by Aborn, A. L.
For the second time that day, Joann passes out.
The ankle looks better, I think. The joint looks more natural, at least. I hope to God that I just did the right thing. I can feel a bone shard, about the size of my thumbnail just below the skin. It’s so dark in the tent that I can’t see well, and I don’t know how much more she can take. Placing the tree limbs around her leg, I use the ace wraps to hold them in place.
For now, it’s the best that I can do.
***
About an hour later, Meekah and I are sitting on the bed in our shelter, eyeing the cache of weapons on the floor. I don’t really know what to do with the guns and knives that Shay threw down in good faith; I only know that I don’t want to give them back.
Joann hasn’t moved since I set her ankle. Shay, on the other hand, came to my tent shortly after I had left theirs. I could tell it was hard for her, to thank me for the help, but it felt sincere. She left soon after.
***
It’s hours after midnight. Probably closer to dawn than dusk.
I haven’t slept a wink. I haven’t even crawled into bed.
I can’t shut my brain off. My head feels weird… kinda floaty.
Darkness invades the periphery of my vision, like I’m looking down a long tunnel.
My heart is beating so fast and hard that I can scarcely hear anything else.
Meekah, long since passed out, is breathing heavily from the warmth of my sleeping bag. Beau is quiet, moving his feet every so often in his make-shift stall at the far end of the enclosure. A low fire snaps and pops, adding to my anxiety.
My pistol is clutched tightly in my right hand, and in my left, my largest hunting knife. Over my shoulder is the strap of my rifle. The strap must weigh a hundred pounds; it hangs heavily, anchoring me to the bed.
I’m sure that they’re awake, plotting a way to sneak up on me. Right now, Shay is probably slipping through the trees behind my shelter, thinking to take me unawares.
Won’t she be surprised to find me awake and armed?
Better if I beat her to the punch.
I could slip out; Meekah and Beau wouldn’t give me away. Crossing the clearing would take less than a minute. Unzip the tent door, whisper that I’m just there to check on Joann… and two gunshots would be all it would take to end them.
To end this terrible feeling of uncertainty. To put a stop to the questions running through my mind. Can I trust them? Can I put my life into their hands? Believe what they say?
My breathing is quick and shallow, my chest, tight. If I’m going to do it, protect myself and my animals, I have to go now!
Before I know it, I’m halfway across the clearing. My jaw aches from clenching it tightly in my determination to end this awful night.
A low sound, coming from straight ahead of me stops me in my tracks.
Then, a rustle behind me.
A low, dark shape, just visible in the moonlight comes close before sitting. Just Meekah, ever my shadow, joining me in this grim task.
Drawing closer, the low grumble becomes clearer.
Just five steps from the door now…
Heart pounding in my ears, it takes a moment for the sound to register. It’s not a grumble, it’s a snore.
A snore?
Wait.
…What?
Standing still in the darkness, I strain my ears for any change in tone; anything that might give it away that they’re faking sleep to lull me into complacency.
And then… the sounds of a second person breathing, barely audible in the break between snores.
Could it be? Could they both be sleeping?
As I pause to consider, Meek pushes against my leg, startling me.
… What am I doing?...
It’s almost as if I’m watching someone else. Someone else has walked across the clearing. Someone else is bent on killing two women in their sleep. Someone else, someone unrecognizable is about to do something that she can never take back.
Looking down, seeing the loaded gun in one hand and the knife in the other, shame and revulsion stop me in my tracks. What was I planning to do with the knife? WHAT AM I DOING?!
Horror chokes me; tears are moving down my cheeks, but I don’t remember how they got there.
Fleeing back to the safety of my shelter, Meekah is silent at my side. Throwing myself on my bed, I sob hard into my pillow. Who am I? What have I become?
Forcing myself to take deep, measured breaths, I clear my mind and count to one hundred. And then I do it again. And again. Finally, my pulse slows, and my tears dry; I sit up to change my clothes and lay my weapons within reach. Crawling into my sleeping bag, I reassure myself over and over that I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m right to be suspicious, but I let my anxiety get the best of me.
