Disclaimer: this is a mature story wih violence, moderately gory details, and adult themes and language interspersed throughout the story. Read at your own discretion.
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Recap
"Aw SHIT!" Turner exclaims behind you, "She still alive?"
"Appears so."
"What're we gonna do?"
"I don't know..."
"I mean, we can't just leave her here, can we?"
Surprised at the boy's reaction, but mind still racing, you respond, "Just shut up for a second, I'm trying to think!"
The wound, though bleeding, doesn't look beyond treatment, but the woman looks like she might have gone into shock. It's a good little hike back to the carriage, and you came here to do a job, not rescue someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, something deep in your soul can't just leave her there lying in the mud, bleeding out...
You're left with a choice:
(A.) Attempt to stem the bleeding and carry her back to the carriage with the help of the Kid, maybe you can get her back to town in time to save her life. The chances are slim, but the chance is worth taking.
(B.) Do her a favor, and put her out of her misery now. There's little chance you'd get her - or yourselves - out alive, and even with medical attention, it's not sure that she'll make it.
(The vote was nearly unanimous, apparently y'all just love a damsel in distress! Okay, let's save her!)
Chapter 5: A Damsel in Distress
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
After pacing to and from for a moment, trying to ascertain the possible outcomes of the predicament you have found yourself in with your unlikely partner and the now not-so-mystery assailant, you snap your fingers quickly to get Turner's attention - pulling him out of his shocked fixation on the woman slowly bleeding into the ground at your feet.
"Hey, HEY! Snap out of it, kid, I need to you keep an eye out around us while I try to field dress this wound. If we don't stop the bleeding, it won't matter if we get her back to town or not, she'll be gone by then."
"Shit... SHIT! Okay, alright, uh... yeah, you do that, I'll make sure nothin' interrupts ya." Turner stammers, turning his attention back to the mud, tepid water, and smatterings of foliage and reeds that make up the majority of your surroundings. You're shocked that all that gunfire hasn't drawn more attention from neither Hunter nor shambling undead, but you aren't one to complain. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, pops always said. Better dress this wound... if not for her sake, at the very least the kid's. I wonder what's gotten into him?
This last thought clings to your mind like lichen to a log as you produce a simple field medical kit from one of the many pouches that line your ammo belt. Even though you've only known Turner but for a few moments, he doesn't strike you as the sentimental type. Irreverent, brash, and impetuous, yes... but sentimental? Then again, here you are, preparing to administer first aid to someone who was just shooting at you for no better reason than "She's a woman and it'd probably mess with the kid to just put her down right now." Yeah, I have no room to question or speculate... must be getting soft with age... Okay, let's see here: gauze, a strip of cloth, tincture of iodine. Hmm... You pull a bullet out of your ammo belt. It'll hurt like hell, but it might cauterize the wound enough to get her out of here.
Drawing closer to the woman, you examine the bleeding wound more closely. She doesn't seem to notice, her grey-blue eyes unfocused and far off. Though the wound does have a steady stream of blood flowing out of it, there does not appear to be any arterial spray, and the rate of bleeding doesn't seem to indicate major damage. However, due to the location and depth of the wound, she appears to be choking on her own blood to a small extent - which explains the blood coming from her nose and mouth. You're damn lucky I had to take a guess on that shot... either I aimed too low, or that hat is too big for you... in any case, you're fortunate to even be breathing right now...
You uncap the bottle of tincture and quickly pour some of it onto the gauze to clean the wound, dabbing gently at her skin and attempting to clear away some of the blood. She winces a little bit, but not enough to pull her back to reality just yet. Oh, it'll happen, that was the easy part. Gripping the bullet in your teeth, you pry it loose from its cartridge and carefully empty its contents into the open wound. From a matchbox in your chest pocket, you pry out a match, and strike it on the side of your boot.
"This is gonna sting a bit."
