Chapter 8: First House Call Peril
3378 Words
*CRASH!*
Zhang Chi’s boot slammed into the dilapidated wooden medicine cabinet in the clinic corner, sending splintered wood flying. The door swung precariously, threatening to detach.
A pungent wave of camphor and expired powders assaulted his nostrils, forcing a grimace.
Medical kit?
Only a dust-choked canvas bag lay askew at the cabinet’s base, its zipper rusted shut.
Zhang Chi seized it, wrenching the corroded teeth apart with a metallic shriek. Inside: chaos. Indistinct pills congealed into sticky clumps. An unlabeled syringe, needle oxidized. A tube of cracked, yellowed ointment. A desiccated stethoscope, tubing cracked, chest-piece blackened with corrosion. A grimy gauze roll and an empty needle case.
This?!
A house call kit? Refuse scavenged from a dumpster held more promise!
Damn!
Li Pockface! Ruthless! A deliberate death sentence!
Fury ignited in Zhang Chi’s eyes. He slammed the kit shut, pills rattling like dry bones.
Go?
Refuse?
Li Pockface and Director Qin would seize the chance—accuse him of insubordination, dereliction. Brand him a cowardly fraud unfit for medicine. Ruin him before he could stand.
Go?
The path ahead was a gauntlet. Treacherous mud-slicked trails. A useless kit. The patient? A local policeman’s father! Death en route or treatment failure…
“Damn it!” Zhang Chi hissed, his gaze hardening into flint. The pent-up ferocity suppressed since his divorce surged like magma.
Want me dead?
I’ll gnaw your bones to dust first!
From a waterproof pouch deep in his pack, he retrieved his lifelines:
A stainless-steel hemostat, polished to a mirror sheen over five years of ER battles.
A tightly sealed, emergency salbutamol inhaler (his own occasional recourse).
Old comrades. Final safeguards.
He tucked the inhaler into an inner pocket. Secured the hemostat behind his belt.
Grabbed the derelict kit.
Shouldered his pack holding meager belongings and the divorce decree’s framed proof.
Strode from the clinic.
The lobby stood desolate. Li Pockface and Chen Hunchback vanished. The registration window bolted shut.
No escort. No aid. Not even a torch.
The clinic loomed like a lightless tomb.
Zhang Chi plunged into the lashing rain. Torrents heavier than daylight hammered down.
Li Pockface’s crude map, wrapped in plastic, nestled in his pocket.
Beyond the clinic’s squalid perimeter lay untamed wilderness—no path, only a rain-eroded mud trace skirting the cliff edge.
Deluge!
Monsoon fury!
Blinding sheets of water. Boots sank into knee-deep, sucking mire. Each step a battle against gravity’s drag.
Night!
Absolute. Sightless. Only rain-refracted gloom.
Distant peaks hunched like colossal, silent specters.
Zhang Chi drove himself forward on sheer, feral will.
Fell. Rose. Fell. Rose.
No torch. Only darkness.
Knee cracked against jutting rock—shattering pain! Possible fracture! Silent.
Thorned vines tore his arms—stinging gashes! Blood mingled with rain.
He clenched his teeth, grit grinding with mud. One thought: Not here. Not for Li Pockface’s amusement. Not before Zhou Yating.
Mountain winds keened—ghostly laments through dense woods.
Unseen beasts howled—eerie echoes chilling the soul.
Ahead—
A massive landslide scar—yesterday’s deluge devouring the trail.
A near-vertical mud slope remained—a raw, treacherous wound. Li Pockface’s map demanded its conquest.
Damn!
How?!
Zhang Chi stared at the unstable, mud-and-rock precipice, heart sinking. Detour? Unknown paths. Wasted time.
Climb!
Death or conquest. No alternative.
He lashed the kit to his pack. Tightened straps.
Lurched to the slope’s base. Inhaled—cold rain and mud-choked air searing his lungs.
He began the ascent.
Hands and feet scrabbled. Fingers clawed into icy, slick sludge.
Seeking rock edges. Root holds. Clinging like a gecko.
Mud cascaded, battering him. Near misses from falling rocks.
Loose stones shifted. His foot slipped—body plummeted!
“Agh!” Zhang Chi roared, fingers gouging a protruding rock! Nails split! Blood and mud streamed.
Half-suspended! One hand anchoring!
Icy sludge filled his collar, boots.
Below—void. Bottomless. A fatal plunge.
Death’s breath grazed his face.
Hate!
Zhou Yating! Wang Pengfei! Director Qin! Li Pockface!
All who forced him here! Names and faces seared his mind!
