The animal was easily three hundred pounds, maybe more. Definitely more. Resting on its side, its bloody belly was exposed. The thing was female, and a mommy thing at that.
Rory lay on his back, gripping his thigh with both hands and moaning. Scratches and cuts crisscrossed his face and forearms, defensive wounds, weeping blood. His shorts were torn, and near his waist, a dark red spot was spreading ominously. More red ran down his leg. Bright red ran through his fingers, and curses flew fromRory’s mouth faster than the blood. One quick look told me all I needed to know: Rory needed more help than just me.
“Hang in there,” I told him. Moving quickly, I ripped a cloth from my waist, tore it in half, and then wrapped part around Rory’s thigh in a makeshift tourniquet. My hands were coated with blood. Red was everywhere. I’d just cinched the knot tight when a mewling squeal split the silence behind me.
Snatching up my bloody knife, I turned. A small piggy creature crept from the trees and skittered toward the dead boar. It nosed the beast’s belly, trying to suckle.A baby, I thought, lowering my knife.
Rory moaned. His hands were back on his leg. “Fuck, it hurts.”
Kneeling, I pressed the extra cloth to Rory’s hip. Red saturated the material and matted the cloth to his skin, making me wish I had something more, knowing I didn’t. I hefted Rory over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, angling his body to put pressure on his hip wound.
“Hang in there,” I said, gritting my teeth against his weight. “You’re going back to the City, at least for now.”
Rory moaned again. “Fuck.”
“A cluster,” I agreed.
The walk back sucked, more than I could have imagined. Each step felt like I was hauling a two-hundred-pound sack of cement. My forearm throbbed, and my quads burned like I’d spent the day boarding. Soon I was huffing like I was high on a mountain, climbing into thin air with my backpack and board, just before it got good and I flew downhill.
Only there was no flying today; no good would follow. My foot slipped in my shoe, sliding on something warm. Sweat, blood, I had no clue. My hands were wet and sticky, too. With my sweat and maybe with my blood. Or Rory’s, or the beast’s. Or maybe all three.
Rory stopped cursing, a bad sign. I picked up my pace.
“Stay—with—me,” I panted.
When I caught sight of the Shack, Sy was outside, stretching pulp out to dry.
“Sy!” I gasped. “Get Rives! Miguel!”
He took one look, dropped the pulp, and took off, shouting. Rives came running, with Johan. Bart trailed behind, with Charley and Talla on his heels.
Johan and Rives lifted Rory off my shoulders; the abrupt loss of weight made my legs buckle. “Need line,” I managed, watching them lay Rory on the ground. “For stitches.”
I collapsed, wishing we had Sabine or Natalie or anyone else with a clue about island medicine. At least Miguel could string line for fish. “Where’s Miguel?”
“Fishing,” Charley said, kneeling beside me.
“Who else can stitch?” I directed this question at Rives and Johan. They were taking Rory’s pulse and assessing the damage. Rory was out cold.
“Li,” Bart offered.
“He meant who’s around,” Talla snapped.
“The City’s pretty empty right now,” Charley said softly. “I think it’s up to us.” Eyeing Rory, she took a deep breath. “What can I do?”
“He needs blankets,” I said. “And bandages. I think he’s in shock. And we need Miguel or someone else who can stitch.” I looked at Bart, who hadn’t moved. “Now!” I barked.
Rives leaned back on his heels. “Thad, I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
“Who? Miguel?” I said, confused.
Rives shook his head. “Rory. He’s gone.”
“Gone?” I was stunned. “Check for a pulse. Again.”
“I did.” Rives’s light eyes were shadowed. “There’s nothing. He’s dead.”
“Check again,” I said, feeling sick. Feeling responsible. Forchasing him. For interfering. For doing too much and for not doing enough.
