Uncharted(31)

“They’re as clean as they’re going to get.”

“Right.” I steady my shoulders. “You’re right. It’s time.” I glance at him. “You’ll hold him steady?”

Beck nods.

“He… he’s probably going to wake, and he’s probably going to scream.” I suck in a breath. “A lot.”

“I have the stick for him to bite down on, if necessary.”

“It’ll be necessary,” I mutter grimly.

Reaching out, I check that the tourniquet is still tight, then wrap my hands around the jagged piece of metal protruding from Ian’s thigh. When my grip is secure, I look up into Beck’s eyes.

“On three.”

He nods, adjusting his hold on Ian’s shoulders in case he suddenly begins to thrash.

“One… two…. three!”

With one swift motion, I pull straight up on the shard. It slides cleanly from the wound like pulling a stake from the grass after a game of horseshoes. There’s less resistance than I thought there’d be, but I don’t dwell on that as I cast the jagged debris aside. I’m focused on the blood pouring from the gaping hole I’ve just created.

Blessedly, the tourniquet holds, preventing him from bleeding out completely. There’s still plenty of trauma to contend with. When I see the mangled remains of his severed femur bone, I have to duck my mouth and nose into my elbow, afraid I’ll be sick. Thankfully, there’s nothing in my stomach to expel.

Ian thrashes in his sleep, his cries of pain louder than ever. Beck’s biceps strain as he pins the man against the ground.

“Hold him!”

“Doing my best, princess!”

I grab the sterilized knife from its place by the fire and set about my grim task. I wish I could close my eyes to shut out the sight of my hands sawing through flesh. I wish I could erase the images burned into my mind in those bloody, horrid instants as Ian flails and shrieks for mercy from the pain I’m inflicting on him.

There’s hardly anything but skin holding his leg to his body. After a few swift slices, the dead limb falls away. It lands on the sand with a sickening thump and rolls toward the beach. For a few long seconds, I simply stare at it, hardly comprehending what I’ve just done, unable to rally myself to the remaining task. Continuing seems too awful to contemplate.

It’s Beck, who brings me back.

“Violet. Violet! Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

My gaze finds his. I focus on his words, instead of Ian’s feverish moans of pain.

“It’s almost done,” Beck tells me, jaw clenching so hard I’m surprised his teeth don’t snap. “Just a little more.”

“I don’t…” I glance down at my hands, slicked to the wrists in blood and gore. The sight of the knife in them makes my stomach turn over. “I don’t know if I can…”

“No. You don’t get to quit on me now,” he hisses, tone ringing with authority. “You will do this because there’s no other choice. You will do this because, if you don’t, he’s going to die.” His voice drops an octave. “Ian will die. And then, it’ll just be the two of us on this godforsaken island, and we both know how much you’d hate that.”

I’m so startled by his joke, I nearly let a laugh slip out before I catch myself. It’s the most inappropriate thing in the world to be laughing, right now… but I feel unquestionably lighter as his words roll around my mind like marbles, sweeping away the fear. Reassuring me of my purpose. Jolting me back into action.

When I was little, Dad would talk about his time in the war sometimes. He always said the same thing.

You don’t stop in the middle of a charge. Even if things get hairy, even if the bullets are raining down, you don’t duck for cover before you’ve reached the trenches. You keep going. You fight. Do you hear me? Never stop fighting, Violet. Nothing in this world worth having comes without some sort of struggle.

My mouth opens and shuts, a shaky exhale slipping out. Without a word, I place the knife back into the smoldering embers of the fire and wait until the tip begins to glow red-hot. When it’s ready, my hand wraps around the handle as I look into Beck’s eyes. His strong fingers are gripping the ends of the shoelace tourniquet, prepared to undo it on my signal.

“Do it,” I whisper.

He yanks the knot until it falls away. A fresh spurt of blood pours from the stump of Ian’s thigh, but my hands are already in motion. I grip the knife as tight as I can and press the flat part of the blade across the gaping wound to cauterize the bleeding. There’s an unpleasant searing sound reminiscent of steak on a barbecue, but it’s quickly drowned out by Ian’s screams as he comes fully awake for the first time.

“I’m sorry!” I wail, holding the knife as still as possible. It’s only wide enough to cover a portion of his wound. The smell of charred meat hits my nose and I fight off a retch. “I’m so sorry, Ian!”

His screams echo louder. A startled flock of birds bursts from a nearby treetop. He thrashes so violently I nearly drop the knife into the sand.

“You have to hold him still!”

“Doing… my… best!” Beck hisses, laboring from the effort.

Ian may be weak from fever and at least five inches shorter than Beck, but he’s putting up an impressive fight. I force myself to hold the knife in place until I’m sure the top half of the wound is completely closed. Returning it to the flames for a few endless moments, I wait until the blade is red-hot once more before I move it down to the bottom portion of his thigh, where the remaining bleeders are still gushing forth in a deadly flood. There’s another horrid hiss as I press down hard, singing the rest of the wound shut.