Page 60 of Savage Game
Righting himself from his slumped position, he called his brother’s name, “Garrett.” Byron snapped his fingers in front of his brother. “Garrett!” He firmed his voice and winced as a spear stabbed at his temple. He snapped his fingers again, right in front of Garrett’s face.
Faster than a snake, his brother bobbed forward and bit Byron’s hand.
“Fucking hell,” Byron yelled, setting off Garrett again, who screamed with a high-pitched voice.
Their mother half turned in the car and chastised Byron, “Mind your language and leave your brother alone.”
Byron closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. It didn’t work. Their mother always took sides, and Byron’s temper flared. “Leave him alone? The stupid moron bit me.” His voice rose in pitch.
“Byron,” his father bit out, “language.” At the same time, Garrett screeched like a banshee.
“Thomas!” The alarm in his mother’s voice made Byron stiffen, and then his world skidded sideways and toppled over. Fragments of his father cursing, glass breaking, Garrett’s high-pitched screaming, and the bone-crushing yank of the seatbelt filtered in before a heavy impact to the driver’s side of the car sent them spinning the other way. Shock and pain as something slammed against his knee reverberated through Byron’s lower body, and the car jostled and ground to a halt.
Disoriented, Byron shook his head. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Have I gone deaf? No, he could hear faint sounds: the hiss of liquid, car horns, skidding tires, brakes, frantic yelling outside the car. Outside! But inside, Garrett didn’t scream, no reassuring words from their father, no breathing, crying, or moaning from his mother. Nothing to indicate there were other people besides him in the car. Warm liquid trickled down his face, and he tried to turn his head. Byron opened his mouth to speak, but with a feeling of tumbling back, his world turned black.
“Got one breathing here.”
Someone lifted an eyelid—a flash of light, stabbing pain, then the oblivion of nothingness pulled him under again.
Jostling, yelling, a chain saw. A what?
Byron slid in and out of consciousness as the first responders worked to free him from the wreck. By now, the excruciating pain in his leg had turned into a throbbing numbness, and he was desperate to know how his family was doing, but he couldn’t speak. He tried to swallow. A comforting hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t try to move, buddy, we’ll get you out.”
Dad? Mom? G-Garrett?
He tried to call for them but only a weak moan, almost a whimper, left his mouth.
“Shh,” someone soothed, “we know it hurts, but we need to know the damage before we move you.” And then they did move him. Byron screamed in agony and blacked out again.
When he regained consciousness the next time, he was lying on his back with his head full of cotton. It felt like he was floating. Alarmed by his quiet surroundings and the smell of antiseptics, he tried to persuade his uncooperative mind into working. Carefully, he opened an eye. He would have opened both, but one didn’t seem to work. Byron knew he should worry about that inability, but his mind seemed as happy as a dreadlocked stoner singing reggae. He knew feeling happy and free was exceedingly wrong. Slowly, the sight from his one eye became less blurry, and his muddled brain tried to make sense of his surroundings.
Suddenly, a door opened and blinding light streamed in followed by a cheerful voice, “Oh good, you’re awake.”
Through parched lips, Byron tried to speak as a tall and lanky man in scrubs appeared in his line of sight.
The man fiddled with some controls and the head of the bed raised until Byron was almost in a sitting position. “Don’t try to talk yet.” Holding Byron’s wrist in his hand, the man pressed two fingers on Byron’s pulse point and looked at his watch. “You’ve been in an accident, but you’re safe now. You shouldn’t feel any pain but let me know if that changes.” After a few seconds, the man let go of his wrist, and pulled a little penlight from the scrubs breast pocket. “Sorry about this.”
Byron knew what was coming but still winced at the stabbing light. Luckily, this exam only took a few moments as well.
Byron tried to speak again, but all he could do was croak like a frog.
“Hold on.” The man disappeared from Byron’s vision and quickly reappeared, pushing a tray table with a cup and a clipboard on top. “Try a few of these.” With practiced ease, he slipped some ice chips past Byron’s lips.
They melted sweet on his tongue, and Byron couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty. However, more than to quench his thirst, he was thirsty for information. “My-my dad?” he whispered hoarsely.
The man didn’t speak but something in his expression made Byron try to struggle upright. “My mother?” Again, the man flinched. “Garrett?”
Same damn reaction. Byron’s throat burned with unshed tears. The man squeezed his shoulder, looked up as the door opened again, and sighed. “I know you’re doing your jobs, Officers, but I told you—”
“Yes, you did, and we cleared it with the doctor,” an unfamiliar female spoke. Turning his head like he was an eighty-year-old cripple and not an eighteen-year-old athlete, Byron spotted two uniformed police officers.
A sturdy male officer made his way to the bed followed by his female partner. “I’m Officer Savino and this is Officer Rose. We were amongst the first responders on Route 435.” He dipped his head to make eye contact with Byron. “You’re probably aware that you’re at the hospital and the doctor and nurses will take good care of you.”
Byron’s eyes slid to the female officer—what was her name again—and she nodded.
“We take it you’re either Garrett or Byron Nolan?” Officer Savino’s question pulled his attention back to the sturdy male.
“B-y-ron,” he croaked.
