Again y'all….medical inconsistencies here. Don't try this at home! Hahaha…..you're all so much nicer than another fandom I've written for. Thanks for the support.
Hope you all enjoy!
"Hey, hey." Jason was on his feet and around the table after Trent but had to pause against with a shoulder against the wall. Dear God, he was going to faint. Like a girl. He winced. That was offensive. Fuck it.
"Uh, Jason?" someone was distantly calling his name. Not now. Not. Now. He couldn't hit the floor now.
Taking advantage of the lull in activity, Mahira picked up bowls and plates. Broken, chipped, cracked, she stacked what she managed to salvage from booted feet in the sink. She couldn't say why, but the mere presence of the little brown woman assured her, she and her children were in no danger from these men. She kept a wide circle between her and Jason though, she wasn't too sure about him, sloppily dressed as he was. But the other men paid her no mind, did nothing more than lift a foot or step aside when she bent over and tried to pick up something they were standing on.
She grabbed a broom and began to sweep, would this day ever end? She glanced at a clock on the wall. She gasped, freezing, handing going to her heart, broom hitting the floor. These men who had been in her home all day? – hadn't been there twenty minutes.
And still, they let the poor man on her table bleed.
"Trent, hey." Jason didn't know what the other man was doing, sweat blurred his vision, but he stopped him from doing it. "Hey, listen to me." He grabbed Trent around the back of his neck with one hand and pulled him close. Forehead to forehead with his boss, Trent frowned, feeling the heat – Jason still ran a fever, and not because it was hot outside, inside, everywhere – because though Jason denied it, he had the fucking flu. He allowed the hold, needing comfort and reassurance from his boss to remain calm and steady. "I ran rough on you, we have choices, this is only one of them."
"Could be anything Jason. We aren't too welcome around these parts." Trent closed his eyes. "For all I know, it's killing him."
"Figuratively." Sonny said. "Like I stubbed my toe and it's killing me."
"Literally." He knew what Jason was saying, agreed with him. Knew their situation. But he wasn't a medic. Didn't want to be one. The fact that he know more than his team members wasn't fair. Clay was young, he was strong, his body would instinctively fight for survival. An actual medic would probably know if they could risk waiting for retrieval from their commander, but he wasn't a medic and he didn't know. The best he could do was guess and trust his gut. And his gut told him to get out whatever was lodged in Clay's leg. "Got something to tie him down with?"
"We'll hold him." Jason replied, letting go and Trent blinked at the absence of his hand. Sometimes, mere human contact was the best steadying, calming influence on a man. "I'll do it."
All three men and Lisa, snorted. Sonny rotated his finger in the air next to his temple, the known motion for calling someone cuckoo-coo.
Jason rolled his eyes. "What?" he demanded defensively. He sat back down on his chair. "Will so."
"I need him held still." Trent said dryly. "Not hugged."
"Yeah, boss. Don't think you could hold Davis down if you tried." Sonny cracked, ducking the empty bottle Lisa flung at his head. "Trent, flat out, you good?"
"Yup. Brock, how's the head?" Trent asked. "Seeing okay?"
"Thumbs up," He'd been too busy and occupied to think about his aching head. "Single vision."
Trent returned to what he'd been doing when Jason had stopped him. He poured hot water from the pot into a pail that sat on a chair he'd righted and put next to the table. He tossed in several towels Lisa had found and surveyed Clay, hands on his hips.
"God kid, forgive me." Rip the material off like a Band-Aid or carefully, gently? He ran a hand through his hair. Thing was, he had no idea why it was stuck in the first place. Dried blood? "Brock, switch places with Sonny."
"He ain't no stronger than I am." Brock protested irritably. He'd relaxed his hold because Clay had gone limp but he hadn't let go, the sheet over his arms.
"He's meaner." Trent was using a wooden spoon removed from a hook on the wall to poke the towels around in the water. "He'll bang his head against the table hard enough to knock him out, will you?" he waited. Brock let Clay go and stood up from his slouch over the table. "What I thought. I'll need more hot water."
Mahira hugged her broom. Pashtan took the empty pot. "You need more?"
"Keep it coming."
Pashtan skipped out the backdoor and Trent could find no more reasons to delay. He flipped the spoon around and fished in the water until he hooked the small hand rag he was looking for. "Lisa, get him something to puke in."
