by Amy Cross
Frantically tipping the contents of Toad's bag onto the ground, I immediately see that as well as some food, he was also carrying what appears to be a set of bandages. Sure enough, I quickly find not only the bandages, but also a pair of scissors, some cotton swabs, and a small bottle that I'm hoping contains something I can use to clean the wound. He definitely came prepared.
"What do I do?" I ask, desperately hoping that toad might wake up and give me some advice. He seems like the kind of guy who'd have no problem performing a spot of battlefield surgery. If this was the other way around and I was the one who'd been shot, he'd have patched me up by now; unfortunately, his life is in my hands and I'm the worst person in the world to have to do something like this.
He's going to die. Just like Henry.
I look over at him and see that he's still breathing, but only just. It's dark, but I've managed to get the fire going again. Having realized that we were both in danger of dying of exposure, I copied everything that Toad did earlier: I whittled away the wet bark from some pieces of wood, and I used some of his matches to get the fire restarted. I swear to God, it's the first really practical thing I've ever done, and I cried with joy when I realized that the fire was going to last. Sure, it might not last all night, but I've got more wood and I'm hoping I can manage to keep us warm.
"Okay," I mutter, carrying the medical supplies past the fire and kneeling next to Toad. "Now what?" I wait in vain for a reply. "If you can just wake up for a moment," I continue, "I can follow any instructions you give me. Please..." Reaching out, I gently tap his chest, hoping against hope that he might be strong enough to talk.
Silence.
The wound on his left shoulder appears to have stopped bleeding, but as I carefully peel his shirt away, I realize that there's more damage than I'd expected. It almost looks as if someone punched a fist-sized hole in the top of his arm, and for a moment I feel as if there's absolutely no way I can ever do anything to help. I hate the sight of blood, and as I peer closer at the wound, illuminated only a little by the light of the fire, I can't help thinking back to the injury that killed Henry. It's all happening again, except this time I'm going to try to do something.
"I'll take the bullet out," I say, looking at Toad's unconscious face. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I think I can see it, so I'm going to try to pull it out."
No reply.
"It's going to hurt," I add. "I don't know if you can feel pain right now, but I doubt I can do this cleanly, okay? It's going to..." I pause as I stare at the fleshy mess caused by the bullet, with blood glistening in the firelight and pieces of torn skin and meat around the edges. "It's really going to hurt," I continue. "Like, more than anything in the world. But I haven't got a choice."
Taking a deep breath, I grab the small bottle and open the lid, before splashing some of the liquid onto the wound. It smells strong and medical, so I'm going to assume that the wound is not sterile. I take the scissors and hold the blade in the flames for a moment, figuring that this should help to avoid any kind of infection, and then I take a closer look at the wound. I'm not certain, but I think I can see something dark and metallic deep in the flesh, and I can only assume that I'm looking directly at the bullet. In a way, the whole thing is strangely, beguilingly simple.
"Fuck," I mutter, realizing that there's no point hesitating.
I pause.
Why haven't I started yet?
I guess it's because I think he's going to die. While I'm preparing to do this, I can fool myself into thinking that there's a chance I might save him; somehow, I might turn out to have amazing, hidden surgical skills. The truth, though, is that there's very little hope. The most likely outcome is that I'll poke around in the wound a little, and then he'll die, and then I'll be left all alone out here.
"You can do this," I say out loud, hoping to build up my confidence even though my hands are shaking. Focusing for a moment, I manage to steady myself, and finally I realize that I have to get started.
Slowly, I open the scissors and slip the tips into the wound. Once I close them again, I realize that the black object is definitely made of metal. I make sure to get a good grip, and then I carefully try to pull the bullet out. To my surprise, it comes out fairly easily, although once I get a good look at it, I realize that the tip appears to have shattered, which means there are probably fragments deeper in the wound. I stare at the bullet stub for a moment, and it's as if my brain has frozen. There has to be a way to fix this, but at the same time, there's no way I can start digging deeper into Toad's shoulder.
