A Date with the Old Man (3)
"That's right. Wrap it tight. We can always get the doctor to look at it later. Now, what did I tell you?"
"There's no such thing as overkill when it comes to staying alive."
"If the pain's so bad you feel like dying, pump yourself full of morphine. If the bleeding's heavy, use every bandage you've got. Staying alive comes first, no matter what. Questions come after—aaagh!"
The moment he cinched the final knot, a squeal like a pig having its throat cut rang out through the corridor.
"Whoa there."
"O-ow, that stings. Makes me feel young again, hahaha."
His face had gone pale for an instant, and for a second I'd thought something had gone terribly wrong. But after a few deep breaths he stretched, and the relief hit me almost as hard as the pain in my own arm.
Of course, even lifting that arm was a problem for me.
"Is the knife seated properly?"
"…It burns like hell."
"That's normal. Blood… let's see. Good. It's not coming out too badly. Leave it in. Yank it out too early and you'll just open the floodgates."
Even in the game, pulling a weapon you'd "acquired" by getting stabbed with it into your inventory would trigger catastrophic bleeding. The first time I'd learned that lesson, my character was already thrashing around in a pool of his own blood.
"Ready?"
"More or less."
"One, two, three!"
I locked my right arm around Mr. Curtis's back and heaved us both upright. Every tiny shift of my left arm sent pain searing through my brain like a branding iron, but I didn't care. We just had to get out of here first. The pain could wait.
"Any painkillers?"
"If you're talking about ibuprofen."
"…Morphine knocks the pain out the second it hits, though."
"And it's also wildly addictive."
"Tch."
I cracked open the pill bottle from the emergency med kit and dropped a couple into Mr. Curtis's palm. I took two myself and washed them down with water.
"Hooo."
"Morphine kills the pain the moment it goes in. This stuff's going to take forever."
In some games, a smear of Vaseline or tiger balm was enough to let you run on a broken leg. If this world had a problem, it was that it was a little too realistic.
"Ghhhk…."
I planted my foot on the back of one that was still breathing and pushed off. He'd bleed out soon enough, or the monsters would come for him later. Either way, I had no intention of giving any of them a proper burial—or a pyre.
We climbed over heap after heap of corpses and followed the corridor, and without really meaning to, we found ourselves walking through the cannibals' old stronghold—looking around whether we wanted to or not.
"…Ugh."
Seeing something on a computer screen was one thing. Standing in the middle of it was another. The stench of blood hit from every direction. The walls were painted red. Human heads hung here and there like trophies, as if whoever had done it had completely lost their mind.
"I'd only ever heard stories about this kind of thing happening in the old Soviet Union or Europe when the food ran out. Actually seeing it… ha."
"…Let's just move. Fast."
Looking at what they'd done to the cafeteria, it was hard to believe any normal food was left. And judging by the state of the cannibals themselves, I had my doubts they'd left the medical wing's supplies untouched either.
Among the things they'd eaten, there even seemed to be mutants. The last thing I saw before we pushed deeper into the darker sections was a Land Bat laid out on a steel dining table with a knife driven through it.
The broadcast room, at least, showed no red light—and no sign anyone had even gone inside. Maybe there simply hadn't been anything to eat. The only mark was a bloody handprint pressed onto the door.
"Search the place."
"On it."
I set Mr. Curtis down in a chair and swept the room fast. Sure enough, you find what you need where you expect it—I came up with a military radio caked white with dust.
"Find it?"
"Right here."
"Funny how every time we go looking for something useful, we run into the strangest damn things."
"Haha…."
If I told him it was because this was a game, would he even believe me?
I yanked free a small speaker sitting nearby and stuffed it into the bag, then grabbed a radio for good measure. I brought the bag back over.
"Hand it here."
Mr. Curtis took the bag for me, and I slipped back under his arm as naturally as breathing. If our bodies had been in better shape, the walk back would have been nothing. But between the knife radiating heat in my arm and the limping old man at my side, everything felt unbearably tight.
"So. How's it feel after a real scrap?"
"…Exhausting."
"Young man like you, and you're already whining."
The painkillers must have started to kick in. Mr. Curtis shrugged off my shoulder and began walking on his own. Blood was still seeping slowly through the bandages wrapped tight around his leg.
"When we get back, how am I supposed to explain this to Sarah and my boy, huh?"
"Explain?"
"In America, the usual punishment is 'grounded.' No going outside."
