Grappling with Gangrene

The canvas of my cot smells like dirt. Throwing myself onto my back, I inhale and exhale methodically hoping for relief. My entire body aches for the second day in a row, and now it's getting worse. Every other hour or so someone climbs into my tent to ask how I am. This time it's him, the next time it's her. When someone else finally tosses back the flap of my tent, it's dark, and I haven't slept a wink.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks, I feel that way too."
"Y'know, Ben is coming to pick up Jake tomorrow morning. If you're not feeling better by then I say you head back into town to see a doctor."
Yesterday I would rather have stayed, but the realization is dawning on me that this isn't a simple flu from which I'll be recovering after a few hours' rest. "Yeah, that sounds good."
After turning back toward the dusk, he glances back at me, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion. "And you have NO idea what's making you sick? Are you absolutely positive you didn't eat something you shouldn't have?"
"No, no idea!" I declare.
But I do know.
During our first day here almost four days ago, I untied my shoe and turned to Steve, "I think I got a sliver in my foot when we were rock climbing earlier."
"A sliver? Where?"
Peeling off the sock, I twist my right foot up and over my other knee. "There. Do you see it?"
Grimacing in disgust, he replies, "Yeah. Does it hurt?"
"Yeah. It went straight in there, deep."
"Did you bring any tweezers?"
"No, but I did bring this."
Reaching for my Camelbak, I pull my Swiss Army knife out of its permanent home in a side pocket.
Steve asserts his suspicion with a face of skepticism, "You're just going to slice it out of your foot?"
Smiling like a confident fool, I nod.
The deed having been done the previous afternoon, I wake the next morning and begin to pull on some fresh socks. Setting my right foot on the ground, a surge of pain streaks through my leg. I flop down immediately on the cot and begin to examine the sole of my foot. Right in the center of the arch of my foot a grotesque green bubble is growing around the site of yesterday's excision. I sigh, thinking of the easy solution to problems of pus: drainage. Grabbing my handy knife again, I slice the bubble at its base and squeeze it until empty. Mopping up the mess with one of yesterday's dirty socks and clapping my hands together after a job well done, I take care to place a sterile band-aid over it and finish putting on my fresh socks.
On the morning of my premature departure, I can barely do anything. Glancing around to ensure that no one is looking, I pull my leg slowly toward my chest. As my throbbing knee bends, the sock encasing my infected foot comes into few. Its elastic fibers are straining visibly against the swollen skin. Rolling it down toward my ankle, delicately, softly, my ankle has disappeared. Where my ankle should be is a gray trunk of flesh. The dark skin of my foot reflects the ripples impressed into it by the just-removed sock as I cradle it in my hands. "Ah, crap. I'm an idiot," I grumble in frustration.
I lay my head despondently against the car window during the bumpy ride down. "You got all your stuff in the trunk, Dallin?" Ben asks.
"Yeah. I didn't really bring much."
My Camelbak bounces around on the floor between my feet with the should-have-been-disinfected Swiss Army knife in its pocket.
"Well, that was smart of you. We'll have you home soon."