[ 7 :: Compassion Fatigue ]


Stepping out of the mess tent, not long after the doctor had taken his leave, a quick, non-committal excuse given for her departure, Cassandra felt, if only for a moment, like she'd stepped into another world. The comfort of lively voices, the warmth of the surroundings, and the strained camaraderie gave way to the cold void of the Mojave wastes, lit silver-blue by a full moon. The camp was desolate, the soldiers that walked the perimeter providing the only sign of activity, silhouettes against a tranquil backdrop, still and silent but for the constant breeze that combed over the desert terrain.

Taking a moment to reconcile the profound disparity between the environment she'd left, and the one she'd ventured into, she found herself struck by how reminiscent the panorama surrounding her was of placid, snow-covered valleys she'd seen in photos, the cold allowing for the illusion to take root. Like the conversation that came before, it provided a peculiar sense of comfort, as if the land itself was acknowledging that something was terribly wrong, altered itself to match what had come to pass. In any other case, she would have dismissed the thought as embarrassingly whimsical- but as she saw two medics hauling Jackson out of the infirmary he'd occupied, still resting in his gurney, she allowed herself to hold on to it.

As they passed her by, moving towards the foot of the hillside, she could see that his eyes were still open, rheumy, a look of uncomprehending, animal anxiety plain beneath his bandages. Blood spattered the yellowed gauze around his lips, thick chunks of tissue mixing with vomit to ooze sluggishly from a mouth left gaping; left her to wonder if he'd choked to death. The sheets around his pelvis were bloodied, a single, large stain turned black under the pale silver light, the red hues only visible beneath the oil lanterns that lined the vacant pathways between tents.

She followed the progress of the medics as they took the ranger's body to the hillside, dimly acknowledging that what they were doing had become its own peculiar ritual. Recalled hearing from someone- Julie, Knight, it didn't seem to matter anymore, who the source was- that it had become a common practice, setting the bodies aside for those few that were willing to dig the graves to tend to in the morning, before the temperature rose and ripened the foul scents exuded by the contaminated corpses. That thought alone broke the illusion, reminded her that just over the mountain pass lay a graveyard too vast to comprehend.

A place where, for the near-dead, even the most dispassionate hand would have at least been a welcome distraction from the massive crater, and the many scattered bodies, that served as their only companions.

Pulled out of her contemplations by the insistent winds that raked through the tent city, Cassandra turned to look down the pathway to the tent she'd intended to go to; caught sight of the medics that had tended to Jackson rushing back to the larger infirmary; watched them bypass the small shelter they had only just extracted his body from. Their dismissal, the fact that they didn't appear a second time to approach the tent, gave her reason to start moving towards it herself, though she was given pause upon reaching the opened entrance, the reason for the medics' inattention as clear as the fetid air wafting from the small enclosure.

Julie, it seemed, had been summoned to see to Ghost personally, giving reason for the retrieval of Doctor Richards, her departure necessitating additional assistance for whatever new tragedy was taking place in the infirmary.

Faced with a slew of rationales for turning and leaving- that she'd get in the doctor's way if she stuck around, that Ghost's insistence that she leave earlier meant she wouldn't be welcome, among others- she found that none of them held up to the real reasons behind her reluctance.

In this case, she acknowledged inwardly, the sole reason lay in her unwillingness to allow a relative stranger to see through an airtight facade, an impulse she would have followed in any other instance.

This time, she didn't; in a place where the scent of raw sewage and tissues gone to putrescence lingered around them, pride no longer seemed that important.

[...]

Like many others around the tent city, Julie had found herself unable to rest comfortably, the temperature making it difficult to remain asleep for any longer than a few minutes at a time. More than once, she'd gotten out of the cot she slept in to jot down a note about acquiring more blankets from nearby towns, working her way through the roster of Followers present to see who she could give the job to. At those times she wasn't reviewing the schedules of the doctors and caretakers present, however, she was listening to the holotape player Knight had given her, to review recordings he'd only catalogued in his reports, ones that lacked any decent summary.

