Chapter 8
EIGHT
Everyone is staring at me.
“Uhm, I did not steal it,” I murmur nervously. “I found it and I was trying to return it,” I lie.
The girl narrows her eyes at me. “And where did you find it?”
“In the restroom. It had fallen off the counter.”
Once more, she doesn’t seem to buy my lie.
“Here,” I say and take a step forward to hand her the book. She takes it from my hands, her nose scrunching in disgust when she sees the stains of blood.
“What’s this ?” she shrieks.
“Uhm…” I look around me. Everyone is watching me curiously. “This is how I found it.”
The girl glares at me. I can tell she wants to say I’m a liar and that she doesn’t believe me. But before she can do so, an army official shows up and tries to placate her.
“There, there. We’ve solved our little issue,” he says with a smile.
Steps follow closely behind me, and as I turn, it’s to see the male from before. The front of his uniform is splattered with blood, and he’s holding on to the bridge of his nose. He scans the crowd until his eyes land on me.
Damn it!
He’s going to denounce me publicly, is he not?
“What are you doing here, Vitry?” the official asks him.
“Checking the progress,” he mutters, his gaze on me. “I have a few fellows who require some medical help and I thought you might need some volunteers.”
The officer’s brows go up and he nods thoughtfully.
“Bring them over. We could use more volunteers for the practical test.”
Never once taking his gaze off me, he walks off.
It’s not until he’s out of sight that I release a sigh of relief. This was such a close call. He could have told on me. For a moment, I was certain he was going to.
The fact that he didn’t is…odd. Especially after I assaulted him.
The officer smooths over the conflict over the book and tells us to get ready for our exam. Fortuitously—or not—our numbers are called. Fifty-five to sixty-six are invited to step inside the infirmary for the practical exam.
What is not fortunate, however, is that the owner of the book is included in our group, and she is continuously glaring at me, making it clear she does not believe my excuses.
We’re ushered inside the infirmary where there are some ten rows of beds on either side of the room. Out of the twenty beds, eight are occupied by patients.
“Each of you, please head to a patient,” the doctor tells us.
As I glance around the room, I realize that though there are only eight beds, there are ten of us taking the exam.
A flurry of movement ensues, and all the girls hurry toward one of the beds. It’s immediately clear that the first ones choose the easiest cases, while the last ones are left with the hardest.
I am, of course, elbowing my way forward, one step away from shoving the girl with the book to the side. Her name, as I’ve come to find out, is Lucy.
The most boring name I’ve ever heard.
I am usually quite competitive, but considering what is at stake here, I find that I must be a little ruthless, too.
I choose the patient who does not display any outward injury. With a little luck, I will only be asked to check his vitals and administer some medication.
But as my luck would have it, Lucy appears to have set her sights on that particular patient, too.
We both reach the bed at the same time, and I sway to the side while simultaneously pushing her toward the other bed. But she won’t go down easily. Oh, no. I can tell she holds a grudge for the book incident—which, if I am honest, would not have happened at all if she’d let me read over her shoulder.
She shoots me daggers with her eyes.
I do the same.
“I got here first,” I tell her, pushing my chin up.
“No. I did.” She glares at me as she takes a step forward.
I inch closer to the bed and grab onto the metal railing.
She won’t give up.
She grabs the metal railing on the other side.
“Let. Go,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You let go.”
“Girls!” the doctor yells from behind.
I pull on the bed to my side and Lucy pulls toward her side. With my powers bound, we are matched in strength, which means that every time I gain a little ground, she pulls on the bed to her side and we’re back to where we started.
The bed rattles as we push and pull.
The doctor yells in the background for us to stop.
Slow at first, but becoming louder by the second, the patient in the bed starts moaning in pain.
I blink, startled. Are we hurting him?
But just as I let go of the metal frame, Lucy pulls on it with her entire strength. With no resistance to speak of, the bed slides in her direction, and with it the patient, who’s looking quite blue in the face.
“Girls!” the doctor shouts, this time loud enough to shush everyone in the tent.
Lucy’s reaction is delayed. But the patient’s isn’t.
As he tumbles toward where Lucy is pulling on the bed, he half sits, and with a low gurgle, he throws his face forward and empties his stomach on her dress.
Silence ensues.
