When the rains may come (Science Fiction)

5. The Silver Lining

Four months ago,

"Okay, first name?" The Rescue and Relief clerk at the recruitment desk asked gruffly. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot as they gaped at his computer screen.

"Clint."

The clerk entered it into the database. His stubby fingers were hairy. They looked like tarantula legs as they ran across the keyboard. "Last name?"

"Harris."

"Pre-outbreak profession?"

"Doctor and a surgeon."

"What kind?"

"Orthopedist."

"Physical?"

"I'm clean."

"Pre-outbreak criminal record?"

"None."

The clerk let out a grunt and tapped a few more keys. Clint watched the tarantula legs dance across the keyboard. Then an inkjet printer whirred somewhere behind the desk. He heard the sound of paper ripping. Then a resounding thud of a stamp.

The clerk slid the stamped card and an armband towards Clint across the desk. "Staple the card to the band and wear it at all times." He said, nudging Clint aside and beckoning the other applicants to step forward. "It helps in postmortem identification in case of casualty."

"Post mortem? Casualty? Isn't this just Rescue and Relief?"

"Name!" The clerk grunted at the next applicant.

Clint pinned his id to the armband and tied it around the sleeve of his flannel. He shuffled nervously through the aisles between recruitment desks and inquiry tents outside the football field.

He made his way up the main steps after basic id verification through the guard at the main gate. "Doctors go that way." He pointed Clint down a corridor where dozens of other people were filing through.

A dry, discordant chuckle hummed next to Clint. "The government craps the city. The citizens bleed. And they call the doctors to clean everything up in the end." A voice said.

"It is what is, mate." Another voice said.

"It's all it'll ever be."

There were pointers on the walls that led them out to the pavilion. Another guard at the pavilion was handing out utility vests loaded with a basic first aid kit in a compartment.

As he walked out into the pavilion he saw what he had to deal with. A large yellowish screen of some kind of glass sealed the top of the football field, that was to keep the air free of contamination from the virus. Floodlights suspended from the glass lit the field, dozens of tents were pitched on the lawn, volunteers ran back and forth between the tents and waiting zones. Their statures reduced to the size of ants from where Clint was standing. But his stomach only started to churn once he entered the field. The waiting zones were packed with cots on top of which injured people lay writhing and groaning in pain. Clint caught glimpses of bloody limbs, naked bones, exposed wounds, shattered fingers. Screams of agony, anguished cries.

"Clint Harris, orthopedist!" A voice yelled.

Clint raised his arm. "Here!" He made his way over to a stocky man in government fatigues. His name tag read: Frank Dundee. His green and gray beret read: Field Coordinator. "I'm Clint Harris."

"You are assigned the surgical duty in the priority zone." Dundee said and handed a notepad listing several names and a hand drawn map of the field for navigation. "Go to the tents listed in the column and do what needs to be done."