She had found herself strangely resistant to it, even after accepting the job in the first place. As much as she fancied herself as being more than capable of handling the worst the wasteland could throw at her, what she heard was completely removed from atrocities that seemed almost mundane by comparison. Humanity could tear itself to pieces, violate one another in ways that were getting more creative by the day- but something about this seemed different, something she felt on a level so visceral it surprised her.

Maybe it was the magnitude of what had happened. Maybe it was the grisly nature of the stories the survivors told, singularly uniform, even in their variations, littered with descriptions of blackened corpses whose eyes shone like polished glass; of a young man's attempt to help his wife raise to her feet, only to pull the skin of her blistered arms away completely; of a charitable offering of water to a man desperately dehydrated ending in his death when he'd indulged himself too quickly. Maybe it was the stories some of the people she and her subordinates tended told her, about small groups of men and women wandering in stunned silence, wordless, aimless, moving like stunned cattle, nonfunctional but for their desire to keep walking.

That recollection alone had come up so many times, seen by so many different people; called to mind a vivid set of images that all revolved around a witless funeral procession, robbed of meaning, or sentiment.

These were the stories of the great war, not of present time. But here again, the cycle was just repeating itself, the remnants of humanity's most egregious errors poisoning those that might have otherwise lived.

To Julie, that was the worst part of it; knowing that it wasn't just the present the crisis that was laying the patients in the tent city to waste. It was the past, as well; a past they all saw reflected back at them whenever they entered the infirmary, or looked to the horizon to see another unearthly sunset. The stories, the environment, the rapid fatality rates... they were all calling to mind notions of futility, highlighting just how ineffectual she and her staff were, how unprepared they'd been for the disaster. Struck again with that fatalistic line of thought, she opted to join the doctors working the overnight shift in the infirmary, do something constructive with her time that didn't revolve around pondering the inevitable.

Word of Jackson's passing had come almost immediately upon her arrival, and for a moment, she couldn't help but feel as though some unseen force was attempting to solidify the thoughts she'd tried to set aside by lending her time to the patients that were still alive. That by going to the bedside of a woman she knew was condemned to die to make sure everything was alright, the situation had taken on a personality all its own, spitefully reminding her, and all the other relief workers present, of the fact that there would be no saviors here- only witnesses.

What hit her first upon entering the tent was the stench. Jackson had been left for long enough that he'd voided, the medics told her, the remaining epithelium of his intestines shed, necrotized by overabundant bacteria that had grown out of control as his immune system shut down, refusing to be brought to heel by the antibiotics they'd given him. It forced the medics to move not only him, but his gurney; forced her to keep both the entrance to the tent, and the small window across from it, open, allowing for a breeze to dissipate the stomach-turning odor.

"I'm sorry," had been the first thing she'd said to Ghost, the moment they were alone. "I should have checked on you two when I started my shift."

"Probably," Ghost said, displeasure audible in her tone, her voice halted, the pacing of her words noticeably stunted by discomfort. "But I guess- you've got better things to do, right?"

Julie didn't bristle at that, but she didn't know what to say, either, frowning slightly as she took the woman's pulse. "We've got a lot going on at the moment," she conceded after a moment's silence, jotting down to the information in the medical log, "but the apology still stands. Someone should have been here sooner."

Ghost snorted by way of response; didn't seem to feel like giving the administrator much ground on that one.

That alone had a peculiar effect- made the personality Julie had observed in the situation just moments before take on a new perspective, though her contemplations on that were interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, "Doctor?" spoken evenly, the tone clipped and withdrawn enough to let her know who it was before she even looked around.

Cassandra Moore, similarly stricken with insomnia. The colonel's presence came as a surprise, though Julie knew it shouldn't have; that it was on the basis of reputation alone that the woman's apparent concern seemed contradictory. It wasn't, though; she'd seen Moore stay at Ghost's bedside well into the night, going over reports and occasionally checking to see if the ranger had awakened; had seen the honest concern in those eyes every time the sharpshooter began to cough, or labored to breathe. Tonight, that concern was there in spades, even though Moore had gone to great lengths to maintain an emotional distance; a distance that might not have been so profound if she hadn't been in the presence of someone who doubted, or might one day capitalize on the sincerity of those emotions, even fleetingly, Julie realized.