With that, you hold the match to the gunpowder in the wound, causing it to quickly flare up in a bright, hot flash, sizzling flesh in the process. The woman's previously unfocused eyes suddenly snap to attention and grow wide as a scream escapes from her lips. Then, just as quickly as she came to, consciousness leaves her eyes and body, and her head slumps to the ground once more. As the smoke clears yet the smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air, you lean in closer to examine the state of her wound once more.
It ain't perfect, but that'll hold better than a simple bandage could, you think to yourself, observing the singed edges of the wound. Where once there was a steady flow of crimson life force, there is now only mild bleeding from the more raw parts of the wound. Satisfied with the result, you apply the tincture-stained gauze to the wound and wrap the strip of cloth around it - gently enough to allow for airflow, but tight enough to ensure that the bandage won't shift or come undone.
"Alright, boy, if we're gonna do this, we need to start pounding dirt now. I don't wanna be out here past sundown." That's when you notice the look of astonishment on the kid's face.
"Did you just... fuckin' light'er neck on fire?!"
Chuckling a little, you reply "Yeah, you spend enough time out here shootin' and gettin' shot at, you learn a few tricks that can mean the difference between life and death. We'll see which one it's gonna be for little missy over here..."
"Learn sumthin' new erry damn day..." Turner mutters under his breath. "Arright, let's go."
With a pert nod, you bend down and clutch the wrist of her right arm, pulling her up into a sitting position. Slinging her arm over your head and leveraging your shoulders into her chest and waist, you position her onto your shoulders as if carrying a deer carcass. "Lead the way"
Turner unholsters his pistols once more, and raising them to his shoulders, begins to ford back through the muddy swamp. Quickly adjusting the woman to rest more comfortably on your shoulders, you follow suit - hoping that this whole effort will somehow be worth it if it means missing out on a payday...
The hour is growing later, evidenced by the increasingly pinkish hue of the sky set against purple clouds and the darkened outlines of roof peaks and oil lamps of the dusky little town. The road, muddy and furrowed from wagon wheels and hoof prints, divides the town evenly - creating a "parting of the Red Sea" feeling, but with long, reaching shadows. As the light dims, flickering lights from candles and kerosene lamps being lit begin to shine out of the dirty glass windows. These little lights line the street with a warm, yet eerie light that continually dances and shifts, causing shadows to play tricks of the mind and come to life in the corner of one's vision.
Especially with times being as hellish as they are...
This thought held true for many years before the hell-plague that now threatens the Louisiana swamplands and countryside, but even moreso now, when shadows spring to life and threaten to devour poor wayfaring souls. Sheriff Wayne Hardin is a sensible man, not prone to irrational fears or overly imaginative musings, and yet even he now falls victim to the darklings lurking in the corners of his vision - tempting him to glance over only to dispel themselves in impish fasion before his eyes espy them.
It's no wonder people lose their minds looking over their shoulders... The number of gunshot cases born from pure paranoia? I'd say "Jesus Christ..." but it's hard to believe he'd even care at this point...
These musings aren't uncommon for Sheriff Billings as of late. A shame really, otherwise, he would be enjoying sitting out on the front deck of the Town Jail, experiencing the ambient sounds of the evening growing as the crickets and frogs began to sing their songs more passionately - mixing with the piano music and carousing down at the Saloon down the street. No, now the good Sheriff finds himself passing time in the evening with existential thoughts and regretful cynicism.
All the better to stay up all night with, my dear... He thinks to himself with a rueful chuckle, adapting a childhood favorite story of his to fit his plight more accurately.
These thoughts are soon interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats and wagon wheels swiftly approaching. Deliberately lifting himself out of his chair, the Sheriff feels a few pops and cracks in his back as he straightens up to stand at attention - ready for whatever trouble these sounds now herald.
It's not long before the horse-drawn carriage comes rushing into town, blowing right past the jail and slowing to a stop further down the main road. The Sheriff leans his shoulder against one of the posts holding up the deck's overhanging roof, curiously observing the unfolding events with a hand resting on the pistol strapped to his hip.
