Malin didn’t need to be told twice. This conversation had seemed like a huge risk, and he was practically shaking as he walked away. Still, the words of the old guard lingered in his mind. Rod could put together a sizeable force to take the island, and if they got the drawbridges down, it was all over. There wasn’t much the handful of Marines and the islanders could do to protect themselves.
It sure would be nice to take out Rod Smith while we’re here, Malin thought. That might put an end to any talk of raiding the island.
Of course, there was the more pressing matter of getting out of the camp alive. Malin felt a tremendous sense of relief once they were out of sight of the two guards. He thought he recognized this part of the camp. If memory served, the big hospital tent where they’d kept an injured Garret was a short distance ahead and to the right, next to a large open space. He headed in that direction, but when he saw another campfire with a guard seated beside it, he diverted course.
He turned a corner and froze in his tracks. Straight ahead, a large group of guards had just stepped into view, coming out from behind a large tent and moving with purpose. Malin thought he recognized a few of them, though he didn’t know any of their names. Moving in the midst of them was a tall, well-built fellow with a chiseled face and close-cropped blond hair. He wore a long-sleeved camouflage shirt with silver buttons which caught the campfire light and sparkled. The man’s arms strained the sleeves of his shirt, and a silver star gleamed above the brim of his hat.
Rod Smith himself. Oh yeah, this guy is a little emperor in the making, Malin thought. He’s got the look.
Rod’s group was headed right for them, and Malin’s immediate instinct was to flee. Instead, by sheer force of will, he made himself keep moving forward, then took the next left and moved away from Rod’s group. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground and did his best to look like he was just going about his business, gripping his bucket tightly so he wouldn’t drop it. As he hurried away, he heard Rod’s men pass behind him, Rod’s voice speaking low to his men.
A little too close, Malin thought, feeling sweat running down his cheeks.
13
It had almost become their regular meeting place, Dr. Ruzka seated on one side of the cot, Selene seated on the other. They didn’t have to plan it. They just sort of wound up there every couple of hours, doing their rounds. Selene thought they’d developed a rather nice rhythm to their medical care. The doctor came with her big medical bag, Selene with her herbal bag, and they sat down and went to work.
Her focus was drawn away from this developing friendship as soon as she began to check on the patient. Ant had flung his blanket back at some point and seemed to have tried to pull his shirt off. He was sweaty and flushed, breathing loudly through his mouth, and occasionally moaning or trying to say something. A large plastic bucket beside his bed, intended as a bed pan, was still empty. They’d tried to roll him onto his side numerous times so he could relieve himself, but so far he hadn’t been able to produce any urine.
“I came to this island to help George and Danny,” the doctor said, rooting through her bag. “If I’d had any idea I would be treating traumatic injuries like this, I would have brought surgical supplies. I’m not a surgeon, but still…this man needs help I can’t provide. For one thing, he needs a catheter.”
Selene leaned in close to the Marine’s face. “Ant, can you hear me?” she asked, speaking loudly.
His lower lip moved up and down, but he only managed to groan softly. Dr. Ruzka started to peel back the bandage, but Selene could already see blotchy red patches across the man’s white belly.
“He’s septic,” she said.
“I think so,” the doctor replied, pulling a thermometer out of her bag and placing it in his mouth.
Selene pulled out a small pouch and opened it, revealing a small powder she’d made from mixing garlic, burdock, and rosehips. Using a small paper funnel, she poured the powder into a half-full water bottle.
“This is supposed to help with sepsis,” she said, screwing the cap on the bottle and swirling it. “Do you think we can get him to drink it?”
“We can try,” the doctor replied. She pulled the thermometer out and held it up to the lamplight. “His body temperature is low. Ninety-four-point-six.”
“Does that happen?” Selene asked. “I thought people with sepsis usually run a fever.”
“It can be high or low,” the doctor replied, wiping off the thermometer with an antiseptic cloth and placing it back in its plastic container. “Either way is bad.”
Working together, they tried to get Ant to sip some of Selene’s herbal treatment. The doctor gently pried his mouth open, while Selene poured the solution in a little at a time. He swallowed some, but then he coughed and sputtered, spat out the rest, and began to thrash.
“Well, he got some of it, at least,” Selene said, putting the cap on the water bottle.
Dr. Ruzka sighed as she removed the old bandage, revealing the oozing, stitched bullet wound. “I believe he’s either got bullet fragments or debris in the wound. I’m not a trauma surgeon, and I don’t have surgical equipment anyway. There’s just not much we can do but try to keep him comfortable. If they bring antibiotics back from the camp, he might have
