It doesn’t clear up my headache, but the twinge behind my eyes subsides. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go inside,” Voss says. “Let Mark look at your wound.”
I don’t argue.
“Don’t kill the guys in the back of the truck,” Voss says. “I hesitate to tell you not to hurt them since they’re clearly involved, but…” He shakes his head as he practically carries me to the front door.
“Is it safe in there?” I ask.
Two of the triplets remain outside, heading to the truck. The other joins me, Voss, and Malcolm, heading inside.
“It’s safe. Two are dead. One is…”
“Unconscious,” Malcolm says. “I don’t think he’ll wake up for a while.”
Fear of being surprised when we step inside has my feet dragging. Or maybe they just feel heavy. It could be the pain in my ankle that makes me slow down. Or the overwhelming feeling that I might throw up.
Malcolm goes in first. The remaining triplet, which is probably Imry since the other two never split up, opens the door for us to step inside.
It looks like a stereotypical hunting cabin. There’s furniture made of logs and woodland fabric. Deer antler chandeliers. Carcasses of dead animals hanging on the walls and over the mantle. There’s a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace with a real taxidermy head.
Voss helps me to the couch and adjusts his hold on me so I can sit. I hesitate, my grip on him tightening.
“I’m not leaving you. Promise,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Mark needs to look at your bullet wound, Brek.”
I look around. This place makes me uneasy. Voss urges me a little more insistently, and I allow myself to sit. He sits with me and then coaxes me into lying down with my head in his lap. Okay. I can do this. Using Voss’ thigh as my pillow means he’s not going anywhere.
Mark and Voss take my shirt off me. I try to help, but now that I’m lying down, everything about me feels really heavy. It’s a struggle to move.
Their voices sound like they’re coming from a distance. I feel everywhere Mark touches. It’s a stabbing pain and cold. Like he’s constantly poking me everywhere with something out of the freezer.
“What’re the rest of these injuries from?” Mark asks.
“He fell down a hill,” Voss says.
“Did you hit your head, Brek?”
I think about the fall. I remember rolling forever. Every revolution hurt as I was poked and stabbed and scraped on my way down. I hit trees, mostly saplings, fallen, rotting logs, and stumps. Not to mention the rocks that jutted out from the side of the hill.
I remember looking up to the top when I lay beside the rushing water. It was only a stream, but the streambed was wide. I bet it floods during rainstorms. It was probably an actual river at one time. It wouldn’t take much convincing to think that humans interfered with its flow.
“Brek?”
Oh, right. Did I hit my head? “I don’t know,” I answer. “I don’t think I did, but I can’t remember.”
“How does your head feel?” Mark asks. “Is it tender to the touch anywhere? Do you have a headache?”
His hands move through my hair, around my head, and at the base of my skull. Along my neck. “It doesn’t hurt,” I tell him.“Not when you touch me. But yeah, I have a headache. Might have been because my glasses were broken and it was straining on my eyes, though. It could also be because my entire body hurts and the pain hasn’t stopped since I was shot.”
“When did his fever begin?” Mark asks.
Since his question doesn’t sound like it’s directed at me, I let my body sag against Voss.
“Two days ago. About thirty-six hours or so after he was shot. We have basic pain relief in the first-aid kits, but it wasn’t touching the fever much.”
“First-aid kits?”
Voss snorts. “Yeah. Dude, this place is weird as fuck. I kept him on pain meds, trying to combat the fever and his pain. We cleaned his bullet wound often, but there wasn’t much we could do. There wasn’t someone with medical training, so we did what made sense.”
