Chapter 5 Blood Sweep – Amara
BLOOD SWEEP
AMARA
ROVEEN STARES AT me with her wide, gray eyes, antennae flicking back and forth in interest. “He left you?” she whispers in her native language through her too-small mouth. My translator repeats her words in English.
“There was some sort of skirmish happening down the hall. I couldn’t see it, but it sounded bad. People were screaming.”
She wiggles her antenna more widely this time, showing her confusion. “Strange.”
Roveen is the only other nurse willing to risk a conversation with me.
The Magistrate made sure I would be seen as a dangerous pariah after my escape attempt, and it worked.
I’ve been properly ostracized. But not by Roveen.
She’s brave and smart and doesn’t take shit from anyone.
In summary, she’s my favorite kind of person.
Pushing away my empty lunch bowl, I glance around to ensure we’re still alone, and ask, “Do you know if Naxiur was sent to meet with the Magistrate before she went to the arena?” While I don’t expect Roveen to know for certain, I’m hoping she saw the direction Naxiur was taken after she was found out.
Information is hard to come by here, but if I want a shot at the Magistrate, I need to know how to get back into his office.
Obviously, my last run-in with the law got me in there, but as far as I know, I’m the only nurse who’s broken a law and lived to tell about it.
“No,” Roveen says solemnly. “After Naxiur was caught, I never saw her again.”
I do my best to hide my disappointment. Whatever’s going on with my heart has lit a fire under my ass, and I know the longer I wait, the less likely I am to succeed.
Every day I spend here, I get weaker and slower.
Sure, I could wait for more information to trickle into my lap, but that feels less like a plan and more like procrastination.
In the year I’ve been here, I’ve only seen the Magistrate twice. Once, after my failed escape attempt, and again when he was giving a tour to someone he kept calling, “my Queen”.
I still don’t know who that “Queen” was, but the day she was brought into the gladiator’s quarters was the only time I’ve seen the Magistrate down here.
My deduction: If I want an audience with the Magistrate, I either have to break a law and hope he wants to admonish me before my death, or wait for the Queen to come back and hope there aren’t many guards around.
Obviously, the second option is dumb. The first one is too, but it’s less dumb than the alternative.
All I know for certain is that I can’t keep living like this, and I refuse to die before doing everything in my power to take the Magistrate out.
It’s clear he doesn’t see women as a physical threat, and it’s also clear that out of all the nurses here, I’m probably the only one with the training to actually take the fucker down.
After spending almost eight years with the Marines, I have a bias for action and the resolve to see that action through.
“I’m sorry about Naxiur,” I say to Roveen.
She shows her teeth in a sign of gratitude. “Thank you.”
I open my mouth to respond right as the door of the Nurse’s Room bursts open. Still seated, I spin around and find the slimy reptilian guard panting for breath in the doorway. Somehow, he’s managed to make himself look even more repulsive in the past hour. It’s like he’s sweating slime.
“You!” he shouts, pointing a hideous finger at me. “We require you!”
I glance at Roveen, and she lowers her antenna, clearly just as displeased by the situation as I am. Nurses aren’t supposed to go on emergency calls without Solta’s permission, but once again, I can’t really say “no” to a guard.
With a reassuring nod to Roveen, I follow the lizard out the door.
He takes off down the hall, his short legs propelling him with anxious purpose while I struggle to keep up. A minute later, we skid to a stop in front of Cell 29, and instantly my heart starts thrumming again. As much as I’d love to stop and consider what that means, the lizard is already shouting.
“He is still bleeding! You must help him. He cannot die here.” His voice is breathless and frantic with concern. Which is weird. Guards don’t usually care about the gladiators. “Help him!” he shouts.
I thrust my hand towards the wall of steel between me and Vexar. “What am I supposed to do through a closed door?”
“Tell him what to do!”
He wants me to talk the guy through it? I’m not a 911 operator, I’m a fucking Corpsman.
Or … I was. Whatever. Not important right now.
I glance at the other guard, who seems to be more focused on his hands than on what’s going on around him.
Unhelpful bastard. With a sigh, I turn back to the lizard.
“His name is …?” I ask, not wanting to reveal my earlier eavesdropping as I move towards the door.
