Displaced

Chapter 4 - Rewrite

Blake ran through the city streets of Eflok, turning into side streets and alleyways randomly as he went in an attempt to elude pursuit. He hoped it was working, though he had no way of knowing if it was. Though the bar held in his right armpit and the dismembered left forearm jammed between his teeth slowed his pace a bit, he was pretty sure that his "pretty fast" outpaced the top speed of at least most Otharians.

Blake's heart pounded heavily in his chest, partly from the enduring rush of adrenaline still coursing through his system and partly from the blood loss. His vise-like grip on the stump of his left arm kept the vast majority of his precious scarlet fluid inside his body, but not all. He had a time limit to complete his next objectives, and he knew it.

Blake's most urgent goal was to get far enough from the arena and the guards that he didn't have to worry about taking a blade in the back. Once he'd managed that, he could move on to his second goal, which was finding something other than his hand to properly cover his stump and stop the bleeding entirely. Only then could he work on his overall goal of escaping the city.

Eflok felt as lively as a ghost town. Blake turned into another alley, his eyes searching for ambushes, but he only saw terrorized eyes peeping fearfully from the gaps between primitive wooden slats if he saw anything at all. It was as if the entire city was hiding from a man-eating tiger, each person hoping it would pass by their house and prey elsewhere.

Blake was quite willing to oblige. Even if he wanted to mess with the people in those houses, he didn't have the time. Every minute he delayed was one more minute that the Otharians had to hunt him and reinforce the city exits.

His heartbeat thundering in his ears and his breath growing ragged, Blake slowed to a halt, his gaze falling upon a clothesline strung up across the alley between two houses. Three fairly clean shirts swayed in the soft breeze—just the sort of thing he was looking for. The line hung above the second-story windows, but that wasn't a problem. He placed his severed arm and metal pole on the most sanitary-looking spot in the alley, took a deep breath, and jumped. A moment later, he landed with two shirts in hand.

Without delay, Blake proceeded to rip the shirts into thin strips without fully removing his one hand from the open wound by pinching part of the shirt with two fingers and doing the actual ripping with his teeth. It was an awkward process, but his strength made the act of tearing the canvas-like cloth almost trivial.

Blake didn't feel particularly guilty about the destruction; the owner of these clothes had probably been in that stadium cheering for his death. It was almost cathartic. Almost.

First, Blake tied a loop of cloth around the middle of his upper left arm to cut off the circulation. The act of tying with only a single hand proved far more challenging than the ripping, especially because he needed to tie it as tightly as possible to cut off the circulation. Once he'd managed that, he began to address the wound itself. Blake did not possess much of any first-aid or medical training, but he'd once had a neighbor who'd lost a leg "in the war". He tried to copy the back and forth diagonal criss-crossing wrapping pattern he'd seen the neighbor use. Between his limited tools, inexperience, and improvised materials, the final result would have made even a first-year nursing student cringe.

Still, it did the job. The bleeding, already slowed greatly by the tourniquet, decreased further until, a few minutes later, it seemed to finally come to a full halt. Blake picked up his pipe and arm and brushed the grime off his former limb. He could feel the toll of all he'd been through beginning to take its toll, the shock and blood loss leaving him somewhat lightheaded.

Blake shook his head. As tired as he felt, he couldn't afford to rest yet. He could only rest once he'd escaped—and maybe not even then.

It was time to head out and make his escape. Unfortunately, thanks to all the zigging and zagging he'd done to make his way to this unremarkable alleyway, he didn't have the slightest idea where in the city he happened to be. He couldn't even use the midday sun hanging high in the sky to know which direction he was headed. Blake decided it didn't matter. He'd look for the wall, head towards it, and follow it until he found a gate out of the city.