“f**k YOU ALL!!!” A raw, throat-tearing scream tore through the storm!
His free hand seized a thorned thicket—yanking with berserk strength!
Barbs impaled his palm—piercing bone! Blood gushed!
He ignored it!
Leveraging that mad surge, he hauled his failing body upward!
Rolled, crawled over the lethal crest!
Collapsed atop the mud slope, gasping—lungs ragged bellows! Whole body convulsing!
Ten fingers screamed—pierced by thorns! Agony!
No respite!
Old Man Cao waited! Every second lethal!
Zhang Chi forced himself up!
Wiped mud and blood from his face.
Dim light (rain easing?) revealed Li Pockface’s crude arrow on the map—pointing mid-slope!
Charge!
Another brutal climb.
Finally—
At the ancient forest’s edge—a pinprick of swaying light!
A crude log cabin silhouette!
Arrived?!
Relief flickered—then—
*THUD!*
His foot plunged into a leaf-hidden crevice!
Balance lost—body pitched forward!
Simultaneously—
*HISSSSS—!!!* A hair-raising shriek!
A wrist-thick shadow, scales glinting like oil-slicked obsidian in the gloom, erupted from the fissure! Fangs bared—striking at Zhang Chi’s throat!
Viper!!!
Deadly Deinagkistrodon acutus?! Alarm bells detonated in his mind!
No dodging! Body falling! Viper too fast!
Instinct!
Milliseconds!
His right hand flashed to his belt—snatched the gleaming steel hemostat!
No visual aim!
Five years of ER-honed muscle memory—angle! Force!
*SNAP!!!*
Darkness! A cold, precise metallic click!
*SPLAT!*
Fetid, hot snake blood sprayed Zhang Chi’s face!
The viper’s spine, below the head—crushed in the hemostat’s jaws! Suspended mid-strike! Fangs inches from his neck! Body thrashing!
Near death!
Cold sweat drenched him!
Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! Heart hammered against ribs! He flung the dead serpent aside—hand numb from impact!
No time for shock!
He wrenched his foot from the crevice—ankle shrieked! Sprained!
Damn!
Zhang Chi limped, dragging the injured foot, stumbling towards the cabin!
“OPEN UP!! CLINIC DOCTOR!!!” He battered the door, voice shredded!
Creak—
The plank door cracked open. A wrinkled, fear-frozen peasant peered out, recoiling at the mud-blood specter: “Wh… who?!”
“Clinic! Doctor Zhang! For Old Man Cao!” Zhang Chi rasped, breathless!
“Quick! Quick inside! Doctor! Save my husband! He’s dying!” A coarse-clothed, white-haired woman shoved the old man aside, wailing!
Inside—
A dim oil lamp.
Earthen kang bed.
A skeletal old man—face grotesque cyanotic purple! Like suffocating in plastic! Mouth gaping, desperate gasps! Horrific “huh… huh…” rasping! Drenched in cold sweat! Body convulsing in agony! Near asphyxiation!
Acute severe asthma attack! Death’s threshold!
A snot-nosed, terrified boy—seven or eight—cowered nearby. Grandson.
The woman knelt by the bed, hysterical: “Medicine… ran out yesterday… clinic sent none… nowhere to buy… Doctor… please… do something…”
The kit?!
Zhang Chi’s gaze snapped to his derelict bag, then the dying man. Heart plummeted.
No bronchodilator! Salbutamol?!
Damn! The kit held only that rusted syringe—contents unknown! Useless!
His own emergency inhaler?! For the patient?!
Dose insufficient!
He was a doctor, not a god!
Acute severe asthma! One inhaler—limited effect! Needed coordinated inhalation—impossible for Old Cao, beyond voluntary breath!
He needed IV bronchodilators! Steroids! Oxygen!
Here? Nothing!
What now?!
Desperate measures!
Zhang Chi yanked out his precious salbutamol inhaler!
“Hold him up! Straight as possible!” he commanded the woman, voice brooking no argument!
He tore the seal! Aimed at Old Cao’s gaping mouth!
“Press here! Inhale! Deeply!!” He yelled, pumping the nozzle!
Pfft! Pfft!
Mist sprayed into the mouth!
But Old Cao was beyond response—unconscious, throat spasming! Unable to inhale!
“Huh… huh-huh…” The cyanosis remained! Rasping weakened! Convulsions lessened! Pupils dilated!
Deteriorating! Dying!
“Old man! Breathe! Breathe it in!” The woman shook him, despairing! The grandson wailed!
Failure!
Inhalation futile!
Cold sweat beaded Zhang Chi’s brow!
Damn it!
