You Can Run

The Decision

After they had estimated the casualties fighting the Goliath, Pierre helped Esmaael and the others get the injured to the mosque as Abru followed behind, deep in thought. When most of the injured had been transported, Dema ran over to Esmaael, scanning him from top to bottom. "You're fine," she concluded, sounding relieved. Then she cleared her throat.

"Where's Abru?" she huffed, "I've been looking all over for her, she was with me a while ago, and then–"

"Calm down," Esmaael raised a hand as he pointed towards the door. "She's right there. You won't believe what she did"

"What?" Dema whispered, a look of utmost dread falling upon her soft features.

"She killed the Goliath," Esmaael smiled. "It's gone, we don't have to worry about it anymore!"

Dema blinked in disbelief. Then, she made a move towards the door, where Abru stood with her arms crossed.

"I need more bandages!" shouted a boy, around 17 years of age as he pressed down on a middle-aged man's leg, hands coated crimson with blood. "Fast!"

Pierre looked around until he found a basket of off white cloth strips, haphazardly torn, with a girl shredding tearing another yard of fabric to make more bandages. He walked over to her, watching as her tan hands worked quickly and without much effort, tearing each bandage equal to the other in both length and width. Her eyes were focused elsewhere though, thick dark brows furrowed in concern. Pierre cleared his throat, catching her attention.

"Leg wound?" She asked, nodding towards the boy whose tunic was now stained with a large blotch of red. Pierre nodded. She handed him a few pieces from the basket. "Hurry," she warned. "It doesn't look like he's got much time left."

Pierre crossed the room, stepping over groaning bodies and medical supplies. He finally got to the boy, who seemed on the verge of tears.

"Thanks," he muttered, trembling hands slowly tearing the man's cotton trouser to expose the wound. It had stopped flowing freely now, and the boy wiped it daintily with one of the bandages to reveal a large gash that ran along the length of the man's hairy calf. With shaking fingers the boy crudely wrapped the wound, dropping the roll of cloth various times. Pierre reached out his hand.

"Here, let me," he offered. "I'm no medic, but I know a thing or two about wrapping a wound."

The boy looked at Pierre, and Pierre could see a world of fear, concern and misery in his eyes. He realised this man had to be someone close to the boy, maybe his father or uncle. He handed Pierre the roll as the man grunted.

"It's no use," he coughed. "My son, listen to me."

The boy looked around, his hands messing with a blood stained bandage, trying to find something to do. He sniffed, blinking back tears as Pierre checked the man's pulse, which was erratic and weak. His skin was cold to the touch and he struggled to breathe.

"Zekiy" He whispered, all his efforts directed into that word. "Take care of your mother. Don't fight with your brother. Never lose faith in the Almighty, Zekiy."

"Don't, Abi, you're fine!" The boy sobbed, "It's just a leg wound, it just needs to be wrapped up and you'll be fine!"

Pierre placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, which he shrugged away.

"He's fine!" He insisted, and Pierre could see two men coming towards them, accompanied by a frail old lady who used a rusty axe as her walking stick. She crouched over the man's head, grip tightening on the rusty axe for support as the two men positioned themselves behind Zekiy.

"He's fine, is he?" she scoffed. "Check the pulse, boy!"

"I already did," Pierre answered. "He's–"

"I didn't ask you, foreigner, I asked him." The woman glared at the boy, who wiped away tears, before placing his fingers on the man's neck. A look of realisation dawned upon him.