Page 13 of Devil's Due

“Fuck off.”

I smirk, glad they’re waiting with me. Hanging around here isn’t much different than being in the waiting room of a hospital. The smell of disinfectant seems to permeate every breath that you take until you feel your lungs are coated in it. Worrying about a diagnosis, having nothing to do, and feeling useless you’re unable to help. It’s damn ridiculous, but I’m willing that dog behind the closed door to come through. I hope the girl’s okay too. I feel for her, but I don’t want to call the number she gave me, not without any news.

Pyro leans forward and takes a magazine off the rack, something about dogs from the cover, I think. Pal gets up and goes to read the notice board.

“Christ! Have we wormed Bitch recently?”

“What the fuck?”

Pal’s turned, looking green. “If not, she could have those growing inside.” He points to a rather disgusting picture of internal parasites. “Or fleas. Hell. Never knew they looked like that.” A blown-up photo is displayed in full view. “Fuck, might ask that nurse when she comes back if we can buy some shit for her.”

“That’s why they do it,” Pyro says sagely. “Show you all that shit so you spend good money.”

“Bitch?” I can’t remember seeing a dog in the clubhouse.

“Club cat.” Pal’s answer is more puzzling than illuminating.

“Club pain in the ass you mean.” Pyro doesn’t look impressed. He raises his hand which has scratch marks on it. “She got me last night. Anything up there about declawing, Pal?”

Now I recall seeing a massive feline last time I was in the clubhouse. It had been sitting on a couch. Alone. Perhaps the state of Pyro’s hand shows why no one had gone near it. “Demon’s worried about her now that he’s got a kid to consider?”

“Yeah, Prez might be impressed if we go back with some shit to sort her out.” Pal still seems intent on studying the various leaflets.

“There is that,” Pyro says as he idly flicks through the pages of the magazine he’d picked up.

We fall into silence. As it would be with my brothers I’d left behind, it’s companionable rather than awkward. A clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, but no one appears from the back to give us an update. When the door finally opens, it takes me by surprise.

I stand. “What we talking about, Doc?” I’m holding my breath in case he announces the dog is dead.

“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m James Ransom. We don’t stand on ceremony here, so call me James.” Now he’s lost that sense of urgency, he seems to be an affable sort. Slightly younger than me, with sand coloured hair, cut short. “Max is doing well all things considered, but he’s got a long way to go until he’s out of the woods.”

“What are his chances?”

“Let me explain his condition, then you’ll see why I can’t offer guarantees.” James brushes his hand over his head. “He’s got a little trouble breathing, so we’re giving him flow-by oxygen administered using a mask. We’ve fitted him with a catheter, and he’s got a line in. I’ve given him buprenorphine for the pain.” He pauses, sees the look on my face and wryly translates. “In other words, the first thing we’ve done is to make him as comfortable as possible.”

“He wake up?”

“Awake, but drowsy. He’s a good dog. Used to being handled, but that’s what I’d expect from a service dog.”

“You know what damage was done yet?”

James looks serious. “I’ve taken thoracic radiographs. It’s possible he has a slow bleed in the chest that those don’t show which could start to affect him hours after the initial trauma. The x-ray helps to evaluate the chest for pulmonary contusions but is only a picture of what’s happening now. He has a broken rib, but like humans, that should heal by itself. His left rear leg has a mid-diaphyseal transverse complete fracture of the left femur, but I won’t do anything about that until he’s stabilised.”

“You mean he’s got a broken leg?”

As if not realising he’s just spoken in a foreign language, James gives a sharp nod.

“How long will stabilising him take?” I want to get to Stevie and tell her Max is going to be okay.

“At least a day, possibly two, before I’d risk the necessary anaesthetic to fix his leg.” James shakes his head. “I wish I could be more positive, but the next twenty-four hours are critical. There’s a possibility of lung injuries that aren’t immediately apparent. As you will have noticed yourself, he’s got multiple abrasions on his skin affecting the dorsum and ventrum, sorry, back and belly.” He grins slightly seeing my confusion. “I’ve given him convenia, an antibiotic. You’re paying?”

Having listened to the long list of things wrong with him, I begin to regret saying that. But the memory of long hair, wide unseeing eyes that brimmed with tears and panic together with the utter helplessness of Stevie, for some reason not immediately apparent, it seems worth anything to put the smile back on her face. “Yes,” I say firmly.

A respectful chin raise, then James continues, “He’s on intravenous fluids, and we’ll monitor what pain control he needs and give it as necessary to keep him comfortable. He may need a light sedation if he gets agitated, but at the moment he’s quiet enough. We’re going to have to auscultate the chest every two hours.”

“You’re going to stay with him?”

James takes a deep breath and straightens his back. “Yeah.” He looks at me intently. “I’d do it for a normal pet, but dog like that? From what you told Vera, he saved his owner today, probably all in his day’s work, though normally he wouldn’t get hurt. I’ve got every respect for a service dog. Let’s hope this one hasn’t paid the ultimate price.”

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