Wrapping my arms around Meekah, I close my eyes. I can still get a few hours of sleep.
As the first wave of sleep is creeping over me, my anxiety starts to whisper, they could have been pretending to sleep because they heard you coming… they could be outside right now…
Banishing the voices to the farthest recesses of my mind, I speak aloud in my firmest voice, “I don’t care if they kill me. If they come, then so what. At least this will be over.”
Chapter Twelve
Decisions, Decisions
The next morning dawns clear and cold. Beau’s nickering breaks through my exhaustion. My first instinct is to roll over and go back to sleep; my eyes are swollen, and my cheeks feel sticky from crying. My head hurts and I realize that my cup is empty by my bed. In the events of the night before, I forgot to fill it.
Rolling out of my blankets, I put my head in my hands. Remembering how it felt to find myself by Shay and Joann’s tent, intending to kill them makes me feel a little sick to my stomach. Throwing on a jacket, I take Meekah and Beau out of the enclosure in search of a cold drink.
I don’t know what I expected to find when I walked into the clearing, but it wasn’t Shay sitting beside a small fire in the stone ring outside my shelter. A small percolator is bubbling merrily, and the scent of coffee surprises me almost as much as the sight of Shay holding up a dead rabbit like an offering.
Coffee!
She eyes me wearily over her morning kill but lets the faintest hint of a smile touch her lips. “How?” is as far as I get before she cuts me off.
“We don’t have much. The last town that we passed through, we slept in a couple abandoned houses and found a few things. A bit of coffee was one.”
Returning to my shelter, I grab an old mug, pilfered from the house, and go back to the fire. Shay pours me a healthy cup and just the warmth of the mug on my fingers stirs nostalgia and comfort. “Thank you.”
“I always liked mine better with cream and sugar, but you know, I’ll take what I can get.”
“I can’t help with the cream, but I can help with the sugar,” I say. Once again, I dash back into my shelter. I have a five-pound bag of sugar that I took from the house as well, but I’ve had no use for it. Dishing some out into a little Tupperware bowl, I bring some out and Shay and I spoon it into our bitter brews.
She nods in thanks. “You’re full of surprises.”
Shrugging, I tell her that I’m bringing the animals over to the stream. She remains by the fire, staring into the flames like she expects to find something there other than heat.
I don’t know what to think. A piece of me is screaming to be careful, but aren’t I? Haven’t I taken their weapons? Checked on them in the night? Sure, Shay could take me down in a fistfight if it were to come to that, but I don’t think it will. She could have done so already, not to mention, she could have shot me the night before, well before I even realized that she was there.
Maybe they are who they say they are. It’s hard for me to accept this. But it’s harder to carry on like we are going to kill each other if we’re staying in the same camp.
We don’t have to be best friends, but I guess we don’t have to be enemies either.
&n
bsp; Just be cautious, prepare for the worst, and hope for the best. It’s all I can do.
***
After the animals are suitably watered, I make my way over to check on Joann. She’s in roughly the same position that I left her in last night. Her bad leg is elevated on the backpacks and I see that Shay has wrapped her own sleeping bag around Joann’s.
She still looks a bit gray to me, but she smiles when our eyes meet. Her face is kind, but I can’t quite make myself look her in the eye. “How are you feeling?” I ask.
“About the same,” she replies.
She feels warm when I place the back of my hand against her forehead. The pulse in her wrist is quick under my fingertips, though it could be just from the pain. I have no way to check her blood pressure, but the fact that I can feel a faint pulse in her good foot tells me that her pressure is at least high enough to pump blood as far from her heart as possible. It’s a good sign.
Carefully removing the splint and bandaging, I hold my breath in anticipation. Her ankle is swollen, and the bruising in her foot and ankle looks darker than it had. Placing my fingertips gingerly on the top of her foot, I put the fingers of my other hand just behind the ankle bone on the inside. Both of these areas should have a pulse. I search for what feels like a long time, trying to keep my face neutral. Her toes are cold to the touch.