Ah. The classic scene from every American TV show with kids in it.
"Once a horse has tasted the open air, how is it supposed to live locked in a stall, hm? So you'll have to do the explaining for me."
"Me?"
"What, you want me to do it? My ungrateful son already wants to take my gun away just because I'm old."
Absolutely not. Even with a bent back, this man had beaten cannibals and then saved me on top of it.
"And—about Sarah."
"Mr. Curtis."
I closed my hand carefully around the dagger still buried in my arm and offered him an awkward smile.
"I'll handle that part myself. Please."
"Well… like I said, as long as you don't make her cry, I don't care."
We shared a light laugh and finally arrived at the barricade, breathing hard in the bright beam of a flashlight.
"…Dad? Mr. Hyunwoo?"
"If you can see our faces, open the damn thing already."
"Mr. Dietrich! Mr. Dietrich! Sarah!"
A noisy clamor erupted from the other side. I hadn't meant to cause this much of a scene.
"Ugh…!"
"Both of you, get ready for your shots. Honestly—good thing we found that warehouse stocked with tetanus vaccines, or this could have gone very badly. Do you understand that?"
The knife pulled from my arm had at least been a military combat knife, cleaned and maintained. Mr. Curtis was the real problem. The moment he admitted he'd been gashed by a blood-caked, rusted blade, he caught three people's worth of murderous looks.
James and Sarah were clearly wondering why the two of us had gone off alone into a place that dangerous. Mr. Curtis looked like house arrest was already a done deal.
"For the time being, consider your left arm out of commission."
"What?"
"Oh, so you'd rather the wound tear open and spray blood everywhere again?"
"That's—"
"No scouting. No crafting. Not for a while. If you need something done, ask for help."
"If I'd known it would turn out like this, I would have put the garden off a little longer."
"Well, still… at least we found someone who can get us seeds."
"Oh, so the seeds are what matter? Hm?"
"Aaagh!"
I'd taken the painkillers. I was sure of it. But the second she pressed down, pain sharp enough to clear my head completely roared through my arm.
"Why would you grab a wound I just finished stitching?! Are you all right?"
Even after she'd held pressure on it for that long, blood still wept slowly through the bandage. While Ms. Angela examined my arm again, Sarah stood with her arms crossed, glaring down at me like her temper had fully boiled over—then finally let out a long, deep sigh.
"I'll go get the beds ready. Once you're finished—"
"Beds? For the time being, both of you are under intensive care in my ward."
"Huh?"
"What do you mean, 'huh'? One of you has a hole punched clean through his arm. The other is an old man who just needed sutures. Did you think either of you would just walk this off? Especially after being cut and stabbed by blades that could have been coated in God-knows-whose blood?"
After delivering the full lecture, Ms. Angela drew a deep breath and pointed at the beds.
"Both of you are on restriction until further notice. Lie still and eat what you're given."
"Doctor, isn't that a little harsh—"
"Mr. Curtis. How old are you this year?"
"…."
"Answer me."
"In spirit, I'm—"
"Dad, you're eighty-seven. If anything goes even a little wrong—"
"If I was going to die, I would have died on that battlefield! How many times do I have to hear the same lecture?!"
"Dad!"
While the argument flared, Sarah dug through the bag I'd brought back. Military radio, wiring, a regular radio. She studied them with mild interest for a moment—then:
"So. What exactly are we supposed to do with all this?"
"Hm?"
"You risked your life over a vegetable patch. If you're stuck in bed doing nothing, you'll go stir-crazy. And as for conversation partners—what's there even left down here?"
She gave the medical room a once-over, then looked at Ms. Angela. Angela blinked at her for a second—
"No. The medical wing has to stay thoroughly sterilized."
"Then let him come down to the workshop for a few hours a day. Call it a walk. Are you planning to monopolize him entirely?"
"I'm only looking after my patients. Mr. Curtis will be here too."
"He just needs to keep his arm still. There's no reason to lock him in a sickroom for that."
"Exactly, exac—"
"Grandpa, stay out of this."
Mr. Curtis shot me a sulky look. Not that there was much I could do from here.
"As long as what you're doing is purely medical, all I'm doing is making the things we need to keep supplies coming in."
In the end Ms. Angela hesitated, then nodded.
"Supervised only. Two hours after breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
The second she got confirmation, Sarah winked at me.
…Now that I actually understood what that wink meant, it was starting to feel a little heavy.
Just my luck.