A Russians Are Coming! Fanfic
Shattered Window
Chapter 3
Yuri Rozanov
Merry Christmas everyone!
Walt was beside himself. He wished it was all just a horrible nightmare; that he could just shake himself awake. But there he stood, legs trembling, with an unconcious man draped in his arms. A man who was not sick, but shot.
He had shot him.
Walt couldn't take his eyes from the man in his arms; as if he would die the moment he looked away. This man was a Russian. A Russian. That was enough to frighten anyone. Russians, America's most feared adversaries were right here... in his house. Walt knew how feared and even prehaps hated these men were, and he too was guilty of such bitter judgements. But it wasn't the Governemnt that makes up a country, its the people. So many Americans bear grudges against these men and there homeland because of their Government. But these men were individuals. It was not their fault the government was bad.
Looking down at the man, Walt realized this.
He shouldn't judge a whole nationality of people, just because of one bad man in office.
Walt sighed.
This Russian didn't even mean to be a threat to America. Like any American patriot, he had joined the navy to fight for his home and those he loved. Now here he was, trapped on this Island, injured, and surrounded by terrified people. But what those people didn't realize, was just how terrified these Russians were.
How terrified this Russian was.
And now from Walt's own fear, this man was shot; possibly dying.
Walt swallowed hard and continued to stare down at the man in his arms.
The Russian was terribly pale, and his breathing sounded rugged. Only that morning, Walt had been scared stiff of this man; But now, he was laying helpless in his arms. Walt felt not only pitty, but regret, shame, and fear for this man.
This Russian was hurt. Because of him.
"Walt? Walt."
Walt broke his gaze on the Russian and looked up, startled. He blinked up at Kolchen, who stood in front of him, his arms held out in anticipation. Realizing the voice couldn't have been his, Walt looked behind him and saw Alyson staring at him from behind the spare-room bed.
"Walt, put him down." She pleaded.
Hesitantly, Walt let Kolchen take hold of his superior officer. Walt cringed at the weak cry of pain that came from the Russian. Sweat glistened on the American's forehead, and it didn't go unnoticed by the other two.
Alyson watched Walt for a moment, seeing the look of guilt in his eyes.
She knew he was beating himself up inside, and she hoped for his sake and for the sake of the russian, that the injured man would survive. Because if something was to go wrong, Alyson knew Walt would never forgive himself.
Kolchen aslo noticed. He hadn't seen how this had happened, but it was plain that the American was suffering over it. He could see the fear in the man's eyes; the same fear that his own eyes mirrored. He couldn't hold the American acountable, even though he had shot Rozanov, it was plainly an irrashional act which he no was regretting dearly.
Together, Walter and Kolchen gently layed Rozanov out onto the bed. Walt strainened and looked down. His eyes grew wide and he lifted his hands up infront of his face. Blood was on his shirt and hands, and Walt was horrified at the sight.
Shaking himself out of it, he looked down at the bed, then took a hold of the injured man's jacket. Gently, he moved the fabric aside.
Blood soaked his black sweater.
Walt looked up at Alyson.
"Alyson, will you be all right?"
She knew what he meant.
Alyson knodded silently.
Elspeth entered the room carrying a bowl of hot water and a towel.
"Elspeth," Walt looked up at his wife. "I need a pair of scissors. I have to get his shirt off."
She took a quick look at the Russian, then quickly turned and left the room.
Walt picked up the towel and wet it, wringing it out. Although Walt was a writter, as an ambitious colledge student he had taken a class in medical treatments. Although he was no profetional, he knew what he was doing. But this was his first time putting it to use, since he had later dropped the idea of being a doctor and took up writting.
And he was terrified.
Pulling up a chair, Walt sat beside the bed and began to quickly, but gently clean the wound on the Russian's forehead.
Water dripped down the ridge of his nose into his eye, and Walt was startled when the man reacted to it.
The Russian blinked a couple times, then lifted a hand to brush the water from his eye. He winced at the movement, but had thankfully used is uninjured right arm.
The Russian moaned and let his hand drop back down to his side.
"Hey?'' Walt leaned in and shook his arm. ''Hey, you with me?"
"Hn...?"
The Russian's brown eyes opened partially, and he imediately cringed as he became fully conscious of the pain in his chest.
Walt cringed with him.
"Ugn..."
Walt knew the only way he could fully assess the Russian's injury was to keep him conscious.
He gently gripped the man's arm.
"Hey, stay with me. Can you talk?"
The Russian was silent for a moment, and all Walt heard was the terrible raspy sound of his breathing.
