Retribution Road, Jon Coon [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

plumbing. That floor contained the primitive operating room, three other rooms like the one Paul was in, and a bunk room shared by all the staff. A generator that ran eighteen hours a day provided power to this and three other ancient buildings and provided refrigeration and hot water to the community shower.

She went into the bunk room and to her corner beneath the window. This was one of the few rooms that had glass in it. She had saved Paul’s clothing, had washed and mended his bloody shirt, and salvaged other items he would need for their escape. She gathered his things together, approached the door, and checked the hallway. When it looked safe, she took the bundle and stepped out into the hall. Three steps later she walked headlong into Raúl, who emerged from the galley carrying a cup of coffee that spilled onto them both. He yelled in pain and she fell back.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, puta?” he growled. He pulled off his shirt and used the dry portion to pat down his chest and arms. He was a brawny, hairy man, thick chested with strong arms and mean hands. Hands she knew only too well.

“I’ll get you a towel,” she said and tried to slip away. He grabbed her arm and slapped her hard. “I thought you would have learned by now not to mess with me.”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“You were the accident, puta.” His laughter echoed through the hall. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the bundle of Paul’s clothes and shoes.

“The patient needs a shower and clean clothes. It’s been weeks and he stinks. This is all we have.”

“He stinks? Then the two of you should get along very well. Bueno, now get out of my sight.”

Her face was still burning from his slap as she unlocked Paul’s door and put the clothes on the only chair. She came close to the bed as he stepped to the floor.

Paul pointed to the handprint on the side of her face.

She shook her head and put a finger to his lips.

“You need a shower,” she said in a half whisper. “Bring your clothes and come with me.”

He touched her face gently. She put her hand over his and moved both to her heart. She said nothing, but the message was clearly understood. Paul’s heart heard her, felt her, and believed.

She held the door open for him and, as they stepped into the hall, they were met by one of the guards. She explained, and they walked together to the end of the hall into an open room with shower heads along one wall.

“Get out of those clothes and put these on when you’re done. There’s soap in that can and towels in that cabinet.”

“Are you staying?”

His innocence was a surprise. She laughed at his modesty. It was a luxury she was not accustomed to. “Let me tape your stitches,” she said and motioned for him to come to her.

She covered the wounds with pieces of a plastic bread wrapper and taped them in place with surgical tape. As she worked, she whispered, “Tonight we go. Be ready.” She leaned her head against his chest and stayed quiet for a moment. Then she looked up at him and smiled. She called the guard back in, then went out to wait in the hall.

The shower was strong and hot. He melted beneath the blast and scrubbed with the abrasive soap until his skin felt raw. He rinsed, turned off the water, toweled, and put on his clean clothes. He felt renewed. “I’m ready,” he said to the guard, who nodded and opened the door.

“Let me see your stitches,” she said.

He removed his shirt and turned his back to her. Without warning, she pulled off the tape.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t worry, tough guy. Mama won’t do that again.” She laughed. She examined the wounds carefully. The stitches were clean and dry with no hint of infection. Both wounds had healed well.

“Let’s get those out now. We can do that in the OR.” She led the way down the stone hallway beneath the arched ceiling to the operating room. She thanked the guard, and he left with the same expressionless visage he’d maintained throughout their time together. She pushed open the windowless metal doors and held one open for him. It was the most modern room in the building, but that wasn’t saying much. American Civil War physicians would have felt comfortable beneath the lights over the single table.

She had him take off his shirt and lie on his stomach on the thin mattress. “It’s not much,” she said. “But I keep it clean. The instruments are sterile, and everything is disinfected the way it should be on a regular basis. Otherwise you would not have healed as well as you have.”

“Thank you.”

She pulled up a stainless stool on wheels and had an emesis basin with a forceps and small pointed scissor. She put on surgical gloves and a head lamp that cavers or campers would wear, wiped down the two wound sites with a brown disinfectant, and then said, “This could tickle a little. Try not to move.”

She picked up the first suture with the forceps and pulled it high enough to get the scissor on the monofilament thread. He raised up from the table as she pulled the thread out.

“There’s one. You okay?”

“It tickles, like you said.”

“Just a few more. Relax if you can.”

“Yeah, right.”

When she finished, she surprised him: She kissed his back and then smiled. As usual, it was a half-smile to hide her teeth. Then she helped him off the table. She leaned in as he stepped down, and whispered, “Now you are ready. Sleep if you can. I’ll come for you after midnight.”

Paul lay on his hospital bed staring at the moonlight coming through the single high window. Too high for him to see out of it, but large enough to flood the room with moonlight tonight. He