Thinking back on the impatience expressed by one of her own subordinates, of his lack of sympathy, upon her arrival, Julie wondered if perhaps, even she had preconceptions that required some re-evaluation. And while the notion didn't sit well with her, it was something she'd have to contemplate at another time.

"I don't mean to get in your way," the colonel had said, remaining where she was for a moment, tone even, the emotional cues the administrator had seen tempered, "but I'd appreciate it if I could talk to Ghost for a moment."

"If you can stand the smell," Ghost commented flatly.

"Come on in, colonel," Julie said, resolved to take the third dig of the evening in stride. "I won't be here for too long. I just need to check her vitals."

Entering into the tent, Moore kept her hand raised, brow furrowed as she looked around the small tent, noting the absence of the gurney. "Good god, that's really appalling, isn't it? What the hell happened in here?"

"Y'mean- aside from Jackson buying the farm?" Ghost replied blandly. "Might be a good time to r'member..." she paused, then, swallowing gingerly, as if to stave off another cough, "what you said earlier- 'bout crapping out your insides."

Moore turned her attention to Julie, then, eyebrow raised.

"Jackson's GI tract was half-rotted by the time he died," Julie said, affecting a more clinical tone. "Given the length of time he was here, it's safe to assume-"

"That's more than enough detail, doctor," Moore said flatly, "thank you," not even bothering to hide the look of distaste, hand raised in a cease and desist gesture.

"Wouldn't- be the first time he was left like that," Ghost sneered, pausing to cough, a trembling hand raised feebly to cover her mouth, the wet, conductive sound in her throat giving reason to believe she'd brought something up. Sure enough, her hand withdrew to show a spatter of blood along the bandages. "Fuckin' lovely," she said under her breath, bloodied hand dropping back to the sheets.

"Is that the first time she's done that?" Moore asked the administrator, brow furrowed.

"'She's' brought up enough," Ghost said sarcastically, though the strain in her weakened voice was only too apparently, forcing another halted pause, "-to make a brand new hat," jerking her hand away as Julie tried to examine it, though the reaction was sluggish. "Hands off, doc," she said irritably. "Could use a moment- without you r'anyone else getting their paws on me."

Julie paused- and relented, at that, hands withdrawing. "I'd like to do a more thorough exam, whenever you're through," she said gently, "but I'll leave you two alone for the moment."

"Real kind've you," Ghost muttered, coming just short of saying 'get the hell out'; in truth, her expression said it for her.

"Will you be in the infirmary?" Moore asked. "I can come get you when we're through."

"If you could," Julie said, withdrawing from the gurney, "it'd be appreciated."

Though 'appreciated' might not have been the right word for it.

[...]

Whatever exchange they'd had, it had lasted all of fifteen minutes- and upon seeing Moore arrive at the infirmary, Julie was left to wonder what it had entailed. The colonel was brusque, unwilling to answer questions, and quick to depart when she'd told the administrator that it was over; and Ghost, abrupt and angry when last they spoke, seemed almost at ease. It was the fact that she didn't say so much as a single word that raised the sense of curiosity, though there were no questions asked in regards to the reasons behind it.

So far as Julie was concerned, she had lost the right to inquire- though the gravity of what might have taken place stuck with her through the remainder of the evening.

[...]

Daybreak.

The remnants of a cold January night gave way to a brisk morning, the tent city filled with the white noise of generators supplying heat to the makeshift infirmaries, dulling the muted sounds of idle, inconsequential chatter. Soldiers returning from another monotonous night of guard duty went immediately to the mess tent to pick over what little remained of the breakfast served, wolfing down their meager dinners before turning in to get some much-needed sleep. Doctors, weary from too many sixteen hour days, occasionally stopped by to get some food for themselves when they weren't napping, doing their best to relax between emergencies, those that were ensured some legitimate downtime- those few that had few qualms about indulging in some artificial stress relief, at least- lingering around the makeshift liquor stand in the hopes that Lacey was somewhere nearby.

