Page 75 of Ravens
We take the 81 around DC and then just keep going. Every few hours, we stop for bathroom breaks and grab whatever supplies we can find. Luckily, the bleeding stopped a while back, but now I’m worried about infection . . . and getting a bullet extracted . . . and head trauma.
It’s a little more than half a day’s drive from Virginia to Maine, and by the time we pass New York, I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep though; I’m too worried. No one talks much, and when York starts to shiver, I look at August and can’t help the panic I feel seeing it. I strip off my vest and tug his shirt up, pulling mine off entirely so I can put my skin against his.
“Turn up the heat,” August says, swatting at Carter.
I stare out the window, our skin pressed together, and I’m blind to whatever passes the window until well after the sun is up.
“Where to?” William asks.
“Just outside of Athens . . . end of Perkins Drive . . . only place on that road,” I say so quietly that August has to relay the message.
York’s involuntary shaking has eased somewhat, but it’s still there. I’m getting more worried about his head, though. My fingers trace around his eye socket as I look up at him. Even though he’s lying here, injured, unconscious right in front of me . . . I can’t believe it. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who gets hurt. It feels like he should survive everything, get by with barely a scratch on him.
I’m going to take care of him . . . long enough that I know he’s all right. He took care of me. I owe him, but it should be more than that, right? God, I’m fucking worried, but it feels . . . inadequate. I care about him; I know that much, but if I loved him . . . I’d be terrified, wouldn’t I? I should be climbing out of my skin with worry . . . Fuck’s sake, some days I feel so broken.
An hour later, William interrupts my thoughts again. “This it?”
I prop myself up and peer out the windshield. “That’s it.”
The old two-story farmhouse is white with peeling paint. I’ve kept up with it though, more or less. The roof is only a few years old, and I had all the windows replaced ages ago, but there are soft spots on the porch, and the grass is overgrown so much that it’s reclaimed half the gravel driveway.
We park the van, and the guys collect York as I jog up the steps and fish the key out of a dead, hanging planter. The door opens with a creak of disuse, and I collect the bits of mail off the floor.It isn’t much, considering how long I’ve been gone. Thank God for online banking.
I direct them upstairs as I race ahead and open some windows, pulling plastic sheeting off furniture in the master bedroom and fussing in the closet, hoping everything hasn’t been destroyed by moths or rodents.
I’m throwing sheets onto the bed when I realize there are no footfalls on the stairs. I head back downstairs, following the trail of lights to the kitchen, where they’ve laid York out on the counter. He barely fits.
“What are you doing?”
“Field surgery,” Carter says, not looking at me as they lift York’s vest off and use my kitchen scissors to cut away his shirt. “Get whatever liquor you have in the house, towels too, hot water, first aid. Anything.”
Nodding, I run back upstairs and grab towels before heading to the dining room where the liquor cabinet is. Everything is so fucking old . . . I don’t think I’ve ever had a drink in this house. I grab a dusty bottle of vodka, twist off the top, and take a swig before bringing it into the kitchen.
Loads of firsts today.
First drink in this house, first guests I’ve ever had here, first surgery performed in my kitchen . . . I slump back against the wall for a second as William fills a glass with vodka and drops a knife into it.
I killed someone.
Lots of firsts.
Heading back into the dining room, I grab another bottle and set it on the counter before rummaging through the bathrooms. If there is any first aid stuff here . . . it’s ancient. I find a few bottles of painkillers that are almost expired but still good and bring those back. The only first aid I find is some gauze, a used tensor bandage, and shitty off-brand band-aids.
The guys are already at work when I walk back in and slow to a stop, setting everything on the little dining table against the wall as blood drips off the counter to the floor. A low moan comes out of York, and my heart lurches. I rub at my chest as William mutters below his breath. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I think he’s talking to York.
Carter is cleaning the edges of the wound as William prods at it. “I need . . . pliers. Tweezers might not be enough.”
“Pliers . . .” I shake my head. “Anything like that here will be rusted. He’ll get tetanus.”
“Tweezers then.”
“I’ll find them.” August stands and walks out stiffly.
York shouts in pain. It’s loud and sudden, and it makes my body lock up for a second before I go to the freezer and pull out some ice, wrapping it in a dish cloth.
“Give him a break.” I push in beside William. “Just give him a break until August finds tweezers.”
William steps back and goes to the sink, washing his hands as I set the ice on the center of York’s chest. Reaching across his body, his hand grips my wrist weakly, and his eyes crack open.