Bits of food and what I can only surmise must be stomach juice coat Lucy’s cleavage and the front of her dress.
Her mouth is half-open in shock.
“Apologies, miss,” the patient mumbles. But it’s a slurred mumble, and that can only mean one thing.
Don’t you worry, strange and ailing man. Minerva is here to save the day!
I move faster than I thought myself capable without my powers as I swipe the bucket from under the bed and throw myself over the bed, aligning it with his mouth just as he starts retching again.
He grasps the bucket with both hands, after which I slowly pull myself off the bed and dust my dress.
Lucy is still in shock, covered in gut contents as she is.
I push my chin up and wait for the applause. After all, that movement was rather impressive, was it not? My aim was faultless. It would have been worthy of a moving picture. Just think—the super nurse. With me starring in the main role, of course.
I’m still silently gloating when the doctor rushes to the man’s side, pushing Lucy out of the way.
“You. Out,” he tells her in an authoritative tone.
She flutters her lashes in confusion.
“But… It’s her fault,” she says as she points at me.
“Me?” I gasp in shock. “But I was just helping him,” I add innocently. Turning to the doctor, I start reciting from the medical textbook about the symptoms I’d seen on the patient’s face and the fact that he was continuously swallowing as if he had an abundance of saliva in his mouth. I tell him how I took all that to mean he was about to be sick and I wanted to make sure the bucket was close when it happened.
“But he wouldn’t have been sick in the first place if she hadn’t pulled on the bed,” Lucy complains.
I shake my head at her. All right, she may be partially right. But this is about survival. I will not go to bed hungry again. I mean, if I don’t get this job, I will not have any bed to go to.
“Really, Lucy, if you spent as much time studying your book as you do accusing others of stealing it, perhaps you could have identified the signs, too.” I smile sweetly at her.
“Miss Anyan is right. This is not the type of behavior we welcome here. You are dismissed, Miss Rawlins.”
“But please?—”
“Please step outside.” The doctor’s tone leaves no room for argument, so Lucy tucks her metaphorical tail between her butt cheeks—or was it between her legs?—and finally leaves.
But as she opens the door to get out, two other airmen walk in.
I turn, my eyes widening when I spot Vitry.
His gaze quickly finds me and he winks.
He. Winks.
At me.
The gall on this male!
His nose bleeding has stopped, I see. Perhaps he needs a new one. I would gladly offer to help if there weren’t so many people around.
“Where do you need us, Doc?” Vitry asks.
The doctor turns to him. “What ails you?”
The male next to Vitry starts complaining about a stomachache, while Vitry rolls up his sleeve to show a wide gash that’s leaking blood. From the look of it, it can’t be very old. He certainly didn’t seem to have any wounds when I saw him moments ago—at least none that weren’t inflicted by me.
I narrow my eyes at him.
The doctor tells them to occupy the empty beds at the end of the room.
Happy he’ll be away from me, I turn my attention to my patient as I paint a smile on my face. It’s best to look as though I know what I’m doing.
“Miss Anyan, you will tend to the major,” the doctor suddenly says.
I whip my head up in shock.
“What? But I have a patient already!”
“I’ve assessed your diagnosis skills. I would like to see how you tend a wound, too.”
I gawk at him. What?
“But—”
“Here, Miss Anyan!” Vitry calls out to me, beckoning me toward him with his hand as if I were a dog.
I scowl at him.
“Off you go, Miss Anyan,” the doctor says absentmindedly before he turns his back to me and heads to the next bed.
Mumbling a string of curses under my breath, I trudge my way toward Vitry’s bed. How can I be so unlucky to have to heal the man I ought to kill—not that I can actually kill him since it’s forbidden, though I suppose I might inflict some damage. It’s his fault I need a job, food, and a place to sleep.
It’s all his damn fault.
And now he wants me to patch his wound?
Oh, just you wait and see, you insufferable male.
“Miss Anyan, huh?” He raises a brow at me as I reach his bedside.
He’s sprawled on the bed, his big frame making it seem like a child’s bed.
I ignore him and gather some antiseptic, bandage, and some needle and thread. I read about this in the textbook, and luckily for him, I’m not too bad at needlework.
Oh well, just for him, I will be bad at it.
“Nothing to say?” he continues.
I shrug.
