The X-Files: Antibodies by Kevin J. Anderson
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
Tags: Fiction, Media Tie-In
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breeze mitigated the smell of chemicals and frightened pets that thickened the air. Hughart had always believed in the curative properties of fresh air, and that went for animals as well as humans.
His living quarters were upstairs, and he had left the television on, the single set of dinner dishes unwashed—but he spent more time down here in the antibodies
49
office, surgery, and lab anyway. This part was home for him—the other rooms upstairs were just the place where he slept and ate.
After all these years, Hughart kept his veterinary practice more as a matter of habit than out of any great hope of making it a huge success. He had scraped by over the years. The locals came to him regularly, though many of them expected free treatment as a favor to a friend or neighbor. Occasionally, tourists had accidents with their pets. Hughart had seen many cases like this black Lab: some guilt-ridden sightseer delivering the carcass or the still-living but grievously injured animal, expecting Hughart to work miracles.
Sometimes the families stayed. Most of the time—as in this instance—they fled to continue their interrupted vacations.
The black Lab lay shivering, sniffing, whimpering.
Blood smeared the steel table. At first, Hughart had done what he could to patch the injuries, stop the bleeding, bandage the worst gashes—but he didn’t need a set of X-rays to tell that the dog had a shattered pelvis and a crushed spine, as well as major internal damage.
The black Lab wasn’t tagged, was without any papers. It could never recover from these wounds, and even if it pulled through by some miracle, Hughart would have no choice but to relinquish it to the animal shelter, where it would sit in a cage for a few days and hope pathetically for freedom before the shelter destroyed it anyway.
Wasted. All wasted. Hughart drew a deep breath and sighed.
The dog shivered under his hands, but its body temperature burned higher than he had ever felt in an animal before. He inserted a thermometer, genuinely curious, then watched in astonishment as the digital readout climbed from 103 to 104. Normally a dog’s 50
T H E X - F I L E S
temperature should have been 101.5, or 102 at most—
and with the shock from his injuries, this dog’s body temp should have dropped. The number on the readout climbed to 106˚F.
He drew a routine blood sample, then checked diligently for any other signs of sickness or disease, some cause for the fever that rose like a furnace from its body. What he found, though, surprised him even more.
The black Lab’s massive injuries almost seemed to be healing rapidly, the wounds shrinking. He lifted one of the bandages he had pressed against a gash on the dog’s rib cage, but though the gauze was soaked with blood, he saw no sign of the wound. Only matted fur. The veterinarian knew it must be his imagination, mere wishful thinking that somehow he might be able to save the dog.
But that would never happen. Hughart knew it in his mind, though his heart continued to hope.
The dog’s body trembled, quietly whimpering.
With his calloused thumb, Hughart lifted one of its squeezed-shut eyelids and saw a milky covering across its rolled-up eye, like a partially boiled egg. The dog was deep in a coma. Gone. It barely breathed.
The temperature reached 107˚F. Even without the injuries, this fever was deadly.
A ribbon of blood trickled out of the wet black nostrils. Seeing that tiny injury, a little flaw of red blood across the black fur of the delicate muzzle, made Hughart decide not to put the dog through any more of this. Enough was enough.
He stared down at his canine patient for some time before he shuffled over to his medicine cabinet, unlocked the doors, and removed a large syringe and a bottle of Euthanol, concentrated sodium pentabarbitol. The dog weighed about sixty to eighty pounds, and the suggested dose was about 1 cc for each ten antibodies
51
pounds, plus a little extra. He drew 10 ccs, which
His living quarters were upstairs, and he had left the television on, the single set of dinner dishes unwashed—but he spent more time down here in the antibodies
49
office, surgery, and lab anyway. This part was home for him—the other rooms upstairs were just the place where he slept and ate.
After all these years, Hughart kept his veterinary practice more as a matter of habit than out of any great hope of making it a huge success. He had scraped by over the years. The locals came to him regularly, though many of them expected free treatment as a favor to a friend or neighbor. Occasionally, tourists had accidents with their pets. Hughart had seen many cases like this black Lab: some guilt-ridden sightseer delivering the carcass or the still-living but grievously injured animal, expecting Hughart to work miracles.
Sometimes the families stayed. Most of the time—as in this instance—they fled to continue their interrupted vacations.
The black Lab lay shivering, sniffing, whimpering.
Blood smeared the steel table. At first, Hughart had done what he could to patch the injuries, stop the bleeding, bandage the worst gashes—but he didn’t need a set of X-rays to tell that the dog had a shattered pelvis and a crushed spine, as well as major internal damage.
The black Lab wasn’t tagged, was without any papers. It could never recover from these wounds, and even if it pulled through by some miracle, Hughart would have no choice but to relinquish it to the animal shelter, where it would sit in a cage for a few days and hope pathetically for freedom before the shelter destroyed it anyway.
Wasted. All wasted. Hughart drew a deep breath and sighed.
The dog shivered under his hands, but its body temperature burned higher than he had ever felt in an animal before. He inserted a thermometer, genuinely curious, then watched in astonishment as the digital readout climbed from 103 to 104. Normally a dog’s 50
T H E X - F I L E S
temperature should have been 101.5, or 102 at most—
and with the shock from his injuries, this dog’s body temp should have dropped. The number on the readout climbed to 106˚F.
He drew a routine blood sample, then checked diligently for any other signs of sickness or disease, some cause for the fever that rose like a furnace from its body. What he found, though, surprised him even more.
The black Lab’s massive injuries almost seemed to be healing rapidly, the wounds shrinking. He lifted one of the bandages he had pressed against a gash on the dog’s rib cage, but though the gauze was soaked with blood, he saw no sign of the wound. Only matted fur. The veterinarian knew it must be his imagination, mere wishful thinking that somehow he might be able to save the dog.
But that would never happen. Hughart knew it in his mind, though his heart continued to hope.
The dog’s body trembled, quietly whimpering.
With his calloused thumb, Hughart lifted one of its squeezed-shut eyelids and saw a milky covering across its rolled-up eye, like a partially boiled egg. The dog was deep in a coma. Gone. It barely breathed.
The temperature reached 107˚F. Even without the injuries, this fever was deadly.
A ribbon of blood trickled out of the wet black nostrils. Seeing that tiny injury, a little flaw of red blood across the black fur of the delicate muzzle, made Hughart decide not to put the dog through any more of this. Enough was enough.
He stared down at his canine patient for some time before he shuffled over to his medicine cabinet, unlocked the doors, and removed a large syringe and a bottle of Euthanol, concentrated sodium pentabarbitol. The dog weighed about sixty to eighty pounds, and the suggested dose was about 1 cc for each ten antibodies
51
pounds, plus a little extra. He drew 10 ccs, which
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