For the first time in months, the sky was an overcast grey, the veil of cloud cover painting the sun a cold white when it was visible. So used to the harsh rays of the sun, day in and day out, it was a sight Moore would have normally appreciated, would have happily greeted as she stepped out of her tent, but the desaturated greys and browns of the landscape came as an unwelcome sight; muted, washed out, familiarity turned dull and blunted. Another reflection, more honest than the seemingly foreign environment she'd witnessed the night before, of the apathy in the camp; of the burial she made her way to the hillside to witness.

In any other instance, much as she hated to admit it, her attendance wouldn't have seemed that important. She knew, in part, that it wasn't Jackson himself that she was concerned with; instead, it was the recognition of who would soon follow him into death that brought her here. Seeing only the discarded shovel at the foot of the hill, the woman that had taken it upon herself to complete the burials nowhere to be found, she felt an irrational wave of dismay, coupled as it was with anger turned inward.

Her reasons for being present in the first place, she knew, were disingenuous, even selfish, briefly acknowledged as she came to a stop at the edge of the only fresh plot she saw, the soiled mattress that Jackson had slept on discarded none too far away from the grave.

It left her wondering if the man would take kindly to knowing what he represented. That she was here to prepare, not mourn the newly dead; she had little recognition for, or knowledge of the man buried at her feet. Inwardly, she resolved to rectify that when she returned to the Dam; request Jackson's file and learn a thing or two about him. Make it so he was less anonymous than the shallow, unremarkable grave made him out to be.

"Colonel?"

Turning her head to look over her shoulder, Moore saw the Followers' administrator flanking her. It took her a moment to recognize the younger woman, the trademark mohawk allowed to fall to one side of her face where it hadn't been pulled back. It didn't come as much of a surprise that one's normal grooming habits were abandoned; little was done for the sake of appearances around the camp.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," Julie continued, tentative, "but... do you have a moment?"

Much as she wanted to say no, the last thing Moore wanted to do was tip her hand, inwardly impressed with the unaffected, "You're not interrupting," that came from her, her eyes back to the line of graves, all too fresh for comfort. "I missed what I was coming out here for anyway."

Julie came up alongside her and paused, her gaze following the trajectory of the colonel's own. "You came here to see Jackson, I take it?" she asked, turning her attention to Moore's face in time to see a nod. Offering a faint smile, she said, "Nice to know someone still feels the need to be present for a burial."

"Take it that doesn't happen too often these days," Moore replied, brow furrowing slightly.

"Compassion fatigue," Julie commented, almost absently. "Only so much grief a person can suffer before they learn to tune it out."

Turning her eyes to the doctor, Moore said, "Have you?"

Canting her head to the side, Julie seemed to consider the question for a moment. "I'm getting there," she admitted, however reluctant she was to say it.

"Mn..." Glancing towards the doctor, Cassandra could see that the younger woman was- off, in a way, enough so that it was apparent, even after only a day of having known her. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked, breaking the relative silence that surrounded them.

Julie nodded, coming out of her reverie, her expression losing some of its agitation. "Yes," she said. "It has to do with acquiring some additional supplies."

"Can't you talk to your own people about that?"

"We can," Julie said, "for some things. Blankets, mostly... but until we can make more, we're running on a shortage of medical supplies. While we could conceivably wait until a fresh supply is made, I'm concerned that it might be too little, too late."

Moore glanced back at the tent city for a moment before giving the doctor her full attention, and said, "This is something you'd be better off running past the major. He's the one that handles requisitions."

"I plan to, for some of it- but for this, it's possible that we'll need someone whose voice carries a little more weight." Beat. "It- has to do with our supply of Rad-Away. We only have enough for the patients present."

"Since that sounds more like a good thing than an actual problem," Moore observed, "should I take that to mean that you're expecting new arrivals?"

"No," Julie said. "Not immediately, anyway."

Whatever that meant. "You do realize that we're not going to receive any new supplies for some time now, don't you?" Moore said flatly. "That even if I 'lend my voice' to this, there's a good chance the request will be turned down?"

"I do. But I'm concerned that if we don't act soon, the people here- even you- might find themselves getting ill somewhere down the line."

Arching an eyebrow, the colonel said, "'Ill?' More cases of radiation poisoning, you mean?"

