Falling five feet on your ass sucks. Falling those same five feet into a copse of cacti sucks more. A little extra added bonus, because landing bone-jarringly onto your coccyx wasn't bad enough. With a groan loud enough to bounce off the canyon walls Warrick found a clear spot on the ground and planted a hand under him, lifting his body up off the cactus beneath him and stood unsteadily, mentally taking inventory of the damage.
Badly skinned elbows thank God he'd worn long sleeves, a sore hip, a really sore tailbone, and his favorite shirt and jeans trashed. The elbows were torn out of both sleeves and the jeans had caught on something on the way down and ripped the right front pocket completely off. His hand fell to the other pocket, another groan slipping from his mouth as he pulled the remains of his cell phone out. The flip part had been knocked completely off, the screen completely shattered. He pressed the power button a few times with breath held, but got no response from the smashed up, now useless chunk of metal.
Symptoms of Shock:
Sweating
Pale and cold clammy skin
Rapid and/or weak pulse
Confusion and anxiety
Fatigue
Thirst
Tremors or shakiness
Decreased consciousness or unconsciousness
Nausea and vomiting
Rapid breathing
Decreased urination
Seeing it all laid out in black on white brought what had been a small niggling fear gnawing at the back of his brain for release into front and center, no bones about it, nice pun, Stokes, and holy shit but this is really happening.
The first clue should have been that his teeth hadn't stopped clacking together like one of those chattering novelty gags that ran around on the table. Ladle on the fact that he could feel sweat pouring from his pits to run down his ribs and pool at the top of his jeans damn polyester lining of the coat doesn't soak up shit, and running a hand that felt like a fresh caught catfish through the sweat that puddled at his hairline, and he had the first two in the bag.
Anxiety. Hell yeah. In spades. Fatigue? Ditto. Shakiness and tremors is a given and oh, shit … … … yup, nausea. Another groan through a wave that had the bile in the back of his throat and he realized as he puffed mightily with the effort not to throw up that he had scored rapid breathing, too.
Won't know about the decreased urination for a bit, but at least he had no worries about using the bottle for a bit.
Staring at the crushed cell phone as if wishing really hard would make the device miraculously repair itself was an exercise in futility, but it was about the only exercise Warrick felt up to at that moment. Tossing his head back to stare at the heavens, mouth open to allow the still drizzling rain to collect on his tongue, he squeezed his eyes shut in anger and frustration. Was this all some kind of cosmic joke? What had he done wrong to bring down all this upon him and his partner? Where had the famous Warrick Brown luck gone to, now, when it was most needed? When his train of thought started on the what could go wrong next? track he hurriedly threw on the brakes, not willing to tempt fate any further.
Too late. When he ran a hand down his arm to rid it of the mud coating it he pulled his hand back with a sucked in breath as pinpricks of pain fired off down his flesh. Cactus. Cacti have spines. He pulled his arm up closer to his eye, the fading light not revealing any obvious spikes. So then why did it feel like he'd dunked his arm in a vat of hot oil? He scrunched up his eyes tighter, squinting now as he brought his arm an inch away from his eyes. Thousands of small hairlike spines covered his arm. He looked back at the cacti he had landed in, noting three inch long spines jutting from the plants, yet he had no overt bleeding - nothing to say he'd been speared in a thousand places. No, what he had were the smaller cousins, those that detached from the plant and were carried around like a million fishhooks in his flesh. And as he ran a hand down his other arm, lightly, fearful of causing more pain, he realized that just about every inch of exposed skin was covered in them. He reached a tentative hand down to his legs, but while he could feel them embedded in the fabric, the heavy denim must have been enough to stop them. Considering he'd landed on his ass it was the first thing he could count as lucky since they'd started out on this damn trip.
Treatment of Shock:
Dial 911 or call your local emergency number.
Immediately reassure and comfort the casualty if conscious
Have the person lie down on his or her back with feet higher than the head.
Check for signs of circulation (breathing, coughing or movement). If absent, begin CPR.
