Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  Hank lunged after her. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She began inching her way toward the tent. “My gun.”

  “No!” Hank’s face was pale and alarmed. “Don’t be an idiot. You can’t have a gun fight with some berserk maniac.”

  “I can try. It’s better than being a sitting duck, for God’s sake.”

  Was the tent’s netting zipper stuck or was it just her clumsiness?

  “You’re a clear target, Rachel. Get behind something!”

  She was still fumbling with the zipper when another shot thumped into the dry ground. Flakes of clay-like dirt were sliced away from where it plowed into a hole a few feet from her leg. Another crack, another bullet zinged into the arid soil, this one near her elbow. The shooter was either a bad shot or was too far away for much accuracy.

  It all seemed to happen at once: Hank’s yell, his body landing across her shoulders, flattening her to the ground, and the sound of the gun firing again.

  She wasn’t sure what had happened until the blood began to pool on the ground near her chin.

  999

  “You okay?” The question was a reflex. No way he was okay.

  Hank seemed to try to answer. Then his weight on her back went leaden.

  Another shot exploded but failed to strike either of them.

  Rachel clawed at the jammed zipper and it finally gave way. With all the strength she could muster, with Hank’s weight draining her effort, she pulled herself into the tent.

  She had rolled out from under him, had grasped his shoulders and was hauling the rest of him into the tent when the next bullet hit with a thump.

  His body shuddered with the impact and he groaned.

  Blood was oozing from somewhere near his belt. Grabbing her backpack from where it lay in a corner, she slipped her hand inside to where she had put the thirty-eight the night before.

  She had to crawl over Hank to get to the ripped net at the tent door.

  You were wrong, Hank. I am going to have a gun fight with a berserk maniac. I have no choice.

  999

  Drawing open the tent flap just enough to accommodate the gun barrel, Rachel aimed at a spot along the trail. Even if she could spot the gunman, she knew her accuracy with the thirty-eight this far away would be poor at best. If she shot now, the bullet would go wild.

  Wouldn’t it be worth something to warn the madman off? To prove she wasn’t defenseless?

  No.

  He had watched her, knew where she was. He thought all he had to do now was keep firing at the tent and the chances of hitting her or Hank inside weren’t bad. He was half right.

  She squinted and scanned the brush around the path but couldn’t find their attacker.

  “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she whispered.

  Then she did see him. Almost indistinguishable from a shrub but moving sideways. That must be where the trail turned. Camouflage cap and shirt, melting into the landscape. A rifle pointed down his right leg toward the ground.

  Gripping her gun with both hands, Rachel planted her feet apart, and pushed the muzzle through the tent flap.

  She thought she saw him take aim, and it required all the control she had not to pull the thirty-eight’s trigger.

  A bullet tore a hole in the corner of the tent. Rachel glanced behind her. This shot had exited without hitting anything.

  “You bastard!” she hissed.

  Struggling to control the rush of sheer anger, she tried to think.

  She moved a little farther back and to the side of the tent flap. Gaze riveted on the place where the small trail left the main path and headed into the canyon, she took a couple of deep breaths.

  Her eyes began to hurt from straining to see someone who almost matched the landscape. Had she lost him?

  Then he moved into the open. Rifle raised, aiming toward her. And terrifyingly close. Only a little above and nearly halfway along the short trail that would bring him to the canyon bottom. How had she missed him at the turnoff?

  But he was in the open. Within range. And she had a clear shot.

  She squeezed off two shots and saw him run to the left, off the trail.

  He was harder to see now, crouching behind a shrub.

  Rising, he stumbled farther off the trail, turned and brought the rifle into position again.

  She fired.

  He flopped backward.

  She sank to her knees. “Thank God.”

  Then the tears began.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The moment of relief didn’t last.

  From behind her came the sound of a low moan. The awareness that Hank was injured, maybe way beyond serious, roared back into her consciousness.

  He still lay prone, head to the side, in the position he had landed, one leg and one arm bent. She knelt by his side. Blood was pooling on the tent floor beneath him. Should she try to turn him over? What if the bullet had rattled around inside him and struck his spine? Would turning him, moving him at all do more damage?

  If she did nothing, he might bleed to death.

  The eye she could see flickered open, seemed to stare at her without recognition, then closed again. His face was frighteningly colorless.

  “Hank.” She gently touched his arm, then said his name louder.

  He took a short, hard breath, but didn’t respond.

  One bullet apparently had thumped through the fleshy part of his upper arm. The blood there was already congealing.

  The other injury was a different matter. There seemed to be an awful lot of blood. The bullet had entered his back below his ribs. The bleeding there didn’t seem too bad. The puddle of blood must be coming from where the slug had exited.

  Rachel tried to remember the first aid course she had taken years ago. Above all she needed something sterile and absorbent.

  She grabbed her handbag, dumped out the contents, scooped up a purple tampon container, then picked up the shirt she had worn the day before and twisted it into a rope.

  Turning Hank on his side as gently as she could, she slipped the end of the shirt under him. Stripping away the paper, she removed the tampon, pressed it into the wound, and held it there with her knee while she tied the shirt tightly across it.