Airway access! Essential!
Conventional methods useless!
Primitive method!
Ruthless!
In a flash—
A perilous, potentially lethal plan crystallized—seen once during rural training. Unorthodox. Brutal. But it had worked.
No time!
Death or defiance!
“Find a sharp stone! Clean! NOW!!” Zhang Chi roared at the woman, discarding the inhaler!
He pried Old Cao’s jaws apart! Fingers probed—clearing potential mucus, spasms! Dry, tight! Tongue blocking!
“Th… this?!” The woman grabbed a fist-sized, sharp-edged river stone!
Zhang Chi snatched it! Wiped the sharp edge fiercely on his sleeve by the lamplight!
Then—
Under the woman’s horrified stare—
He forced Old Cao’s mouth wider!
The other hand—
Gripped the sharp stone—
Aimed at the cyanotic neck’s critical point—
Below the Adam’s apple!
The cricothyroid membrane!
Emergency airway access—a last resort before suffocation!
Zhang Chi’s eyes turned arctic. Focused. Gambling with death. Five years of ER precision overrode fear.
Right arm powered down!
The stone’s sharp edge—toward that lethal, life-giving slit—
Slammed!
Full force!
*THUNK!*
A sickening, wet crunch—dull blade piercing rotten fruit!
Blood!
Dark crimson! Gushed instantly!
Splattering Zhang Chi’s hands, face!
Warm! Metallic! Blinding!
“NO—!!!” The woman’s shriek rent the air—a soul witnessing evisceration! She collapsed, trembling violently! “Murder! Murder!!!”
The boy wet himself, wailing!
Zhang Chi ignored it. His eyes, like a hawk under surgical lights, locked on the point!
The stone’s edge wedged firmly in the membrane!
Success!
No sterile tube, but this brutal breach allowed air! Oxygen to starving lungs!
Instantly!
“HUUUH—!!!” Old Cao’s throat expelled a grotesque, violent inhalation—a drowned man hauled to surface!
The deep purple-black receded! Faded! Revealing pallid, struggling life! Oxygen!
Life-giving air! Forcibly delivered!
Old Cao’s chest heaved! The death-rattle rasp transformed into labored, painful, but present breathing!
Effective!
Barely! A life gambled and won!
Zhang Chi’s heart slammed back into place! Cold sweat drenched him! Hands slick with blood and sweat!
But temporary! The crude opening could clog—muscle spasm, bleeding. Time short!
“Cloth! Clean! NOW! Staunch blood!” Zhang Chi barked at the prostrate woman!
“Wh—? Cloth… cloth…” She jolted from despair, seeing her husband breathing! Ghastly, but alive! She scrambled to a chest, frantic.
Zhang Chi ignored her. He grabbed his salbutamol inhaler! Salbutamol! Not ideal IV, but all he had!
Old Cao, semi-conscious, gasped greedily. Zhang Chi seized the chance! One hand pinned the neck-stone! (Remove it, the airway collapses! Blood geyser!) The other aimed the inhaler at the gaping mouth!
“Inhale! Deeply! Open wide! Suck it in!” Zhang Chi commanded!
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Triple dose! Mist inhaled by desperate instinct!
Zhang Chi’s eyes tracked the chest’s rise and fall! Felt the airflow through the breach!
Faster! Work! Hold!
Time crawled, then raced—leaden yet burning—amidst Old Cao’s agonized, hopeful gasps!
Outside—
Sudden chaos! Footsteps! Shouts! A swarm approaching!
“Here! Right here!”
“Hurry! Old Cao’s place! Trouble!”
“That scream! Blood-curdling!”
“Let me see!”
Li Pockface’s shrill, gleeful panic led the charge!
“Heavens! Too late! Move! Move! See the expert’s handiwork!” He shoved through villagers crowding the door!
Lamplight revealed Li Pockface’s pocked visage! Villagers in rain capes, storm lanterns behind him! Further back—Director Qin’s faux-stern, flustered bulk! Clinic idlers!
All eyes locked on the kang.
Old Cao, propped by his wife, a blood-crusted stone jutting from his neck! Blood oozing around it! His tunic soaked dark red! Face pallid but breathing—labored, rattling! Horrific!
Floor—
The wife sobbed uncontrollably!
Boy whimpered in a corner!
Zhang Chi—
Blood-masked! Eyes crusted! Hands crimson! Clutching the inhaler! A demon dredged from a blood pit!
“Merciful ancestors—!!!” A woman shrieked! “Murder! The new doctor stabbed Old Cao’s throat!!!”
“Blood! So much blood!”
“Old Cao’s dying!”
