So, this was written for my Imaginative Writing Class. I just wanted to see if anyone else would like to read it. Feel free to flatter me in the comments, lmao.
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The stench inside the medical tent
was overpowering. Wil kept his eyes closed as he lay on the thin pallet, his
ration of blankets barely enough to keep the cold at bay, let alone the smell.
Every time he woke, it was to a different odor at the forefront of the misery.
Hitting the back of his naval cavity, straight down his throat and into his
cramped and empty stomach. Occasionally, he would remember hunger and not the
aching void there, remember when fire was used to cook delicious roasts and not
cauterize the bloody stumps of the injured. He feels overwhelmed with shame and
disgust when his stomach reacts to the burning smell filling the tents, knowing
that he is inhaling the scent of human flesh cooking, but he is malnourished
and starving.
Beyond the
smell, there are sounds. Demons in his dreams, to demons he hears when he
wakes. It isn’t screams that chill his spine, it is the choking noise when they
can no longer get breath in their lungs, the rattling of the bunks when the
seizures hit, the silent sobs of the young ones, calling for mother, for nurse,
for mercy, anything. Wil tries to block out the screams from the surgical tent
next door, for that is where the doctors cut the limbs of men. Those that have
been trampled by the cavalry, or when sleeping in the trenches causes infection
in the smallest of insect bites. Scratching the fleas draws blood, then the
rains bring the rotten filth into every crevice and soon there is oozing pus
and searing pain when the surgeon brings out his bone saw. Was he lucky that he
hadn’t had that or unlucky he could hear the aftermath?
Opening his
eyes in the dim light was another gut-wrenching struggle. It was easier at
night when most patients were dosed within an inch of their life to force a
healing sleep. Although with the unclean conditions and lack of medical help, how
healing could their dreams be? When morning was there to shed light on the
blood soaked bandages and blackened limbs, Wil lessened his vision, convincing
himself that there were no fluids dripping onto the dying grass beneath the
bunks. He dimmed his view and refused to catch the eyes of the suffering,
couldn’t take the blame and hysteria behind their eyes. They demanded his help,
his ‘magic’, his medic skills and when he moved on from them, the begging
turned to despair, gouging what little was left of his soul.
“Up, apprentice.” A sharp voice was
followed by a sharp shaking of his shoulder, and Wil opened his eyes to see
Vance’s accusing gaze. “Report to your master, and be not a waste of space and
rations.” With a disgusted huff, the doctor left him.
Wil pushed
his threadbare blankets to the next bed, covering the shaking of his fellow
apprentice whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn. He’d had a different
bunkmate three times already, two having burned out, mind’s broken beyond
recognition while the third succumbed to the first wave of infection. Wil
hadn’t understood how he lived, but each morning simply wondered if he was
lucky to still be alive, or damned to suffer through the entire travesty. The
shaking lessoned and Wil kept his eyes to the far opening and away from the
patients crammed into what was supposed to be a tent dedicated to the cleansing
of wounds. But with the last big push from the enemy, their forces had been
overrun and the wounded were so numerous, not even the commanders were free
from sharing.
Making his
way out of the tent and into the harsh first light of dawn, the weary
apprentice shivered at the cold, but quickly made his way towards his master’s
area. Movement was the only cure for freezing. All available clothing was rationed
out by the quartermasters and a meager apprentice did not warrant an overcoat.
Wil tried to ignore the piles of bodies stacked unceremoniously to the sides of
the tents awaiting removal. There were crews dedicated to the disposal of the
dead, something they were behind on. If there were too many left to rot, it
would poison the ground water in the future, making this already cursed land
even more uninhabitable. Grabbing a slightly burnt roll from the serving area
that would serve as his breakfast, the apprentice stumbled past the current
commander’s tent and onward to his master’s surgical tent.
“There
you are, you worthless cur.” The voice was rage filled and Wil managed to avoid
the cuff that would have rattled his head and fogged what was left of his
concentration. His master was more heavy-handed than most. “Hold down this dog.
If he thrashes and messes my cut, there’ll be half rations for you!” Thankful
that he’d finished his meager breakfast already, Wil was thrown forward and he
held in the bile rising in his throat. It wouldn’t do to lose what food he was
barely given.
Halfway
strapped to the table was a man. Or the remains of a man. His flesh along one
side of his face and down his torso was blackened with rot, the smell hitting
the young man before his could block his nostrils. It was blackrot, the reason
for over half of the deaths in camp. Wil shuddered, nauseated by the amount
this man was covered in. He wondered why his master was going to perform
surgery when it was obvious to even his untrained eye that the man would hardly
last through whatever cleaving the doctor would perform. Along with the
blackrot, the man was clearly feverish, his mutterings a dull sound in the
echoing of the surgical tent.
