He squeezes a tube, and cream ejects onto his finger. He rubs it on his own wound, then he repeats the process, spreading it on Duri’s.
“Fuck, mom!” Duri yells, saying the wordfuckin common English.
The man laughs and utters something I do not understand.
He laces up the suture needle, then looks at me in frustration. He grunts a few syllables, then grabs my hands.
Startled, I pull away, but he reaches for me, taking them again.
Being touched by him is…unnerving. Even before the dead rose, I was hardly touched. Not even by my husband.
Just the soft hands of my children.
This man’s hands are enormous, making me feel small.
He makes me feel so many things. Confusing things.
He presses my hands to Duri’s thigh, above and below the wound.
He wants me to hold him in place.
“Please, ma—get him out of here. He hurts!” Duri wails.
As much as I want to comfort my son, now is not the time. Every moment the wound remains open increases Duri’s chance of infection.
So I hold his leg tight, look at the man, and give a firm nod.
The man utters a few syllables, then lowers the needle to the wound.
Duri screams.
ChapterThree
ME, TRENT
TRENT
I’ve only ever done field stitches, and boy, they are a bitch.
Now, stitching a terrified child that can’t understand a word I say, I long for the time I was in combat, working on shrapnel wounds.
The tiny toddler grabs my arm when he sees his brother’s distress. This would be so much easier if I could say something to him and help him understand that I’m not the bad guy—they are, because you don’t stab and knock out that man who’s trying to rescue you.
I gently push the child’s hand aside as the mother speaks softly to him. I don’t know what she’s saying, because of the language barrier and the fact that the injured kid is now screaming at the top of his lungs.
“This isn’t personal, kid,” I say, though I’m not sure why I bother. “I have to do this.”
My leg throbs, making it difficult to concentrate. The crying child only makes matters worse. God, I wish Christine were here with all her medical knowledge and cold precision. She may be a bitch, but she knows her shit.
I work quickly and without finesse. Chances are, this kid will have a pretty gnarly scar, as I’m no surgeon, but having a scar is certainly better than being six feet under. Or perhaps I should say, turning undead, which is all the rage now.
Within minutes, his wound is patched. I dress it, apply disinfectant to the area, then turn my attention to my own injury.
It hurts like a bitch, but I can hardly expect the woman to help me, which means I have to close the wound myself.
Fuck, the alcohol burns, but I suffer through it because infection is not something I intend to chance.
The mother comforts her sobbing child as the little one curls on her lap. Can’t really pay attention to them with all that’s going on, but now that the boy is patched, I assume the woman’s lost her edge.