Blood in the Water (Kairos)

by Catherine Johnson

  It was a moment or two before the sound of her name being called penetrated the blanket of shock that was smothering her senses. She stumbled around, but the first thing she saw were the children’s parents running towards her. Each couple swept their offspring up, weeping with relief and love and hugging the tiny bodies until they cried more because they couldn’t breathe.

  She watched the scene, almost completely numb until two huge arms wrapped around her and lifted her against a solid wall of chest. When Paul’s warm hand gripped her head so that he could see her and she saw the fear in his own expression, the shock dissipated and a sob tore from her throat.

  “Are you okay, beauty? Please, say somethin’. Are you hurt?”

  She choked on the emotions that were sticking in her throat, not least her own relief that he seemed to be unharmed. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. You?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.” The worry in his eyes was washed away by relief.

  She began to struggle in his arms, the fear returning and overwhelming her for all the other people she cared about. “Daddy! Mama! Dean! Have you seen them? What about everyone else?”

  “Shhh. Shh. Still, beauty.” Paul soothed. “Your family is fine. They’re okay. We need your help though, if you’re up to it. Morse and Fletch were hit.”

  Ashleigh shook herself, as much as she was able given that she was still caught tight in the iron bands of his arms. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’ve no supplies though.”

  Paul was already walking them through the shambling mass of dazed, confused and injured people. “S’okay. Ambulances will be on their way by now.”

  Ashleigh’s heart stuttered in her chest when she got to the barbeque stand until her medical instincts kicked in. Fletch had been shot in the leg. She took a quick look, but the blood wasn’t pumping out, which discounted any major arteries being hit. She instructed Sinatra to make a tourniquet from whatever he could find and to raise the leg. Sinatra immediately started pulling his belt free from his jeans.

  Her main concern was the blood loss combined with Fletch’s age, but that would have to wait, because Morse was bleeding out from a wound to his chest. The young man was gasping and blood was bubbling up between his lips. Terror was evident on his pale face. Ashleigh was glad he couldn’t find the breath to speak; her taut nerves couldn’t withstand the question she knew he’d ask.

  She spoke without looking for a target; she knew they were listening for her. “I need a knife and someone pass me one of the plastic burger wrappers.”

  Someone, she didn’t know who, pressed one of the pieces of cellophane that had held the raw patties into her outstretched hand. Paul knelt beside her, his own blade in his palm. She grabbed the knife and cut through Morse’s shirt, needing to see the wound. Then she spread the plastic over the gory hole in his chest wall. She could tell from the way his chest was misshapen that his lung had already collapsed, so she peeled a corner of the plastic away from the wound. She could hear sirens approaching; she could only pray they’d arrive in time.

  She looked directly at Paul, who was still crouched by her side, and said in a firm but low voice, “You need to snag one of those EMTs. If he don’t get to hospital he’s not goin’ to make it.”

  “Done.” He uttered the single word and was gone.

  “What about pressure on the exit wound?” Sinatra asked from his spot in front of Fletch. He had Fletch’s leg resting on his shoulder and was holding his belt wrapped tight around the old man’s thigh.

  “Ideally, yeah I’d want to apply pressure. But right now I think it’ll do more harm than good to move him.” When she looked up she could see that Sinatra understood the gravity of the situation. When she looked back at Morse he was paler still, and his eyes were rolling.

  “Hey!” She slapped his face. “No! You stay with us!” His eyes flicked to hers, but she knew they were running out of time.

  “EMT! Comin’ through!” Ashleigh could have wept when she heard the call behind her.

  She half turned, unwilling to take all her attention from holding the makeshift dressing in place over Morse’s chest. Two EMTs were jogging towards her dragging a wheeled stretcher with them. Paul was following.

  When they crouched down beside her, she explained the situation as she understood it succinctly and then got out of their way and let them do their job. She knew they were worried by the speed that they lifted him onto the stretcher and rushed him towards the ambulance. If they wanted to get him to the hospital before they stabilized him it was touch and go.

  “I’ll go.” Terry jogged after them.

  It hit Ashleigh that she had hardly any idea who was standing around her and whether they were whole. The numbness of shock was returning when she felt Paul’s arms surround her again. She looked down and realized that there was more blood than there should have been on the grey beater she was wearing. Her arms were red to the elbows with Morse’s blood, but there were smears higher on her chest. She couldn’t make sense of it until she spotted the blood on Paul’s arm.

  “Hey! You’re bleeding!”

  “It’s a scratch. It’ll keep.”

  “Let me look. Why the fuck did you say you were okay?” Fear turned her tone to anger.

  “’Cause I’m still standin’ and not in danger of bein’ otherwise.” He caught her chin and turned her face to his. “I really am okay.”

  They were interrupted by another two EMTs arriving to tend to Fletch. Having ascertained that he was stable, although rapidly going into shock, they lifted him onto the stretcher and disappeared. Dizzy went with them to follow Fletch to the hospital.

