Blue Warrior

Cella ran over to the men’s door and unlocked it, then came back to the jeep to help Pearce wrestle Daud through the snow and into the warm clinic.

“Two clinics?” Pearce asked.

“Strict separation of the sexes. The mullahs insisted. Otherwise, no clinic at all.”

Inside the building, Cella led them to an empty bed. The air was warm. He smelled the kerosene heater on the far wall. There were two other occupied gurneys on the clinic floor. A boy’s voice called out from one.

“Cella? Is that you?” The voice was slurred as if slightly drugged, and panicked. Pearce saw a torso propped up on elbows on one of the cots. The voice was in shadows.

“Yes, it’s me, love. Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

“Who is that with you?”

“A friend. Go back to sleep.”

“And that’s why you lock the doors on the outside.” Pearce lowered Daud’s head and shoulders to the bed.

Cella lowered Daud’s feet. “Thieves will steal the medicine and rape any women they find. Boys, too.” She pointed at a storage rack. Told Pearce, “Two blankets, quick.”

Cella opened a locked steel cabinet and pulled out a 1,000mm saline bag and a sealed IV kit, then rolled over an old-fashioned stainless-steel IV stand. She hung the bag on the hook and opened the kit. Pearce watched her snap on a pair of surgical gloves, then quickly and expertly set up the IV and insert the needle into the back of Daud’s hand. “No pump?” Pearce asked.

“No. Gravity-fed is best. Especially with antibiotic. Pushing the antibiotic too quickly can cause problems.”

Pearce was impressed. IVs were deceptively complicated and even fatal, if not handled properly.

* * *

He fought back a yawn. Checked his watch. Still another forty minutes until sunrise. He glanced around the room. Beds, cabinets, sink, a small office desk. Simple, but clean, organized, and well supplied.

“Quite a little place you have here, Doctor.”

“I have a very generous donor base.” Cella pulled on a stethoscope.

“The women’s side is occupied, too?”

“Yes. Quiet, please.” She listened to Daud’s heartbeat and breathing, then held his wrist for a pulse count. She sniffed the air.

“You stink,” Cella said to Pearce. “You need to shower.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not being funny. You smell like stale urine and shit. If you’ve been drinking the water around here, you have diarrhea. Correct?”

“That’s life in the field.”

“But not in my sterile clinic. Unless you want to go back outside, you need to get cleaned up. Soap, hot water. You remember how to shower, don’t you?”

“Where?”

“There’s a shower through that door. And throw away your soiled clothes. I have others you can use.”

“We’re in a combat zone. I can’t—”

“Fine, then go back outside and smell. The stink alone will keep the Taliban away.”

Pearce seriously considered going back outside to keep an eye on things. But he was finally getting warm again. And he did smell like an outhouse. What the hell.

Pearce headed to a small bathroom. He peeled off his clothes and undergarments, tossing everything soaked in sweat, shit, or pee into a pile in the corner. He stacked the body armor on a chair and stepped into the small shower and pulled the plastic curtain shut. The water flow wasn’t strong, but it was stinging hot on his filthy, chilled skin and it felt good.

It took him a solid ten minutes to scrape off the crusted grime with a stiff plastic brush, and he spent another ten washing out crevices and cracks that hadn’t seen clean water or soap in almost a month. Even he was grossed out. He pushed chunks of whatever into the drain hole with his big toe, then swept the rest of the hairs and whatnot into the drain with his size-14 foot before turning off the water.

Pearce pulled aside the plastic curtain, thankful that the small bathroom had kept the steam. He was almost hot now, another sensation he hadn’t felt in a lifetime or two. He instantly noticed that his filthy clothes had disappeared and a pile of fresh clothes was neatly stacked on the now open chair, the body armor carefully placed underneath the seat.

Pearce dressed. Thermal underwear, heavy boot socks. Civilian, Italian labels. And beneath them, local woolen pants and a green hospital scrub shirt. There was a name stenciled on the front: “PAOLINI.” A pair of Nike running shoes, clean but used.

Pearce emerged dressed in his new clothes, but in his stocking feet.

“What’s wrong with the shoes?” Cella asked without looking up. She sat at the small desk, making notes. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses were perched on her nose.

She finished her notes and smiled at him. Could she be any more beautiful?

“Too small. Especially with the socks.” Pearce wiggled his toes. “I’ll clean my boots instead, if that’s okay.”

“They’re by the heater, getting dry.” She looked him up and down, clearly pleased. “Everything else seems to fit.”

Pearce looked down at the name stenciled on his shirt. “He and I are about the same size, looks like.”

“Looks like,” she repeated, not taking the bait.

“I miss anything?” Pearce asked.