The men waiting outside in the narrow hall all jumped, and the oldest of them gripped the youngest man’s shoulder, holding him up just as much as imparting comfort. There was no power, their battle fought earlier having knocked everything down but what the generator was running in the make-shift operating room. They were too tired to pace, too drained emotionally and mentally to do more than flinch every time the precious life in the next room cried out in pain. “Please, let them live,” whispered the youngest, eyes drawn tight, sweat dripping down his face to blend with his tears of frustration and fear. The silver at his temples belied his age, and the lines long his eyes were deepened by grief. “Please, by the grace of the Saints and the Blood of Our Line, let them live….” A wail, thin and hopeless. The second man swore viciously and spun, punching the wall, the sound of something breaking filling the empty quiet that fell just as suddenly. The oldest barely reacted, swallowing, the youngest grew taut as cable, and vibrated in horrific tension.
