Steve rested his head back against the hard leather of the seats behind him. A rhythmic pounding reverberated through his skull accompanied by a needle like pain that bored through the side of his head.
Screwing his eyes up against the pain Steve inhaled deeply through his nose, held the breath for a moment before exhaling slowly through his mouth in a way that his Dad had taught him would relieve the nausea which sat heavily in his gut.
The gentle motion of the car as it began to move shook Steve from his reverie and he opened his eyes, momentarily confused at how the car could be moving when he was no longer in the driver's seat.
Glancing up Steve saw his father leaning attentively over Jesse, his skilled hands carefully readjusting the make-shift drain which protruded from Jesse's chest. Although there was a distinct blur around the edges of his vision, Steve could clearly see a red-tinted fluid trickling through the tube and into the half-filled bag which had been taped around the base of its short length in preparation for their journey.
Even with no medical training and his injured state notwithstanding, Steve recognised the blood-tainted fluid for what it signified. Jesse was still bleeding. Despite the many hours which had passed and the numerous attempts to get the haemorrhaging under control the wound would not clot.
He's going to die, Steve thought despondently, unable to keep back the tide of despair that had been ever-present since Mark's shocking discovery hours previously.
"Dad?" Steve spoke quietly, uncertain of himself and still trying to fend off the nausea that curled through his stomach.
Mark looked up, surprised by the sound of his son's voice.
"Steve? How are you feeling." Mark's face was creased in concern, his voice sombre.
The question irritated Steve who, although he knew his father had every right to be concerned, felt that the worry was better placed elsewhere.
"I'm fine," he said dismissively, "How's Jesse?"
Mark regarded Steve for a moment, not fooled by his automatic reassurances that he was fine. Even to the layman it was obvious from the way in which he held his head stiffly, his brow furrowed into deep creases that he was in serious pain. His wrist was resting protectively in his lap; the tissue swollen into a red, shiny mass, the sleeve of his jacket gauging a line into the flesh.
"Jesse's holding his own, can I look at your wrist?" Mark dodged the question of Jesse's well-being expertly and skuttling on his knees across the rubber matting that lined the floor of the jeep, he approached Steve leaving him little escape from the scrutiny to come.
Knowing there was little point in resisting Steve allowed Mark to take him by the elbow and raise the offending limb for examination.
"How is he Dad? Really?" Mark avoided Steve's inquisitive gaze and began attempting to pry the taut fabric away from the injured wrist.
"Well… his condition is as stable as can be expected." Mark knew Steve deserved a better answer than the one he had offered, but in truth he didn't want to give the prognosis he had reached, grim as it was.
Jesse had lapsed into unconsciousness some time ago, and shown little responsiveness to any form of stimulus. The continued bleeding inferred to Mark that his body was in such a state of shock that it was no longer capable of clotting. If and when they finally reached help, Mark feared that it was already too late. Jesse was likely to either bleed to death or go into complete respiratory and cardiac failure, and which ever came first the outcome would not differ.
Glancing quickly up to Steve's face he saw the stern expression that told him his hedging of the question would not suffice as an acceptable response. Averting his gaze abruptly Mark continued as if he had not noticed that anything was amiss and continued to peel away the cloth from Steve's wrist.
"Dad?" Steve's voice was insistent. Mark knew there was no was he could fool his son, and that in fact he had no right to deny him the truth.
He just didn't want to be the one to tell him.
Amanda tried to ignore the murmuring of voices which sounded from the back of the car. She tried to focus instead on the road ahead, but found that the overwhelming tiredness that ached into her bones had rendered her vision slightly blurry. The grainy image of the grey road in front of her was already obscured by the persistent downpour of rain that had increased in intensity as they neared rendezvous point.
Marker 24, just before the intercity off-ramp…
Amanda tried to suppress the increasing sense of trepidation that had begun smouldering in her stomach a few minutes previously. Striving to brush it off as a result of the circumstances and her already overwrought mind she shook her head as if trying physically to shake away the sense of foreboding.
"Is he dead yet?"
The voice broke through Amanda's musings sharply. She snapped her head to passenger seat to see if the man had regained consciousness but found he had not moved, his head still lolling on his chest, a small trail of blood trickling down his chin from a split in his lip. Endeavouring to keep a watch on the road Amanda observed the man from the side of her eyes looking or any signs of movement.
There were none.
Extending one shaking hand she prodded the man hard on the shoulder before retracting her hand as if she had been stung.
He didn't move.
Breathing deeply Amanda peered into the rear-view mirror to see if either man had noticed the voice which spoke such callous words, but saw that Mark was still tending to Steve, both in apparent deep conversation.
Trying to regulate her erratic breathing Amanda turned her head back to the road and gripped the steering wheel harder.
Just your imagination… she reassured herself.
A spiteful trick of your imagination… tired, that's all…
Amanda shook her head again, chastising herself for allowing her mind to play such cruel tricks on her.
"Do you want to join him?"
Amanda froze, her grip on the steering wheel increasing until her knuckles were white.
There was no denying the voice this time. It had clearly come from the man who sat beside her.
"Do you want to die too?"
He whispered so quietly that Amanda was certain that she was the only one capable of hearing it, and sure enough when she glanced up into the mirror she saw there had again been no reaction from Mark or Steve.
Low and irrefutably hostile his words reached her ears alone, filled with hate and menace he continued.