  “Well, lookee. Seems all y’all fine folk are A-Okay.”

  Ashleigh let Paul pull her further into his embrace as Chief Hooper swaggered over. Her parents and her brother were by his side, but as much as she wanted to run to them her knees were suddenly about to give way. She knew that Paul felt her sag when he hugged her to him more firmly, almost holding her up. They all looked to be completely uninjured, although her mother was pale and seemed a little brittle.

  “All that blood yours, Miss Ashleigh?” His tone indicated it was a rhetorical question rather than genuine concern, plus any fool could tell if it had been her blood she had no right being upright, but she answered anyway.

  “No.” She directed the next part to her father. “They’ve taken Morse and Fletch to St. Raphael’s. Terry and Dizzy went with them. I’m not sure Morse...” Her throat stuck closed, but she held the tears that threatened in check.

  Her father nodded curtly. He’d grasped what she couldn’t say.

  Chief Hooper turned to her father. “Samuel, I do not call this keepin’ the noise down.”

  “It’s not our hand on the volume switch.” Her father gritted out through his teeth. She could see he was biting back his fury at the Chief’s sarcastic tone.

  “Then you best have a word with whoever’s feedin’ coins into the jukebox. I’ll be payin’ you a visit real soon.”

  “Our door’ll be open Chief. Always is to you.”

  The Chief nodded curtly at her father and strode off with barely a backwards glance for anyone else. Ashleigh didn’t even bother to ask about their exchange; the meaning was evident even behind the cryptic phrasing.

  Samuel scanned over the group. “Get yourselves back to the clubhouse. Ash, that includes you. You’re stayin’ there tonight, baby bird. No arguments.” He looked over her head to Paul. “And thank you again.” Her father answered the question phrased in her expression. “He saved my life. That bullet that scratched his arm was headin’ my way.”

  That explained her mother’s demeanor. The bedlam that had followed the hail of bloody destruction was beginning to calm, as the injured were taken away to be healed and as those that were left gathered themselves to follow their loved ones or to head home

  Ashleigh turned to Paul, suddenly panicked. “Michelle? Rachel?”

  “Are fine. They’re okay. And you’re ridin’ with me. I ain’t lettin
’ you drive.”

  Ashleigh started to nod in agreement, too overwhelmed to do anything other than acquiesce, but the side of her brain that allowed to remain calm during a surgery when things didn’t go to plan tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Wait. We’ve got to get the animals back to the shelter. I’m not goin’ to the clubhouse yet.”

  “Then you’re not goin’ anywhere on your own. I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay. That’d be good.” She started heading in what she thought was the right direction. It was hard to tell, the pandemonium of running and diving bodies and the spray of high speed missiles had ripped through and overturned stalls, torn down banners and shredded balloons. Abandoned belongings, mingled with half-eaten food and other detritus, were strewn all over the ground.

  Ashleigh stumbled for the second time. Since they’d started moving Paul had kept an arm wrapped around her waist, so each time he’d caught her. She huffed in annoyed frustration, caught Paul by the hand and dragged him behind a bouncy castle that was still more than half inflated but listing heavily to one side, its generator still chugging out diesel fumes. Paul was obviously wondering what in the hell she was doing.

  “Slap me.” She demanded, as soon as they were out of the view of any passing survivors.

  “What?! No fucking way. Are you crazy?” Anger mixed with incredulity and confusion on his face.

  “No. I feel like I’m walkin’ through molasses. I need to break out of it. Please, I’m askin’ you, slap me or somethin’.” Ashleigh begged.

  He chose ‘or something’. His mouth crashed down on hers. The force of it knocked her backwards but he’d caught her upper arms in a bruising grip. He held her in place while he kissed the sense back into her. It worked; arousal chased the shock away. Her body filled with heat, fuelled by the receding panic, relief and the still-smoldering anger. Her own hands clutched his shoulders and when she pulled herself into and up against his body, needing to be beyond close, his grasp shifted to her hips and he lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to almost crawl into his body through their frantic kiss. Paul had braced his legs to take their weight and she ground on his hot, hard body seeking essential friction. She broke away for much needed air, resenting the instinct to breathe.

  Paul tried twice to speak past his own gasps. “You need to get down or I’m gonna fuck you right here on the grass.” He thrust his hips against her to punctuate his statement.

  She was struggling to remember why that wasn’t the best idea anyone had ever had, but the kiss had done its work. The shock had evaporated from her brain and she felt like she could think and move again. She unwrapped her legs and slid down his body, heartily enjoying his disappointed groan. When her feet hit solid ground, Paul pulled her into a tight embrace.

  “Thank you.” She murmured into his neck as he held her to him.

  “Happy to be of service ma’am.” He panted by her ear.

  She gave in to an impish urge to grind her hips against him one more time, thoroughly enjoying his tortured groan. With a contented smile she took his hand and they continued back towards the spot that the shelter’s stall had occupied.