Dropping the damaged piece of metal onto the ground, I peer more closely at the wound. I can just about spot what appears to be a bullet fragment, so I press the scissors into the wound, but Toad immediately lets out a faint groan and I sit back.
"Can you hear me?" I ask.
No reply.
"Please," I continue, close to tears. "You have to wake up. You have to tell me what I'm doing wrong."
I wait, but he doesn't reply.
Reaching the scissors into the wound again, I manage to get hold of the fragment and pull it out, and this time Toad doesn't respond. As I drop the second fragment, I look into the wound and see several more small pieces, but it's clear that the tip of the bullet was completely shattered, which means there's no way I'll ever be able to get every piece out.
"I can't do this," I say, my voice trembling. "If you can hear me, I swear to God, I did my best, but I can't do everything. You need a proper doctor."
Finally, I decide that all I can do is try to patch him up and then hope that he can survive until we get back to the farm. After all, Patricia's a doctor, so she should be able to help. Grabbing the bandages, I find that they each come with a small roll of adhesive tape. They seem woefully inadequate for covering such a major injury, but I don't have anything else, so I pour a little more of the sterilizing liquid onto the wound before finally placing the first bandage directly over the gaping hole in Toad's shoulder. I struggle for a while, trying to get the pad to stay on firmly, but eventually I manage to get it properly sited and I sit back.
I did it.
Sure, it's not perfect, and he's not out of danger, but I managed to remove the bullet, sterilize the wound and fix a bandage to hopefully prevent any further damage. I have no way of knowing for sure whether what I've done is actually going to save Toad, but I figure it can't hurt. I did my best, and at least he's still breathing. I have no doubt that he'd have died if I'd just left him alone, so all I can do is pray that somehow he's able to pull through. I guess there's a chance. At the very least, I've minimized the risk of infection. I just have to hope that I've done enough.
Looking down at my hands, I see that there's blood all over my fingers. I glance over at the fire and realize that it's still burning fairly well. I have no idea what time it is, but the rain is still falling outside and the sun has been down for a few hours. Hopefully the rain will stop soon and sunrise will help me to work out which way we need to go in order to reach the farm. It's not exactly going to be an easy journey, but at least I'm starting to feel that there's a chance for us to survive. I remember where the sun rose this morning in relation to the farm, so I figure I might be able to work out roughly which way we need to go in the next few hours.
Walking over to the cave entrance, I stare out at the darkness. I have no way of knowing if another of those creatures is in the area, and even if we're alone, I doubt things will stay that way for long. I keep thinking back to the way the creature talked about coming after us, and it's hard not to imagine more of them - maybe hundreds, maybe even thousands - making their way toward us right now. Maybe we can ignore the danger for now, but sooner or later we're going to have to fight. Up until this moment, I've been allowing myself to dream that somehow the world is going to get put back to normal eventually. Finally, however, I'm starting to realize that things might never be the same again.
Thomas
Missouri
Once I've placed th
e cloth sacks back over the dead girl's body, I sit for a moment and try to work out what to do next. It's been more than twenty-four hours since I last heard from the old man, and I've managed to survive a whole night down here with the girl's body. Maybe I'm going crazy down here, but I feel as if she and I are somehow connected. After all, we've both ended up down here, and even though the rest of the world seems to have forgotten about her entirely, I figure that if I'm the one who happens to have stumbled onto her dead body, then it must be my responsibility to try to show her some respect.
Reaching into my pocket, I try to find something I can use as a cross, but there's nothing. This whole damn situation is so far beyond normality, there's no way to mark the girl's resting place. Then again, I figure maybe I can move her. If I ever manage to get out of this basement, I'm going to dig a proper grave and put the girl's body where it belongs, and then I'm going to make a cross and mark her final resting place. It's not much, and she deserves much more, but it's all I can do right now.
