Mother…fuck.
I rip through the tackle box, finding the scissors and specialty bandages, then immediately begin to cut away his vest and shirt, tossing them to the ground.
The holes in his chest wall, front and back, look unimpressive.
The way a rattlesnake bite looks like two pinpricks.
Or the way a hemorrhagic virus under a microscope looks like a nubby beach ball.
Ordinary and deadly.
Ignoring the sounds of my childhood home collapsing, I wipe down the entry wound and stick the specialty occlusive bandage over it, making sure that it is properly vented to stabilize the pressure in his pleural cavity. Omar loses consciousness as I lean him back to repeat the process for the exit wound.
The hiss of escaping air indicates his lungs are repressurizing, and it sends a wave of relief through my chest.
Within moments his breathing returns to normal, and Omar slow-blinks back into consciousness. I squeeze his arm, wishing I could kiss him.
“Are you telling me that Everett got Surgeon Anders and all I got was Band-Aid Anders?” Omar asks, his voice thready and amused.
Pursing my lips, I dig around the tackle box and find the blade, tubing, and Kelly forceps I would’ve used for a more serious pneumothorax. Holding them up, I say, “I could always go with Field Medic Anders, but this method sucks donkey balls, and there’s not enough morphine in the world to make it less excruciating.”
Scrunching up his face, he answers, “Nah, I’m good.”
“That’s what I thought.”
This of course leaves the reality of bullet wounds in my man’s chest.
I lean in, asking quietly, “Where’s the shooter?”
“It was the weirdest thing—he slipped and broke his neck right before the house collapsed around us.”
“Stealing my move, I see.”
“It’s a good move,” he says, kissing my cheek.
Checking the mirror, he lowers his voice even further. “He had comms and was talking to a guy named Josh.”
“Fuck. Okay, let’s get you lot to the hospital, and we’ll deal with that asshole later.” I grab for my syringes and hold them up. “Mind if I shoot you up with a serum of specious origin?”
“Will it get you in my bed faster?”
“Yessir.”
“Then shoot me up.”
I place a few injections around the wound sites, careful not to overdo it. I have a few drops left, so I reach across and rub them into Samuel’s scar.
Standing up, I brush back Omar’s hair and speak in a normal tone. “All right now, stop your whining—I already let you win this afternoon.”
“Let?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye. “Can I get a real doctor?”
“I like this Omar guy,” my mom says from the back, laughing at her own joke.
I give him my best fake pout. “You can both get bent.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” my father says drily.
Samuel chimes in. “At least it doesn’t smell like poppers in this car.”
