Rambler: The End

We first realized Peter had been chewed when we were back in the Rambler and roaring along the QE.

“Shit, I’m bleeding,” he said.

“Where’d she get you?” I asked

.

“Side of the hand – it’s starting to hurt like a bastard.”

Peter complained so much and was so obviously stricken we urged him to get off the highway and back onto the urban streets, where we finally pulled in under a street light.

“Christ, look at my hand,” Peter gasped while we all stared at it in consternation.

Peter’s right hand had swollen up and appeared to be turning a dusky shade of purplish-black.

“We’ve got to get you to a doctor’s quick,” I said.

“Emergency at the hospital is only a few blocks from here,” Wimp added.

Photo: Nick Matthews

“I don’t think I can drive.”

“We can hoof it,” I said, trying to sound reassuring – but not really succeeding.

We used our time on the way to help in attempting to come up with a plausible story to tell the old people and finally settled on having Peter bitten by a dog, a large dog. He was practically delirious by the time we arrived, so I was the one who had to spin the yarn, first to a nurse, then to an intern.

Wimp and I sat on the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room for a long time, debating on whether or not to call Peter’s old people, but we were too chicken (and unwilling to listen to the any lectures or scolding). We argued about whether we should go outside for a smoke and, in the end, we agreed to take turns (although I suspected Wimp of firing up two butts while I was stuck waiting inside).

Eventually an intern, a sour-faced young man with short hair and a glasses came out into the waiting room, walked up to us and said “What the hell happened to your buddy?”

“He got bit by a dog, eh?” Wimp said.

“A dog with human teeth?” he shot right back, glaring at the both of us; we hadn’t expected any questions or, at least, not that particular question. “I’m perfectly familiar with the injuries caused by the bite of a dog,” he continued, “and those teeth were human, not canine.”

We figured silence was probably the best policy, but I didn’t like the way the intern was glaring at us, so I finally said “Is it serious?” just to say something.

“I can’t tell whether we’re dealing with tetanus or rabies.”

“Rabies!”

“So what – or who – bit him?”

“You wouldn’t believe us if we tried,” I mumbled.

Fortunately, Wimp was quicker than I was” “It was a female that done it,” was all he said.

Rabies, tetanus.

They saved the hand but Peter says it still hurts – and, as for the Silo, we haven’t been back – not even to see an or-gee.