Chapter 25: The Canal - Part 2
The soldier clinic smelled like infection and desperation. I'd been working for six hours straight when the necklace caught my eye.
Human ears. Dried, strung on fishing line, worn around a man's neck like trophy jewelry. He sat on a cot, shirt off, laughing with another soldier about something. When he saw me staring, he grinned.
"Souvenirs. Each one's got a story."
"I'm sure," I said flatly. "What are you in for?"
"Machete wound. Shoulder. Got it clearing one of the villages upstream."
"Clearing?"
"Refugees. They were using our water supply, spreading disease. Commander Vargas ordered removal." He touched one of the ears. "This one tried to fight back. Little girl, maybe twelve. Fast little bitch."
[ TIMER: 58:33:17 ]
I kept my expression neutral while my stomach turned. "Let me see the wound."
The cut was infected but not critical. Someone had stitched it poorly—probably himself or another soldier. I cleaned it, applied fresh bandages, administered antibiotics.
"You're good at this," he said. "Where'd you learn?"
"Medical school."
"Fancy. You kill anyone yet?"
"Define 'kill.'"
He laughed. "I like you, doc. You got that look. Like you've seen some shit."
"Everyone's seen shit lately."
"Yeah, but you've done shit. I can tell. The eyes, man. They change." He leaned closer. "You ever take trophies? Something to remember who you put down?"
"No."
"You should. Makes it feel less..." He searched for the word. "Empty. You know?"
I finished bandaging him. "You're done. Keep it clean, change the dressing daily. If it starts smelling worse, come back."
"Thanks, doc."
He left, ears swaying with each step. I watched him go, memorizing his face.
Patricia appeared beside me. "That's Martinez. He's the worst of them. Vargas keeps him around because he's effective."
"Effective at what?"
"Whatever needs doing that no one else will touch." She lowered her voice. "There are rumors. About the villages they 'cleared.' About what happened to the women before they were killed."
"You have proof?"
"Records. In the supply room. Vargas isn't careful—he thinks no one will challenge him out here." She handed me a key. "Third door on the left. Be quick."
I found the supply room during my "break." Inside, filing cabinets full of requisition forms, supply manifests, and personnel records. And buried among them, handwritten logs.
Village Clearance Operations - September 8th
San Pedro - 47 civilians removed. 12 male (labor), 23 female (processing), 12 children (released downstream).
Personnel: Martinez (lead), Gutierrez, Chen, Davidson.
The next entry was worse. And the one after that. Page after page of systematic brutality wrapped in military terminology.
"Processing" meant rape and execution. "Released downstream" meant thrown in the river. "Labor" meant worked to death in the compound.
Martinez's name appeared on every operation. Primary or secondary, he was always there.
I photographed the pages with Strand's camera—evidence, maybe, if civilization ever returned enough to care about justice. Then I put everything back exactly as I'd found it.
[ TIMER: 54:18:42 ]
Less than three days. And I'd just found the perfect target.
That night, I volunteered for evening rounds. Patricia tried to come with me; I told her to rest. She'd been working eighteen-hour days and needed sleep more than I needed supervision.
The compound was quieter after dark. Soldiers on duty patrolled the perimeter. The rest gathered in the mess hall or their barracks, drinking, playing cards, pretending the world hadn't ended.
Martinez was in the barracks, alone, drunk. A bottle of something clear sat beside him. He'd arranged a corpse—one of the bite victims who'd died that morning—propped in a chair across from him like a card player.
"Doc!" He waved me over, words slurred. "Come play. Dead guy's cheating."
"I need to do blood work. Checking for infections."
"Now? It's like midnight."
"Better to catch problems early." I pulled out a syringe, alcohol wipes. "Won't take long."
He extended his arm, still grinning. "You're dedicated, doc. I respect that."
I swabbed his arm, found the vein. "Everyone has their job."
"Yeah. Mine's killing people who need killing. Yours is putting them back together." He watched me draw blood. "We're not so different, you and me."
"We're nothing alike."
"Sure we are. You see people as problems to solve. So do I. Just different solutions."
I withdrew the needle, capped the vial. Then I pulled out a scalpel from my medical kit.
"What's that for?"
"Need a tissue sample. Standard procedure."
"Bullshit. You didn't do that for anyone else."
"You're special." I made a small cut on his forearm before he could react. He jerked back, cursing.
"What the fuck, doc!"
"Relax. Just a scraping." I pressed my own cut palm—opened earlier with the same scalpel—against his wound. Blood to blood. "For the culture."
