Dark of Winter: Prepper Book Two

Chapter VII: Blood Letting

"You did a good job," Nell assures me as she lifts the blood-soaked dressings and assesses Heath's wound. "You got the bleeding under control , that's what counts. That is a nasty wound," she grimaces. "Right down to the muscle, but it's a very clean cut it will stitch up nice." Her demeanor is clam and her assessment is clinical, her comments make me feel marginally better, but more importantly Heath is now in the care of a former medical professional, someone far more skilled in the business of broken bodies than I will ever be.

Nell retired from being a nurse practitioner over a decade ago, but some things just come back to you regardless of how long you've been away. Like the idiom about riding a bike, I suppose.

She spent the majority of her forty-year career as the sole healthcare provider on the island. She's dealt with broken bones, gunshot wounds and plenty of lacerations so the current patient is in good hands. I just wish it wasn't my little boy.

Outside a generator sputters to life; there's a circus of commotion inside the room where Heath is splayed out on a large oak harvest table as people fumble about trying to help. I see shadowy faces lit by the sparse light of candles and flashlights, that are only vaguely familiar, others people from the neighbourhood who have come to help in any way they can. But my sole focus is on Heath and my brain is a buzzing hive of chaos, I can only seem to process about a third of what is going on.

I notice someone prying away at my fingers; I have Heath's hand clamped in my fist. "You have to let go so we can work," a young man wearing a headlamp advises. With the light in my face I can scarcely make out any details of his face. His voice is smooth and steady, as calming as it is assertive.

"Okay," I say absentmindedly and release Heath's hand from my grip. My arm drops limply to my side. I have no idea what to do with myself at this point. I feel utterly helpless.

Two men bump past me and setup a task lighting apparatus next to the table, suddenly the room is awash in stark white light that overpowers the headlamps and flashlights that we were using. Now every vivid detail of the scene is rendered in the full spectrum of horror revealed by the powerful lights. The blood-soaked pyjamas, my red stained hands, Heath's ashen visage.

"Oh my god!" I blurt out involuntarily and stagger backward.

Mark grabs my shoulder to arrest by motion, "come and sit Connor, Heath is in good hands. Let them work. Tell me what happened."

Mark sits me down and pours me a glass of water, it's only then that I realize I am breathing like I've run a marathon.

"I dunno Mark, someone took a shot at us--Jake or myself I guess--it missed, ricocheted off the door and caught Heath in the shoulder. A fucking arrow... they shot my kid with a fucking arrow."

"Where's Jake?"

"He took off after the bastard." I sip the water and again find myself distracted by my bloodied hands. I'm immediately sickened by the thought of just how much blood has left Heath's body. "I gotta wash up."

"Of course, let me grab you a wash cloth," Mark says. "You stay put."

While he's gone I finish the water despite my trembling hands and watch Nell, Freya and someone else tending to Heath. They hang an IV bag from the dining room chandelier and I overhear Nell say, "He's going to need some blood."

My heart sinks, Kate and Heath have the same blood type, but I don't, there is truly nothing I can do for him. My feelings of helplessness are compounded ten-fold with a deep regret of my inability to do nothing to protect my son. I have failed Kate, and I have failed Heath. My eye catches my titanium wedding band, I pull it up to my knuckle revealing the perfectly pristine skin, the only bit of flesh on either hand not bloodstained.