Blood. Gunfire. Bullets.
The facts finally penetrate my shocked brain.
We didn’t get out in time. And now the hunter is here.
CHAPTER 28
Shit, shit, shit.” Bob is dragging Martin away from the opening. Belatedly I scramble after them. More thunder, so loud and close the entire cave seems to shake with the concussive boom. This storm is definitely bigger than yesterday’s. I don’t know whether to be terrified at its wild power or grateful for its protective cover. For now, I crawl over to where Bob has Martin on the ground, ripping away the man’s shirt.
I swipe at the moisture on my face. My fingers come back stained with blood. Martin’s. All over me.
I gag, then recover. I will not think of liquor stores or dark alleys. One horror at a time, and this one is hard enough.
“First aid kit,” Bob snaps at me.
I dig frantically through my pack, producing the small mesh bag packed by Josh.
“Not good enough. My pack. White box. Grab it.”
I go plowing through Bob’s belongings. Sure enough, front pouch, a hard rectangular kit, much more robust than what I have. I hand that over, then remember Luciana’s explanation on the first aid uses for feminine hygiene products. I return to my pack, never so happy to whip out a tampon and a maxi pad.
Bob is already nodding at me. “Good idea. But first I need you to open up the medical box and remove the antiseptic wipes and plastic gloves. I’m too filthy to be handling an open wound.”
My attention bounces to Bob’s massive hands, which are coated with a mix of red gore and black dirt. He’s right: First things first.
Martin isn’t screaming or moaning. His breathing is ragged, shock kicking in. But his face . . . He doesn’t look scared or anguished. He looks furious; his gaze is fixed on the cave entrance. As if he can see the sniper across the way. As if he’s already planning on killing the hunter with his bare hands, for daring to come between him and his son.
I fumble with the plastic first aid kit. There are some kind of fancy red tabs I can’t make sense of in my frazzled state. The more I tell myself to hurry up, the less coordinated I become.
“Frankie, slide them back!”
I manage that, but the clear lid remains glued to the blue base. I feel like I’m wrestling with the Tupperware container from hell.
“Tape. On the sides. It’s brand-new.”
Sure enough, the kit is still taped shut. Martin is going to die because I’m an idiot.
While I fight with inanimate objects, Bob dumps water across Martin’s shoulder. The blood bubbles out of a wound higher up than I originally thought. More muscle and sinew, less heart. But it’s still bleeding profusely.
I finally have the kit open, pawing through with my shaking hands. Antiseptic wipes, blue surgical gloves, got them.
Bob eases Martin back down, the man’s shirt balled under his shoulder to keep it out of the dust. I don’t detect a single tremor in Bob’s fingers as he rips open the wipes, quickly scrubs both hands, then pulls on the surgical gloves.
“All right, this is going to hurt.” He’s speaking to Martin, not me, but I still take the words to heart. “Frankie, the alcohol prep pads.”
Oh shit, this is going to hurt.
“Count of three. One, two—” Bob forgoes three and slaps the saturated isopropyl alcohol pads simultaneously to the front and back of the bubbling wound, gripping tight with both hands. Martin screams, back arching, toes curling, as outside, more thunder booms.
“Pad,” Bob barks at me. I belatedly free the maxi pad, being careful not to touch the surface with my own filthy hands. Bob rolls Martin roughly to the side. “Good news, man. It’s a through and through. You’re lucky.”
I’m pretty sure that’s an ironic statement, but I don’t argue.
With Marty half folded to the side, Bob lets the alcohol pad on the back of the man’s shoulder fall to the dirt, replacing it with the maxi pad. Once more, he eases Marty onto the folded ball of his shirt, holding the absorbent pad in place.
“Tampon,” Bob clips out.
I don’t want to watch what’s going to happen next but can’t seem to look away as I hand over the product and watch Bob drive the tight cotton roll straight into the bullet hole. Marty howls again while the sky roars its answer.
I lean over and gag.
“Do not vomit here,” Bob states so coldly and commandingly it slices through my light-headedness. Gone is the amiable, puppy-eyed Bigfoot enthusiast. This is a man who can leap mountains in a single bound and thank God, because I need one of us to know what the hell he’s doing.