The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(98)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE


HUNTED

Joe raises the rifle and fires at the back window. I throw myself over Jillian and Bryant, turning my back to the barrage.

The inside of the ambulance is chaos as bullets shatter glass, burst through metal walls, and riddle the doors with holes.

I feel a searing pain in my thigh and another in the side of my body.

The staccato beat of the rifle comes to a halt, and the only sound is our breathing. I can feel Jillian under my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin.

Her body is shielding the wounded cop—one more layer of humanity trying to protect him.

There’s a deep, whinnying sound as someone labors to breathe.

Jillian turns to look at me, wipes away strands of dirty-blonde hair, and mouths, “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” I try to say but only sputter blood.

Her face, inches away from my own, is a wide-screen vision of terror as red-tinged saliva trickles out of my mouth.

I realize the wheezing sound is me. One of Joe’s bullets grazed a rib, fracturing it.

“Hold on,” says Jillian. She crawls out from underneath me and goes toward the door.

I try to say, “Don’t go out there,” but start to cough.

She grabs the handle of the open lower door and pulls it shut, sealing us in.

The upper window is filled with holes, but it’s largely intact. Although I don’t know what difference it will make. One more spray of bullets from Joe and the glass is likely to give way.

Seconds later, the handle begins to rattle as Joe tries to open the door.

Jillian and I watch anxiously; then the noise comes to a halt.

“I think he’s gone,” says Jillian.

“No, he’s not,” I gurgle.

“Theo, tell me what to do!” She runs her hands across my body and finds the wound on my rib cage.

“How’s he?” I ask through gasps.

She touches the cop’s neck and measures his pulse. “Alive. Now help me patch you up.” She assists me into a sitting position.

“No time . . .”

“Bullshit. Tell me what to do!”

“Gloves,” I say through labored breathing.

She digs through a pile of supplies and finds a box of blue gloves and slips them on. “Now what?”

“Is the wound deep?” I ask.

She probes the injury, trying to gently see if there’s a bullet hole, implying there could be a bullet inside me.

“Fuck!” I scream when my body is attacked by white-hot, searing pain.

She pulls back. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay . . . It’s a good sign.”

“I can feel your rib. I think it’s fractured.”

“No hole. Get . . . the clotting . . . bandage,” I gasp.

The internal bleeding is just a temporary symptom, I hope. If there had been a bullet hole through my chest and lungs, I could be dead in minutes.

Jillian rips open a pack of the same bandages I used on Bryant and sticks them to my skin. The clotting agents mix with the blood and start to form a seal, stopping the flow of blood from the wound.

Still, I feel woozy.

“Theo?” Jillian raises her hand from the floor. It’s covered in blood. “I think you got hit on the leg in two places.”

She searches my body and presses on my thigh. I feel like I just got stabbed.

“I’m so sorry! I think it went through, at least.”

She finds a pair of scissors and cuts away at my jeans.

“Should I wrap it, too?”

“Plug . . . ,” I say through gritted teeth. “Like a tampon . . .”

Sometimes the best field dressing is a round plug that fills the wound. It can be a lifesaver or make things worse, depending on the type of wound. For a hole straight through my thigh muscle, it’s the most expedient solution.

“Like this?” she asks, holding up a syringelike applicator.

“Yes . . .”

Without warning—which is probably for the best—she shoves it into the wound. The pain is so intense I pass out for a moment.

I come to with Jillian slapping me and calling my name.

I feel cold and weak. “Yeah.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Because I’m bleeding,” I reply nonsensically.

“Should I give you artificial blood?” She holds up a packet.

“Can you . . . can you . . . tap a vein?”

“Yes. Probably.”

I’m so tired I don’t even feel like answering.

“Theo! Stay with me!” She slaps my face again.

“So . . . violent.”

Things begin to darken around the edges of my vision. I feel a sharp pain in my arm, then gradually focus.

Jillian has a bag of artificial blood suspended from a door handle above our heads. The end is poked into my arm.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Yes. Am I still leaking?”

“I don’t think so.”

She wraps a bandage around the needle in my arm, fixing it in place.

“Joe?” I ask.

“He’s been gone for a few minutes. I think help is on the way.”

I wish I could believe that was true. I have a feeling we’re a long way from anybody coming to our rescue. It makes no sense that he would just walk away from us.