Page 48 of Uncontrolled

I turn toward Christopher. “Check his pulse, okay, Dandelion?”

“Okay,” he says, and I can’t gauge if he couldn’t work in “cobalt” on the fly or if he’s hurt. His bloody fingers snake up the side of the guy’s neck. Christopher winces, and then he shakes his head. “I don’t feel anything.”

The woman makes a sound that’s the audible equivalent of an eye-roll. “Fantastic,” she says. “Anything else standing in the way of you doing your goddamned job, blondie?”

“Nope,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. I’ve been on jobs that have gone south. I’ve been stabbed by a dead guy’s relative. I’ve been shot, though technically we weren’t on a job at the cabin. In the scheme of things, when a resurrection goes bad, it’s best to at least attempt whatever the hell they want you to do. This lady wants me to work on her partner. I’ll work on her partner.

As I stumble to my feet, my vision blurs. I’ve got blood in my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Despite the sting, I can see well enough to reach the spot where I dropped my bag of medical supplies.

When we arrived, we assumed we should go to the garage because of the details the caller gave Christopher. Only once we were whisked inside did I see the bullet holes in the rear window of the brown Lincoln, the copious amounts of blood and Benjamins, the woman levelling a shotgun on Christopher and me. That had been the moment I realized this job wouldn’t be the easy peasy resurrection I expected.

I kick the bag. “I’m going to reach for this,” I say, my hands still wide, palms out. “I’ll tell you everything before I do it, so no reason to get jumpy, clear?”

“Feel like I’ve got an awful lot of reasons to be jumpy right about now,” she says, and to my absolute horror, I snort before I can help myself.

“Yeah, I’m not sure who’s having a worse day, you or me,” I say.

She makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “My money’s on him,” she says, gesturing with the gun toward her dead partner.

“Fair point,” I acknowledge with the slightest tip of my head. We’re building rapport, which is good. “Okay. I’m picking up my bag.”

As I bend, a lock of my hair tugs tight where it’s drying against my cheek. Another pendulums, heavy with gore. In the back seat struggle, I broke my ponytail holder. I grab the satchel.

“Unzipping,” I warn.

“Wait!” she yells, and Christopher jerks at the sound. She whips the gun toward him.

“No, no, no, no!” I don’t bother hiding my fear. “Here!” I flap the top of the satchel open, swallowing hard as I edge the zipper across the fabric. “Okay, I’m going to kneel and start working.”

I drop myself between the gun and Christopher, but angle to see what she’s up to on my left side. “I’m emptying the bag.”

“Do it,” she says, and I yank.

Syringes, gauze, scissors, and other assorted supplies bounce over the dirty garage floor. A spool of stitching thread rolls, catching in a puddle of what could be oil. I reach for it. I don’t think, only act, relying on muscle memory from years of resurrections. I snip through the back of the guy’s shirt, peeling either side away to see what I’m working with.

“Two bullet holes,” I say to no one in particular. I take up a pair of hemostats and fish around in his neck until I clasp the bullet and draw it free. Behind me, the woman gags. I drop the slug and go for the next. This one’s harder. I abandon the tool and jam the tip of my pinkie in, probing.

“Come on,” I whisper. Nothing. I can’t find it. In my head, my brain’s sorting steps. Find the bullets. Extract. Sew the wounds. Help the body where you can. Give him my blood. Wait for him to revive.

But I can’t find the bullet.

If I can’t find the bullet, I can’t get it out, and if I can’t get it out… “It’s not here,” I start before Christopher reaches to squeeze my hand.

“He had a hole in the front, didn’t he?” he asks. Then he nods as if convincing me. “Could it have been an exit wound?”

“Yes,” I blurt, grateful. It’s so obvious. How the hell did I miss it? “Yes,” I say, quieter this time.

I sew. My hands fly. Soon, I’ve got the syringe stripped from the plastic. I hold the length of rubber tubing out to Christopher.

“Tie this?” I ask, fighting the urge to swipe at my brow. Something’s dripping. Likely sweat, though it could be blood.

Christopher takes my arm in his hands. The brush of his fingertips against my skin is a balm. “Here?” he asks.

“Hell of a time to get high,” a voice behind me says.

“It’s medicine,” Christopher lies, the words clipped before he whispers, “Are you okay?”

I hate this. I hate everything about this life. “You?” I manage.

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