Keep the person warm and comfortable. Loosen belt(s) and tight clothing and cover the person with a blanket.
Even if the person complains of thirst, give nothing by mouth.
If the person vomits or bleeds from the mouth, turn the person on his or her side to prevent choking.
Seek treatment for injuries such as bleeding or broken bones.
Prepare for cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
Shock may be mitigated by elevation of the lower extremities above the head and if blood loss can be stopped.
Call 911...now why didn't I think of that? As far as comfort and reassurance, well, he'd be both comforted and reassured if he could just stop shaking. And feeling like he was gonna puke. And if his leg would stop bleeding, that would comfort him like all get out.
Warm and comfortable. Not much to be done about that as he was neither. Seek treatment for broken bones. Well, no shit, Sherlock. Prepare for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Prepare how? Not quite there yet, and the whole shock may be mitigated part sure sounded good to him. Two parts to that, though. Raise his legs and stop the bleeding. The first would be easy enough. The second … well, only one thing to do about that. And that was set the break.
He had two choices. Keep making his way down the canyon, slipping, sliding, landing on spine-covered arms, and getting down to the truck, no cell phone, and start driving. In the dark. Or, climb back up the few hundred feet he had descended and rejoin Nick on the shelf until the morning.
Seemed a simple decision, but as he eyed the deepening shadows that darkened the already treacherous path, he contemplated a third choice. Sit his ass down and wait until morning. Wet, tired, freezing cold, and yeah- right now, nothing sounded more desirable than hunkering down amongst the spiny brambles and cooling his jets. His eyes picked out an outcropping of rock - similar to the one that hung over the shelf above, and began making his way over to sit in its meager shelter. Just a few minutes he promised himself. Just long enough to figure out a plan. Set a spell and put some thoughts together straight in his mind.
From the time the storm had come up on them, their whole mad dash down the mountainside, then watching his partner rocket off the cliff, only to find out the devastating injury Nick had suffered- that whole time he had been operating on pure adrenaline, driven by fear primarily, now that he was admitting things.
The whole time he had been splinting up Nick's leg, watching the blood continue to well up from the wound, seeing the pain his partner exerted so much effort to keep hidden, the voice in the back of his head was telling him - go - go - go. Go do something. Go get help. No time to think about a plan, no time to think about the hazardous path running with mud that landed them in this mess in the first place. And just as Nick had predicted - he'd fallen, nearly breaking his neck, and destroying the one tenuous chance they had at connection and communication.
Adrenaline now fading, along with their light, he was at a loss. A complete loss as to what to do next.
Re-commit to the flooded trail, continuing down the next few thousand feet in the increasing nightfall, hoping to make it in one unbroken piece to the truck? Or climb back up to the shelf, return to Nick with his tail tucked between his legs, licking his wounds and allowing his friend a few told you sos. And accepting that there would be no help coming their way until he could attempt the way the following morning. And would Nick have until the next morning?
"You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his walk…"
Just one quick pull and it would be all over … just one tug, like ripping a Band-Aid off the biggest fucking cut ever. Like taking a hit to the gut. Like taking the face full of Mace he'd volunteered for when a buddy who went the Police Academy route back in Dallas had bragged/bitched about how bad it had hurt, how he'd puked for twenty minutes afterwards, and Nick had stepped to the bait and had squeezed his fists into balls so tightly he coulda made diamonds from charcoal briquettes, but he'd taken it and FUCK yeah, it sucked, and it burned, but through the pain he could hear his friend half razzing him, half cheering him on and a hand on his shoulder had guided him over to take a seat on a cement curb and handed him bottle after bottle of saline to rinse his eyes but the liquid fire wouldn't wash away. A trip to the ER later they'd finally gotten him cleaned up, his buddy having to reassure the staff Nick wasn't a perp. A week later he was still getting sideways looks from women in bars who figured him as some kind of rapist when they caught the chemical burns around his eyes.
So this would be nothing. Childs play.
"You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his talk…"
He gritted his teeth through another bout of nausea, huffing in little short breaths, swallowing the bile back down, and hurriedly stuffed everything back into his backpack, adding all of Warrick's stuff for good measure.