The canvas ruffles behind me as Shay pulls the flap open and peeks in. The disappointment I’m feeling must be showing; Shay’s face goes from a hopeful smile to one that is carefully blank. Silently, she motions me from the tent.
Moving a couple yards away, she asks in a loud whisper, “How does it look?”
“I still can’t find a pulse.”
Her jaw muscles clench clearly in the morning light. “Can you do anything? Please.” The last word is soft, a plea.
This is it. It’s now or never. I’m either all in or all out… and I think it’s too late to be out.
***
“Can you ride?” I ask.
Quickly, she nods.
“I need supplies, more than I have here anyway. There’s a house, about five miles from here. I need you to get there and bring back what I need. Can you do that?”
Again, she nods. I give her quick directions and a brief list. Clicking my tongue, I get Beau’s attention. He’s never far off. Grabbing his halter with the attached reins from a hook in the shelter, he stands still for me to put it over his nose and fasten it. Slipping back into the shelter once more, I come out to find Shay standing next to Beau, her backpack in place over her shoulders. I return one gun and her hunting knife. “Be safe.”
Using a fallen tree on the woods line as a step, she’s on Beau’s back and turning toward the clearing opening in seconds. “Hey!” I call. Turning, she raises an eyebrow. “If you can find a turkey baster, grab it!”
Squeezing the horse’s flanks, he jumps into action and they’re away.
Against my better judgment, I think I kinda like her.
Before I get started gathering supplies, I go back to the tent. “So. How bad is it?” Joann asks me.
Taking a deep breath, I resolve to tell her the truth. “Honestly, I don’t know. I still can’t find a pulse. There’s a bone shard that’s out of place, that may or may not be affecting your blood flow.”
She takes a moment, staring at the inside of the tent wall, a sheen of tears forming. “Do I just lay here and wait to see what happens?”
Kneeling, I take her hand in mine. Sparing her the worst details, I explain what I want to do. She nods at my words, and, in the end, agrees that it’s the best plan. Squeezing her hands tightly, I leave her to go and prepare.
***
A little over an hour later, Shay and Beau turn back into the clearing. Sliding off his back, she hands me her gun and knife before dropping her backpack to the ground. Considering, I accept the gun, but push the knife back toward her. “For the rabbit,” I say.
Nodding, she takes it back, sliding it into the sheath at her waist. Bending, she fishes out my requested items from the house. A pair of rubber dishwashing gloves, a sharp paring knife, a turkey baster, kitchen tongs, and a stack of towels. I’m grateful that she was able to find it all. Lastly, she slides an almost-full half gallon of whiskey out of her bag.
Immediately, I’m back at Ally and Brad’s kitchen table; each of us taking a swig of the bitter liquid before passing it to the next. Remembering the laughs we shared before Brad had turned sour sends a pang through me. None of us had expected what was in store in the following days.
“You okay?” Shay’s voice brings me back to reality. I’m happy and sad at the same time.
“Where did you find that? I thought I had gone through the house pretty thoroughly and I don’t remember seeing that.”
“In the basement. It was in one of the totes, at the bottom. Someone was hiding it, I guess.” Before handing it over, she untwists the cap and takes a slug off it. She grimaces at the taste. “Figured we might all need a bit of it today.”
I suppose she’s right.
Shay follows me as we bring the goods to my shelter. She hesitates before following me in. At the rear of the enclosure, I have two pots of water boiling over a healthy fire. My bed is made, with a clean sheet over it. Shay is eyeing everything, taking stock of what I have. My hackles raise instantly, but I swallow and push them down. We’re all on the same side, I remind myself.
“What do you need me to do?” she asks.
“Hold her down and hold a flashlight, I’ll take care of the rest. Better to do it in here, it’s warmer at the least. I’ll bunk with you tonight if that’s okay.”
