But it’s the moaning that does it. Forces me to focus, to stand up, dump a bottle of water over my still-streaming eyes and nose. I’m covered in tears and snot. It feels appropriate.
I spy Bob first, mostly because he’s the largest of the fallen forms, and the red blood stands out brightly against his pale khaki shirt. He’s the one moaning. Neil, closer to me, is crumpled facedown. He makes no sound at all.
“I have Scott. You get Bob,” Miggy orders. He’s not swaying on his feet, or collapsing at the sight of so much blood. He’s moved to someplace beyond himself, where his normal squeamish sensibilities no longer apply.
I follow his example. This is not me, ripping the last of the stupid branches from my pack so I can walk without tripping toward Bob’s collapsed body. This is not me, leaning beside my oversized friend’s prone form. This is not me, peering into Bob’s face as he opens his blue eyes and smiles at me.
“Oops,” he whispers.
“Don’t talk,” I whisper.
“Tell Rob . . . I love him.” I shake my head. I’m not me. I don’t have to scream and wail and cry. I am someone else, the kind of person who can fix this.
I rip open Bob’s shirt. Survey the damage to his red-furred torso. Blood gurgles from a hole in his left side.
“Pays to be a big guy,” Bob gasps out. “He was aiming . . . for the heart.”
“Joke’s on him,” I agree, trying to think. We’ve just done this. Martin. Bob took the lead, but I remember the steps. First aid kit, alcohol wipes, maxi pads. Okay, I got this. I set down my pack and start tearing it apart.
I had a first aid kit. Where the hell is the first aid kit? And tampons? Dammit, we used them on Martin. I need more feminine hygiene products. I got a really giant man here and he demands more feminine hygiene products. Hysteria bubbles up. I squash it back down. I’m not me. I don’t need to feel hysterical. I’m the kind of person who can fix things.
Bob’s fingers curl around my wrist.
“Stop.”
“I just have to get more supplies,” I babble. “Neil’s pack. He’ll have tampons.”
“You . . . need to run.”
“It’ll be okay. I remember what you did with Martin.”
“Martin’s dead.”
“We don’t know—”
“I can feel the blood . . . in my lungs. Nothing . . . you can do. The others?”
“Miggy’s okay.” I think. “Scott, Neil . . .” I don’t know, but I can’t admit to that level of helplessness. Hopelessness.
“You. Miguel. Go. He’ll . . . be back.”
“Miggy wounded him.”
“He’ll . . . be back.”
“No. Goddammit!” And now I’ve had enough. Of blood and bullet wounds and men dying on me. Bob is going to live because I will it to be so.
Bob is going to live, because three times later, the fucking universe owes me one.
“How’s it going?” Miggy calls out.
“Alive. Side wound. Need more supplies.” I go crawling over to Neil. Feel his neck. “Has a pulse,” I announce, “but out cold.”
With that, I rip the pack off Neil’s back. Supplies are supplies. We’re all scavengers now. “Scott?” I ask.
“Shoulder wound.” I hear the sound of tearing, Miggy performing his own first aid duties.
“Go,” Bob tells me again when I reappear.
“Shut up.”
“Terrible . . . bedside . . . manner.”
“Rob needs you. Bigfoot needs you. I’m going to patch you up. You’re going to live.”
“Tell Rob I love him.”
“Shut up!” I’m beyond furious. I’m livid. I’m enraged. I ransack Neil’s pack, discovering a small first aid kit and yes, two tampons and two maxi pads, which I will never look at the same way again.
“Now, you listen to me, big man. This is gonna hurt like a mother. I don’t have time to be gentle.”
Bob stares at me through glassy blue eyes. “Find it.”
“Find what?”
“Whatever it is . . . you’re really searching for.”
“Shut up! Look at Miggy. Right now. Look.”
Bob turns his head. I jam in the first cotton plug. His entire body bows. But he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t so much as whimper. He doesn’t want to call attention, I realize. He’s afraid of summoning the hunter back.
Now I am sobbing. I can’t help myself as I tear open more packets, and I curse him and clutch at him and just plain beg him to live as I pile gauze on his wound and tape it savagely in place.