Dragging himself around on his rear he scrabbled for rocks, piling them up next to the backpack, "You can tell him by his manners, his appetite and such…" his voice catching and warbling as his ruined fingernail snagged on a stone that was reluctant to give up its spot in the ground, but he found himself glad for the temporary overload of pain, dragging his attention away from the tempest in his stomach and the ache in his leg.
Once he had a respectable pile of stones he piled them on top of the backpack, fumbling to catch the ones that fell back off the uneven surface and put them back onto the mound.
He gave a light tug on the protruding shoulder strap, heartened when it didn't move with the effort. He tugged a few times more, a bit harder each time, but the bag seemed weighted well enough to remain stationary.
Crabbing backwards on his hands and rump he lined his foot up with the strap, hooking his toes up and underneath, bracing for what he had to do next.
"You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his walk,
You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his talk,
You can tell him by his manners, his appetite and such,
Yeah, you can tell a Scout from Texas, BUT YOU SURE CAN'T TELL HIM MUCH!"
And his voice ruptured into a coughed out barking scream as he felt the raw jagged edges of bone rub against each other. He felt the edges of his vision tunneling down as excruciating pain flared into a white hot ball that oddly took form as a high-pitched noise in his ears that blocked out all other sound- like a Star Trek phaser set to overload was the only analogy he could grasp at the time, and it made sense as it only increased in pitch, screeching ever higher until he thought he might fade to blue then red like they showed on the old show, winking out of existence. Unfortunately, real life and cheesy old sixties sci-fi shows rarely had much in common, and there was no explosion, no demolecularization, only agonizing pain.
Ultimately, Warrick's desire to hunker down in the cover of the rock shelf was thwarted by the pain in his rear end. After easing his sore and tired body down to the ground he immediately hissed as his weight fell on his tailbone. After several fruitless attempts to lean side to side and switch his weight from one cheek to the other, he sighed explosively and swore in frustration, pulling himself back up. There wasn't even enough room to pace back and forth under the short covering so he eased his lanky frame back against the canyon wall behind him and stared balefully out at the rain. His eyes grew tired of looking at newspaper grey sky so he closed them, wrestling once more with his decision.
A short time later he was startled out of his fugue by an odd sound. The sound of nothing. His eyes snapped open, expecting to see the same hazy rain as before, but the air in front of him looked clear. He stuck a hand out from under the shelter, pulling it back to find his pruny flesh not covered in fresh moisture.
The rain had stopped.
The patter of raindrops splashing on hard rock had been a constant white noise din in the background and its sudden cessation was like someone had shut the windows against the street noise outside. The hum was not really noticed until it was gone.
He stepped out from under his shelter and looked out at the sky. Off in the distance the greys were morphing to pinks and lavenders, the storm clouds moving on, but the sun setting right behind it. Short bursts of bird song twittered from a nearby clump of bushes as the wildlife shook off the rain waters and resettled themselves in their waterlogged perches.
And from above came a sound that made him quirk up an eyebrow in disbelief, followed by amusement. The sound of Nick's voice carried out from above, and he was singing. And not very well. And what the Hell was that song? It took a minute for him to figure out the tune. The Yellow Rose of Texas. At least he figured that's what the melody was, considering the words didn't match and Nick sang off tune and half shouted most of the lyrics by the sound of it.
Something about Scouts from Texas… he'd never heard it before but wasn't surprised, since his partner and he rarely saw eye to eye on music, the Texan's ear enjoying twangy tunes about broken hearts, crying into beer, and odes to dogs and pickup trucks, and Warrick's taste running more to complex jazz and old school blues.
But this song was just plain bizarre.
He shook his head, smiling, comforted by the still pretty strong voice, clueing him in to his friend's current state of health when that comfort was shattered into a million pieces by the sound of Nick's voice rising in tone and volume, breaking off into a scream that sent every hair on his body standing straight up.
He planted his feet back on the trail and sprinted back up the mountain.
