"Well," Voodoo says, grunting as he hops up onto the threshold, "so long as that thing ain't here now, we won't have problems."

Time has not been kind to this place. A couple of nonfunctional autodocs are scattered across the floor, as well as more mundane detritus like surgical tubing and gauze. As Voodoo draws in a breath, his face scrunches.

"-whoo. 'Organic'. That's a word for it. -damn, wish I'd brought a flashlight."

The building is fairly expansive, sufficient to care for a company of sick soldiers. Some of the medicine cabinets lie open, their contents scattered, and the locks on others are busted.

"Buffout and Jet's gone. Med-X, too. Someone had priorities."

But there are some at shin height with heavier locks on them, and Voodoo takes out his lockpick kit from a chest pouch. Within a minute, their doors swing open.

"Here we go. Stimpacks, antiseptics - it ain't much, but it's something."