"For some of the less affected survivors, yes," Julie said. "But they're getting the treatments they need, at the moment. It's the rest of us I'm concerned about."

"Our current rate of exposure isn't exceptionally high, though, is it?"

"So we've assumed," Julie said, "but we've had some fluctuating readings from the geiger counter... likely from particles that weren't pushed east. And considering how potent those particles have been, I'd- well. I'd rather play it safe, if at all possible... the iodine we've been handing out is a start, but its efficacy, and what it targets, is narrow at best."

"I'll see what I can do," Moore replied, somewhat noncommittal, "but I can't make any promises. Between this and the fireworks we saw over the Divide, those additional supplies might be needed for some of the other settlements in the region."

"I understand," Julie said, nodding. "And I'm hoping we'll be prepared for that. As is, I'm drafting a proposal to send to your ambassador... see if we can make an attempt to pool our resources, in the event the fallout is worse than anyone anticipated."

"You'd be better off contacting Colonel Hsu if you want to make any headway on that," Moore replied flatly. "At the moment, the only thing you'll get from Crocker is a load of bureaucratic nonsense, especially now that he's cut off from from his handlers." Not that they ever did him any good in the first place. "Better to consider the political office null and void for the time being."

Julie smiled slightly at that. "According to Major Kieran," she said gently, "you considered his office null and void well before all this started."

"Probably because it is," Moore said flatly. "The civilian government shouldn't be touting politics in a war zone, much less claim that it's under the guise of diplomacy."

"How do you mean?"

Moore just shook her head at that, and said, "It's nothing worth mentioning, at the moment," in a mild tone. "A discussion for another time. Now... was a resupply all you wanted to speak to me about, or was there something else on your mind?"

There was still a faint lapse, there, a hesitation, but eventually, Julie said, "There is, actually," the words tentative. "I wanted to apologize for last night."

So far as Moore could tell, there was more to it than the administrator was indicating- something beyond the obvious, at least, but her patience with emotional burdens was running thin. "While normally," she said, "I'd say I appreciate it, I'm not sure why I'm the one you feel you should apologize to."

There was a hint of recognition in the administrator's face that seemed almost amused, for a moment, but Julie sobered quickly to say, "I just know I'd be upset- or at least, angry with the person charged with caring for a friend of mine if I'd seen that kind of neglect taking place."

Arching an eyebrow, Moore observed the younger woman for a moment, unable to keep from noting the peculiarity of the exchange. A Follower looking to an NCR commander for absolution? That was one for the history books.

"Ghost knows she's going to die, Dr. Farkas," she said, then. "Under the circumstances, she knows isn't going to be your first priority. But, that being said... she wasn't particularly pleased with the way Jackson's body was handled. Or not handled, as the case may be." Turning to look at the grave nearby, her hands going into the pockets of her jacket as the cold nipped at her fingertips, she said, "Everyone knows the doctors and medics here have a lot on their plate... but I think some of them are having a hard time understanding why the dead are treated with this kind of indignity, even if there is something to be said for compassion fatigue, as you put it."

A pause. Then, "Forgive me for saying, colonel... but I'm surprised to hear you say that."

There it was again; that feeling that there was something else on the administrator's mind. Still, "I imagine you would be," was the only thing Moore saw it fit to reply with, unimpressed by the admittance.

Wisely, Julie didn't respond to that directly; seemed to take the rebuke in stride. "Is Ghost concerned that she'll be treated the same way?"

"Something like that," Moore said, voice lacking inflection. "I assured her that it'd be dealt with properly, though, so hopefully, she won't be as concerned with it from here on out."

Silence.

"Well," Julie said after a time, "I'll resist the urge to pry." Beat. "And if either of you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me."

"I'll let you know if something comes up," Moore said, again adopting a non-committal tone. "Thank you."

At that, Julie left, affording Cassandra the time to consider the monument at the top of the hill. She'd never liked the thing to begin with, but now, it had been given new meaning. Something she'd never look at the same way again, the weight of what it symbolized felt long after the mountain pass had been reclaimed, and the tent city torn down, leaving only the line of graves on the hillside to serve as a reminder that it was ever there in the first place