from the road. Is there a doctor around?”
“I’m in charge,” I said, stepping forward. “But this is a quarantined zone. You can’t be here—you’ll both be exposed to the virus.”
“Please.” His brown eyes grew pleading, and he glanced down at his friend, who seemed barely conscious, hanging from his shoulders. “There’s nowhere else to go—the other hospitals are empty. He’ll die.”
I sighed and gave a brisk nod. “In here,” I ordered, and he followed me into the operating room, hefting his friend onto the table as gently as he could. The other moaned, delirious, and his arm flopped to the counter. His skin was flushed, feverish, his face tight with pain.
I cut away his shirt and coat, revealing an upper torso that was pale and slightly overweight, but he didn’t seem to be wounded anywhere else. I would examine him thoroughly later, but the arm was the most pressing concern. Gently, I lifted the mangled limb from the table to study it. Several torn, bloody holes ran up the limb from wrist to elbow. The flesh around the wounds was hot and puffy, deep punctures well on their way to infection.
“These are teeth marks,” I said, frowning at the strangely symmetrical patterns through the mess of blood and shredded skin. “What attacked him?”
“I don’t know.” The voice behind me was husky, evasive, but I wasn’t really listening. I studied the arm further, trying to match the bite patterns with what I’d seen before: dogs, cats, even a horse, once. Nothing fit.
Except...
“These...almost look like human bite marks.” But that wasn’t right, either, not with this type of deep puncture wound. The thing that had left these marks had long canines like a predator. Human teeth were not capable of this.
The stranger’s voice was stiff, uncomfortable. “Can you save him?”
“I’ll try.” Turning, I fixed the stranger with a firm stare. He gazed back, eyes hooded. “What is your relation to this man, Mr....?”
“Archer. Ben Archer. And we’re not related.” He nodded to the body on the table. “Nathan and I... I worked for him. He’s a friend.”
“All right, Mr. Archer. Not to be rude, but you can either help me or get out. I can’t be tripping over you every time I turn around. If you think you can take direction and do exactly as I tell you, you’re welcome to stay.”
He nodded. I pointed to the counter behind us. “Get some gloves on, then. This is going to be messy.”
He turned, and I blinked. Blood covered one side of his shirt, and the fabric was torn, sticking to the skin. Several deep gashes were raked across his shoulder blade, still raw and bloody, though he didn’t seem to notice them.
“What happened to your back, Mr. Archer?”
He jerked up, wincing. “Ah,” he muttered, not meeting my gaze. “Nathan was attacked and...I got it when I went to help. It’s nothing, not that deep. Please, help him first.”
“I intend to, but as soon as we’re done here, you need to let me take care of that. And you are going to tell me what happened when we’re done, Mr. Archer.”
He nodded, and we worked in tense, determined silence, broken only by me barking orders, directing my helper to hold this or fetch that. I didn’t mince words or attempt civility; my focus was on saving this man’s life. But my impromptu assistant took all direction without comment until the task was complete.
“There.” I pulled the final stitch shut, tying it off with a short jerk. The man lay on the table, disinfected, bandaged and sewn up the best I could manage with such limited supplies. “That’s it. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him, now.”
Ben Archer stood behind me. I could feel his hooded gaze on the table in front of us. “Will he make it?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” I said, turning around. “He needs a transfusion, but there’s no way we can do that now. The wounds haven’t gone septic, but I’m mostly worried about his fever.” The man’s face fell, and I offered a kind lie out of habit. “We’ll have to wait and see if he survives the night, but I think he has a chance of pulling through.”
“Thank you,” he murmured. He seemed relieved but shifted restlessly at the edge of the counter, as if he expected something to come lunging through the operating room doors any second. “I didn’t get your name, Doctor...?”
“Just call me Kylie.” I really looked at him for the first time, seeing the stubble on his chin, the haunted look in his dark brown eyes. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular under his shirt, as if he was used to hard labor.
“Miss Kylie.” He shot a glance at the tiny window, at the late-afternoon sun slanting in through the glass. “I’m grateful for your help. But we have to go. Now.”
“Excuse me?”
“We have to leave,” he repeated to my astonishment. “We can’t stay here. I’m sorry, but we have to go.”
I scowled at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Archer. Your friend is still badly hurt, and you don’t look so good yourself. What you’re going to do is sit down, let me take care of those lacerations on your back, and tell me what the hell happened to your friend.”
He flinched, one hand going to his shoulder, but shook his head. “No,” he whispered, and the guilt on his face was overwhelming. “We can’t stay here,” he protested in a stronger voice. “We have to leave the city.” His gaze flicked to mine, intense. “You should come with us. Everyone should—everyone who can still walk needs to go. It...isn’t safe out there anymore.”
“When was it ever safe?” I murmured. He took a breath to argue again, but my voice grew sharp. “Move him now, and your friend will die,” I stated bluntly. “With that fever and those wounds, he’ll be dead by morning. You leave, you kill him. It’s as simple as that.”
He slumped, the fight going out of him. I gestured to the stool, and he sank down, his posture defeated. “If you would take your shirt off, Mr. Archer,” I urged, trying to remain businesslike as I fished a needle and thread from my coat pockets. He blinked, pulling back a little, and I sighed. “I don’t have the time or patience for modesty, Mr. Archer. And we ran out of hospital gowns the first week we were here. So, please.” I gestured with the needle. “Take off your shirt.”
Wearily, he complied, pulling the garment over his head without so much as a wince. I kept my expression professional, but my gaze roamed over the tanned, powerful shoulders and sculpted chest as he dropped his shirt to the floor. Things were bleak, but I wasn’t blind. Ben Archer was gorgeous; you didn’t need a Ph.D. to see that.
He didn’t move as I walked up behind him, examining the five deep lacerations that ran from his shoulder nearly to the center of his back. They looked like...claw marks. I shivered. Something was very wrong here.
“What happened to you and your friend?” I began, dabbing the wounds gently with an alcohol wipe. He didn’t flinch, though the lacerations were quite deep, and I knew the alcohol stung. “Did you hear me, Mr. Archer?”
“Ben. Just Ben.”
“All right, Ben.” I wiped the last of the blood