"Clay?"
"Jason."
"I'm okay." Jason insisted. "Christ."
"You won't be." Trent muttered.
"I'm fine." Jason bit out.
Clay stirred, biting his lip to keep his groan of discomfort to a mere moan. He failed. His skin felt damp, a feeling he didn't like. His nose twitched, trying to dislodge sand…..God damn, he hated all this frick-fracking sand.
"He's gonna scream Jason, and all I'm going to do is soak that material, see if it'll come off easily."
Who was going to scream? Clay wondered irritably. Whoever it was, he hoped they left before they started carrying on. He'd leave, but he was so tired, so weak. He really didn't feel up to getting up and walking out. He wanted silence, maybe a blanket and he wouldn't say no to some aspirin. Because his head really hurt. It was killing him.
"Spencer?"
Clay blinked. Kept blinking until his lashes parted and his scratched lids lifted. His eyes were sore, dry. His jaw wanted to crack, but his mouth wouldn't open. His teeth hurt. Taking a breath made him wince.
"Hey."
Heavy-lidded eyes slanted somewhat open, Clay gave a half-hearted attempt to force them into focus. Five faces loomed over him, all staring down at him: Trent, Sonny, Brock, Lisa and…..a woman in a hijab? He blinked again, thinking that would make that odd sight go away. It didn't. And now there were six faces.
"Shit." He stared.
His team cracked grins and chuckled at his expression. But there was tension in the room and the laughter was uneasy.
"Yeah, that's Jason." Sonny teased, but even his tone was off. "Say hi to your boss."
Clay let his eyes close and turned away. His ass was fried if Jason was there. Wherever there – here – was. He didn't know much, remembered less, but Jason had been confined to quarters by the doctor and wherever here was, wasn't there.
Trent used two fingers under his chin to make Clay face him again. He found humor despite the situation they were in. He had to, or he'd be sick. If the kid was mortified that Jason had come off his sick bed to retrieve his ass, how embarrassed would he be if they told him Jason had held a bottle for him so he could drink?
"Spencer? You with me?"
Trent debated whether or not Clay was with him enough to tell him what was going on, what was going to happen. Let him make the choice what to do. He'd want to know if some unskilled-not-a-medic was about to go digging around in his leg with scalpel and tweezers.
"Heat hurts." Clay mumbled. He tried to raise a hand to rub his forehead but they were too heavy to move. "My hand?"
"Sonny's holding it." Trent explained. "He's being a dick. Can you feel him squeeze it?"
Sonny obeyed and squeezed. Clay yelped and Sonny had the grace to duck his head, looking sheepish. He really hadn't intended to squeeze quite so hard.
"My….head." Clay groaned, forgetting all about being unable to move his hands.
"Yeah." Trent sighed. "I know." No, Clay wasn't with it. He should be bitching about his leg, it had to hurt, but he was whining about his head and hands. His head hurt because he'd been in the sun too long. Or maybe from loss of blood. Dehydration. And his hands were fine, he could move them if he wanted to. Sonny wasn't pinning him down yet. The shot of morphine had made him muddle-headed.
"You a believer in something to bite on?" Brock was asking Trent.
"Jason, you need to sit back down." Lisa waved a hand over the floor, made a face. "Floor is filthy."
"What are they saying?" Jason asked. "I can't hear them, why can't I hear them?"
"They're whispering."
Mahira didn't understand the words, but she understood the look from Lisa and the wave over the floor and took offense. She squawked, brandishing the broom. Her floor was only dirty because they had made it so.
"Pipe down." Jason ordered and she submitted meekly, but oh, did she glare. "Over there, sit."
"You sit." Lisa ordered. He sat. "Dry off, you're all wet." She handed him a dry towel. "Need ice? Hasn't all melted yet. Here." Brock and Sonny had switched places, Trent was stirring towels in a pail of water, and yeah, they were talking about something. Lisa couldn't hear either. And that pissed her off because they were not far away. "Jason, come on. This goes sideways, they're going to need your help holding him down…..you need to be able to do that. Dry off and drink."
"He's a 25 year-old kid, he ain't that strong." But he took both the towel and water. "What are they talking about?"
