The child screamed in agony. A ladder had frayed and snapped and the boy had tumbled to the ground. His leg was bent at the thigh. I was almost certain it was a broken femur. Which was a nasty break at the best of times. In the current crisis I could only set the bone with a splint and hope magical healing would be able to help. Otherwise the boy would have to be restrained for months while the bone healed. That would lead to bed sores, loss of muscle tone and all manner of other complications we weren’t equipped to deal with. His father had already died in a hunting accident. His mother looked like she was on the edge of a mental breakdown.

“Are you sure there’s no herbal remedy you can try? I’ve heard good things about willow bark.” She asked.

“I wish I could give you a better answer. We have no idea what plants out there edible; much less which ones have analgesic properties. I can’t be certain any remedy we use is truly willow bark. And while I would love to have medicine to help with the inflammation; it’s unlikely that willow bark would be sufficient to help with the pain. Not to mention that giving aspirin to children isn’t ideal.“ I normally avoided medical jargon when talking to patients or their families. But I was too distracted from examining the boy for any other signs of injury.

I didn’t notice anything obvious. I was still quite worried. Breaking a femur, even in a child, requires a considerable amount of force. But I had few options available. The child’s screaming grew worse as I straightened the bone to the best of my ability and asked one of my assistants to hand me the improvised splint. I wanted to make a proper brace before transporting him on a stretcher; but it would do for now.

As an assistant Jeremy could have been worse. He was intelligent, not fazed by blood or other traumas and his injured foot had made him cautious. The worst thing about him was his inability to keep his mouth shut. Not all our patients or their loved ones appreciated gallows humour.

Of the two other physicians on board one, Annelise Swart was a gynaecologist and Thabo Mweni a general practitioner. Neither of them were surgeons. Though they, and all the other medical professionals on board, were learning quickly.

To be quite honest I wasn’t an orthopaedic surgeon myself. I wasn’t certain about the boy’s long term prognosis. But I told his mother that he would be given the best treatment possible. It was just barely enough to calm her down.

I took a few minutes for myself before going to the last planning meeting before the rescuers arrived. I took off my gloves, scrubs and mask in one of the bathrooms. All of them were improvised and all of them would be washed before being used again. We couldn’t waste resources.

The plumbing was out of service and the cabin lights were off; so I had to change behind a privacy screen instead of a closed door. The basin was filled with melted snow that was replaced every hour. Any other business would have had to be done outside in one of the latrines. It could be worse. The bedpans the patients used had come from buckets from a children’s beach play set.

After changing I went to meet my wife and grandchildren where we were camped in a middle row just outside first class. Many people had opted to move to the cargo holds for less cramped conditions. But I had to be as close to the infirmary as possible in case of emergencies. My two grandchildren were playing chess with the nephew of my stroke patient. Our only psychologist on board suspected Sipho was autistic. He fidgeted a lot, hated loud noises, bright lights, and rough textures and threw screaming fits when dragged away from the chess board. If he was he was still fairly high functioning. He could communicate well enough to teach my children advanced chess strategy. Of course I didn’t have much time for him. I was blessed there were so many people on board willing to take up the burden.

I gave my wife, Satkiran, a kiss on the cheek. “How are they all doing?” I asked.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Children adapt quickly. They’ve already stopped asking when they can get their phones charged. I’ve told Hamir and Amita to limit their screen time. Addiction to cellphones is becoming a big issue.” She replied.

“I hope you remember you’re their grandmother. Not their therapist. “I said with a smile.

“And I’ve told you I don’t know how many times my doctorate in cognitive psychology, not clinical. I don’t treat patients. One would expect a doctor to remember something so simple.”

“Considering I’d expect someone with a PhD to know that a bachelor of surgery isn’t a doctor I would say we’re even.” I kissed her again and then with a groan I went to go meet with the camp leadership.

“This is a waste of time. We’ve got the stretchers built, volunteers practising with them and I’ve explained the limits of our medical resources three times. I have patients to treat and a family that I have barely seen. Why do I need to be here?” I asked, keeping my tone as even as possible.

“Dr Singh,” Ferucci replied, “you’re our most senior medical practitioner. If something important comes up that needs your input I don’t want to have to send an assistant to track you down.”

I didn’t have the energy to keep arguing. There was debate over contingencies if our rescuers decided to attack us in a pre-emptive strike. And arguments over the line of succession if one of our council members died. And conflict over what items would be prioritised for trade and what would be held back. All in all it took two hours before my input became necessary.

“Dr. Singh, what are the chances of your people learning healing magic?” This came from one of the military officers.

“As I have said to this council many times before; that is a priority once our acute cases have been treated and once we have reached a safe haven. From the short conversation I had with the healer who rescued the scouting party; most healing magic is religious in nature. But we can theoretically make healing potions using alchemy. “

Peter Stewart, the senior engineer, said in a Scottish accent, “I’m sure some of us wouldn’t mind praying to some pagan deity for access to better healthcare.”

“As a matter of fact one of my assistants did repeat the name of a local deity the healer mentioned. Nothing happened until the third event; at which point a flash erupted around his fingers causing second degree burns. I don’t think the spirits these people worship encourage casual blasphemy.”

Major Reynold’s interjected, “I think we should be careful about discussing these beings until we know more about them. At the very least we need to avoid offending the local religious establishment.”

Mr Ferucci exclaimed, “We need to stop talking in circles. Calling these things gods doesn’t change the fact that many on board this plane would view calling on them as violating their religions. We should focus on alchemical, is that the right term?” I nodded, “alchemical solutions as a priority.”

“There are still those who think the use of any sorts of magic or potions as witchcraft.” I was forced to disagree.

“Oy vey. Take a survey among the passengers. If any of them reject magical intervention they have the right. But they need to be made aware we have don’t have any other options.” Ferucci dragged his hands through his curly black hair.

Melissa came running up the stairs. “Sirs, our lookouts report a creature flying around the camp. Based on the description it sounds like a wyvern.”

“What the bloody hell is a wyvern ?” Stewart asked.

“A two legged dragon. Based on the description this one might have a scorpion tail.” Melissa said, panting. “No idea if it has a breath weapon or not.”

Mr. Ferucci groaned. “Breath wea…, never mind. Get everyone inside. Let’s not give it any easy prey.”

I waited near the entrance to first class. The ladders had to be kept clear to allow as many people through as possible. I was futilely cataloguing our remaining stock of two epinephrine injectors when I felt a shudder go through the airframe. As I was looking around for the cause I heard a shout from one of the windows. “It’s on the wing!”

My curiosity outfought my caution and I rushed to the closest window bordering the wing. On it was a reddish brown shape lying sprawled out on the wing. One claw was holding a headless goat while a sinuous snakelike head darted back and forth taking bites from the goat and looking curiously at the retreating passengers. Its scorpion tail lying flat against the surface of the wing unconcerned at all the commotion.

“If it falls asleep maybe it’ll be easy to kill,” said the man standing next to me as more shadows started flying over the clearing. I held my breath as I counted four more of the beasts land in and around the clearing. Each of them had a goat or two in its claws. Luckily the rest of them didn’t land on the wing as I doubt it would have held up against the weight. Each wyvern’s torso looked to be roughly the same size as an Indian elephant. Adding in the extra weight from the longer neck and scorpion tails and it would have been a considerable load. “Well fuck,” my neighbour said after a long pause.

“At least they’re not hungry,” I eventually responded.