A door opens and a figure jumps out, quickly turning back around and holding their arms out to the inside of the carriage. Another leans out of the carriage, seeming to struggle with something heavy, a burden which they maneuver onto the former's shoulders before jumping out of the carriage themselves. Both of these shadowy figures then turn and rush up the front steps of the saloon.
Probably just a couple young bucks playing pranks on a drunk friend of theirs... I'll check in with them tomorrow morning, just to make sure they're not any trouble.
With that thought, the Sheriff retreats to his quarters inside the jail, preparing for yet another night of restless sleep, ready to jump out of bed and face whatever ruffians or horrors might await him on this side of consciousness...
Turner bursts through the saloon doors ahead of you, holding them open for you as you pass over the threshold. All activity in the saloon stops upon your arrival, but you're not concerned about the attention you're drawing. Not yet. You take a straight path to the bar where the owner greets you with a wary smile. "Hello, uh, how can I-"
"We need a room, hot water, fresh cloth, and a doctor. There's no time to waste, we'll settle the bill later. Please, quickly!" You say, not wasting any time.
The owner, to his credit, quickly responds to your request by leading you up the spiral staircase past a handful of working girls, into a modest, but spacious room at the end of the second-floor hallway. "I'll fetch the town doctor right away." He says, glancing surreptitiously at the woman who is lying limp across your shoulders.
"Thank you, your expediency and discretion are greatly appreciated."
He politely nods once more, not taking his eyes off the woman, then swiftly turns and whisks away through the doorway. You begin gently laying the woman down on the clawfoot bed while Turner slowly closes the door, obviously working through something in his mind.
"What's on your mind, kid?"
"Just tryna figure out what the fuck expe-... expedi- aw fuck it. I didn't know you was edumicated, mister."
"My mother was. Helluva reader, she was, taught me everything I know 'sfar as readin' and writin's concerned. Guess I never realized how quick that is to come out 'round townsfolk. Anyways, there's not much more we can do for her tonight. I'll stay here with her, make sure nothin' happens to her. You're free to do whatever the hell you wanna do, just realize that our deal still stands. I'm out some money right now because of this, and I'm gonna want to make good on my contract soon as we're able."
"Yeah, yeah, don't getcher panties up in a knot, I ain't goin' nowhere. 'Cept maybe a few rooms down with one of them purty girls out there..." Turner said with a lecherous grin.
With a humorous grin and a chuckle, you shoo your young companion out the door, but he doesn't take much convincing. You settle into an armchair across the room from the bed, and wait for the doctor to arrive.
"It was smart, using gunpowder to cauterize the wound. If you hadn't done that, I don't think she would still be with us. I've stitched her up as best as I can, and given her morphine for the pain, the rest is in God's hands now."
"Okay, thanks, Doc."
You shake his hand firmly before he excuses himself, gently closing the door behind him. You turn your attention back to the woman on the bed, who now seems to be resting more peacefully, face no longer contorted by pain. Taking a seat in the armchair once more, you settle into the rhythm and cadence of the saloon atmosphere. Music and raucous laughter drift up softly through the floorboards and the doorway from down below, light bumps and moans of pleasure come through the walls in the room adjacent to the one you now occupy. I wonder if that is Turner enjoying himself, that cocksure whelp...
It doesn't take long in this cadence of night life for you to find your eyes growing heavy, weary and fatigued from the events of the day. Before you drift off into sleep, you have the presence of mind to consider this thought: where should I position the chair before I fall asleep?
(A.) Closer to the side of the bed
(B.) In front of the door
(C.) Leave it where it is
The choice is yours. Please leave your votes in the comments and let me know if you would like to opt into the watchlist if you haven't already! Thank you for your time and attention!
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As always, take care of yourselves and each other, and stay thoughtful!
Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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