When the World Goes Cold

Chapter 8

Atlas whimpered, the noise so fragile I was sure they didn't mean to make it.

"I know. I'm sorry, just give me one second." I stumbled to my feet, pressing a hand to my arm to staunch the flow.

The old campground was nothing more than a bit of propped up green nylon and a plant-covered fire pit surrounded by forest, with only an decaying sign reminding to put out any fires.Two quick strides, empty gun in hand, and then I unzipped the tent.

Seeing nothing inside, I turned back to get Atlas.

They gasped as I wrapped an arm under their legs, another 'round their back, and picked them up bridal-style. My left shoulder burned more than any fire, and bile clogged my throat, but I swallowed it back down and stumbled into the tent.

Carefully, I set them in the corner and let my arm finally get relief.

After shifting their backpack off their shoulders to prop it against one of the thin walls, I drew my knife.

Their chinos were soaked with blood, stained crimson instead of tan. Careful to not press hard, I cut open the part where it was the brightest red.

Blood pooled highest where the bullet embedded itself, spilling over the rest of their leg and obscuring how deep the laceration was, how the tissue spasmed and pulsed with every heart beat.

I had to stop the bleeding before it killed them.

My backpack hit the floor with a thump. I unzipped it and started the hunt for anything to help.Gauze had been a need greater than water at first, and I still had plenty left in the front flap.The wads of bandages shook in my hands so much I was afraid I would drop them. I curled my fingers into a fist. They couldn't get dirty.

"Alright, I need to pack the wound." I positioned myself over Atlas, pressing a knee over their injured leg to hold it down. "I'm gonna be honest, this will hurt. A lot. The more still you hold the faster it'll be over, okay?"

They shuddered and nodded, biting down on their bottom lip.A cracked scream struck me.

"I'm sorry."

That was all I managed to mumble past the rising guilt.

I didn't break my gaze to see their expression, but their desperate begs for it to just stop broke my heart. Their vocal chords were dry as sandpaper, each choked word sharp. Agony rippled down their spine.

Letting more of my weight dig into their leg, I further hunched over so I could only picture how their body shook with each sob.

Warm, sticky blood soaked each inch of gauze I got in the injury and made my fingers cling together, and each strip of fabric got harder to put in than the one before it. Every inch of my body was disgusted. Even my vision refused to look; the world blurred in and out of focus, and Atlas' struggling was more felt than seen.