"Wh-" The Russian attempted after a moment. He cringed, then tried again, "Wha- what h-happened?" His voice was weak, and the poor American could barely understand the question through his thick Russian accent.
"What?"
The Russian's eyes opened again, and he looked up at the American. It took him a moment, then the lights came on.
"Whittaker Walt.'' He croaked flatly. Walt was unsure if it was a question, a mumble, a statement, or an annoyed grumble.
The American wrung his hands nervously.
"Yes- uh, I mean- uh- Walt Whittarker." Walt corrected.
The Russian just stared up at him.
Walt cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"H- How are you?" Walt knew it was a stupid question, but he didn't know how else he could ask how he felt; He had to know the extent of the injury.
The Russian remained silent.
Walt tried again.
"Do you know where you are?"
Another stupid question.
Of course he doesn't know, he's never been in this room before.
The Russian looked around anyway, his eyes coming back to rest on the American's face, but he still remained silent. Walt noticed that his expression was blank, his eyes looked quite incoherent. The Russian suddenly closed his eyes, and tensed; clenching his teeth at the pain that shot through him.
Elspeth reentered the room holding a pair of scissors, which she imediately handed to Walt. Walt took them quickly, knowing he should have gotten to the bullet wound sooner.
The Russian flinched slightly as Walt reached over him and began cutting through the matterial of his black sweater, but remained still; his eyes closed tightly, and his breathing continueing to come in uneven, raspy intakes. Sweat had appeared on his forehead, and Walt wondered if the Russian was getting a fever.
Walt cut through the fabric carefully, pausing when the Russian tensed again.
"Its OK, '' The American comforted, "I'm just removing your sweater," He explained.
Walt cut around the bloodied area cautiously. With a last snip, the shirt parted and Walt carefully removed the material from the shot wound. It clung wetly, but was removed with little reaction from the Russian, which Walt wondered whether it was a good sign or a bad one.
He pulled the fabric aside, wincing when he saw the entrance wound. It looked terrible, but the worst part was all the blood that he was losing.
Walt knew he had to stop it before he lost too much. If he hadn't already.
Elspeth stood in the corner of the room where she couldn't see the blood. Walt looked up at her.
"Elspeth, find the first aid kit. He'll need bandages."
Taking the towel, Walt folded it into a square and pressed it firmly against the bullet wound.
The reaction was imediate.
The Russian's eyes suddenly opened as he julted and let out a cry of pain.
Kolchen, who Walt had completely forgot about, was suddenly at the other side of the bed, gently restraining his comrade.
Walt gave him a grateful look, and continued to press on the wound.
The injured Russian squirmed and looked up at Walt, and the American was somewhat glad to see that his brown eyes no longer looked incoherent.
Walt took the chance and attemted to get him talking.
"How do you feel?"
The Russian gave him an etched look.
Walt swallowed audibly. He decided these weren't the questions to ask a man with a bullet in him.
Walt rewet the towel, then pressed it to the wound.
"Ung!" The Russian cringed again, holding his ridgidity longer this time.
Walt felt terrible, but he had to stop the bleeding.
The Russian moaned again, and Walt realized he was starting to pass out. Paniced, Walt quickly attempted to keep him awake.
"Hey, stay with me." Walt tapped the side of the Russian's face. His eyes opened partially, and looked up at the American.
Walt tried to smile.
"What's your name? I don't think we were properly introduced." Walt continued conversationally, hoping to keep him conscious. He was curious, though.
The Russian appeared to be struggling for a moment, then took a careful breath.
"Y-Yuri Roz- ung... Rozanov..." He struggled.
"Yuri Rozanov? Huh. Do you h- hey, stay with me, stay with me- Do you have a wife?"
Rozanov continued to struggle against the darkness that threatened to cloud his vision.
"No..." He replied weakly.
Walt noticed sweat collecting on the Russian's forehead, and he was starting to shake. Walt also abserved that his face was turning paler, and his eyes started to lose their coherent spark. A change in Rozanov's breathing starled him.
Walt quickly leaned forward.
"Rozanov? Rozanov?!"
He had fallen unconscious again, and his breathing had suddenly quickened, causing it to come as short gasps.
Paniced, Walt felt Rozanov's forehead. He was burning up, and yet he looked like he was shivering. Walt felt the Russian's neck for a pulse: It was fast and weak.
Dread swept over the American.
He lifted the stained towel and looked at the bullet wound. The blood flow hadn't stopped; in fact, it was flowing as strongly as ever. Walt knew that blood from bullet wounds in the chest where hard to stop, but he couldn't afford that.
Rozanov was loosing too much blood. And he knew it.