“Let’s do that.” I mounted Bikezilla’s rear seat. “By the way, you know what a flenser gang is?”

“I’ve heard rumors. You don’t want to know.”

“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Okay. A flensing knife is used to strip skin or fat from an animal, originally a whale.”

“So a flenser gang . . .?”

“Well, if the rumors are true, it’s a gang that’s surviving by roaming around and butchering animals to eat.”

“But almost all the wild animals around here died from the ash after the volcano—they got silicosis.”

“Flensers butcher the animals that ventured outside but survived—the ones that were smart enough to cover their mouths and avoid breathing the ash.”

I was silent for a moment, listening to the harsh noise made by the cold air rasping in and out of my lungs. “So we might have a cannibal strapped to the back of the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” I said in a voice as grim as my mood. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 8

An hour and a half later we were back in Warren. It was aggravating that more than halfway through the first day of our journey we were barely more than five miles from where we’d started.

Warren, unlike Stockton, had no wall. They hadn’t had much problem with bandits so far, probably because Warren is a pimple on nowhere’s butt, while Stockton sits astride Highway 20, which connects Dubuque and Galena with Chicago.

When we stopped at the clinic, Darla worked on untying our cannibal from the load bed while I squatted by his head, checking to see if he was still alive. When Darla rolled him over, he started thrashing and mumbling crazy stuff, which I figured counted as a sign of life.

We carried him inside. The waiting room was cold and dark, but light streamed from one of the exam rooms down the hall. When we’d first arrived in Warren last year, the doctor’s office had always been packed with people suffering from scurvy. Now, with the steady supply of kale from our farm, we’d often find the place deserted.

Dr. McCarthy and his assistant, Belinda, were in one of the exam rooms working on patient files by the light of an oil lamp. Darla and I carried in our cannibal and heaved him on top of the examination table.

“Who’s this?” Dr. McCarthy said. “I don’t recognize him.”

“One of the guys who attacked our farm yesterday.”

The doctor picked up one of the bandit’s hands and looked at it for a moment, then held his fingers to the guy’s lips. “Lost a lot of blood. He needs a transfusion. We’ve got a donor system set up, but nobody’s going to want to donate to a bandit.”

“We need some information from him,” I said.

“I’ll do what I can, Hippocratic Oath and all, but—”

“I can pay. Two hundred kale seeds.”

Darla shot me a glance so heated I felt my face scorch. “Couldn’t you just wake him up? Give him some adrenaline or uppers or something?” she asked Dr. McCarthy.

“If I had any epinephrine or amphetamines, which I don’t, they wouldn’t work. He’s unconscious from blood loss. The only way to wake him up is to give him a transfusion and fluids.”

“So can we buy him a transfusion?” I asked.

“Yes. You don’t happen to know this guy’s blood type, do you?” Dr. McCarthy asked. “I’m out of test kits.”

“No idea.”

Dr. McCarthy turned to Belinda. “Who’s next on the O-neg list?”

She had already retrieved a single sheet of paper from the desk drawer. “Nylce Myers. But she gave 38 days ago.”

“And she can’t weigh 110 pounds dripping wet. Who’s after her?”

“Kyle Henthorn. He’s at twenty-nine days, though.”

“That’s okay, he’s a big guy. Will you go get him?” Dr. McCarthy held out a key ring. Belinda took the keys to his Studebaker, the only working car in Warren, and left.

Dr. McCarthy turned to me and Darla. “Help me move him onto the floor next to the exam table, would you?” As we lifted the bandit, I noticed his eyes were rolling around as if they were loose in his head. We put pillows under his feet to help treat him for shock and covered him with a blanket.

“You want me to take this bandage off?” I asked.

“No,” Dr. McCarthy said. “He might bleed more, which he can’t afford. Wait ’til after he’s had a transfusion.”

About twenty minutes later, a big, florid-faced guy burst into the exam room with Belinda trailing behind. “What’s this Belinda tells me about donating again, Doc? My last one wasn’t even a month ago.” He stopped in the middle of the room and stared at our bandit. “Who is this guy? You know I’m happy to help out neighbors, but I’ve never seen him.”

“This one pays, Kyle,” Dr. McCarthy replied. “A hundred kale seeds.”

“Damn. Bleed me ’til I faint.” Henthorn hopped up onto the exam table and rolled up his sleeve.

“Why do I feel like I just failed Medical Ethics 101?” Dr. McCarthy said.

“Because you did.” Belinda was glaring at him.

Dr. McCarthy shrugged and got to work. They set up a gravity-feed transfusion, straight from Henthorn’s arm into the bandit’s.

The transfusion had been going about five minutes when the bandit woke and started thrashing. I was pressed into service to keep him from ripping out the IV needle. Keeping his arms pinned to the floor was easy—he was feeble.

Dr. McCarthy cut off the transfusion after about ten minutes.

“You sure you don’t need any more?” Kyle asked. “I feel fine.”

“No, I don’t want to take any chances—I feel bad enough about this already,” Doc McCarthy replied. “I’ll bring by your kale seeds later. Belinda, would you get him something to eat and then drive him home? Keep him in the waiting room about fifteen minutes—I don’t want him to pass out.”

Belinda and Kyle left the exam room. Dr. McCarthy started unwrapping the Ace bandage from the bandit’s side. As the doctor gently pulled the packing out of the wound, the bandit screamed and started bucking.

“I wish I had some kind of sedative left,” Dr. McCarthy said.

“I could put pressure on his jugular, try to knock him out,” I offered.

“No, no. He’s already suffering from anemic hypoxia, that’d only make it worse. Just hold him.”

Dr. McCarthy cleaned and repacked the wound on the bandit’s belly. He passed out again while the doctor stitched him up. Then I had to roll him over so Doc could work on the entrance wound at his back.

“How long will he be out?” I asked when Dr. McCarthy finished.

“Can’t tell for sure. Could be an hour, could be he never wakes up. But he’ll probably sleep for three or four days and heal okay.”

“I want to go out to my uncle’s farm,” I said. “Can you keep him here until Darla and I get back?”

“You mean, restrain him?” Dr. McCarthy said. “No, I won’t do that. You could talk to the sheriff about it, though.”

“I guess we’ll stay here until he wakes up then?” I looked at Darla.

She nodded. “Is there someplace to sleep around here?”

“We have a cot in the other exam room—one of you can use the exam table.” Dr. McCarthy picked up the tray that held his instruments. “So long as you’re waiting for him to wake up, would you take the night shift for us? Belinda and I have been trading off for six months now—a couple of nights off would be great.”

“You sure?” I said. “What if a patient comes?”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine. I’ll show you where my house is. If you need me, one of you stay with the patients, the other run to get me.”

Somehow I got stuck on the exam table that night while Darla got the cot. Well, I knew how it happened—I offered her the cot and she said, “Sure, thanks,” when I was hoping she’d say, “No, you take it.” Anyway, the metal table was uncomfortable despite the sleeping bag I spread over it.

So I was awake to hear the moans emanating from the room next door when the bandit woke up. I rolled off the table and padded over there in my socks, trying not to wake Darla. In the hall we’d left a lantern, turned to its lowest possible setting, in case the guy woke up. I turned the lantern a little higher and carried it into his room.