“Hmm.” He closes his eyes and wrinkles his nose. “I can smell some beef. I wonder where that’s coming from.” He smirks.
I glare at him.
His gaze slowly drops to my bag.
The gall of him!
“Let’s look at your wound,” I say and pull on his sleeve harshly.
The rapid movement startles him, and I note a twitch of pain in his cheek. But the same lazy smile from before quickly replaces it.
“Of course, Nurse Anyan. Anything for you,” he murmurs, the last sentence whispered in a very…inappropriate tone.
I swallow and give him another harsh look as I place my fingers on the edge of his gash and press.
He can feel the pain, I am sure. But he’s not making a sound.
“Oh my! That’s a big gash,” I intone.
“Why, thank you for noticing. I tried.” Another smirk.
“What do you mean?” I frown.
He just smiles as he pulls himself into a sitting position and makes himself comfortable.
The doctor makes rounds around the room, talking with each nurse to ensure that they know what they are doing. When he stops in front of me, he glances at Vitry’s wound and shakes his head.
“That will need stitches,” he mentions.
“Of course.” I smile. “That is what I am going to do.”
I’ve sewn things before. It can’t be that hard. Right?
The doctor nods and leaves.
I mentally rehearse what I have to do. Clean and disinfect the wound, then patch it up and bandage it.
“I am ready when you are,” the male drawls.
He’s lucky I need this job or I would have cut him up even more than he already is.
I ignore him as I grab some clean cloth and start cleaning the wound.
“Why did you run off the other night?” he asks.
I don’t have to look up to know he’s staring at me. He’s a little too close for comfort. I can feel his breath on the side of my face.
“Please be quiet. I am concentrating,” I mutter. As in, I am concentrating very hard not to take a scalpel and drive it through your heart, you scoundrel!
“Ah, little thief, I’m surprised you can concentrate at all with the smell coming from your bag.”
“One more word and I’ll cut your entire arm,” I mutter under my breath.
“So bloodthirsty. It’s a little too early in the morning for that, although I wouldn’t mind it later in the night.” He wiggles his brows suggestively.
I press on his wound.
“Be. Quiet.”
I get to work on his wound, but in my haste to get this over with, I grab the rubbing alcohol instead of the iodine. The moment the liquid makes contact with his open flesh, he lets out a loud hiss.
It might have been an honest mistake, but I’m not mad about it now. Serves him right.
“You did that on purpose,” he grumbles, struggling to breathe through the pain.
I shrug. “I told you to be quiet.”
“You wound me, Nurse Anyan. And here I thought this was the beginning of a great friendship.”
“Oh, I will wound you all right if you don’t stop talking,” I grumble.
How is it my luck to get him as my patient for this test?
“Please don’t,” he murmurs in a mocking voice. “I don’t think my poor heart can take it.”
I glare at him.
He has an innocent expression on, and he releases a loud sigh as he shakes his head.
What is he talking about? Does he suffer from a heart ailment too? Because if he does, I don’t know how to treat that.
“I don’t know what your heart has to do with this. I am treating your arm, not your chest.” I roll my eyes at him.
“But you see, I have a weak heart, and your cruel words are giving me palpitations.”
I frown. What is he on about?
“You can ask the doctor for heart medication then.”
“There is no medication for this, I’m afraid. It’s incurable.”
I blink. Suddenly, he takes one of my hands and lays it across his chest.
“See?”
Without my powers, I can just barely make out the beats of his heart. But it does beat faster than any human I’ve met.
I glance at him.
He’s not lying about this, is he? He really has a heart ailment?
“This is concerning. When did it start?”
He sighs. “Three days ago.”
“Why? What happened?”
Three days ago… That was the day of the bombing. Did something happen to him then? Did the bomb cause this? He was in its proximity when it happened, so perhaps…
I lean in and press my ear to his chest.
His heart starts beating even faster.
Abnormally fast.
A shudder goes down his entire body, and he releases a muffled groan.
“Are you all right? It’s beating even faster now,” I ask.
The more I listen, the faster the beats are—so much so that I’m afraid his heart might leap out of his chest at any moment.
“Oh my, this is bad,” I mutter. “This is very bad.”
Without their hearts, humans die. And despite the fact that I hold him responsible for my current predicament, I find that I do not want to cause someone to die. It’s not as if he knew who I was or what the consequences of me helping out at the bomb site would be. He was just trying to save people.
