Page 72 of Glass Rose
“Kid,” John’s voice rasps from the back seat. “You good there?”
His skin has gone waxy with blood loss, his breathing shallow and rapid, the fabric of his shirt glistening wetly.
“Don’t you fucking die too.” I’m trembling so hard I can barely unzip the emergency pack. Bandages, antiseptic, painkillers—not enough for a gunshot wound, but maybe enough to keep him alive until we reach somewhere safer. If such a place still exists. “I’m sick of people dying around me.”
He lets out a wheezing chuckle that turns into a cough. “Not planning on it. Takes more than a bullet to put down Crazy John.”
Gavin checks the mirrors. “We’ve got company.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt with clumsy fingers as he takes a sharp turn that slams me against the door.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His eyes flick to me, then back to the road.
“John needs help.” I twist between the front seats, my hip catching on the center console. “Unless you want another corpse.”
The SUV lurches as we hit a pothole, sending me sprawling into the back. My knee connects with John’s thigh, and he hisses through clenched teeth.
“Sorry, sorry.” I steady myself. “John, I need to see the wound.”
His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Bad sign. I peel back the blood-soaked fabric, revealing angry red flesh puckered around a ragged hole just below his collarbone. Blood still seeps from it, but not the arterial spray that would mean imminent death.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
“How’s it look, Doc?” John asks.
“Like you got shot.” I uncap the antiseptic, the sharp chemical smell filling the car. “Exit wound?”
“Went straight through.”
“You know. I’m a virologist. This isn’t exactly my expertise.”
“You’re all I have.” He doesn’t flinch when I dab on his wound. “Marcus showed you this?”
I press clean gauze against the hole, applying firm pressure. “Told me to use the heel of my hand. Said most people are too gentle.”
John’s laugh turns into a wet cough. “Smart kid.”
I grab the belt from the middle-seat, cutting the leatherfree and looping it over his shoulder, threading it under his armpit. That’s what some do, right?
“This isn’t proper medicine.” I wrench the makeshift pressure strap tight. John grunts but doesn’t complain. “But it’ll slow the bleeding.”
“Hold on.” Gavin swerves the SUV violently.
The force yanks me against John, who lets out a strangled sound that might be a scream if he had the strength for it.
“You did good, sweetheart.“ John’s hand finds mine, his eyes fluttering. “Your daddy would be proud.”
Don’t you dare. I check his pulse—still there, though weaker than I’d like.
“Are they still behind us?” I ask.
Gavin’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Not anymore.”
I sink back in my seat, one hand still on the gauze of John’s wound. My body aches from the rough escape, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow feeling in my chest.
One more loss. One more person I couldn’t save. How many more before this is over?
If it’s ever.