"Dunno." She too, glanced over when Trent raised his voice and Sonny yelled in response.
"He can bite Sonny." Trent was saying. "More a distraction."
"HEY!" Sonny protested. "No biting the hand that holds you. Stuff a rag or something in his mouth."
And she saw Brock roll and twist a towel before wedging it between Clay's teeth, smacking his cheek when he attempted to spit it out. Her stomach knotted when Sonny forcefully pried open Clay's mouth.
"Jesus." She breathed.
Mahira was offering Jason an earthen cup with no handles. He was waving her away from him. Lisa tweaked his ear for being rude and took the cup. Mahira pointed at Jason, and motioned at her lips. Lisa sniffed. Tea. Of some kind. She smiled her thanks at Mahira, and praying she wasn't about to order the team boss to drink poison, ordered him to drink.
"That?" Jason shook his head. "Not a chance in hell."
"A chance on Clay's life?" Lisa countered, and oh, if looks could wither and kill.
"You trust these people?"
"They want us out of their house, their lives, not dead. It's tea. Now drink it, damn you."
The family wasn't evil. They were poor. Jason drank.
"Will muffle him some." Brock pointed out. He and Sonny had changed positions. Trent was right. As usual. If he gave the order to knock the kid senseless, Sonny wouldn't hesitate. He wouldn't take pleasure in it, but all the same, he'd knock the kid for a loop. Brock would if he had to, would if Sonny weren't there to do it, but Sonny was there, so Brock didn't have to worry about it.
"We ready?" Trent asked.
And the minute or so lull of frantic activity in Mahira's kitchen exploded and shattered as the three men began.
Sonny held Clay much the same way Brock had, arms under his armpits and folded across the kids chest but he bore his weight down on Clay's shoulders, pinning him to the table. "Ready."
Brock yanked Clay's feet off the table, pushed his knees together, looped an arm behind them, trapped the kids ankles between his thighs and bore all his weight on his remaining arm just above Clay's knees, pinning him to the table. "Ready."
Trent said a prayer. He wasn't sure what he'd reaction he'd get, but expected a violent one. The morphine simply wasn't a high enough dosage to be effective against what they were about to do. He fished the towel out with the spoon, and laid it hot and steaming, dripping wet, on top of the material he'd left on Clay's leg.
Jason flinched at the yelp of pain. Muffled, but audible.
By the third application of the hot water, Clay was struggling against the hands holding him down. Sonny spoke softly in Clay's ear, so it wasn't yet an all-out fight, but Trent pretty much guessed it wouldn't be long coming.
Finally deeming the material soft enough, Trent removed the towel and flashlight in his teeth, went to work first with a soft cloth, dabbing, wiping, rubbing, loosening the blood the sun had baked into crusty scabs.
A puncture wound didn't normally bleed much unless the object was forcefully removed. So why was Clay steadily losing blood if whatever had punched through his leg was still there? Or when it had scabbed over? With tweezers and scissors, he was able to cut down the swatch of material until all that was left covered only the wound itself. Snipping, cutting, plucking, thread by thread, little by bit, he began to pull it away from the wound.
"Gonna hafta spread his legs." Trent said tersely. "Need to get at his inner thigh."
"Little more to the right….our right…his left….no, yeah, left, no right, that way…..Stella would be in mourning." Sonny cracked.
"So not the time." Brock panted, easily able to adjust his hold, but spreading Clay's legs made it impossible for him to restrain both, so he held down the right one.
Most adults had a general understanding where the femoral artery was in the thigh. Trent had a bit more knowledge than the average person, but not as much as a medic had. The object was close to it, but had missed it. Course, if it hadn't, the kid would be dead; having bled out, alone in the desert.
Now, if only Trent could do the same digging the mother-fucker out.
Hot water. Wet cloths. Cut, snip, dig. Repeat. Until Trent was finally able to pull the last of the material away.
Clay was tense, rigid, but conscious. Trent kept hoping the kid would give in and just pass the hell out.
Free of scabs, crust and material, the blood gushed and Trent folded a towel in threes and applied steady pressure. Clay cried out, hands fisting and banging against the table top.
"Why's he still bleeding?" Sonny asked. "He's lost a lot. Too much?"
