He pushed his way through the throngs of analysts and joined Dorian at the back of the room. “We’ve got nothing so far. There’s just too much area to search.”

“What about satellite surveillance?”

“Still waiting on it.”

“Why? What’s taking so long?”

“Repositioning takes time, and there’s so much area to cover.”

Dorian watched the screens for a moment. “Start shaking the bushes.”

“Shaking?”

“Burning,” Dorian said as he turned and led Dmitry to the door, out of earshot of the analysts. “See what falls out. My guess is Warner is in one of those monasteries. Where are we on Toba?”

“The bodies are on planes bound for Europe, North America, Australia, and China. The live ones are in local hospitals in India and—” he checked his watch, “Bangladesh within the hour.”

“Reports?”

“Nothing so far.”

At least there was some good news.

CHAPTER 75

The next morning, Milo was waiting on Kate, just as he had the previous morning. How long did he sit there, waiting for her to wake up?

Kate rose and found the bowl of breakfast waiting in the same place. She and Milo exchanged their morning pleasantries, and he again led her to David’s room.

The journal lay on the table beside the bed, but Kate ignored it, moving first to David. She administered the antibiotics and inspected the chest wound. The ring of red had expanded in the night, spreading out across his chest. Kate chewed on the inside of her mouth and gazed absently out the window.

“Milo, I need you to help me with something. It’s very important.”

“As I said when first we met, Madam,” he bowed again, “Milo is at your service.”

“Are you squeamish around blood, Milo?”

Several hours later, Kate was securing the last bandage to David’s chest. The bullet lay in a putrid pool of blood and pus in a bowl on the table. Milo had performed admirably, not as well as an OR nurse, but his zen countenance had gone a long way, especially in keeping Kate’s nerves in check.

When she finished with the bandages, Kate ran a hand across David’s chest and exhaled deeply. Now, all she could do was wait. She leaned back in the alcove and watched his chest rise and fall, the motion almost hard to discern.

After a few moments, she opened the journal and began reading.

June 3rd, 1917

“How about now?” Dr. Carlisle says as he presses the ink pen to my leg.

“Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth.

He slides the pen down and jabs again. “And here?”

“Like the dickens.”

He straightens and contemplates the results of his prodding.

Before he looked at the leg, he spent some time collecting a “history.” It was a welcome departure from the field surgeons who looked at the injury, never at the man, and usually proceeded without a word. I told him I was 26, in otherwise good health, had no “dependencies,” and had gotten the wound in a tunnel that collapsed under the Western Front. He nodded and performed a thorough examination, noting that the injury wasn’t that different to what he saw in miners and sportsmen in his practice.

I wait for his verdict, wondering if I should say something.

The city doctor scratches his head and takes a seat by the bed. “I have to say, I agree with what the army surgeons told you. It would have been better to have taken it off then, probably just below the knee, or at least that’s where I would have started.”

“What about now?” I dread the answer.

“Now… I’m not sure. You won’t walk on it again, or at least not normally. Mostly it will depend on how much pain you have. There’s a lot of nerve damage, no doubt. I would recommend you try walking, as best you can manage, for the next month or two. If the pain is unbearable, as I suspect it will be, we’ll take it below the knee. Most of the feeling is in the feet; there are more nerves there. That will give you some relief.” As if anticipating my distress he adds. “We’re not just fighting the pain here. Vanity is a factor. No man wants to lose half his leg, but it doesn’t make him any less of a man. It’s best to be practical. You’ll be thankful you were. And I suppose the last consideration is what type of work you’ll be doing, Captain, no Major, was it? Never seen a Major your age.”

“You make rank fast when everyone’s dying around you,” I say, stalling for time on the other question, one I’ve refused to face since the tunnel collapsed. Mining is all I know. “I’m not sure what I’ll do after… After I’m back on my feet.” It’s the first expression that comes to mind.

“Desk work would, uh, benefit your disposition, if you can find it.” He nods and stands. “Well then, if that’s all, ring me or write in a month.” He hands me a card with his address in London.

“Thank you, Doctor, truly.”

“Well I couldn’t very well deny a request from Lord Barton. We go all the way back to our days at Eaton, and when he told me you were a war hero and that his little girl was so insistent, that he feared her heart would positively break if I didn’t have a look, I was on the train the next day.”

There’s a racket in the hall, like someone knocking something off a shelf. Dr. Carlisle and I both glance after it, but neither of us say anything. He gathers his black bag and stands. “I’ll leave instructions with Helena on how to wrap the leg. Good luck, Major.”

August 5th, 1917

Two months have passed, and I’ve been “walking” for a month now. Hobbling mostly. On good days, with the use of a cane, limping.

Carlisle came down a week ago to see my gimp performance. He stood beside Helena and cheered like a proud owner at a dog show.

That’s unfair. And unkind — to someone who’s been nothing but kind to me.

The pills. They dull the pain, and everything else, including my thoughts. They make me immune to emotion when I’m on them and ill as hell when they’re wearing off. Fighting a war in my mind is a strange kind of torture, I think I much preferred shooting the Kaiser’s men, at least I knew where I stood and could get a moment’s rest when I wasn’t on the front. The weeks of walking, popping a pill, and plodding on have left me with another fear: that I’ll never rid myself of this beast on my back, constantly goading me to nip the pain. I need the pills, can’t do without them, and don’t want to. I’ve traded the devil, the laudanum, for two crutches, one at my side and one in my pocket.