"Get him in here!" The woman called, swiping the table clear with her arm and scattering the objects onto the floor, "Hurry!"
Scott had no idea why she was helping him, but he couldn't afford to reject her. He used his last bit of strength to make it up the porch steps, and two people he didn't know removed Mitch's dead weight from his shoulders. There was so much blood that had exited the smaller man, having seeped from the wound and down Scott's torso, staining his shirt crimson.
"Just save him!" Scott collapsed onto his hands and knees, and the panic he'd had to ignore while he made the trek to the house, started to manifest itself. He was wheezing for breath, and his mind was caught on the image of Mitch falling to the ground, instantly unconscious.
"Was he bit?" An older man growled at him with urgency, "Was he bit?!"
Scott shook his head and managed in a shaky voice, "No. Shot."
"Hershel!" Someone called from inside, "It's bad!"
The white haired man rushed inside, and Scott rose, light-headed and weak, to follow him.
Mitch was much too pale, and his shirt was open where the women had cut it. Blood was everywhere, and more of it than should be possible for a human being to emit was starting to pool on the tabletop. Scott felt faint, and must have looked like a ghost, standing there in shocked disbelief. Hershel took a wadded up kitchen towel and pressed it against the wound. "What happened?" He asked in a calm, but firm voice.
"Shot. Just-"
The chubby man with the goatee, who was just as stunned as Scott was, began stuttering, "I-I don't know. I was hunting and I-I didn't see him."
"We have to keep pressure on it."
"It went through the deer and-just hit him. I can't believe..." The man faded off, his eyes wide and scared.
"No exit wound. That means the bullet's still in there. Broken into pieces. Probably four or five of 'em, What's his blood type?"
There was so much happening. So many people buzzing around. So much shouting. And Mitch, lying pale and quiet on the dining room table. "Um, A positive," Scott's voice betrayed him, and came out weak and cracking, "Same as me."
Hershel gave him a look, "That's fortunate. Stay nearby. We'll need a blood transfusion."
Avi entered, having lagged behind as Scott charged across the field, his own shoulders covered in blood from where he'd taken a turn carrying Mitch. "How bad is it?"
"Son, I suggest you stay back," Hershel swapped out the blood soaked towel for a new one, the pressure on Mitch's abdomen forcing air out of his lungs.
Avi touched the back of his beanie, which had somehow stayed on, then took it off as he felt the blood soaking it. Back there in the forest, the man had told them about the farm, but it was two miles from where they'd stood. So Avi and Scott were forced to take turns hauling Mitch, army style, across their shoulders, and make their way as quickly as possible through wilderness and grassy fields. They both felt impossibly drained, dehydrated, and faint, but seeing their friend unconscious and bleeding kept adrenaline rushing.
Scott didn't know what to do. He desperately wanted to help with something, but the man seemed to be a doctor and they had no choice but to trust him. He winced as one of the women, a nurse maybe, inserted an IV into Mitch's forearm.
"Beth? Get clean sheets on the bed, and bring me my bag." Somehow the man remained calm, and the flow of blood actually seemed to be slowing down. But Mitch was even paler, almost as white as a sheet.
"Can you give blood?" It wasn't a question. Hershel was looking down at his work, but everyone knew who he was talking to.
Scott sank into a chair, getting dropped abruptly as his legs gave out halfway there, and let the I.V. woman push his sleeve up and turn the widest part of his forearm upward. He was in a daze by now, and his emotions were such a jumble, that he didn't feel the needle as it entered him. His gaze was set on that body, growing ever-closer to death as time ticked by. He normally reacted badly to blood draws, but this time watching his own blood fill the tube and enter the bag was unremarkable. He was too lightheaded already, too in shock, and too exhausted.
"Kirstie and Kevin. They don't know." Scott realized, "They don't know."
Avi plucked at the front of his shirt and pulled the wet fabric where the blood made it cling to his skin. His eyes were vacant, and his hands were trembling, "I'll tell them."
"I have to go," Scott rubbed his face with his free hand, "It's my fault. I told him he could come and he should have stayed behind. Kirstie doesn't know."
"Hey," Avi kneeled in front of Scott and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I'll go. You need to stay here. He needs you."
And in that moment, Scott knew he was right. He nodded in defeat, and he watched his blood in the tube. Mitch did need him. Scott's blood was liquid gold in this situation. He just wished he could give all of it.
Avi stood, replacing the bloody beanie on his head, and started to head toward the door before one of the women tending to Mitch stopped him.
"I'll go too. It'll be faster."
An apprehensive glance and a nod, and the pair exited.
The blonde girl returned with a black leather bag, and dumped it on the table by Mitch's legs.
"Get me the gauze," The man was cutting down the fabric of Mitch's sleeves, and he discarded the mangled shirt onto the floor, his hands gently replacing the pale man's head on the tabletop. The girl handed it to him, so he pressed a wad of it against the wound.
Scott suddenly was sickened by all the blood. His hands were sticky with the half-dried stuff, and his shirt was soaked by it. His own blood was being collected in a bag, and he was beginning to feel drained. When a good amount of it had accumulated, the woman pulled the needle from Scott's arm and instructed him to hold his finger over the pin prick as she transferred the bag to the table. Inserting one end of the tube in a valve on the side of Mitch's IV drip, the clear liquid turned scarlet and began to enter Mitch's body.
Scott didn't have the strength to even stand up now, and he could only watch helplessly, unable to feel anything but desperation. Mitch had to live. He had to. Even if it meant Scott would have to give every drop of his own blood.