"Get out of the car!" I hear behind me. Sounds like Scarface. I turn around to see a dusty pickup chugging slowly towards us. I can make out the vague features of a young guy through the cracked windshield. The others form a weak semicircle around the truck, which stops in front of Scarface, who's holding a gun at a half-threatening angle, aimed towards the broken headlights. Baller and Biker Chick have drawn their knives. I keep a hand on the sheath on my leg. With both side windows broken, the guy had no trouble hearing his orders. It takes him a moment to open the door, and when he does, he all but tumbles out of the truck. I soon see why. His entire shoulder is drenched in blood, and it's beginning to cover his side, too. I notice this as he rolls onto his back, groaning in agony.
Biker Chick sees it, too, and speaks up. "Hey, this kid's hurt," she states, gesturing to him with her knife.
Doctor—who is clearly not a doctor, judging by how pale his face got when he saw the blood leaking out of this guy—replies. "Should we help him?" Baller shakes his head.
"Gas first. Help later." Always the tough guy.
Scarface, seeming to have taken up the leadership position, walks toward the boy. I follow at his heels. I don't want him to shoot the poor kid, who looks out of it. His pain is probably clouding all his senses.
"Do you think he knows about the Promise Land?" Scarface mutters, mostly to himself. We see the guy nod slowly. I think he passes out after that. "Help him," Scarface orders. I don't need to be told twice. I kneel down next to the boy and drop my bag on the ground beside me. Digging through it, I pull out my half-empty first aid kit. There're some bandages, Neosporin, medical tape, scissors, and I've thrown my iodine in there, too. I cut away the boy's blood-soaked shirt. As I'm peeling it away from his lanky body, Doctor walks up behind me.
"The guys say we've gotta get going. It's almost sundown," he says nervously. I stand up.
"Okay," I say, squinting at the sinking sun. "Can you help me carry him to the truck?" I cock my head at Doctor and Mousey, who's clinging to her husband's hand. They nod, and together, we haul the unconscious boy into the bed of the truck he came here in. It is decided wordlessly that we'd keep the truck. It runs pretty well, and the tank still looks half full, according to the gauge on the dash. We slide-drag the boy into the bed of the truck. His head lolls to the side. I hop up with him; Mousey follows me, leaving Doctor to drive. We kneel on either side of our patient. I realize then, looking at his injured torso, that I am basing my whole medical treatment on The Nightshift.
Clearing my throat, I glance around at my limited supplies, and the boy's seemingly endless supply of blood. Put pressure on the wound. I remember that being a common theme among the various crises in The Nightshift. I'm about to do so with a bandage when Mousey utters the first word I've heard from her.
"Wait. It looks like a bullet wound—they both do," she says quietly, looking at his shoulder and the side of his back. We had turned him face-down earlier. "You have to get the bullets out first." My jaw clenches. I'm not liking the idea of me having to dig in him to extract two pieces of metal. I'm just hoping the wounds weren't caused by a shotgun. That'd be a nightmare. I steel myself, bracing for the experience.
I pray that the boy doesn't wake up as I push my thumb and forefinger into the small hole in his back. It gushes blood around my hand, like I'm the rock in a river of red. It only takes a second to locate and remove the bullet. I drop it beside me, my hands trembling. One down, one to go. The one in his shoulder takes longer. He wakes up for a moment, letting out a scream before the pain drops him into blackness. I drop the second bullet beside its friend. Letting out my air, I wonder why this is my job.
After I finally get the bleeding to stop, I crudely bandage the wounds as best I can with my limited supplies. Doctor is driving; I asked Mousey to stay with me in case I needed an extra hand. As I'm working on cleaning the grime and dust off of the guy's face—he actually doesn't look half bad—I hear Doctor shout. Mousey and I whip our attention through the back window.
"There's a cat in here!" Doctor screams. "Ow! Stop—ah!—scratching!" The truck is swerving all over the road. Just then, the boy starts to come to. I leave Mousey to deal with her husband-in-distress and focus on the guy, who's trying to sit up. I help him, slipping my hands under his shoulder blades.
"Hey," I say quietly. He squints up at me, grimacing at his wounds. "How are you feeling?" He looks around, the wind mussing his long brown hair. His eyes dart around.
"Where am I? Faust? Who're you?" His voice is frantic. What's a Faust? I wonder.
"It's okay, relax," I say soothingly. He blinks at the sound of my accent. "I'm Melanie. You're in a truck headed toward an abandoned building where they stay." He works himself into a sitting position against the inside of the back of the pickup, across from me.
He cocks his head at me. "They?"
"Oh. The group I'm with, they camp out in an old garage." He leans his head back at this, looking past our truck at the rusty blue van carrying the rest of the group.
"I'm Harry," he says.
"It's nice to meet you," I reply with a smile, squinting into the setting sun. I look at Mousey. "Is he okay?" I ask, gesturing to her husband.
"Yeah, he got the cat to calm down." Harry yanks his eyes up at us.
"Cat?" he says excitedly. I'm about to ask him of he's allergic, but with a grunt of pain, he scoots over to the window separating us from the cab and slides it over. Before my inner doctor can protest, he reaches his arm through and extracts the cat. Its a mangy little thing, who could uses good meal, but is otherwise in good shape. "Faust," Harry exclaims. It all clicks in my mind. The cat's name is Faust, and it's Harry's cat. I can't help but smile at the two of them.
It takes just a couple more minutes to get to the garage. We do the usual unpacking and stocking and eating, Harry never really leaving my side. Whenever I look back, Faust is trailing behind us. About an hour after arriving, the group has settled down to eat. Expired cans of soup or beans are passed around. As Harry and I eat, my mind drifts to the events of the day. Somewhat spontaneously, I look up at Harry.
"You wanna get out of here?"
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