HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy

1 HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy

HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN: birth of a superhero by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin and Andrew McCoy. 60,000 words in 76 chapters.

Copyright © 2012 André Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy. The authors have asserted their moral right. Published by CoolMain Press 2012 www.coolmainpress.com. Editor: Lisa Penington. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or performed by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

CHAPTER 1

Time and again the history of the west proves that women can endure hardship better than men. — Michael Davie

The operating table and what was visible of the small body on it were intensely lit but immediately beyond the central glare the surgeons and nurses were in shadow and in the viewing gallery it was pitch dark. One half of the polished glass infuriatingly reflected Henty’s face. The other half she could see through. Not that she wanted to look at the unspeakable things they were doing to Petey but she forced herself. If he could bear up bravely to the prospect of yet another operation, the least she could do was to look.

The chief surgeon threw a piece of Petey’s flesh in the bin — like a butcher trimming fat from steak, thought Henty — and said something to his assistant before heading for the sterilock, his arms already coming out of his smock.

Henty stayed in the observation gallery only long enough to be certain they were putting Petey together again, that they hadn’t lost him under the anesthetic. Henty had seen enough of hospitals to know that the calm tenor of the operating theatre would not be rippled because they lost one nine-year-old. They probably lost twenty or thirty people in that theatre every week. It was in the “Permanent” wing of the hospital. Henty grimaced for the twentieth time at the gravedigger’s humor, or insensitivity that had promoted the choice of so inappropriate a euphemism for “incurable”. Henty saw the second surgeon tell the anesthetist to take Petey down. She left the gallery quickly.

The chief surgeon was in the shower when she got to the locker-room next to scrubbing-up. His golf clubs stood in the corner. He came out of the shower. Henty politely turned her back to him. “Well?” he said.

“You’re the doctor.” She could almost feel him shrug irritably. He didn’t say anything. “Dammit, he’s only nine!”

“Yeah.”

“It didn’t work?”

“It worked all right. But there are new complications.”

Henty sighed. Always new complications. “You mean another operation?”

“No. Henty, can’t you give up?” The surgeon came and massaged her shoulders.

“No. He’s all I got.”

“Uh-huh. He’s got a year.

Henty sagged and he held her by her shoulders for a moment, then turned to his golf clubs. Henty held on to the wash basin, then, seeing a shoe stand, sat down on it. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

The surgeon looked at his feet. “Bastards will steal your clubs right out of your car in the basement.” He hefted the bag over his shoulder. “Strangers I lie to, it’s easier. Friends I tell the truth, get it over with. There’s nothing more we can do for him except to give him a quick way out.”

“No!o!o!o!o!” Without knowing it, Henty was shaking him by the lapels of his jacket.

Gently he disengaged her hands. “Don’t be in such a hurry to decide. It’s his pain, not yours.” Henty reached out a hand to touch him as he turned away again, then jerked her hand back. “Please, isn’t there anything you can do?”