I pull back, glancing at him and searching his features. They’re tight and drawn up in pain, even more so than when I pressed against his wound.
“Doctor!” I shout, suddenly afraid. “Doctor, there’s something wrong with his heart!”
Vitry’s eyes widen slightly, and he opens his mouth to speak. But before he can do so, the doctor is at my side, looking him over.
“What’s wrong, Miss Anyan?” the doctor asks.
“His heart,” I say and point to his chest. “It’s beating abnormally fast.” I pause as I bite my lip. “He’s not going to die, is he? He said he has a heart ailment.”
The doctor removes his stethoscope and presses the circular side to Vitry’s chest. He listens to his heart for a few moments before he shakes his head.
“This is not a joke, Major.” The doctor rolls his eyes. “Stop scaring your nurse if you want to be treated.”
A guilty look crosses the male’s face.
I look between him and the doctor.
“He won’t die?” I ask in a low voice.
“He will not die,” the doctor confirms. “He is as healthy as any red-blooded male I’ve ever seen.”
With that, he leaves, going over to another nurse who requires his assistance.
I stare at Vitry.
“Red-blooded male? What does that mean?” I frown. Is that a subspecies of humans? I have not heard about that before.
“Well…” He bites his lip.
“Well?”
“That happens when the heart pumps blood faster and?—”
“Is it because of your wound? Because you’re bleeding from it?” That seems like the most probable explanation.
He clears his throat. “It’s been happening for three days. Before my wound.”
“So you’ve said. But I don’t understand. Did something happen to you when the bomb dropped? Is that it?”
He stares at me. I stare back, though more in confusion than anything.
With a sigh, he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. If I had my powers, I could hear what he was saying. But as it stands, I’m stuck with guessing. Though even that seems to be beyond my capacities at the moment. I am too new at this nursing thing to be able to guess what might plague him, especially since it pertains to his heart. The textbooks didn’t say anything about it.
“You should go ahead and treat my wound,” he eventually says.
“But what about your heart?”
“We can worry about that later,” he croaks.
I nod thoughtfully. Perhaps he’s not at death’s door as I anticipated.
I set about cleaning his wound once more, but for some reason, I find myself more magnanimous than before and use iodine instead of the stinging rubbing alcohol. I know, very odd.
Maybe I just feel sad for him since he has other ailments, too.
Yes, that must be it.
He’s already in pain for an unknown reason. I shouldn’t add to that.
After I’m done cleaning the wound, I survey the instruments on the table next to the bed. I need to suture his wound.
Biting my lip, I take the medical needle and thread and set about patching him up.
But as I push the needle through his flesh, I realize this is not as easy as sewing clothes. The skin is thicker and there is more resistance.
The male must sense my hesitation because he places his hand atop mine, holding it steady. I hadn’t realized it was trembling.
I give him a forced smile.
“Wash your hands first,” he adds.
“Huh?”
He nods to the rubbing alcohol.
“Put that on your hands or you might cause me an infection.”
“Oh. Right,” I mumble.
I quickly wash my hands with the rubbing alcohol and return to his wound.
“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs.
Somehow, I do as he says.
“Now thread the needle through the other side.”
His voice is steady, calm. Surprising considering I’m inserting a sharp needle into his skin. Yet his guiding words prove to be very helpful in distracting me from my nerves.
“Good. Now again.”
I do as he says. Every time I need to push the needle through his skin, he quietly encourages me, praising me when I’m doing it right.
My lips pull into a smile.
“Good job!” he says. “Now tie the thread at the end and cut the excess.”
I can’t seem to get the knot right, so he stops me.
“Twist here.” He points to the thread. “And loop it through the other thread.”
After a couple failed attempts, I manage to tie the thread and cut the remaining bit.
“Perfect. You did so good,” he murmurs gently.
I give him a smile. “Thank you.”
“Now the bandage.”
I grab a roll of bandage and wrap it carefully around his arm, securing it with a knot.
The doctor comes to survey my work and he nods in satisfaction.
“Good job, Miss Anyan.”
I preen under the praise, and I’m surprised when Vitry’s hand tightens on top of mine. When did he even grab my hand? Why is he touching it?