  That was better than nothing, but it was nowhere near enough.

  She couldn’t carry him. Couldn’t even drag him very far. And he was bleeding internally.

  She had to get help.

  Praying he was carrying his cell phone, hadn’t left it somewhere or lost it, she reached into Hank’s pocket. The phone was there.

  Rachel drew it out and pressed the on button. The little screen lit up. The battery was charged. But there was no sign of a signal.

  She went to the torn netting at the door of the tent and, peered out, scanning the landscape between the tent and where the shooter had left the trail. Was the bastard out of commission? Or had he faked being hit, and was now sneaking closer?

  Finally, she made him out, still lying where he had fallen.

  She picked up her gun from where she had dropped it and, phone in one hand, thirty-eight in the other, stepped through the ripped netting.

  Still no cell phone signal.

  She walked a hundred feet into the canyon, and as far as she could in every other direction.

  To no avail.

  Running fingers through her hair, she grasped some strands in her fist as if that might help her think better. Maybe it did.

  She would have to go to the top of the canyon. There would be a signal there.

  How long would it take? The two of them had spent hours, but they had taken several side trails, and had stopped first for a snack, then for lunch.

  She went back to Hank. Called his name. Touched his cheek.

  He didn’t rouse.

  His cheek seemed cool.

  He’s in shock. I should have covered him immediately.

  She seized a sleeping bag, pushed one edge under him, and draped the other over him.

  T
aking a deep breath, knowing he probably couldn’t hear her, she told him, “I’m going to get help.”

  It was a long way to the top. No way could she run it flat out. Breaking into a jog, she mostly watched the path. The ground was uneven, and there were stones, tree branches, pine cones, and roots that could cause a stumble.

  For the first time, it occurred to her that if she broke a leg, they might both die here in this place that had seemed such a paradise.

  Don’t think. Just keep moving.

  She kept a steady pace, slowing every so often to check the phone for a signal. No luck. Each time she glanced up, the top of the canyon didn’t seem much closer.

  A large bird flapped up from the ground nearby, startling her. She almost turned an ankle. She was thirsty. She should have brought water.

  Was the man she shot dead or only unconscious? He must have been insane. What reason could he have had for shooting at them? She should have tried to find his body before leaving. Made sure he was dead. If he was still alive, could she have killed him in cold blood? Maybe not, but she could have taken his rifle. And maybe even put a bullet through his knee.

  What if he came to and went after Hank while she was gone?

  Too late to think about that. Just keep moving.

  Her thighs began to ache. Or had they been aching all along and she had just noticed? The ache became a piercing, unrelenting pain.

  A breeze gave her a chill and she realized she was damp with sweat.

  The sky seemed to be darkening. Was there a storm coming?

  Lungs growing more raw with each breath, she slowed a little, but kept going.

  A squirrel sat up in the path ahead and stared at her as if it couldn’t believe its eyes, then scrambled up a tree.

  She slowed again to check the phone. Nothing. Who should she call once she got a signal? Nine-one-one? What could they do in a situation like this?

  At last, she reached the steepest part of the trail, close to the top. Agonizingly slowly, she picked her way up over the rocks.

  When she finally strode along the canyon rim, it didn’t look as wondrous as it had when she’d first reached it with Hank. It looked remote. The end of the world, not the top of it. A wind was whipping up, bending the trees.

  Rachel fell more than sat. Breathing heavily, she took the phone from her pocket.

  No signal.

  She wanted to scream at God that it wasn’t fair.

  Was there something wrong with the phone? It had worked when she had called Irene from the car. Did the trees block the signal?

  Staggering to her feet, she walked, watching the cell phone screen.

  A signal flickered. Yes!

  But before she could dial, it was gone again.

  A few more steps and it showed again. Strong.

  Hurriedly, she dialed nine-one-one.

  A voice answered, but cut in and out.

  “I’m calling on a cell phone. I’m up in the Angeles.…In the Angeles.…Yes, the mountains north.…I don’t know exactly where…a man here is injured. Badly injured.…Gun shot. Someone shot him….He’s losing blood. He needs medical help…now…as fast as possible.”

  Suddenly overcome with panic, she had to fight not to break down.

  Explaining as best she could where Hank was, the turnout, the path to him about a mile long, some of it across a narrow ledge, the place they had camped, Rachel’s voice began to tear at her throat, which already was stretched tight with fear. How could anyone find them? Hank would die.

  “Hold for a moment please,” the operator said.

  Rachel tried to calm herself by taking deep breaths. It seemed like a lot of time passed. Had she been cut off? She was afraid to stay on what might be a dead line, and afraid to redial.

  Finally, the phone crackled as the operator came back on line. “There is a search and rescue team headquartered not far from you. I have contacted them, but I can’t patch you through.” The connection faded, then came back. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.” Rachel turned her back to the wind and yelled into the phone.

  “The rescue team is sending a helicopter. They don’t want to haul an injured person on a litter for a long distance. You did say it was a mile or so to the road?”

