Page 59 of Of Sins and Sacrifice

I don’t get to hear the newcomer’s reply as both he and Vitry hurry out of the infirmary.

There’s a commotion outside, and the sound of car engines blares in the atmosphere.

“What’s happening?” I ask one of the other nurses.

“They must be back from a mission,” she answers. “Few make it back usually. It’s the curse of the 100th. We’ll have our hands full here.”

“Curse of the 100th?” I frown. “What’s that?”

“The 100thbomb group. There are always so many casualties, some say it’s cursed.”

“Oh. And the airman I treated?”

“Part of the 100th, too.”

I nod, though the information doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t get to dwell more on it as injured airmen are rushed through the doors of the infirmary. The doctor starts barking orders, asking every nurse available to lend a hand.

Behind him, Vitry rushes an injured male in. He’s by his side, holding his hand and telling him to hang on.

Curious, I take a step forward.

The doctor cuts his jacket off, not minding the feminine sensibilities around—though I suppose this type of nudity is required for treatment.

My first instinct is to look away, but there’s so much blood that you can barely see his chest. There are two deep wounds in his right side and one just above his left lung. They’re an angry red, gushing out blood.

“Damn it, Abbots,” Vitry curses as he helps the doctor take off his clothes.

“Miss Anyan. Come here!” the doctor calls.

I rush over. Vitry barely spares me a glance, his attention on the bleeding male.

“Press on the wound on the left,” the doctor tells me.

I grab some gauze and press against the male’s chest. But as I do, I can feel the shallowness of his breath. Every time he inhales, there’s a gurgling sound as if he’s choking on something.

“His lung must be punctured,” I say. “He’s choking on blood.”

The doctor curses. “Help me turn him on his side.”

I grab onto his arms to pull him toward me when suddenly Vitry is there, helping to shoulder the man’s weight.

We turn him onto his side, and a few wheezes later, he’s breathing a bit better, though still labored.

The doctor works on his two side injuries while I continue to press on his wound.

His pallor, too, doesn’t look too good. His eyes open and close as he struggles to stay awake.

Vitry keeps talking to him, small platitudes really, but he doesn’t respond.

His breathing slows down.

Long seconds pass before his chest stops moving altogether.

His mouth is ajar, his eyes half-closed.

The doctor draws back, shaking his head.

“He’s dead,” he declares.

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