Young Writers Society

In Chapter 20.1, Russ has done his best to kill Nyssa and Viggo.

They are wounded. Will they survive?

“Nys…Nys?”

Wasn’t that the sweetest sound in the world? At first, Nyssa thought Viggo’s voice was part of a dream, but, no, it was coming from next door, weak, a little desperate. She tried to suck in enough air to reply, but, with every breath, something sharp and painful rattled in her lungs.

She pushed Russ’s dead body off hers and almost passed out. Black dots danced before her eyes, she had to close them. There was no strength left in her. She waited for the dizziness to pass, then she dragged herself to the wall and she pushed herself against it. Her legs were working fine. Just about everything else was in a sad condition. She limped into the entryway, cradling her wrist in one hand. Viggo was lying on his back on the rug, pale and bloody.

“Peter,” she rasped.

He didn’t seem to hear her. She faltered, fell to her knees. The rug felt wet, spongy, and disgorged an impressive amount of blood.

“Peter,” she said again.

“Nys.” His face was ashen, his eyes unfocused, and his voice sounded so faint, so feverish that she had to read her name on his lips. “Oh, babe, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t die,” she sobbed out.

She was crying, her nose was running.

“…live, you’re…I’m so sorry. I heard…”

“What did you hear?” she asked, trying to distract him.

She started unbuttoning his blood-soaked shirt with her one working hand.

“I heard…on the radio…on the run…killed two women…I knew…”

“Stay with me,” she begged him, terrified.

He had a deep gash down his side. She could pour alcohol over that and sew him back together, couldn’t she? That worked, right? One of the bullets had gone through his arm. Exit wound, entry wound – the bullet was probably somewhere in the hardwood floor.

“With you,” he blurted. “Always with you. Love you…so much.”

She moaned. She had shut out the physical pain but this – this hurt like a bitch. “I love you too. Don’t die. I won’t ever forgive you if you die!”

She sniffed and focused on his wounds. She ripped a narrow strip out of her blouse and tied it around his arm to stop the flow of blood. Anything to keep some of that blood inside him. He had lost so much of it. So fucking much. Five liters, that’s all he was supposed to have, right? But it was everywhere.

He grunted in pain when she unzipped his pants and tugged them down. This time, the entry wound was in his thigh. Her tears doubled. This…She couldn’t…There was no way she could fix this. So many nerves, so many muscles, she wouldn’t know where to start – the inguinal ligament, the adductor longus muscle, the sartorius muscle, the femoral nerve, the femoral artery, the femoral vein…She broke out in a cold sweat.

He was going to die. If she didn’t get him to a surgical theater, he would die.

“Oh, Peter,” she sobbed.

“Love you…”

“I need to call 911.”

“No!” he cried out.

He surged up and the bleeding worsened.

“Stop moving!” She pressed what was left of her blouse against his thigh. “You’re dying, Peter. I need to call!”

“…rather die. I’d rather die. Die with you. Never…jail again. Please…”

It broke her heart. As much as it seemed to be his right, it broke her heart. She tried, “Peter, don’t…”

“Please. Swear.”

“Alright.” She sniffed and wiped her tears. “Alright, I swear I won’t call them. Don’t move. Don’t die. You don’t die, you don’t die here!”

She put together a makeshift tourniquet with a strip of his shirt. The bleeding slowed down, but it wasn’t a solution.

All that blood…She needed to close those wounds, somehow, to get this bullet out, to clean the wound and to sew it back together. She stood up again. She was shaking but, at that point, her pain was inconsequential. She limped around Russ’s body and got a plastic tablecloth out of a drawer. It was still in its wrapping. It would have to do – it was as close to sanitary as she could get.

She spread it on the floor next to Peter and she rolled him on the magic carpet. He had passed out again. The light was poor in the entryway. The kitchen would be better, but her ribs ached, and it was hard to even breathe. She couldn’t drag Peter’s gigantic body in the other room. She brought light to him instead. She gathered every lamp she could find in the house and she spread them across the small room. She also brought up diagrams of the human thigh on her laptop.

They were Greek. She was a crime scene tech, a hacker. She wasn’t a surgeon. What she knew of the anatomy of the human body dated back to college.

She gathered supplies: ether, of course, which was the only anesthetic she had at hand, rubbing alcohol, bandages, a sewing kit, a set of knives – every size you could imagine – and half a dozen tweezers.

“Baby,” she said, giving her Peter a tearful kiss. “I’m going to save you, fix you. It’s going to be alright.”

He didn’t answer, of course, he was out cold. She felt like throwing up. A curious hiccup of a laugh burst out.

“I’m going to anesthetize you.” She hesitated – it seemed a little redundant. She poured ether on a dishtowel and she stuck it over the lower half of his face. She took his hand, but his fingers were limp and kept slipping through hers. “I’m going to fix you. I promise.”

His face was so pale, so lifeless, he was a stranger.

It was a long, long time before she looked up again. First, she dug in his thigh, washing his blood away with alcohol. She couldn't see what she was doing, had no idea what she was doing. Every time she cut or pulled, she was terrified she would nick his vein or artery. She finally found the bullet, but, then, it kept slipping out of the tweezers, burrowing deeper.

Every few minutes, she half choked on an aborted sob. She was making a butchery of it. She was…She didn’t know what she was doing. The bullet finally came free. She was sweating, crying so hard that she had to stop for a while. She wanted to stop. She couldn’t…

“Fix him,” she chanted to herself. “Fix him, fix him.”

She had cut off the circulation in his arm and leg for long enough, already. His fingers were so cold. They felt dead to the touch.

“Close him, fix him.”

She made quick work of his side, arm and leg, sewing and slapping bandages on the wounds. He was so cold. She went next door again, carefully avoiding Russ again, and she brought back blankets. The room was already pretty warm from all those lamps.

The dog was still wheezing and moaning in the hallway. Its big eyes looked happy when she knelt by its side.

“I’m sorry,” she told it. “I’m here. You were a very brave, very good dog.”

It wagged its tail weakly. It looked like it had been kicked hard. It needed tending too, but she was all spent. She dragged it under the covers next to Viggo. It wasn’t sanitary but, at least, they would be warm, and they would be together.

It was more than she could claim. She was shaking with cold and pain. Now that she wasn’t in such a rush, she could feel the sting of her every injury. Her reflection in the mirror reminded her of a zombie. She was wearing only her bra and her side was already turning black and blue. Blood and brain matter were drying all over her chest and face. They were so thick over her hands that they looked like reddish brown gloves.

She washed them in the kitchen’s sink. Underneath the grime, her left wrist and hand were swollen to twice their normal volume. The tip of her fingers had started turning blue. She fixed herself a makeshift splint, then she took care of her ribs with adhesive tape and a bag of frozen peas.

Unfortunately, she was used to treating that kind of injuries by herself. She swallowed a handful of over-the-counter painkillers. They started taking effect immediately and she almost keeled over in relief, but she could only afford a few minutes of pressing her face into another bag of frozen goods to stop the swelling of her nose and eyes.

She still had a dead body on her hands. She stared at Russ for the longest time. Oh, she had a poetic end in mind for him, but, right now, she was in no condition. She collapsed next to Viggo, drew the covers over her head, looped a leg and an arm around his body, careful not to touch his wounds and she let go of this cold dark place they called reality.

She couldn’t hold on any longer, come what would.

Will Viggo, Nyssa and Scruffy survive? Will they outrun the authorities?

Read Chapter 21.