Page 30 of Gabe

I’d seen enough wounds during my career to recognize the bullet hole in his right shoulder. That alone wouldn’t be a problem as the bullet had gone cleanly all the way through, however, the wound was clearly infected.

It looked like Gabe had tried to triage the wound himself using...

Was that dental floss?

Hardly a sanitary material, and if the wound hadn’t been properly cleaned before he stitched it closed, then he’d just trapped the bacteria inside so it could fester.

For the infection to become so bad in just two days, it must have been severe. Thankfully, I’d brought some first-aid supplies with me, just in case, so I could cleanse the wound, but it wouldn’t be enough. Gabe needed antibiotics to get the infection out of his system and bring down the fever, and I didn’t have any medicine that strong.

One thing at a time. I could worry about antibiotics afterward. First, Gabe’s wound needed to be treated.

“Sorry, but this is going to hurt,” I said to the unconscious man as I laid out my supplies.

He didn’t respond, but I swore his brow furrowed for a moment, like he was thinking deeply.

The first step was to cut away the makeshift stitches. I didn’t want to know what Gabe had used for a needle, but the stitches were surprisingly even despite being made from dental floss. Gabe’s training as a medic in the Army Rangers had paid off.

I quickly snipped the stitches, and a pinkish-yellow mix of blood and puss oozed from the wound. The smell of infection was horrible, but I had trained myself to control my gag reflex years ago. Patients still in the process of healing would not feel comfortable with me if I made a disgusted face every time they came near.

Besides, while Gabe’s wound was ugly, it wasn’t the worst I had ever seen.

After using a generous amount of gauze and saline to cleanse the wound, I was finally able to get a good look at what I was dealing with. The bullet entry and exit wounds on either side of Gabe’s shoulder were straight forward, leaving no ragged edges or excessive damage behind. The bullet had been large, but simple. Not as devastating as something like a hollow-point bullet, which expanded on impact to do as much damage to flesh as possible.

With any luck, Gabe should be able to heal from the wound with minimal consequences.

Assuming I could get the infection under control.

The flesh around the wound was bright red, swollen, and even hotter to the touch than the rest of him. Spidery lines extended outward from the wound, confirming my biggest fear.

The infection had leeched into his bloodstream. He was definitely going to need antibiotics.

I finished cleaning the wound, then packed it with fresh gauze, but didn’t stitch it closed again. Stitches could come later, but for now the wound needed a chance to breathe and drain out the remaining infection.

With so much of my focus on his right shoulder, I didn’t pay attention to his left side until I’d finished treating the wound and was making him more comfortable on the bed. A series of old scars ran down the length of his left arm, like tiger stripes. Based on their similar pattern, the scars must have all happened at the same time. Such a wound would have been devastating, maybe even career ending for someone in the military.

Once he was well, he could tell me all about it. I had a plan for how to help him. I just didn’t like what I would have to do.

Half an hour later, the RV was stashed in an out of the way parking lot and I observed an empty pharmacy from the safety of a dark alley. The building was closed for the night, which was not surprising since it was nearly two in the morning.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mumbled to myself as I tied a relatively clean piece of Gabe’s ruined shirt over my face.

Sticking to the shadows, and avoiding the spotlight of the nearby streetlamp, I slunk up to the pharmacy’s back door and pulled out a set of lock picks. They weren’t perfect tools. I’d made them in a hurry by pulling the springs out of one of the RV’s chair cushions and bending the wire into the shape I needed. They would never be enough for a more complicated job, but the backdoor of the pharmacy was surprisingly simple.

This place must have been one of those small towns that didn’t see a lot of crime for their security to be so lax.

I slipped the wire picks into the lock, and my fingers quickly remembered the familiar movements. Although I hadn’t used the skill in years, it was even harder to forget than riding a bike, and barely a minute later the door clicked open.

An ominous beeping on the wall greeted me. The control panel for the alarm wanted a code, and I had sixty seconds to punch in the right numbers before it went off.

Not wasting a second of my countdown, I ran to the back of the pharmacy where the prescription medications were stored. The more dangerous medications, like narcotics, were kept under heavy locks. My paltry lockpicks would never have stood a chance. Luckily, the antibiotics I needed weren’t nearly as valuable, and so weren’t as protected. A simple padlock, similar to the kind used on high school lockers, was all that stood between me and my bounty. It took me longer to find the right cabinet than it did to get the thing open and grab several bottles.

I’d just shoved the last bottle into my pocket when the alarm went off. I slapped some cash on the counter—to at least ease my conscience about stealing—and ran out of the building.

I kept running until I was a few blocks away from the pharmacy, then ducked behind a dumpster in an alley to wait. My heart pounded in my ears, and I shook from head to toe, making the pill bottles rattle in my pocket.

I’d actually done it. While it wasn’t the first time I’d broken into a place—a fact I tried not to think about too much—it was the first time I remembered feeling so nervous.

In the past when I broke into a place, I was usually desperate to feel anything at all. I’d never even stolen anything before. It had all just been for the thrill of doing something I wasn’t supposed to.

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