  The smile dropped from Ashleigh’s face as they approached. Michelle and Rachel were already packing everything away, crying silent tears as they did so. Ashleigh helped them to get the animals back into their traveling crates as Paul ferried them to her SUV. While they were working, people appeared with trash bags and began to collect the garbage; others appeared to collect the donation buckets. It was like watching a slow motion film of a flower opening. Every time Ashleigh looked up, the park seemed a little more set to rights. A time or two she spotted her mother, sunglasses in place, her mouth set in a firm line as she directed the preliminary clean up.

  Ashleigh wrapped the pieces of the tiny body of the murdered puppy in the paper tablecloth that had covered the table at their stall. Blood immediately began to seep through the makeshift shroud, but she wouldn’t leave it to be thrown into the trash like so much garbage. She placed it tenderly on the rubber mat in the foot well of her car before she set off to the clinic. Michelle and Rachel followed in Rachel’s Honda and Paul behind them on his bike; they made a somber little convoy.

  They unloaded the animals in silence and returned them to their cages, ensuring that they had food and water and checking for signs of distress or injury. Generally they seemed no worse than most animals after the fireworks of a particularly hearty Fourth of July, but Ashleigh knew the little Cavie puppies would get extra cuddles and would be watched carefully for signs that having witnessed the violent death of their brother was affecting their behavior. For the present they were basking in the extra attention. Ashleigh took the meager, yet grisly, bundle from her car and found a place for it in the mortuary room. The clinic had its own crematorium. When she had time to perform the procedure properly, she would make sure that the little body was taken care of.

  Performing her professional duties helped to blow any remaining cobwebs away. By the time she and Paul arrived at the clubhouse, she almost felt like a fully functioning human being again. They walked in to find all the patches there that weren’t at the hospital, plus all the club girls and the hangarounds, milling in the main room. She and Paul must have been the last to arrive. When her father spotted her, he stepped onto the raised podium that the stripper poles sprouted from. A hush fell over the murmuring crowd.

  “It’s good to see so many of y’all whole. I’ve had word from St. Raphael’s. We’re two brothers down. Morse is critical, he’s still in surgery. Fletch is stitched up, but they’re keepin’ the old bastard in. No doubt they’ll kick him out soon for harassin’ the nurses.” A nervous titter of laughter rippled over the assembled crowd.

  “For tonight I’d appreciate it if y’all stayed here. This ain’t a lockdown, but I’d sure sleep easier knowin’ you’re all safe tonight. We’ve an idea what today was all about, and I can tell you that the Chief is lookin’ hard at us too. There’s five people ain’t gonna be goin’ home to their families ever again and another two dozen more’ll be carryin’ scars from this afternoon, our boys amongst ‘em, and that blood’s on our hands. I don’t wanna be washin’ more off. Y’all need to be keepin’ your eyes open, your doors locked and your guns close ‘til this blows over. Now, find yourselves a corner and get comfy. Take out’s on its way.”

  Samuel stepped down off the dais to a round of applause and was immediately surrounded by people. She could see the top of her mother’s russet head as she pushed her way through the throng to her husband’s side. She spotted Dean disappearing to the dorms with, she thought, Tricia and Sammy.

  Ashleigh turned to Paul. “Let me see your arm.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s hardly even bleedin’.” She gave him a hard look. “Oh, okay.”

  There was a deep scrape on the outside of his left bicep. Blood was oozing out of it, but not flowing freely. Ashleigh pulled him over to the bar. She slipped behind the counter and pulled the substantial First Aid kit from its place. Paul hissed when she swiped the wound with iodine, but held still as she bound it with gauze and padding.

  “You’ll need to get your ink fixed.” The furrow that the bullet had carved in his skin had cut through the tail of the dragon and was too wide to be stitched.

  “I’ll take that over what could’ve been.”

  She repacked and closed up the box and returned it to the shelf underneath the counter. Paul met her at the end of the bar as she walked around it, took her hand and led her to one of the empty dorm rooms. Patches took precedence for the beds; everyone else would have to find their own corner. Usually if the club called a lockdown, her mother prepared mattresses and blankets, but on this short notice it was every man for himself.

  Ashleigh hadn’t finished shutting the door behind them when Paul’s cell phone rang. He answered it with a few curt words, ended the call and tucked the handset back in his kutte without explanation. For a moment he held himself complet
ely rigid, and Ashleigh worried that it had been bad news about Morse or maybe Fletch. He let out a deep breath and turned to her. At first he seemed to be on his way to trying to smile, but then he frowned.

  “Beauty, you’re covered in blood. You need a shower.”

  She looked down at her arms; she had been too busy to pay any attention to the mess. She was still coated in Morse’s blood, and Fletch’s, although it had dried. It was crusting and brown and as if looking at it highlighted the sensation in her brain it started to itch. When she looked back up at Paul she saw wide smears across his clothing. “So do you.”

  “Nuh huh.” He shook his head. “It’s mostly on my clothes and I wouldn’t want to get my fancy bandage all wet.”