[ INFECTION INITIATED ]
[ TIMER RESET: 72:00:00 ]
The relief washed over me like cool water. The pressure released. The headache vanished. I could breathe again.
Martinez was staring at his arm. "Did you just... did you put your blood on me?"
"Cross-contamination. Testing for compatibility. Medical procedure."
"That doesn't sound right."
"You're drunk. Get some sleep." I bandaged both our arms quickly. "Keep that clean. Come see me if it gets infected."
He squinted at me suspiciously but didn't pursue it. The alcohol was doing its work. By the time I left, he was passing out in his chair, the corpse still watching him with dead eyes.
I walked back to the medical bay, disposed of the syringe, washed my hands three times. Patricia was still asleep in the corner office. I didn't wake her.
[ TIMER: 71:47:22 ]
Three days. In six to eight hours, Martinez would start feeling sick. Fever, chills, confusion. By tomorrow night, he'd be dead. By the night after, he'd reanimate and start biting.
The compound would have bigger problems than refugees then.
I found Daniel waiting outside the medical bay, leaning against the wall in the shadows.
"You were gone a long time."
"Thorough examination. Some patients need more attention than others."
"Martinez. The one with the ears."
"He had an infected wound."
"And now?"
"Now it's treated."
Daniel studied me in the dim light. "In El Salvador, we had men like him. Men who did terrible things and wore them like medals. Sometimes, those men had accidents. Fell down stairs. Drowned in shallow water. Ate bad food."
"Accidents happen."
"Yes. They do." He pushed off the wall. "I'm not judging. I'm observing. You handle problems quietly. That's valuable."
"I'm a doctor. I handle medical problems."
"You're many things. Doctor is just one of them." He walked away, leaving me with that assessment.
I spent the rest of the night preparing for our departure. Vargas had agreed to let us through the Canal at dawn in exchange for my medical services. The deal was done, payment rendered.
Martinez wouldn't die until after we left. Wouldn't turn for two days. By then, we'd be hundreds of miles away, sailing toward the US East Coast while his infection spread through the compound.
Dexter logic. He earned it. All those villages, all those people. He earned what's coming.
But knowing something and feeling it were different. I kept seeing the twelve-year-old girl's ear on his necklace, kept imagining her final moments.
He deserved worse than this. But this is all I can give.
Patricia found me at dawn, packing medical supplies. "We're leaving?"
"Transit approved. Vargas is opening the locks."
"Can I... I'd like to come with you. If there's space."
I looked at her—young, competent, exhausted from keeping monsters alive. "We have space. Pack light. Five minutes."
She disappeared and returned with a single duffel bag. Everything she owned that mattered fit in one bag.
The Abigail was waiting at the dock, engines idling. Madison saw Patricia and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head slightly—explain later.
Vargas appeared with an armed escort. "Leaving so soon, doctor?"
"Work's done. You have twelve healthy soldiers instead of twelve dead ones. We're even."
"I was hoping you'd reconsider. Stay, work for Canal Authority permanently."
"Not interested."
"Shame. You're good at this." He gestured to his men. "Escort them through. Full transit, no stops."
We boarded the Abigail. Strand started the engines without ceremony. The Canal locks opened with mechanical precision—massive gates sliding aside, water levels equalizing, the engineering marvel still functioning despite civilization's collapse.
As we motored through, I stood at the stern watching the compound shrink behind us. Martinez would be waking up now, hangover mixing with the first symptoms of infection. He'd dismiss it as flu, maybe, or food poisoning.
By tonight, he'd know better. By tomorrow, he'd be gone.
Daniel joined me at the railing. "You look satisfied."
"We made it through. That's worth satisfaction."
"Is that all?" He pulled out Griselda's rosary, let it dangle. "I told you about El Salvador. About the things I did. But I never told you why."
"Why?"
"Because men like Martinez existed there too. Men who hurt the innocent and called it duty. Men who wore their cruelty like armor." He looked at me. "Sometimes, the only way to stop such men is to become something worse. To do what must be done, even if it costs your soul."
"And did it? Cost your soul?"
"Every day. But my family lived. That was the trade." He turned to face me fully. "You made a trade last night. I don't know the details, don't need to. But I recognize the look of a man who's done something necessary and terrible."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He smiled slightly. "Then I'm wrong. But if I'm right, remember this: the cost compounds. Every necessary evil makes the next one easier. Eventually, you can't remember why you started."
He left me with that warning.
The Abigail cleared the Canal by noon. We sailed into the Caribbean—blue water, warm sun, paradise built on a graveyard. The Pacific was behind us. The Atlantic waited ahead.
And somewhere in the compound, Martinez was getting sicker.
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