“Not a doctor! A death reaper!!!”
Panic exploded! Screams! Wails! Chaos!
Li Pockface’s eyes blazed with triumph! The kill shot!
“ZHANG CHI—!!!” He leapt inside, finger jabbing like a dagger! “Sent you to heal! This is your healing?! Huh?! Stabbing throats with stones?! Think us Beiling folk cattle?! Slaughter fodder?!”
He pointed at the grotesque stone, inciting the crowd: “See! All see! City expert! Butchering like livestock! This isn’t medicine! It’s murder!!” His voice, razor-sharp, venomous.
“Zhang Chi! Explain! Doctor or butcher?! ANSWER!!!” He advanced, spittle flying, branding him a killer.
“Director Qin! See this! This… catastrophe! Old Cao’s son—station sergeant! How to explain?!” He fanned flames towards Qin, voice dripping faux despair.
Director Qin, shadowed in the doorway, face thunderous. Blinded by the “crime scene” and Li’s venom, fear surged. Blame must fall! He glared at Zhang Chi—pure loathing, scapegoat hunger. He opened his mouth—
“SILENCE!”
Two words. Cold iron ingots smashing the din.
Zhang Chi.
He raised a blood-crusted arm. Wiped his eyes violently with his sleeve.
Vision cleared. Sharp. Cold. Quenched steel.
Locked onto Li Pockface.
The killing intent there froze Li’s tirade mid-breath. A predator’s gaze. His bluster faltered. He retreated half a step.
“You…!” Li stammered, feigning bravado.
“I said SILENCE, you imbecile!” Zhang Chi stepped forward, invading Li’s space, the aura of blood and near-death erupting! “One more word! Delay treatment! I’ll show you how a throat feels pierced!”
Brutal. Unvarnished threat.
The crowd hushed. Even the wife stopped crying. Stunned.
Zhang Chi ignored the cowering Li. Turned to a sturdy villager holding the brightest storm lantern near the door.
“You! Lantern! Higher! Closer! NOW!” Command. Absolute.
The man, cowed by Zhang Chi’s ferocity, obeyed instantly.
Light flooded Old Cao’s neck wound.
Zhang Chi kept one hand clamped on the neck-stone, stabilizing the fragile airway.
The other hand—darted to his belt—shing!
Gleaming! Razor-sharp! The stainless-steel hemostat flashed under lamplight—a surgeon’s scalpel in this hell.
“Hold his shoulders! Still!” Zhang Chi barked at the wife and lantern-bearer!
They lunged, pinning the gasping Old Cao!
Zhang Chi’s focus narrowed. Blocked out the gawking, hostile, gleeful crowd—Director Qin’s disgusted face included.
Now!
Life hung by seconds!
While the drugs worked and the crude airway held, he needed stabilization. Fast.
He scanned the hut.
Fire poker? Too thick.
Chopsticks? No.
Wood splinter? Rough.
Wire?! Rusted.
All infection risks.
His gaze locked onto the windowsill—
A discarded, hollow goose quill!
Yes!
He snatched it! Lightning-fast!
Held it to the lantern bearer’s light! Wiped grime with a last damp tissue! Passed it swiftly through the oil lamp’s flame—sterilization!
Fluid. Unhesitating.
Back to the kang.
Eyes hardened!
Left hand—immovable—pinned the neck-stone!
Right hand—hemostat gripping the hollow quill!
No pause.
Driven by final, desperate respect for life and lethal precision—
His right hand moved!
Blind trust in five years of ER-forged spatial sense!
Like a surgeon’s final incision—
The hemostat-driven quill—
Precise! Lightning!
Slid along the stone-braced, bleeding cricothyroid slit—
Thrust!
Deep!!!
“Ugh—!!!” Old Cao choked, body arching in agony!
“Old man!” The wife nearly fainted!
Villagers gasped! Stabbed again?! Demon doctor?!
Li Pockface, lurking, grinned savagely. Stab! Stab! Kill him!
Zhang Chi ignored it.
In!
The quill’s hollow core! An instant, stable!
Temporary tracheal airway!!!
Blood flow lessened drastically!
Zhang Chi’s left hand carefully extracted the blood-slicked stone!
Right hand—hemostat clamped the quill’s base—anchored it!
The fatal neck wound ceased gushing! Only minor seepage around the quill!
Old Cao—
The brutal stone channel replaced by the smoother quill! Air flowed easier to his starved lungs!
“Huh—huh—huh—huh—”
Labored! But stronger! Chest rising visibly smoother!
The dreadful cyanosis faded faster! Leaving sickly pallor!
Alive!
