The boy sucked in a breath, peeked through his eyes, then was right back to it.
“Jeb, my name is Creed. And this good girl is Rou. Can you tell me what’s hurting you?”
The boy faced him, opened his mouth wide, and a screech came out that made the hairs on Creed’s arms stand up.
Creed took a moment to sweep the area, looking for any clues.
March, in Creed’s experience, just wasn’t as dangerous a month as others.
Animals were still mostly sleeping through the cold.
“I’m going to check you over, buddy. I see you have your hands around your throat. Can you tell me why?” Creed asked as he knelt beside Jeb, scanning the child’s front and back for blood. He saw nothing. Creed thought that he’d been screaming loud enough and hard enough that he was sounding hoarse and his throat would probably hurt for a few days from that.
Pulling his first aid kit from his day pack, Creed unzipped the MOLLE system and pulled out a penlight.
From the way the boy was squinting his eyes tight, Creed thought that he might have been running into a branch and gotten a flick in the face.
Eye injuries on searches weren’t uncommon, and Iniquus required eye protective gear in the woods.
There were no welts or other signs of trauma on either side of the child’s face, no scratches or scrapes.
At a loss, Creed went with a methodical approach.
He started by examining the boy's hair, head, and neck. Next, he felt along his limbs for signs of abnormalities. He found nothing that suggested dislocation, break, or even a sprain. There was no blood. He didn’t see a sting, swelling, or bruising.
Just screaming.
Screaming that was unabated by time or attention.
Gator raced up the hill, and the men caught each other's gaze.
Creed gave a shake of the head as he lifted the pen light to look in the boy's mouth.
Saliva pooled under the boy’s tongue and drooled out the sides of his lips. The flesh looked red and irritated.
“Did you eat something that made your mouth hurt, buddy?” When Creed asked that, Gator seemed to realize they were dealing with more than a frightened child.
Creed looked at the child’s hands and saw no tell-tale stains or residue. When he released the boy’s hands, Jeb moved them straight back to his throat.
“Check his pockets,” Gator suggested.
Creed slid his fingers into each pocket to see if there was anything in there, then looked over his shoulder and shook his head.
Not knowing the cause of the distress meant they were unable to counteract it.
Gator pressed his sternal mic and called in a possible poisoning to Striker, who got an ambulance headed their way.
The problem was that the closest fire station with a paramedic on duty was a good thirty minutes up the road, even if they went heavy on the pedal, running lights and sirens. A rescue squad was even farther away. Better to get them in motion, imagining the worst, and turn them back around if this were a false alarm.
“Are you allergic to anything, buddy?” Creed asked, lifting the light to find what clues he could in his assessment. It couldn’t be a sting; the damaged tissue was all over Jeb’s mouth. His throat was red, but at that moment, it looked angry, not swollen. Jeb wasn’t wheezing. He didn’t have a high-pitched sound on the inhale. Creed wasn’t immediately afraid of anaphylaxis. “Hey, Jeb, are you itchy anywhere?”
The boy shook his head.
That first piece of communication was a step forward. “What about your tummy? Do you feel sick to your stomach? Have a tummy ache?”
Jeb shook his head.
Creed rested his fingers on the boy’s wrist and checked his pulse. His heart rate was elevated; the kid was obviously in distress, so that was expected.