  “Yes. I think it’s about a mile.”

  “Go back to the tent,” the operator told her. She was to tear it down and take the big piece of fabric to the most open place she could find and anchor it with rocks. The rescue team would look for that.

  “But time is very tight. They can’t operate a chopper in a canyon after dark. The sun drops early and quickly in a canyon. If there isn’t enough light, they say they’ll have to go back and come in from the road.”

  Rachel headed back to the camp as fast as she could. It didn’t help knowing she would be out of communication from here on.

  999

  Hank had not regained consciousness. She probed under his jaw for a pulse. It was thin but seemed steady.

  She checked the safety on her gun, unsnapped the deep pocket on the leg of her cargo pants, nosed the thirty-eight into it and fastened the flap.

  With the one sharp knife Hank had packed with the supplies, she made a ragged slice through the floor of the tent end to end around Hank. Using that as a makeshift litter, she dragged him as gently as she could out into the open.

  Looking up the path toward the place where the shooter had fallen, she couldn’t pick out the camouflage-clad body on the ground from the landscape. Was it because the light had shifted?

  Please God, don’t let him wake up and come after us, now.

  Should she go over there? Make sure he was still there and disabled if not dead? But there was so little time.

  The tent came down easily even though she did everything wrong at least once.

  She gathered the nylon, carried it about fifty yards along the canyon floor, and laid it out as best she could at the widest, most open and flat space she could find.

  What if they couldn’t find her? What if her directions were wrong?

  Don’t even go there.

  She could find only one rock light enough to carry, but heavy enough to hold down the remains of the tent.

  What if?

  Don’t think….

  Chapter Forty-two

  Rachel had driven tent pegs through two corners and was setting a third in the fabric of the collapsed tent when she heard the heavy buzz and steady thump of a helicopter. She had seen a lot of them on the helipad above the garage, but none as beautiful as this one.

  Standing in the flattened tent, she waved both arms over her head.

  “Here!” she yelled, knowing they couldn’t hear her but yelling anyway. “Here!”

  The thumps slowed. The chopper seemed to come to a halt almost directly above her.

  “We see you!” The voice from the bullhorn came loud and weird, as if from some strange deity.

  Then there was just the loud pulse of the chopper blades biting through the air. It descended a little, the wind from the blades bending the surrounding shrubs and making it hard for her to stay upright. Rachel staggered two steps, then leaned into the wind.

  Would they land? Where? Was she in the way?

  She was waiting for instructions from the bullhorn when she saw something begin to descend on a cable from the body of the helicopter. It became a person wearing a red jacket crossed by the broad straps of a harness. The helmet, too, was red, the field pants, olive green.

  When the person, a wiry, small blond, reached the ground, she took charge immediately.

  Another person began the descent. A man, followed by equipment of some sort.

  Rachel called, “There’s something else I should tell you.”

  Both rescue people gave her stern looks, clearly not wanting to hear something new at this stage.

  Nor did she want to say it. But it had to be said.

  “I’m pretty sure I hit the guy who shot my friend.” She pointed up the trail. “He went down, fell, ov
er there. I haven’t been watching all the time, but I haven’t seen any sign of him since.”

  The man nodded silently, without expression, and trotted in that direction.

  Rachel followed the woman to where Hank lay, watched the hands moving over him, then caught her eye and asked a silent question.

  The woman raised her eyebrows, then, “I’ve seen worse.” She looked hard at Rachel, whose head had begun a slow spin, and ordered, “Sit down.”

  The man returned, shaking his head. “Dead. The sheriffs will want to secure the site and remove him themselves.”

  A second man in red jacket and helmet dropped down on the helicopter’s cable. Working with amazing speed, the three put together a litter of heavy blue fabric and orange lacing. When Hank was secured to it with thick black straps and pink-and-blue bungee cords, they carried him toward where the chopper was still hovering.

  Rachel followed, lurching almost drunkenly, knowing she was barely coherent.

  Hank still hadn’t moved. Was he okay? Well, not okay, but alive?

  Don’t go there.

  A contraption was descending from the helicopter. The red-jacketed trio worked in unison securing Hank’s litter to it. Rachel wasn’t sure how they did it. The cable went up and down. She lost track of the number of times. She was scooping up the scattered contents of her purse when the woman called, beckoning her.

  Rachel did as she was told. Prodded and harnessed, she was drawn upward, twisting slightly, like some crazy ride at Magic Mountain, the weight in the pocket of her cargo pants slinging awkwardly against her leg.

  999

  They landed so quickly, Rachel wondered if she had somehow dozed off. “Where are we?”

  “Pasadena Memorial General.”

  She tried to follow Hank as they transferred his litter to a gurney and pushed the gurney into an elevator. But the doors closed before Rachel and the woman from the rescue team got there. When they opened again on an empty car, the woman steered her into it, then out at a lower floor, down a bright yellow hall with white woodwork, to the door of what appeared to be a medical examination room.

  “No,” Rachel said. “I’m fine. I just need to find my friend.”

  Two men in police uniforms appeared at the end of the hall.