A Doctor Without a Cause

A dry, acrid wind carrying the scent of smoke blew in a gust past Ferris' small shack he called his home. Ferris was perched in his rickety rocking chair, gazing out at the scorched land through his propped-open door as he contemplated. 

"Why did I even bother leaving the bunker?" Ferris asked himself. "It's not like I have enough equipment here to properly treat someone. I haven't helped much around here, I'm just another mouth to feed. What more can I do for a person dying of radiation sickness than give them some assortment of painkillers and pat them on the back saying, 'You'll be fine?' I shouldn't have left. If I had stayed in the bunker, I would be dying of starvation, not radiation sickness."

Ferris coughed sharply, shaking in his chair with each one. The fit left him in a sweat. 

"Well," Ferris told himself, "I won't be here much longer by the looks of it. Then maybe the birds and dogs will get more use out of my body than I ever did."

Suddenly, Ferris heard a voice in the distance.

"Doctor Hadley!" it called, causing Ferris to shakily rise from his chair. As he stared out the doorway, he saw three figures approaching. Three men, with one walking alongside another with a third on his back, were approaching Ferris' abode. Hastily, Ferris fixed up the space around him, adjusting the sheets on the bed and turning the bottles of medicine he had upright. Just as he was blowing away a bit of gust, the men appeared in his doorway.

"Doctor," one of the men from Ferris' village spoke, "We've got two travelers here. One's fallen real ill. Can you help him out."

"Sure." Ferris shrugged. "Just put him on the bed and I'll take a look.

The man carrying the sickly fellow carefully entered the shack and laid the man on the bed. His face was pale and he seemed weak. Ferris took the man's pulse as he asked,

"How long has he been like this?"

"About a week," the man replied as the villager left, "but he said he just felt weak for a while before he started getting these headaches, then he just collapsed today."

Satisfied with the measurement, Ferris felt his patient's forehead with his inner arm.

"Feels like a fever to me..." Ferris mumbled. "How much has he been drinking?"

"Not much," the man admitted, "water is coming real scarce as of late."

Ferris gently pressed his patient's stomach. "How long has it been since he's eaten?"

"Not too long ago." the man said between the patient's grunts of pain.

In a dream world, Ferris would diagnose this patient with possible radiation-caused cancer and dehydration, then sent him on his way to a hospital for possible chemotherapy. But this wasn't a dream world. This was Hell on Earth.

"Well," Ferris stood and turned towards his desk, rummaging through it until he found a tall bottle of painkillers. He shook out about 7 tablets and gave them to the man. "Have him take these. Let him rest here for the night and we'll make sure he gets some water. He won't be perfect in the morning but he should be well enough for you to go on and find someone better suited for a complete examination." Ferris gingerly wiped sweat from his patient's head with his sleeve.

"Wait," the man protested, "I thought you were a doctor. You're saying you aren't suited to treat him?"

"I'm a diagnostic doctor, so I'm not too good with perscriptions." Ferris replied. "We don't have a hospital here anywhere close to here any longer, but you may be able to find what remains of one further south. I can only do so much when the US is decimated."

"Alright..." the man replied. "Take good care of him, okay?"

"Sure." Ferris replied. As the man left, Ferris sat back down with a huff.

"What was I supposed to tell him?" Ferris mumbled. "That he was probably going to die? He would have thrown a fit. But what am I supposed to do, find some magical fairy that can cure shit with pixie dust?"

Ferris coughed sharply again.

"Sorry, buddy," Ferris looked over at his patient, "we're all fucked."