“Vexar,” the lizard supplies.
“Vexar?” I ask, projecting my voice through the door. A rumbling grunt answers, and my heart stutters uncomfortably. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Blood,” Vexar says.
It’s been at least an hour since I delivered the med-bag. The fact that he’s still bleeding and alive is both impressive and concerning.
“How much blood?” I ask.
“A lot.”
If his physiology is anything like a human’s, he’d already be in shock.
But with aliens, there’s no telling what sort of adaptations they’ve developed to deal with blood loss.
A month ago, I treated a guy whose circulatory system had cut-off valves that would trade a limb to save his life. It was gross, but effective.
“Where’s the injury?” I ask.
“My flank.”
I pepper him with a few more questions, trying to gauge the situation, and it’s not comforting. If he doesn’t pack the wound and control the bleeding, he’s not going to last much longer.
“Do you still have fresh gauze?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One roll.”
Shit. That’s not enough.
“Ok. Vexar, I need you to listen to me carefully. Don’t take the gauze off. Layer the remaining roll on top and keep pressure. Then add whatever else you have on top of that. Towels, sheets, whatever. And keep the pressure. Can you do that for me?”
“Anything for you,” he says in a breathy grunt, followed by what sounds like a chuckle. Was that … is he flirting with me? No. He’s clearly delirious.
I turn to the lizard. “He needs more gauze. Hemostatic gauze and bandages.”
The lizard orders the pale guard to go, and a few seconds later, the lanky humanoid is sprinting around the corner and out of sight.
“How big is the wound?” I ask the lizard.
He holds up his hands to show me. The wound is big. About the length of my forearm. But wound size is relative. A big cut to me might be a paper cut to an elephant. “How big is Vexar?” I ask.
“Big,” Vexar says through the door, his rumbling voice strained but still somehow playful.
I press my lips together and focus on the lizard as he extends his arm above his head and says, “Bigger than this.”
“Much bigger,” Vexar adds with a rumbling laugh.
This fucking guy. We’re in the middle of a medical emergency, and he’s joking around like he’s still in middle school. Am I blushing? Maybe, but I’m also trying to focus on keeping him alive.
I turn back to the door. “Vexar? How much of the wound can you cover? Is it bigger than your hand?”
“Yes. But not bigger than my—”
I interrupt before he can finish that sentence. “Are you able to put pressure on the entire thing?”
“No. But you…” His voice trails off into a faint groan.
Fuck. If he loses consciousness—
No. Focus on the task.
“Vexar? I need you to take a sheet or something. Something big. And I need you to wrap it around your body to add pressure to the whole area. Can you do that for me?”
There’s a long pause. Then he whispers, “Do not leave, Xelora.”
I frown. “Vexar? Did you get the sheet around your body yet?”
A weakened grunt, followed by an unintelligible word, is the only response.
“Vexar?”
Silence. My stomach drops, and a surge of adrenaline rushes through me. I don’t know why, but the urge to keep him alive is overwhelming. I can’t let him die.
“Let me in,” I say to the lizard, my voice firm and unwavering.
“No.”
“Would you prefer he dies?”
“We have no sedatives,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in the universal sign for ‘end of conversation’.
I thrust my hand at the door, outraged. “He’s already unconscious, and if you don’t let me in there, he’s gonna die.”
The scaly dickweed is impossible to read, but it’s clear he isn’t moving, and I don’t know what to say to convince him.
“Acquired,” my translator says as the pale guard sprints towards us with boxes of supplies under his arms.
To the lizard, I say, “If I can’t go in there, then you have to. Take the gauze. I’ll tell you what to do.”
I take the boxes from the pale guard and hold them out to the lizard.
“Get away from the door,” he orders.
Clutching the boxes to my chest, I take a few steps back. Maybe this walking biohazard is going to help after all?
The lizard opens the cell door and lets out a ridiculous shriek.
I dash forward and see a very large, very human-looking man draped over the bed, covered in blood, and clearly unconscious.
My heart slams against my ribs, and it feels like something is tugging at my spine.
I shove the boxes towards the lizard and shout, “Go!” He takes a step back, holding his hands up.