She nods, accepting my plan without question.
***
Joann is subdued when Shay and I duck into the small tent. She is sitting up, waiting for us. We say a few words as we stand her up and support her with a shoulder under each arm. Our progress is slow across the clearing with Meekah running anxious circles around us.
We turn sideways to edge into my shelter. Joann seems positive as we enter, commenting on how cozy my home is and questions how I built the stone fireplace and chimney at the far end. I answer while we lay her down on my bed. When she’s comfortable, a pillow behind her head and one supporting her bad leg, I give Shay the signal.
She pours a healthy shot of the whiskey into a cup from my shelf. Turning away, I start my set-up, rehearsing the steps of my plan in my head. One of the pots of water has the paring knife, a ladle, and my surgical instruments in it; they won’t be sterile, but as close as I can get. The kitchen tongs are also in the boiling water, but only the ends. The handle is out of the water, propped up against the side to keep them from falling in. The rubber gloves are draped over one side of the pot, soaking in the hot water up to the wrists.
Behind me, I hear Shay speaking to Joann in a low, soothing voice. She is feeding her shot after shot. I don’t want her to vomit, but to be as drunk as we can get her. It shouldn’t take too much, she’s slim and probably hasn’t had any alcohol for months. I hear Joann refuse a shot, but Shay convinces her to drink just one more. Yes, the alcohol will thin her blood, but without any alternatives for anesthesia, I’m willing to take the chance.
While we wait for the alcohol to kick in, I rummage through my medical bag for my precious antibiotics and suture. I was a first assist student, back before the power went out. I had loads of expired suture of all types from the hospital to practice with at home. These are still sterile at least.
Months ago, I had raided a livestock feed store and had been able to get my hands on a few bottles of antibiotics. Sure, they were meant for animals, but they’d done the trick so far. Selecting a large, white bottle, I shake two pills out into my hand. “Give her these.” Shay takes them, eyes wide with surprise at the meds.
I turn my back again. Donning a heavy winter glove, I remove the ladle by the hook over the edge of the pot and use it to scoop water into three bowls. One of the towels is cut into strips; they barely fit into the first
bowl of water. Using the tongs, the paring knife and surgical instruments are placed on the cleanest towel at the foot of the bed. Selecting a few sutures, I open and dump them onto the towel as well.
“How are you feeling, Joann?” I ask, moving toward the head of the bed.
“Oh, I’m much better! The best I’ve felt in ages! Ha!”
Her words are a tad slurred. No time like the present.
At the edge of the fire, I place a whittled piece of wood with a sharp point and a butter knife; both with the tips resting on hot coals.
Shay rolls up Joann’s pantleg, exposing her leg up to the knee. Sliding yet another towel under her foot and ankle, there’s not much left to do but begin. Using one of the last slivers of soap left, I use it and water from the second bowl to wash her from toes to mid-shin. Joann moans at my touch, but Shay is able to keep her calm. Next, I wash my hands and don the hot, rubber gloves. They’re bulky, but I should be able to do a fair bit with them on.
Turning, I find that Shay has positioned herself above the knee of Joann’s bad leg. Her good leg is pushed against the wall of the shelter, unable to interfere with the clean area of the procedure. Still holding the whiskey bottle, Shay uncaps it again and takes a long swallow. Shaking it off, she recaps it, and puts it on the floor by my bed. Her left hand moves to secure Joann’s leg below the knee, her right clicks on one of my flashlights and aims it at the swollen ankle.
Taking a deep breath, I grasp the paring knife and begin.
***
The skin on the inside of her ankle splits easily beneath the knife. I have to make sure that I don’t push too hard and slice through any blood vessels. When the incision is about an inch and a half long, I take the sharpened wood piece from the flames. The hot point cauterizes the small bleeders that I can see. Using the turkey baster filled with water from the third bowl, a gentle stream aimed at the wound is enough to let me get my first good look.