At least she's not like those creatures I saw the other day. They were bloated and decomposing, but they were alive. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that this mummified girl is just a corpse. There's no way she's going to come back to life, although maybe in some strange way I wouldn't mind if I could talk to her. I could ask her how she ended up down here, and what the old man did to her, and why she was never able to escape. I guess I'm finally losing my mind.
"Dear Lord," I mutter, putting my hands together in prayer, "I'm not gonna ask you why you did this, but I want to ask you to look after this girl's soul. Make sure she's right, and don't make her suffer. It's not her fault that she wasn't buried properly, so I don't think it's right that she should go to Hell or anything like that. If you can just wait a bit, I promise I'll put her in the ground properly. It's just gonna take a bit of time, that's all."
Silence.
"Amen," I add, before opening my eyes.
Damn it, have I lost my mind? I feel as if I don't know how to react to anything right now. I should be terrified of the girl's body, but somehow I'm not; instead, I feel drawn to her, as if she's my only friend in the world. I want to talk to her, to ask her about her life, to tell her that everything's going to be okay. I guess I'm going crazy, but for some strange reason, I feel as if I owe this girl a proper burial. Even if I can't get myself to safety, I'm damn well gonna get out of this basement and dig a grave for her somewhere. I swear to God, if that old man ever opens that door again, I'll get him. I don't know how I'll do it yet, but I'll kill him.
Just as I'm about to go back over to the other side of the basement, I realize that I haven't actually touched the girl's body yet. Normally, that would be a good thing, but I feel as if I should at least touch her once, just so that she knows she's not alone. Taking a deep breath, I lift up one of the sacks and see her mummified hand. Slowly, I reach down and brush one of my fingers against her dry, wrinkled skin. It's not much, but I figure she probably spent her last days in pain and misery, desperately hoping that someone would come and save her. No-one came, but at least I arrived eventually.
I try to work out what Joe would do in a situation like this. He'd probably have spent the whole night screaming and banging on the door, which is kind of what I did, but I can't help thinking that eventually he'd have come up with a plan. He'd have stayed angry and he'd have damn near ripped that door away. Then again, Joe was pretty strong, whereas I've always been kinda weedy. Joe would never even have got us into this mess in the first place. He'd have kept his guard up more, and he'd have made sure that no old man could ever get the jump on us. At least when Joe was around, I felt that we could manage, but now I feel as if it's only a matter of time before I die.
Once I'm back in the far corner, I can't help wondering if I'm going to end up like that girl. One day, will someone else be trapped down here, and will they find both of our bodies? For the first time, I feel as if I've got no hope at all.
Elizabeth
Pennsylvania
As soon as the sun rises, I start getting ready for the journey back to the farm. The fire lasted most of the night, and my clothes - although a little smoky - are now dry. I get changed quickly, refill Toad's backpack as best I can, and then finally I kneel next to him and check his pulse. He's still alive, and there's no sign of a fever. With the rain having passed, I figure I just have to get him home as fast as possible. It's not going to be easy.
Based on the position of the sun, I figure the farm is somewhere beyond the line of trees directly facing the cave. It takes me a couple of minutes to gather Toad up in my arms. He's not particularly heavy, but I'm the kind of person who's never really had to carry anything heavier than a fully-loaded shopping bag, and even then I complained all the way home. I can feel my body struggling to hold Toad's weight, but I can't leave him in the cave, so I start to slowly stagger out into the forest.
Within a couple of meters, my feet slip on the wet leaves and I crash to the ground, with Toad landing on top of me. My first thought is that I might have made his injury worse, but he seems to be okay. I crawl out from under him and get ready to pick him up again, but at the last moment I'm struck by the realization that I can't do this. Sure, it'd be great if I had the strength to carry the guy for hours and hours, all the way back to the farm, but I physically can't, and there's no point getting us both killed just because I want to prove a point. I can move faster if I'm alone, and I figure I can get Patricia and bring her back here.
