I force down the rest of my bile, wiping my mouth with the back of my forearm.
“I’m okay,” I manage.
“Yes, you are. Now, scrub in.”
“What?”
“Antiseptic wipes. Hands. Start cleaning.”
I do as instructed, but with a growing sense of trepidation. I’m a naturally squeamish person. It’s not like working missing persons cold cases is a front-line sort of gig. There’s a big difference between interviewing people and . . . this.
But Bob is waiting, and Martin, his jaw clenched in pain, his eyes narrow slits of watchfulness. I scrub the dirt and blood from my hands as best I can, then look at Bob for my next orders.”
“Grab the compression wrap and unwind the first quarter of the roll.”
“Okay.”
“Now set it all down in the lid of the kit and come here. I need both your hands.”
I’m still not sure I want to know, but I scoot closer. Bob once again twists Martin’s torso to the side, the man gasping out a string of curses, but complying.
I understand the issue almost at once, grabbing at the absorbent pad at the back of Martin’s shoulder to hold it in place while simultaneously slapping at the tampon plugging the front of the bullet wound as Bob untangles his own fingers. With my hands now pinning the bandages in place, Bob grabs the wrap.
“Hold the pads steady while I secure them in place.”
I will not be sick, I will not be sick, I will not be sick.
More forked lightning. More rolling thunder. I can hear the rain, sounding hard and smelling fresh just outside the cave opening. While inside, my senses are coated with the sticky feel and rusty odor of blood.
Martin’s lips are moving, but I can’t make out his words. A final prayer? A call to his wife, a promise to his son?
Bob is both beside me and over me. He moves fast and efficiently, not speaking as he weaves the first aid wrap over, under, and around Martin’s shoulder. I keep my fingertips in place till the final second, then release my grip on the rear pad, then the front tampon as Bob snugs them into place. Within a matter of seconds, Martin’s shoulder is bandaged and we are all sitting back, breathing heavily.
I feel covered in blood, but then so is Bob, with streaks across the backs of his arms, down the front of shirt, even dripped into his beard. Ironically enough, Martin is the cleanest of the three of us, his wound now contained in a sea of tape.
Bob pours water onto his hands, scrubs them clean as best he can. Then he’s back to the first aid kit, digging around for a foil packet of painkillers. He rips it open and dumps two into Martin’s hand. The man takes them without protest.
“Drink more,” Bob orders, after Martin’s first swig. “Nope, more than that. Okay, to quote Frankie, we need to get the fuck out of here. Because the moment that storm passes, we’re sitting ducks.”
I nod rapidly.
Martin smiles. Actually smiles. His breath is ragged, his skin nearly gray with pain. And yet there’s a certain glow about him. His fanaticism lives on. “I got a clean shirt in my pack. Get it out.”
Bob retrieves a simple blue microfiber top and helps Martin wrestle it on. I can’t even imagine the pain as Bob forces the man’s injured left shoulder to move, sliding his left arm into place. But Martin merely grits his teeth in determination.
“Rain coat,” he requests next.
It takes both Bob and me to tuck him into the jacket. No draping it over his bandaged side. Coat must be all the way on, both arms in the sleeves. “Gotta . . . be able . . . to get on my pack,” he states.
“I’ll carry it for you.”
“My pack. My back.” At least it’s something new for us to fight about.
The thunder booms again, but no longer so loud. The epicenter has already passed over us, the storm fading away. I glance nervously at the cave opening, where I can still see the rain coming down, but lighter. It’s only a matter of time now. The afternoon thunderstorms are a short-lived affair. Hit hard, move fast.
Which is what we need to do next.
Martin makes it to his feet. Bob wrestles the pack onto his hissing form. Then we’re ready to go.
My body is shaking. I’m a mess of adrenaline and terror. But I also feel focused and razor-sharp. Survival has a way of doing that to a person.
There are no good options left. We are the rabbits, about to bolt into the open and race across the predator’s field of view. I am the slowest and clumsiest. Then again, there’s already-injured Martin and big-as-a-barn Bob.
I think our hunter is about to have the time of his life.