“Owww. Watch what you’re doing, Jimmy.” The old man’s voice is strained and etched with pain as he maneuvers into the back of the van.
“Slide back to make room,” Jimmy directs. I lose sight of both men in the windowless van.
“Are you going to help him or what?” Jimmy jumps down.
“Yes, right.” Hurt guy. Needs help. On it.
Years of training and experience kick in, and the world around me falls away, allowing my focus to take over.
“All right, nurse. Fix me up.” Dominic says, leaning back on the van floor, his loose-fitting trouser leg rolled up to his thigh. The area’s red with blood.
He’s too far back to treat from the ground, so I slide into the van to get a better look.
“Do you have anything for me to clean the wound with?” The end of my sentence got lost in the sound of two doors crashing shut.
“Hey!” I spin around and jiggle the handle, pounding on the doors. They don’t budge.
The van starts up.
“What the hell?” I continue my assault on the back doors, not getting anywhere.
Every alarm bell my brain lights up. There are dings and crashes. Strobe lights and flashes. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know this never ends well.
My body pitches back with the van when it moves. The space fills with laughter, and I turn around in one slow motion.
Any lingering belief this is one big misunderstanding slips away when I’m met with the barrel of a gun.
Where the hell are people hiding them?
This one isn’t large and shiny silver like the one Spencer pulls out at a moment’s notice. It’s small and a dull black. Toy-like.
Except I’m not willing to test my luck and find out.
“The knee.” He waves the gun at his leg.
I inch closer. “You know guns kill over ten thousand people a year in the U.S.?”
He laughs harder than before. “Is that so? Betty has only killed two. Guess we have some catching up to do.”
What sick person names their gun? And Betty? That’s a sweet name for someone’s grandmother, not a weapon.
“Let’s get a move on before I lose more blood.” He waves the gun around and I cringe.
We can only hope.
Call it un-nurse like if you want, but my professionalism goes out the window when someone points a gun at me.
I inch closer and inspect the open gash. “The bleeding has stopped, but you could use some stitches.”
“How many?” he asks.
Three. Maybe five at most. “Ten,” I answer. The worse his cut is, the more he’ll want to keep me around.
“Can you sew it up?”
“I’ll need supplies.”
He rolls his pant leg down. “What kind?”