"Say a single word and I'll kill you where you sit, do I make myself clear?"
Amanda's ears seemed to be filled with a deafening ringing as she tried to comprehend what was happening, but his words penetrated her mind clearly. Logic told her that the man, injured and desperate, was trying to intimidate her, but there was something of his words that made her doubt the very logic that she held in such high regard.
"I have a gun and I will shoot you. Do. You. Understand. Me?" Each word was punctuated with threatening malice and Amanda knew without looking that he was not lying.
Without turning her head she flashed her eyes to the side and surveyed the man, a small smile played on his bloody lips and the shiny black barrel of a gun pointing directly at her head.
**********
Sighing and sitting back onto his heels Mark surveyed Steve.
"Steve…" he began reluctantly. "I… I don't know what to tell you. I won't lie… it isn't good." Mark paused, unsure how to continue.
"Dad, just tell me, ok? I need to know if he's…" he trailed off, not wanting to voice the bleak thoughts that were running through his head.
Mark faltered but knew he would have to respond.
"He's very sick. I honestly don't know if… he might be…" Mark hesitated again before continuing. "He's been unconscious for a long time. He's lost a lot of blood… maybe too much…"
A profound silence fell between them, neither wishing to accept the gruesome conclusion to which the facts logically led.
Mark continued to tend to Steve's wrist. Having managed to release the fabric which had stretched so tightly into his flesh Mark was now able to see that it had in fact cut a deep groove into the swollen tissue, a blue line of bruising already evident.
Steve winced, retracting his wrist automatically as a bolt of pain shot down through his fingers.
"Sorry," Mark too winced, feeling the pain he had inadvertently inflicted on Steve, but reached again for his wrist nonetheless. He remembered stating a few hours previously that the wrist was definitely broken and that is was requisite of a splint, seeing the state of it now he cursed himself for neglecting to carry out what he had known was necessary.
His wrist still tingling in pain, Steve surveyed his father. The look of self-condemnation was one that he was perhaps more familiar with seeing in his own reflection, his dad rarely having real cause to reprove himself for anything.
"It'll be ok Dad, really." Though Steve was initially referring to his fractured wrist, the alternate meaning to the sentiment was not lost on either man. It was the much needed positive assertion that had been scarce during the evening, and whilst the words were merely an empty promise, at the moment it was the best they could hope for.
"What do you want?" Amanda's voice was barely audible as she hissed at him, a volatile mix of anger and dread coursing through her veins as she stared fixedly ahead as the wet road.
"Tut, tut… what's the rush? Just sit, and enjoy" The man's smile deepened.
For a moment there was silence.
"First things first, put the radio on. Do anything to let them know…" He moved the gun forwards so that it protruded further from the folds of his baggy clothing, leaving no doubt of the unspoken threat.
Amanda hesitated for a moment, glancing quickly up into the rear-view mirror.
Mark and Steve were so close, yet Amanda knew if she did anything to antagonise the man she would not only endanger her own life, but theirs' as well. She needed to do something to change the situation, to regain control.
But what?
Releasing the steering wheel with her right hand Amanda reached forwards and with a trembling finger jabbed the On button on the stereo.
The intense silence was immediately broken by the nasal chatter that was currently broadcasting on the radio. Amanda took a glimpse back into the mirror. Mark peered up at her, surprised at the sudden influx of noise, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met.
Please… Amanda thought, tortured by how close he was and yet the isolation she felt from him. Please help me…
She tried to convey her desperation in her eyes, but fearing what would happen if he should pick up on her distress Amanda averted her gaze quickly and stared at the road ahead, tears pricking at her eyes.
"And with us today in the studio is special guest Buck McKenzie, who proudly boasts the world record for eating pickled eggs. A true champion. So Buck, tell us…"
Amanda fazed out the nasal droning, irritated by the inane triviality of the mindless banter.
How can Steve listen to such rubbish? She thought, gratified for the momentary distraction from the man with a gun who sat to her immediate right. It seemed ironic that such inconsequential nonsense should be continuing as normal when she was embroiled in a life and death situation with no apparent means of escape.
Amanda's mind raced as she tried frantically to formulate a plan; anything that would subdue the man long enough for her to disarm him of the weapon.
Where did he get it? She thought, the question managing to stand out from the melee which roared through her head, if he'd had a gun, why use a knife?
It made no sense to her. She had worked on investigations into violent crimes more times than she cared to remember, and it just didn't fit. Serial offenders usually had a weapon of choice, and stuck to it.
If he'd had a gun he could have killed us all… he's had every opportunity, so why not use it?
Maybe he's just crazy, she thought morosely.
But she could not reconcile the thought as truth.
Turning her head ever so slightly to the side Amanda eyed the sleek black gun as furtively as she could.
The man held the gun in a perceivably firm grasp, a single bony, bloodied finger stroking the barrel tenderly.
"Nice, isn't it?" He murmured, his voice imperceptible to anyone but Amanda over the discord that was playing on the radio.
Amanda flicked her head back so she was facing front, cursing herself for allowing the man to notice that she had been watching.
"Yes," he purred, self-satisfied smugness discernible in his quiet voice.
"Quite a stroke of luck really. He had it in his waistband…" The man fell silent, allowing Amanda to digest the small snippet of information he had fed to her curious mind.
Steve's gun. He's got Steve's gun…
It made sense. There had been no where else for him to get it.
He's using Steve's weapon against us.