The Wounded Land Read Online Free
Author: Stephen R. Donaldson
hazard she had already passed. At once, she righted the sedan, stepped on the brakes. Her eyes jumped to the rearview mirror.
She saw an old man in an ochre robe. He was tall and lean, barefoot, dirty. His long gray beard and thin hair flared about his head like frenzy.
He took one step into the road toward her, then clutched at his chest convulsively, and collapsed.
She barked a warning, though there was no one to hear it. Moving with a celerity that felt like slow-motion, she cut the ignition, grabbed for her bag, pushed open the door. Apprehension roiled in her, fear of death, of failure; but her training controlled it. In a moment, she was at the old man’s side.
He looked strangely out of place in the road, out of time in the world she knew. The robe was his only garment; it looked as if he had been living in it for years. His features were sharp, made fierce by destitution or fanaticism. The declining sunlight colored his withered skin like dead gold.
He was not breathing.
Her discipline made her move. She knelt beside him, felt for his pulse. But within her she wailed. He bore a sickening resemblance to her father. If her father had lived to become old and mad, he might have been this stricken, preterite figure.
He had no pulse.
He revolted her. Her father had committed suicide. People who killed themselves deserved to die. The old man’s appearance brought back memories of her own screaming which echoed in her ears as if it could never be silenced.
But he was dying. Already his muscles had slackened, relaxing the pain of his seizure. And she was a doctor.
With the sureness of hard training, self-abnegation which mastered revulsion, her hands snapped open her bag. She took out her penlight, checked his pupils.
They were equal and reactive.
It was still possible to save him.
Quickly she adjusted his head, tilted it back to clear his throat. Then she folded her hands together over his sternum, leaned her weight on her arms, and began to apply CPR.
The rhythm of cardiopulmonary resuscitation was so deeply ingrained in her that she followed it automatically: fifteen firm heels of her hands to his sternum; then two deep exhalations into his mouth, blocking his nose as she did so. But his mouth was foul—carious and vile, as if his teeth were rotten, or his palate gangrenous. She almost faltered. Instantly her revulsion became an acute physical nausea, as if she were tasting the exudation of a boil. But she was a doctor; this was her work.
Fifteen. Two.
Fifteen. Two.
She did not permit herself to miss a beat.
But fear surged through her nausea. Exhaustion. Failure. CPR was so demanding that no one person could sustain it alone for more than a few minutes. If he did not come back to life soon—
Breathe, damn you, she muttered along the beats. Fifteen. Two. Damn you. Breathe. There was still no pulse.
Her own breathing became ragged; giddiness welled up in her like a tide of darkness. The air seemed to resist her lungs. Heat and the approach of sunset dimmed the old man. He had lost all muscle-tone, all appearance of life.
Breathe!
Abruptly she stopped her rhythm, snatched at her bag. Her arms trembled; she clenched them still as she broke open a disposable syringe, a vial of adrenaline, a cardiac needle. Fighting for steadiness, she filled the syringe, cleared out the air. In spite of her urgency, she took a moment to swab clean a patch of the man’s thin chest with alcohol. Then she slid the needle delicately past his ribs, injected adrenaline into his heart.
Setting aside the syringe, she risked pounding her fist once against his sternum. But the blow had no effect.
Cursing, she resumed her CPR.
She needed help. But she could not do anything about that. If she stopped to take him into town, or to go in search of a phone, he would die. Yet if she exhausted herself alone he would still die.
Breathe!
He did not breathe. His heart did not beat. His mouth was as fetid as the maw of a corpse. The
She saw an old man in an ochre robe. He was tall and lean, barefoot, dirty. His long gray beard and thin hair flared about his head like frenzy.
He took one step into the road toward her, then clutched at his chest convulsively, and collapsed.
She barked a warning, though there was no one to hear it. Moving with a celerity that felt like slow-motion, she cut the ignition, grabbed for her bag, pushed open the door. Apprehension roiled in her, fear of death, of failure; but her training controlled it. In a moment, she was at the old man’s side.
He looked strangely out of place in the road, out of time in the world she knew. The robe was his only garment; it looked as if he had been living in it for years. His features were sharp, made fierce by destitution or fanaticism. The declining sunlight colored his withered skin like dead gold.
He was not breathing.
Her discipline made her move. She knelt beside him, felt for his pulse. But within her she wailed. He bore a sickening resemblance to her father. If her father had lived to become old and mad, he might have been this stricken, preterite figure.
He had no pulse.
He revolted her. Her father had committed suicide. People who killed themselves deserved to die. The old man’s appearance brought back memories of her own screaming which echoed in her ears as if it could never be silenced.
But he was dying. Already his muscles had slackened, relaxing the pain of his seizure. And she was a doctor.
With the sureness of hard training, self-abnegation which mastered revulsion, her hands snapped open her bag. She took out her penlight, checked his pupils.
They were equal and reactive.
It was still possible to save him.
Quickly she adjusted his head, tilted it back to clear his throat. Then she folded her hands together over his sternum, leaned her weight on her arms, and began to apply CPR.
The rhythm of cardiopulmonary resuscitation was so deeply ingrained in her that she followed it automatically: fifteen firm heels of her hands to his sternum; then two deep exhalations into his mouth, blocking his nose as she did so. But his mouth was foul—carious and vile, as if his teeth were rotten, or his palate gangrenous. She almost faltered. Instantly her revulsion became an acute physical nausea, as if she were tasting the exudation of a boil. But she was a doctor; this was her work.
Fifteen. Two.
Fifteen. Two.
She did not permit herself to miss a beat.
But fear surged through her nausea. Exhaustion. Failure. CPR was so demanding that no one person could sustain it alone for more than a few minutes. If he did not come back to life soon—
Breathe, damn you, she muttered along the beats. Fifteen. Two. Damn you. Breathe. There was still no pulse.
Her own breathing became ragged; giddiness welled up in her like a tide of darkness. The air seemed to resist her lungs. Heat and the approach of sunset dimmed the old man. He had lost all muscle-tone, all appearance of life.
Breathe!
Abruptly she stopped her rhythm, snatched at her bag. Her arms trembled; she clenched them still as she broke open a disposable syringe, a vial of adrenaline, a cardiac needle. Fighting for steadiness, she filled the syringe, cleared out the air. In spite of her urgency, she took a moment to swab clean a patch of the man’s thin chest with alcohol. Then she slid the needle delicately past his ribs, injected adrenaline into his heart.
Setting aside the syringe, she risked pounding her fist once against his sternum. But the blow had no effect.
Cursing, she resumed her CPR.
She needed help. But she could not do anything about that. If she stopped to take him into town, or to go in search of a phone, he would die. Yet if she exhausted herself alone he would still die.
Breathe!
He did not breathe. His heart did not beat. His mouth was as fetid as the maw of a corpse. The
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