Dr. Miller brought the measuring tape around his patient one more time, and then checked the scale one more time, sadly, “You’ve lost roughly ten stone since your last visit. You should have come back sooner…or gone to a real doctor.” He felt at Cortman’s head, glad that he had at least gotten the fever down.
Miller was a biologist who had once employed Cortman and his crew during the Kraken migration. He had needed to find someone who wouldn’t mind joining the migration in the wild and flying among the beasts for an entire week or longer if they could. Cortman had been the only captain he had approached who would accept his mad scheme.
The outing had ended in ruin, and with his men’s livelihood gone Cortman had gotten a contract to work at the asylum for his men in the interim.
The captain coughed into a bloody rag, “I saw Doc Emerson about it about a week ago.”
“Emerson is not a doctor,” Miller assured him, angrily, “The man is a snake-oil salesman. What kind of examination did he give you?”
“He asked a few questions, or his nurse did really, a girl in blue with black hair.”
Dr. Miller pointed at the festering wound across Cortman’s face, “Did either of them offer you anything for your infection?”
“No,” Cortman admitted, before coughing again.
“As I said, Emerson is not a doctor. He is a charlatan.” Miller said, “I can treat your infection…but this is only going to delay the inevitable. You have to get to a dryer climate if you want any hope…or at least talk to a real doctor about this!”
“My affairs are in order,” Cortman shrugged as he reached for his coat, ignoring his fatigue and going for the precious cigar he had gotten from Victor.
Just as he was lighting the Sagrada Lucias his first mate came inside to tell him that their cook had disappeared. The captain frowned…that was the third man that had gone missing since he quit…