Wil turned
fearful eyes to his master. “Where am I supposed to hold him?” In truth, he
wanted to run as fast as he could, hide from these horrors, escape to the other
side and beg mercy. Surely they would accept the surrender of a meager
apprentice, he would even accept the yoke of slavery to be taken from this
rotting hell. And yet, within his heart where his cowardly side sought to
reign, there was the empathetic side, the side that had him giving his
inheritance as an apprentice fee to become a physician. He felt the call of the
sick and suffering; felt the call to fix, to mend, to heal, to empower those
afflicted. It was that side that
moved forward at the grunt and motion of his master to hold the man’s
unaffected side.
Gulping
down the vomit rising from the heavy smell of death coming from the man, Wil
braced his feet shoulder width apart and put his focus into locking down the
man’s good side. The tables in this surgery were lower than the dining tables
in order to give leverage for the surgeons. There were no masks or coverings to
protect the medics anymore, all having gone the way of bandages and blankets.
Sterilizing was a luxury that they no longer possessed, instead Wil saw his
master take the bone saw to one set of lanterns and run the blade through the
flames. A primitive way to rid it of infection, but one that may just save what
was left of the man. As if he knew what was about to happen, the soldier
suddenly thrashed with more strength than Wil thought possible.
“Hold him,
you fool!”
“Yes,
master.” Again, Wil strove to contain the struggling man, who was now shouting.
“It was
sent! Don’t you see?! Can’t you see what they have done?! We must escape! It
will leave nothing living!”
His voice
was surprisingly strong and coherent, educated and confident. Who was this man?
Did he really speak in truth or was the fever causing hallucinations?
“In the
water! Oh dear gods, the water!”
“Silence
him, you idiot! We don’t want a panic!” Before Wil could understand what was
happening, his master whirled around and stuffed a rag into the man’s mouth,
effectively silencing the shouting and probably constricting the airflow as
well.
“Useless
apprentice. Will bring down the whole bloody encampment.” Mumbling now, the
doctor was fiddling with the lights, trying to focus a reflective amount onto
the table so that he could see as he cut.
Still not
sure what was happening, Wil secured the man again and noticed the cold blue of
his eyes twitching and searching the room. When the man focused on Wil, his mumblings
behind the gag became more fervent, almost desperate. He was trying to tell him
something; something important. Was he a scout or a spy? Did he have secret
information? It wasn’t uncommon to get spies all the way to this surgical unit,
but Wil did think it odd that his master would be operating when the man
clearly didn’t have long to live. And what did all this have to do with what he
was shouting earlier? What about the
water?
The next
hour passed in a predictable fashion and Wil relished the moment when he
finally wrapped the still smoldering stump of the man’s arm into a bandage.
They’d cut away the blackrot from his body and removed the affected limb. If he
managed to wake up from the sleep forced on him, then he may have a chance. Wil
snorted. Maybe they’d all have a chance if supplies would arrive, or a treaty
could be reached, or the enemy withdrew. Nothing seemed possible.
He wiped
his master’s instruments, ignoring the breathing of the man still semi-strapped
to the table. Only a few minutes more and then maybe he could sneak back to his
bunk and catch what sleep his dreams would let him.
“It’s in
the water….in the water…..in…water….”
Jumping
slightly at the sudden speech, Wil quickly ran to the man’s side, amazed that
he was coherent this quickly.
“Can you
hear me?” He asked gently, remembering his training and trying not to startle a
suffering man.
Bony
fingers gripped Wil’s wrist, jagged fingernails digging into his flesh and he gasped
at the bloodshot eyes. Wil was frozen with fear and uncertainty.
“In the
water, boy. The sickness. They’ve sent their sickness to us. In the water. The
water!” With his arm still gripped and bruised in the man’s hand, Wil was
unable to pull away as the violent seizures shot through the man, eyes bugging
and spine convulsing. Soon, the gasping of the damned and dying filled the
small space and Wil looked on helplessly as the man’s eyes widened before
suddenly emptying of life.
In a panic,
Wil dug into the dead man’s hand still clasping his wrist, wiggling and
starting to hyperventilate as he tried to get away only to stumble back when he
was free. Wil wiped the nervous sweat from his upper lip and tried to make
sense of what he’d heard. Wanting nothing more than to blame the ramblings of a
man in the throes of a fever and pain, the apprentice couldn’t help the fear
that grew as he pieced his thoughts together.
Could it be
true? Had the enemy somehow poisoned their water supply? An act almost unheard
of in the recent battles, as most commanders turned their noses up at such
underhanded tactics. But…could there be such an enemy as to destroy the land in
which they sought to conquer in their haste to annihilate their enemies?
Flashes of recent memories chilled
Wil to the bone. Cattle dying for unknown reasons and the men eagerly
slaughtering them to feast, grass and vegetation dying, the harvest being
brought in early to supply the army, crows and vultures avoiding the dead, the
lack of game in the forest…
“Heaven help us…” Whirling around,
the apprentice fled.