Truly snatched from the abyss!
“Blood! Stopped?!” The wife stared at her husband’s steadier breathing, the quill protruding horrifically yet working, no longer bleeding heavily. Disbelief! “Heavens! Old man! You… you breathe! Breathe!” She clutched his cold hand, weeping with joy.
Silence. Profound.
Shock.
Suspicion.
Schadenfreude.
All extinguished by Old Cao’s audible, stable breaths.
Villagers who’d cried “murder” gaped, bewildered, at the life-saving quill, the improved pallor… Faces burned. Stunned. Disoriented.
Li Pockface’s triumph curdled into stunned disbelief.
Stone… stab… alive?!
That goose feather? A windpipe?!
What sorcery?!
Director Qin, shadowed, face mottled. He wanted to rage, blame, deflect. But the evidence—Old Cao improving—strangled his words. Silent humiliation burned.
“Medicine!” Zhang Chi’s voice, hoarse from strain, held steely calm. He looked at the wife. “Hot water! Clean cloth!”
“Yes! Yes! Right away!” She scrambled up, obeying like scripture.
Zhang Chi faced the door. His gaze swept stunned, ashamed faces. Settled on Li Pockface’s twisted mask.
His voice, low, cleaved the silence like a blade:
“Wanted him dead?!”
He pointed at the gasping, frail survivor. His finger, a bloodied dagger, aimed at Li’s heart. Each word glacial, lacerating:
“Kit you gave! Garbage meds! Expired needles!”
“Path you chose! Death route! Landslide!”
“Acute severe asthma! No meds! No oxygen! Surviving the trek was luck!”
“No this method? Tell me, Li Pockface! Let him suffocate here?! On your head?! Or your director—busy unbuttoning nurses?!”
*BOOM!*
The words detonated!
Li Pockface blanched corpse-white!
Director Qin near-leapt! “Slander!!” Face purple! Villagers’ dawning comprehension—scornful stares—made him shrivel! He blustered weakly!
Villagers’ eyes turned on Li and Qin—fury! Contempt! So this was it?!
“Worthless!” Zhang Chi spat. His look for Li and Qin: fermenting trash. “Fit only for scheming! Backstabbing! Less than village quacks!”
“Doctor Zhang!” The lantern-bearer bellowed, conviction blazing! He dropped to his knees in the mud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Three kowtows! “Liu Tiezhu! I thank you! Lifesaver for Uncle Cao!!!”
His act ignited others.
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
Villagers, awed by true healing, knelt!
“Doctor Zhang! Miracle worker!”
“Our savior!”
“Blind fools! Believed liars! Wronged you!”
“Who dares slander you now—we tear out their tongues!!!” Roars of gratitude echoed—medicine’s highest tribute! Loudest rebuke!
Li Pockface! Director Qin! Stood beside the kneeling crowd—outsiders.
Faces grimmer than death.
Stripped bare.
Exposed.
Li Pockface trembled, lips quivering soundlessly.
Director Qin quivered—rage, terror. Zhang Chi’s “unbuttoning nurses” remark branded his soul. He craved escape.
The wife brought hot water.
Zhang Chi ignored the kneeling figures, Li, Qin.
He meticulously cleansed blood from his hands.
Used damp, cleaner cloth strips to gently tend the quill site—minimal ooze now.
Secured it.
Professional. Precise.
Finished.
He addressed Liu Tiezhu.
“Sugar water.” Voice raspy, exhausted, calm. “Dehydrated. Needs energy.”
“Yes! Brown sugar! Brewing now!” Liu scrambled up, vanished kitchenward.
Done.
Zhang Chi’s frayed nerves—
Snapped.
Cold sweat drenched his chilled clothes.
Dizziness—delayed, violent—swamped him. Vision darkened. Stomach churned.
He swayed but held.
Bent.
Retrieved the hemostat—smeared with snake blood and gore.
Unwiped.
Slid it back behind his belt.
Lifted the derelict kit.
Shouldered his pack.
Ignored all eyes.
Staggered.
Limping.
Towards the cabin door.
He needed air.
Or simply—escape from this mire of blood and unveiled malice.
*SQUELCH!*
Boots sank into icy mud beyond the threshold.
Rain soaked his half-dried hair.
He stopped.
Looked up.
Rain-lashed void—impenetrable despair.
Yet deep in the valley’s heart—
A single, frail light.
Flickered.
Flickered.
Flickered.
Dim.
Yet piercing.
“Hah…”
A low, bone-weary, yet emancipated sound escaped Zhang Chi’s throat.
Lost in the cold, dark rain.
- Writer
