Outpost by Adam Baker Page A

grenade.'
    Rye
took tweezers and tugged at a metal spine.
    'These
filaments seem to be anchored in bone.'
    'It's
spreading. It started at his fingertips. Now it's reached his wrist.'
    Rawlins
woke. He licked his lips.
    'How
are you feeling, Frank?' asked Rye, leaning close.
    'Don't
take my arm.'
    'You'll
be okay,' she soothed. 'We'll fix you up.'
    'It
tastes funny,' said Rawlins, and passed out.
    'Right,'
said Rye. 'You three. Get your coats off and scrub up. I need you in here.'
    They
lathered their hands and forearms in Bioguard scrub.
    Rye
unlocked a cupboard. She took out a tray of surgical instruments and slit open
the vacuum-sealed plastic. She unwrapped a surgical saw and laid it on the
surgical trolley.
    'What
do you have in mind?' asked Sian.
    'You're
going to help me amputate his arm.'
    'Don't
you have anything more high-tech than that?' asked Jane, pointing at the saw.
    'I've
got an electric blade but I don't want to spray blood everywhere.'
    They
gave Rawlins a shot of morphine and strapped him to the table. Rye intubated
his throat. She wheeled a heart monitor to the table. She pasted electrodes to
Rawlins's chest and set the machine beeping.
    'Watch
the screen,' she told Sian. 'If that figure drops below thirty-five, yell.'
    She
took saline from the refrigerator and hung it from the drip stand.
    'Keep
an eye on the bags,' she told Jane. 'Let me know when he needs a refill.'
    She
swabbed Rawlins's arm just below the elbow.
    'Ghost.
Keep hold of his shoulders, okay? He could buck. Right. Everybody ready?'
    Rye
sliced into Rawlins's arm with a scalpel and clamped his arteries. Yellow
globules of subcutaneous fat glistened like butter.
    She
sawed his arm. She worked through bone in short rasps like she was sawing
through a table leg.
     
    'Think
he will be okay?' asked Jane when they had finished.
    'I'll
give him another shot when he wakes. After that, it's aspirin.'
    'So
what about you, Doc? What if we need to fix you up?'
    'Anything
happens, shoot me a spinal and I'll talk you through it.'
    Rawlins's
face was pale and slack. Jane instinctively moved to wipe sweat from his
forehead. 'No,' warned Ghost.
    Husky
exhalations through an airway tube. Steady beep of the cardiograph.
    'Done
that before?' asked Ghost. 'Cut off an arm?'
    'Snipped
plenty of fingers,' said Rye. 'Standard oil-field crush injury.'
    'Reckon
he'll make it?'
    'Normal
circumstances I would expect him to recover from the amputation, as long as the
wound doesn't become infected. This disease, though. Never seen anything like
it.' Ghost thumbed through Rawlins's medical notes. 'Stress. Depression.
Prostate trouble. Poor bastard. Should have cashed out of this game years ago.'
    'Put
that down,' ordered Rye. 'That stuff is confidential.' They stuffed Rawlins's
shredded clothes into a red body-waste sack. They bagged bloody swabs and
dressings. They slopped bleach on the floor.
    Ghost
picked up the sacks with gloved hands. He held them at arm's length.
    'Throw
that shit over the side,' ordered Rye. She used forceps to pick up the severed
arm. She dropped it into a plastic box and sealed the lid. She handed the box
to Jane.
    'And
get rid of that fucking thing, will you?'
     
    Jane
called Punch on the intercom. She asked him to fetch a can of kerosene and meet
her on the ice.
    They
walked from beneath the shadow of the refinery and stood at the water's edge.
    'How
is he?'
    'Out
for the count,' said Jane. 'He might live. He might not.'
    'So
who is in charge now?'
    'Fuck
knows.'
    'This
isn't a democracy. If we vote on every little fucking thing it will be a
disaster.'
    'Yeah.'
    'Somebody
better step up. If Nail and his compadres start calling the shots we'll be dead
within a week.'
    'Yeah.'
    'You
actually cut off his arm?' asked Punch.
    Jane
peeled the lid from the box.
    'Christ,'
he said. 'How did it happen?'
    'We
won't know for sure until he is awake and talking.'
    'Swear
to God, I won't let that happen to me.'
    They
put the box on the ice, doused it in