moon_custafer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moon_custafer) wrote2011-07-13 06:31 pm
moon_custafer) wrote2011-07-13 06:31 pm
(no subject)
Thought I finally joined deadwoodS4, but I can't find it on my list of communities I can post to.
Emergencies were Doc Cochran’s strong suit, it was quiet that drove him to drink. Awakened by the shouts, he pushed his memories away and began the familiar, almost soothing mental process of considering the next few hours’ needs. Most of his equipment was already in his bag by the door, for illness and injury kept no regular hours, not in any part of the world.
He began to assemble extra supplies. Laudanum, of course, as much as could be carried; it would be needed; it always was. Bandages - he paused a moment to wonder if the greater number of injuries would be from burns or from smoke --they were raising the alarm pretty vociferously out there in the streets of the camp, but some drunks wouldn’t wake for anything quieter than the last trump. Focus on the treatables, he reminded himself. Let the training do the work. Ointment, for the minor burns; the severe burns would get the laudanum, not much else to be done for them. Might be necessary to set a guard on the dope in the confusion; his thoughts moved to Jane; she could be trusted around the stuff - her vice was drink, and taking up with Joanie had done her some good on that count even if it had raised a few eyebrows – but he’d need her to nurse the injured. Well, he’d sort that one when the time came.
Someone was hammering on his door now; he shouted that he needed another minute. They were right, though – the cabin was a tinderbox, what with all the dried herbs hanging from the room beams. Picking up the coffee pot, he splashed the cold dregs on the dry leaves; they could be replaced, and maybe it’d buy him another minute; knowing his limitations did nothing, he discovered, to erase his frustration at his body’s recent tendency to lag noticeably behind his thoughts. Silk-scrap face masks – the firefighters might need’em, too; keep smoke out as well as germs in. Smoke – he could smell it now. A last glance round and a scramble for the door, now seemingly ten miles off. His lungs were burning by the time he reached the outside. “Pull it down!” he choked.
“Pull what, Doc?” Cochran coughed, tasted blood and swallowed.
“The goddamn cabin,” he rasped. “What did you think? Slow the spread of the flames.”
Emergencies were Doc Cochran’s strong suit, it was quiet that drove him to drink. Awakened by the shouts, he pushed his memories away and began the familiar, almost soothing mental process of considering the next few hours’ needs. Most of his equipment was already in his bag by the door, for illness and injury kept no regular hours, not in any part of the world.
He began to assemble extra supplies. Laudanum, of course, as much as could be carried; it would be needed; it always was. Bandages - he paused a moment to wonder if the greater number of injuries would be from burns or from smoke --they were raising the alarm pretty vociferously out there in the streets of the camp, but some drunks wouldn’t wake for anything quieter than the last trump. Focus on the treatables, he reminded himself. Let the training do the work. Ointment, for the minor burns; the severe burns would get the laudanum, not much else to be done for them. Might be necessary to set a guard on the dope in the confusion; his thoughts moved to Jane; she could be trusted around the stuff - her vice was drink, and taking up with Joanie had done her some good on that count even if it had raised a few eyebrows – but he’d need her to nurse the injured. Well, he’d sort that one when the time came.
Someone was hammering on his door now; he shouted that he needed another minute. They were right, though – the cabin was a tinderbox, what with all the dried herbs hanging from the room beams. Picking up the coffee pot, he splashed the cold dregs on the dry leaves; they could be replaced, and maybe it’d buy him another minute; knowing his limitations did nothing, he discovered, to erase his frustration at his body’s recent tendency to lag noticeably behind his thoughts. Silk-scrap face masks – the firefighters might need’em, too; keep smoke out as well as germs in. Smoke – he could smell it now. A last glance round and a scramble for the door, now seemingly ten miles off. His lungs were burning by the time he reached the outside. “Pull it down!” he choked.
“Pull what, Doc?” Cochran coughed, tasted blood and swallowed.
“The goddamn cabin,” he rasped. “What did you think? Slow the spread of the flames.”
no subject
And I want to try to figure out how to get the first three parts up in order!
no subject
And he'd be triaging as soon as he was awake.I can totally see this as his mental process, the bandages, the pain relief...and the sacrifice.
Wonderful :-)
no subject
no subject
no subject
Poor Doc's sorry lookin' cabin.
I always wished there were microscopically detailed photos of that whole building, inside and out. Inquiring minds want to know the gory details of all those books.
...well, maybe not ALL the gory details.
no subject
no subject
no subject
You realize your post made me google “jeggings” – at least I know what those things are called, now.
no subject
'Course that goes for plain old leggings, too. They're dead useful.
no subject
Or cold.
no subject