Dead Eyes: A Tale From The Zombie Plague by James Dwyer Page A

or otherwise?”
    “Just my hand.”
    Morgan grabbed my wrist and lifted my palm up to his eye level. “How did you do this?”
    “Broken glass.”
    “Yes,” said Morgan, “Any other injuries? In particular, zombie related injuries?”
    “Nope,” I said, “I keep a safe distance.”
    “Wise,” said Morgan, “How long have you been out there for?”
    “Since the start,” I said.
    “Alone?”
    “Yes,” I lied.
    “You must know how to look after yourself then.”
    “I’m still here aren’t I?”
    Morgan took a stethoscope from the bag and placed it on my chest. I noticed his hands trembled slightly as he held it against my body. “Checking for a zombie heart?” I joked.
    The doctor was not amused. “Checking everything. I’ll need to take a blood sample too. Left or right arm?”
    “Right,” I said.
    The doctor took a tourniquet from the bag and tied it round my arm, just above the elbow. The way he tied the knot seemed unpractised. As if he was making it up as he went along.
    I watched as Morgan took a syringe from the bag and pointed it towards my arm. His hand shook once again, the needle moving shakily close to my skin. “Are you alright?”
    “Fine,” snapped Morgan, “Just have things on my mind.”
    His first attempt missed the vein, a sharp prick of pain as he stabbed my arm. I watched him take a deep breath before trying again. Mercifully he hit the mark this time. I wasn’t sure who was more relieved, him or me. I decided to try and stay in the doctor’s good books and so held my tongue. Who knew how much influence he held inside camp. Now was not the time to question his credentials.
    “All done,” said Morgan, brushing the pinprick on my arm with a cotton swab.
    “Thank you,” I said, holding the cotton against the needle mark with my hand, “When will you know the results?”
    “Soon,” he said, “You can join the rest of the camp if you like. I’m satisfied.”
    Morgan placed the blood sample in his bag, quickly gathering his things together. His hands were still shaking.
    “Can you do something to my hand? I think it needs stitches,” I said, showing him the cut palm once again.
    Morgan reached into his bag and chucked me a package of bandages. “Wrap it up yourself. I have other things to do.”
    I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. This was the camp doctor? There must have been a reason for his rudeness.
    “What you said to Maggie. Are you waiting on news from someone?”
    He nodded, a distracted sad look in his eyes. “Been waiting too long.”
    I thought about offering some empty condolences, remembered what Maggie had said and stopped myself. The doctor picked up his bag and left, leaving me alone in the tent. He wasn’t a real doctor, I knew that much. Still, there was no point in raising any problems just yet.
    I quickly dressed myself and made my way outside. The whole experience had been strange and I wanted to get out of this small tent to stretch my legs.
     
    ✖
     
    It was mid afternoon when I left the tent. I wasn’t sure of the exact time. My only hope was that the rest of the day’s formalities would be completed before sundown. If I wanted to keep my night blindness a secret, I would have to find an excuse to go to bed early.
    Lord knows what I would do if they gave me a night time role when it came to handing out the camp chores. I would be useless as a night watchman. Perhaps my time surviving on my own would mean that Captain Stone would give me a task with greater responsibility. I don’t think Maggie would have told him about my little breakdown. If it came down to it, I would volunteer for any role that kept attention off me. Even if it was a dangerous task. Anything to keep them from knowing I was going blind.
    The rest of Camp Churchill was a collection of green canvas tents, obviously ex military or from an army surplus store. It took me back to camping trips during my time in the cub scouts. “Be prepared”. The Cub Scout