“Take these, and help him,” I urge. His face remains unchanged, and I growl in frustration as I turn to the pale guard.
“Then you do it. Take the supplies and I’ll tell you what to do. ”
The pale guard shakes his head and backs away, but I swear there’s a shadow of a smile on his wide mouth that sends a shiver down my spine.
I glance at Vexar, helpless, covered in blood, and way too close to death. Something in me knows my decision’s already made, but I have to wait for my logical brain to catch up.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, right? A situation worth taking the risk? I just have to break this one law, and I can save a life and possibly end another. Sure, there’s no guarantee, but if there was ever something worth the risk, it’s this. Right?
I tighten my grip on the boxes and dart into the cell, expecting some sort of resistance from the guards. None comes.
‘This is a bad idea’, the voice in the back of my mind says, and I tell it to, ‘Get fucked’. That voice is living in the past, where survival was the goal. But that’s not the goal anymore. Revenge is. Revenge and resistance.
Fuck the Magistrate.
My feet splash in the dark puddle of blood that’s formed on the ground.
I drop the boxes, climb onto the bed, and check Vexar’s airways.
They’re clear. He’s breathing. I sink to my knees in the middle of the tacky pool, lining myself up with the bleed.
Rough stone digs into my exposed flesh. The heavy scent of copper stings my nose.
Gauze packets crinkle as I tear them open and start packing the wound.
I shout over my shoulder, asking the guards to get Roveen. She’s a skilled surgeon and far more equipped to deal with a wound like this than I am.
No response. Doesn’t matter. I keep moving. My hands cramp. Sweat drips. And the bleeding slows.
Please be alive.
I press my fingers to the side of his neck. Nothing. Nothing. A thud.
Holy shit, he’s alive.
I let out a raspy breath and move my fingers to the inside of his wrist. Nothing. I slide my fingers up until I find the thud of an artery on the inside of his bicep. His pulse is strong. Slow, but strong.
Using the analog stop-watch on my wrist, I track his pulse against the seconds—or whatever this watch actually tracks—do the math, and get twelve. Twelve beats in whatever this planet considers a ‘minute’. That’s it. Hopefully, that’s in range for him.
I jot the number on the bedsheet in blood and keep moving, pressing a bandage over the packed wound and using a twisted section of the bedsheet to add pressure.
Wishing my arms were longer, I climb on the bed and start my blood-sweep. As much as I’d prefer to do this on my feet, the placement of this bed was chosen by a moron who thinks medical care can be completed by a mountain goat.
Seriously, who puts a medical bed in a corner? Up against two walls?
My fingers slip over Vexar’s scalp, between his massive, curling horns, and through the thick locks of his braided hair. I move down the back of his muscled neck and to his shoulders. His skin is warm and surprisingly soft—not that I’m paying attention to how his skin feels or anything.
Everywhere I touch, I come back with black blood on my hands. It’s not his blood. His blood is red.
As I work my way down, it’s clear I won’t be able to wriggle my hands beneath him. He’s too heavy. So, I check what I can and keep moving. I don’t find any new injuries, but I do find scars. Lots of scars.
When I reach his legs, I groan in frustration.
His pants are made of a thick type of leather.
They won’t absorb blood, and there’s no way I can remove them.
I run my hands over the material, searching for cuts in the fabric or temperature irregularities.
Nothing. I pull his shoes off, and his feet seem fine too.
The last thing I do is check the underside of the mattress. The only blood I see is on the edge, where I already knew he was bleeding.
Finished with my check, I lean my forearm over the layers of gauze and bandages on his side and use my bodyweight to apply even pressure.
Thank god he’s not conscious right now. He’s massive, and I have no doubt this level of pain would have him bucking, thrashing, and screaming at me.
That’s my least favorite part of being a medic.
When someone’s screaming at you to stop, but if you stop, they die.
It makes you feel like a monster, and there’s no way around it.
“Any luck on getting Roveen down here?” I ask over my shoulder, hoping the guards are still close enough to hear.
When I don’t get a response, I awkwardly turn towards the door, keeping my body weight pressed against Vexar’s side.
My stomach drops.
The cell door is shut. Not just mostly closed. Shut.