Chapter 21 #2
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 from Rory’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. For chasing him. For interfering. For doing too much and for not doing enough.
“Sorry, bro.” Rives didn’t move. Johan was making the sign of the cross over Rory, then he crossed himself, his lips moving in silent prayer.
“Are you sure?” I asked Rives. “He’s dead?”
“I’m sure. Whatever got him ripped him wide open. He just bled out.”
I stared at Rory, thinking he should look worse, thinking there should be more blood. The ground around him was pristine. Green growth, brown dirt. No red. But Rives was sure, and I trusted Rives.
He’s gone.
“What was it?” Sy blurted. “What got him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, knowing he had to ask but still feeling like it disrespected Rory. Rory, who lay a meter away, a fresh Nil kill, his satchel slung uselessly across his shoulder. Silver knives spilled out, glinting with accusation.
He’d never tried to pull one out.
The knives winked at me as I spoke. “Some kind of wild boar. At least three hundred pounds of ugly, with two set of tusks. And it was female.” I paused. “I think it was protecting its baby. Or babies.” Who knew how many more little beasties were growing up on Nil? More fun for the future.
“A pig did this?” Bart asked, his voice an annoying mix of amusement and disbelief.
Charley’s golden eyes flashed. “Thad didn’t say a pig. He said a ‘wild boar.’ With tusks, two sets, and mean. That doesn’t sound like a pig to me.” Even her sugary accent didn’t warm her words.
Bart blanched. “Right,” he mumbled.
Rives ignored Bart completely. “Where was this?” he asked.
“A couple kilometers past the Cove. The boar jumped from the trees and charged. It was fast.”
Rives frowned, looking thoughtful. “Fast and ugly, two sets of tusks. Sounds like a warthog. They’re bad news; kill lions and shit in Africa. Did it take off?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s dead.”
“Are you hurt?” Charley asked, gently turning over my hand.
Her skin looked incredibly clean against mine.
The blood on my hands and forearms had started to dry, making it blacken and crack, and fresh red oozed from a gash near my wrist. More blood coated my legs in sticky rivulets, mixing with sweat and dirt, a hideous collage of Nil death.
“Thad?” Charley’s voice was worried.
“Huh?”
“Are you hurt?” she repeated softly, her eyes searching.
“Not really.” Suddenly I couldn’t wait to wash off the blood. I pulled back my hand; I didn’t want Charley to touch it. To let any more of Nil’s blood touch her.
Getting to my feet, I addressed Rives. “Two things. First, we need to bury Rory. Second, we need to salvage that hog. It’s too much to waste. I’ll help with the burial, then a team can go get the hog.”
“No.” Rives shook his head. “You’ve done enough. Go get clean. We’ll take care of Rory, then the hog.”
I hesitated, torn between wanting to help Rives and wanting to be rid of the blood.
Rives’s voice was soft. “We’ve got this, bro. Now go.”
As I started away, Rives threw out an arm to stop me. “Not the sea. With all that blood, you’ll be chum. Go to the Cove.”
You’ve done enough, Rives had said.
But not enough, I thought, glancing at his eyes full of pity. I’d failed Rory, and now I’d brought back a dead body for Rives to bury. I couldn’t bear to look at Charley.
Like I’d told Rory, it was a total cluster.
Whipping around, I broke into a run, back up the same bloody path I’d just carried Rory down. Blood on the ground. Blood on me.
Bloody hell, cackled Nil.
There would be no escape today.