"The fuck is that?" Brock asked when Trent pulled the cloth away and they got their first look. "Stabbed? Shot?"
"Thought he wasn't shot?" Sonny accused. Trent had assured them of that in the Humvee before they'd reached the house and stripped the kid to his underwear. He used a corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat from Clay's face.
"I know what a bullet-hole looks like asshole." Trent retorted. "Said he wasn't shot and he wasn't."
"Then what is it?" Sonny demanded.
"I didn't know better." Trent poked in and around with the tweezers then reapplied pressure with the now blood-soaked rag. Clay bit through his lip, spat blood. Brock wedged the cloth between his teeth a third time. "I'd say arrow, dart. Can't really see it."
"Arrow? Out here?" Sonny shook his head. "Where's the rest of it? Shouldn't there be a shaft? Nothing to hunt."
"Well," Brock hedged. "Us."
And Jason was out of the chair and dragging the man of the house out of the corner, throwing him against the wall, pinning him there with an arm across his throat, choking him, cutting off his ability to breathe, yelling in his face, demanding answers about who used what for protection. The children were screaming in the other room. Mahira was whacking Jason across the shoulders with her broom. Lisa was attempting to wedge herself between Jason and the man he was strangling. Pashtan came in, set the pot down and kicked Jason in the leg.
"Where's your weapons? What do you hunt with? Huh? Arrow? Spear? Who's around here?"
"Jason! Let him go! Let him go! He doesn't understand you! Let Pashtan translate! Jason!"
"Dunno." Trent said. "Sling shot? Spear? Stabbed him, broke…..whatever it is, wish it had been sharper." he picked up a pair of what looked like forceps with a pointed tip. "Got him?"
They thought they did, so in unison, they nodded.
But they didn't.
Whatever the forceps had hold of, didn't give when Trent pulled with a sharp yank.
Blood spurted.
Clay was off the table.
Sonny was on it.
Mahira shrieked. The men shouted. Clay screamed. Jason dropped the man.
Sonny was on his knees, sitting on his heels on the table, Clay hugged to his chest. How he got there, he didn't remember.
Trent held tight to the forceps, going across the table with Clay when he broke Sonny's hold.
Brock was tying Clay's ankles to the table legs. The awkward and taut position made Clay uncomfortable and he soon began to squirm, seeking relief from strained muscles.
Mahira flapped her hands in dismay. These men were brutal. And surely, her table couldn't hold the weight of two men!
Clay's hands flailed, punching, slapping, clawing at Sonny for release. Sonny took the blows, his head held back from the range of a possible head-smack from Clay. One good crack to his jaw and he'd be done for.
"Dammit Lisa, you ain't helpless. Grab his hand." This from Sonny, taking a glancing blow off the chin.
Lisa bristled at the implication she was useless but before she could comply, Jason had both of Clay's hands in one of his and was holding the kid's head still by his hair with the other.
"Tie his hands, gimme his wrists." Sonny said. "I can hold him."
"Whatever you're doing, do it quick." Jason said thickly, head spinning, stomach churning and it wasn't because he had the flu in 110 degree heat. He was sick that he wasn't strong or steady enough to help hold the kid down and he had to be tied.
Jason held Clay's hands back to back as Lisa quickly and efficiently tied them together, handing Sonny the dangling rope so he could pull Clay's bound hands to his chest. Clay laid in Sonny's arms, dazed but conscious, slick with sweat and trembling so hard, the table shook. Pain had become dominant, controlled his body's actions. His stomach muscles were bunched, quivered, as he fought for his breath and freedom from those holding him and subjecting him to all the pain.
Again Sonny used the sheet to wipe off the heavy sweat that made the kid slick and hard to hold.
"I need light." Trent barked.
And six LED flashlights clicked on. Trent looked up. Lisa held hers and Sonny's. Jason held his and Clay's. Mahira held possession of his and Brock's. He nodded. One demand answered within seconds.
Now that he had hold of it, and Clay had once again been restrained, this time securely, he wasn't letting go, afraid if he lost it, it would move. He had no idea when his flashlight had dropped from his mouth but he had to see what he was doing. Clay's violent jerk and launch across the table hadn't dislodged the object. Wiggling and jiggling didn't dislodge it either. Pulling and tugging only succeeded in making the kid spit out the cloth yet again and bite through his lip. Trying to twist it free had Brock thumbing tears from the kid's cheeks.