I’m about to give him a thorough set down as the doctor leaves, but just as I settle on the perfect words, someone bursts into the infirmary.
“The planes are back! The injured are coming through.”
Vitry shoots out of the bed, rushing to the male who’d just delivered the news.
“How many did we lose?” he asks.
The messenger purses his lips.
“Nine.”
“Fucking hell!” Vitry curses. “What about Abbots? Is he back? Is he all right?”
I don’t get to hear the newcomer’s reply as both he and Vitry hurry out of the infirmary.
There’s a commotion outside, and the sound of car engines blares in the atmosphere.
“What’s happening?” I ask one of the other nurses.
“They must be back from a mission,” she answers. “Few make it back usually. It’s the curse of the 100 th . We’ll have our hands full here.”
“Curse of the 100 th ?” I frown. “What’s that?”
“The 100 th bomb group. There are always so many casualties, some say it’s cursed.”
“Oh. And the airman I treated?”
“Part of the 100 th , too.”
I nod, though the information doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t get to dwell more on it as injured airmen are rushed through the doors of the infirmary. The doctor starts barking orders, asking every nurse available to lend a hand.
Behind him, Vitry rushes an injured male in. He’s by his side, holding his hand and telling him to hang on.
Curious, I take a step forward.
The doctor cuts his jacket off, not minding the feminine sensibilities around—though I suppose this type of nudity is required for treatment.
My first instinct is to look away, but there’s so much blood that you can barely see his chest. There are two deep wounds in his right side and one just above his left lung. They’re an angry red, gushing out blood.
“Damn it, Abbots,” Vitry curses as he helps the doctor take off his clothes.
“Miss Anyan. Come here!” the doctor calls.
I rush over. Vitry barely spares me a glance, his attention on the bleeding male.
“Press on the wound on the left,” the doctor tells me.
I grab some gauze and press against the male’s chest. But as I do, I can feel the shallowness of his breath. Every time he inhales, there’s a gurgling sound as if he’s choking on something.
“His lung must be punctured,” I say. “He’s choking on blood.”
The doctor curses. “Help me turn him on his side.”
I grab onto his arms to pull him toward me when suddenly Vitry is there, helping to shoulder the man’s weight.
We turn him onto his side, and a few wheezes later, he’s breathing a bit better, though still labored.
The doctor works on his two side injuries while I continue to press on his wound.
His pallor, too, doesn’t look too good. His eyes open and close as he struggles to stay awake.
Vitry keeps talking to him, small platitudes really, but he doesn’t respond.
His breathing slows down.
Long seconds pass before his chest stops moving altogether.
His mouth is ajar, his eyes half-closed.
The doctor draws back, shaking his head.
“He’s dead,” he declares.
“No, no,” Vitry mutters. “He can’t be dead.”
A bright light emanates from his body as his soul rises, in time for a messenger to come claim it for the other side.
I sigh. I suppose this is the end of his journey.
Another male rushes inside, his face draining when he sees Abbots lying on the table.
“We caught some flak on the right wing, but I didn’t think?—”
“Save it for the interrogation, Marshall,” Vitry’s voice thunders.
The male looks stricken. Nodding, he retreats from the infirmary.
“There’s nothing else you or anyone else can do, son,” the doctor addresses Vitry.
He swallows hard.
“I’ll write a letter to his mother,” he whispers.
With one last look at the dead man, he turns and leaves.
Hours later and after an entire day’s of work, I finally make it to my bunk bed in a room shared with five other girls. At least it’s soft and warm, and I even had some more meat to eat for dinner.
But there is something that niggles at my conscience and will not let me sleep.
We saw some twenty men today, all with different degrees of injuries. Of those twenty, five died in the infirmary. And of those five… Only two souls were taken by messengers to P’asala.
Ordinarily, some souls might not agree to follow a messenger to P’asala, and messengers cannot do anything about it. They are not sentient beings to try to convince those souls. But even in that case, I would have seen the souls linger and refuse to leave.
But I didn’t.
There was no trace of those souls.
Slowly, a smile pulls at my lips.
Three missing souls. That sounds like a demon, doesn’t it?
And the perfect opportunity to appeal to my brother to get my powers back.
I wait until everyone else is asleep, and then I get out of bed.
Sleep can wait.