Of course there were. In Steve's pretty little head, getting an infection and dying wasn't the absolute worst thing that could happen here. Someone else might be hungry. Tony wasn't going to bother trying to argue him out of that mindframe, but cast him a skeptical sidelong look, just a slight turn of the head from Iron Man, as they walked. These people needed Captain America more than anything; he was the one thing that was supposed to survive well beyond the rations of canned fruit and toilet paper. He was more important than that.
The fluorescent lights of their new hospital hummed before they even flickered on and flooded the room with painful white light, making Tony squint before his display adjusted for him and he could take stock. It wasn't quite the heaven he had been hoping for. Obviously, it had seen some use right at the height of the breakout and the neat little row of cots were all covered in a dark blood, with sheets in heaps and the white wall they were bolted to spattered with thick, rotting remains. They would have to clean this up, but not right now. There was another door at the end of the room, passed the stores of bandages and tools that Tony collected, that Tony carefully nudged open and peeked in. Less gore; a steel table, for surgery, Tony assumed, and an array of machinery. Even an x-ray, but they weren't going to risk the generators for that. Iron Man could take care of it. "Here," he instructed, flicking on the lights and dumping his booty on a rolling cart. In the time it took Steve to follow, Tony had a second to not take stock, to not consider the mess or the project or the next step, and he had to grip the edge of the cart as he breathed deeply, eyes closed, hoping Steve wouldn't say any more about what Tony had left him to deal with and needing to know every detail.