After I've placed Toad back in the cave, I work on getting the fire restarted. I use his technique to strip wet bark from the wood, and finally - after not too much effort - I get the fire going. I arrange him as close as I dare, and then I turn and hurry out of the cave. I don't have long, and I need to get back here with help well before nightfall.
The journey back to the farm is long and slow, and at times I'm not certain that I know the right way. At the same time, I'm careful to make sure that I know how to find the cave again. After all, there's no point making my way back and finding Patricia and the others, only to discover that I've no idea how to get us back to Toad. Hurrying through the forest, I force myself to cling to the hope that somehow, through some kind of miracle, I might actually manage to save Toad and prove that I can survive in hard times. The odds are low, but I can't give up just yet. I have to keep trying.
After several hours, I emerge from the trees and finally spot the farm in the valley below. For a few seconds, I stand and stare at the miraculous sight, barely able to believe that it's real. Hurrying down the side of the hill, I finally reach the front door and race inside to find Bridger standing in the kitchen, rolling dough.
"Where the hell have you two been?" he asks, before I see a hint of realization in his eyes. "Where's Toad?"
"He's hurt," I say breathlessly. "I need Patricia."
"In the store-room," he replies.
Racing past him, I run along the corridor and into the store-room. I pull up short as I see that Patricia is over in the corner with Thor, who's got his hand under her shirt, fondling her breasts.
"Elizabeth!" Patricia shouts, pushing Thor away and hurrying over to me, while also re-buttoning her shirt. "What's wrong? What happened out there?"
"It's Toad," I say, trying to stay calm. "He's hurt. I tried to help him, but you've got to come!"
"I'll grab my bag," she replies, hurrying out into the corridor.
"What did you do to him?" Thor asks, clearly annoyed at having his little session interrupted.
"One of the creatures shot him," I say, turning to follow Patricia before Thor grabs my shoulder and pulls me back toward him. "Get the hell off me!" I shout.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," he says quietly, refusing to loosen his grip. "I just want to make sure you realize that you owe me. Dr. Connors was gonna give me something nice just now. It's only fair that you compensate me for the loss. How about tonight?"
"Go fuck yourself," I say, pulling away and running out into the corridor.
/>
"Maybe tomorrow, then!" Thor shouts after me. "But soon, okay?"
As soon as Patricia has got her medical kit together, she and I head back out to the forest. I explain everything as we go, filling her in on the encounter with the creature. She seems to find it a little hard to believe at first, and it's almost as if she doesn't quite trust me, but eventually she starts to accept that the story, however improbable, is exactly what happened. She's also worried that I don't know the way to the caves, and she keeps trying to lead me to some other set of caves that she thinks must be the ones we're looking for, but I'm adamant that I know the way and, sure enough, after a couple of hours we reach the small clearing next to the cave where I left Toad. The fire is still just about burning, and there's no sign that the scene has been disturbed while I was away.
"He's alive," Patricia says as she kneels next to him. Opening her medical bag, she immediately gets to work checking the wound on Toad's shoulder. Whereas I worked slowly and tentatively, she clearly knows what she's doing, and there's something reassuring about watching her deal with the problem.
"I did the best I could," I tell her, terrified that I might have made things worse. "I took the bullet out, but I think there are still pieces in there."
"You did good," she replies, grabbing a pair of tweezers from her bag. She dips the tip into a small bottle of sanitizer, before pouring the rest onto the wound. Finally, she starts extracting the last of the bullet fragments. "We have to get them all out," she tells me as she works. "Even the slightest piece could kill him later." Working in silence for a few minutes, she eventually sets the tweezers aside and grabs some tapes and gauze from her bag.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"We need to close the wound for the journey back," she explains. "Then it's just a matter of keeping it sterile and letting it heal."
I watch as she finishes her work. Within a few minutes, she's managed to get the wound dressed, and it looks a thousand times more secure and effective than the patchwork effort that I put together.