Sonny spared a hand to make sure Clay hadn't bit or swallowed his tongue then gave him the cloth to bite on – again.
"Sonny? Got him?"
"A sec." Sonny backed off the table, laid Clay down flat then got back up on the table, a knee on either of Clay's shoulders, the rope to his tied wrists in one hand, using the other to hold Clay's head still by the chin. "Good."
"It ain't coming out without a fight." Trent said. "Brock, pressure right there, hold firm, don't let go." Gripping tight, both hands on the forceps, Trent yanked as hard as he was capable of doing. It didn't come out, the forceps held tight and despite Sonny's hold, Clay slid down the table towards Trent from the force of the pull.
"Son-OF-A…..DAMMIT!" Trent exploded, throwing the forceps across the room in a fit.
Clay was grabbed, dragged up the table. Sonny's hold hurt, the grip bruising. Brock was straddling him, sitting on his stomach, using both hands to apply pressure on a towel he held against the bleeding. Clay arched, bucking against the suffocating hold, tried to twist free. His head slammed against the table hard enough he stunned himself – no help from Sonny needed – choking on bile, spit, blood. His thrashing had caused him to bleed heavier and Trent used wads of gauze to pack the wound, ignoring the added pain it caused.
"You're scaring him!" Lisa cried.
"Dammit Spencer, pass out already."
"I'll hold the pressure…..you have to cut it out, don't you?" Jason asked.
"Yup."
Mahira added more hot water to the pail and sent Pashtan out to heat even more. The blood was never coming off her table or out of the wood on the floor. There was too much and no one tried to clean it up. Just stepped on it, knelt in it, smeared it. She looked at her clock, staring in disbelief. Not even five minutes had passed.
"How much blood can he stand to lose?" a transfusion was beyond Trent's abilities. They didn't have the necessary equipment anyway. "Trent?"
"He's lost a lot Jason." Trent washed his hands and picked up the scalpel. "Let's get this over with."
Knelt on, sat on, his legs tied, his hands tied, Clay was finally held still. This time when he was offered the cloth to bite on, he took it.
Trent tied off a tourniquet. Not as tight as he'd like it, but tight enough the flow of blood slowed enough, that with both Brock and Jason swabbing blood, applying pressure, pinching skin, Trent could see what he was doing. He wasn't an expert on tourniquets, but with one applied and clamps nearby, if he nicked an – the – artery, Clay wouldn't bleed to death on him.
Clay stirred with a soft whimper, every visible muscle taut and strained. Trent swallowed, and with now four LED's lighting his way, he proceeded to ignore Clay's flinches, jerks, and twitches; ignored his moans and cries, muffled screams and cut skin, tissue, God knew what, doing his best to avoid muscle and tendon.
Whatever he was after, did not want to come out. The wound was deep, Trent had cut it wider. His two fingers knuckle deep and using tweezers because he could get closer inside the wound, he carefully pinched the object with the tips, held tight, cut with the scalpel and with some finagling, finally extracted the fucker and dropped it into Jason's outstretched palm.
"Can I puke now?" Jason asked faintly, closing his fingers around the object.
"Sure." he was told by someone.
"On second thought…" he weaved. "…..think I'll pass out."
They let him hit the floor.
"We let him go yet?" Sonny asked, eyes suspiciously moist.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Jesus Trent."
"Gotta clean it out, stitch him up." He was already picking out pebbles, threads, tiny pieces of material with the tweezers. Lisa squeezed saline solution to irrigate when commanded.
"You haven't put him through enough?"
"Fuck you Quinn. You want him to bleed out?"
"Hey." Brock cut in. "Stitches or staples?" he held the med bag.
"Staples are faster." Trent replied. "Doubt anything will prevent infection now."
"Least he's current on tetanus." Lisa patted Clay's cheek but got no reaction.
"Forceps." Brock held his hand out. "I'll hold the edges together, you staple."
Clay tensed at Brock's touch. Moaned at the application of the forceps. Cried when his skin pulled together. Cried out at the first staple. Went limp at the second. Passed out at the third.
Mahira shrieked, dropping the flashlights. They'd finally gone and let the boy die.
