Chapter 3: Dissever my soul

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. - Edgar Allan Poe

She held her knife in front of her, ready to slash or stab if he got too close. She pressed her other hand into her thigh as she felt the blood escape her body. He really couldn't get a good look at her because the woman was half-hidden in the shadows underneath the tanker. She didn't respond to his question, so he added, "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know if you are ok." He held up both hands to show he put his weapon away.

"I'm fine," she grimaced. "You can go now." She waved him off dismissively with her knife before she muffled a grunt.

"No thank you, I take it? I just saved your ass," he shook his head in disbelief. The woman was injured, he could tell. Not that he could blame her for trying to hide how badly. Any sign of weakness in these parts could get you killed.

"You did not save me. I was just about to kill him," she declared, irritated by the thought she might owe him. Gratitude led to unwanted exchange of favors.

His smile stretched across his face which had a three-day stubble. Small laugh lines appeared around his twinkling blue eyes. He couldn't be more than thirty and judging by his weathered-looking peach skin he spent a lot of time outdoors. "You had him just where you wanted him, huh?" He offered his hand out to her, but she did not take it, still holding her knife up.

"I'm pretty good with a knife," she challenged. "He was dead the moment I grabbed the handle. You just got lucky to get him first." A part of him was tempted to just walk away. If the woman thought she could take care of herself, well then let her and move on. He did not need another complication. Trying to take care of an injured person who didn't want his help was definitely a complication.

"My group should be by any minute now. I'll be fine here," she explained, sounding a little less hostile.

"Well, I guess I'll just wait here until they show up." The man moved from his squatting position and plopped his ass down, grabbing his knees in front of him. He had a clear view of the road as far as his eye could see. No one was coming. He turned around and looked the opposite way where he had seen a horse he presumed was hers run off. It would take awhile to get it. A trail of blood smeared on the ground indicated that the injury could be serious. "Where were you injured?"

She said nothing at first. In truth, she didn't know how long it would be before Twitchy and Spin made it back to her. By the time they figured out something had happened to her, it might be too late. The need for help finally overcame her leeriness of him. "My thigh. They shot my thigh." Her voice was sharp and clipped between her gritted teeth.

"OK, now you've got to let me see you. If they hit the right spot, you could bleed out." He reached out his hand again, and this time she took it, putting away her knife. As he pulled her out from under the truck, she groaned. He continued to hold her hand as he finally got a look at her. She was smaller than he initially thought. She was not weak despite her present condition; he could feel the strength of her grip. She was beautiful; her skin was a smooth chestnut color and she had high cheekbones and full lips. Her brown curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He stared into her large dark eyes and felt a strange sense of recognition. He felt a shock that went all through his body, almost like he had touched the wrong wire on a battery. He released her hand as if it burned and shook his head. What's the matter with you?

He finally looked at her thigh, her brown leather pants were covered in blood. "Look, I'm going to take my knife and cut your pants to take a look at the wound, ok?" She nodded her head and eyed him wearily as he retrieved a knife strapped underneath his shoulder. He tore the legging and looked at the gash. He reached behind him for his backpack and pulled out a canteen of water and poured it over the injury. He lifted her leg and saw that there was an exit wound. His fingers were soft but firm pressing around hole to see if there were any fragments. She sucked in her breath and held it, trying not to yell out. "Well, you're in luck, the bullet went straight through." He didn't think it hit a major artery; still, her bleeding hadn't stopped. He reached in the pack and found a shirt that he ripped apart and used for a tourniquet.

He put his backpack under her leg trying to keep it elevated. "I've got some supplies in my rover." He stood up and started to walk away. "I'm just going to get them and . . ."

"Wait," she said stopping him, her face looking puzzled "You've got a rover? And you are just by yourself?"

"For now," he answered quickly. "Don't worry, I'll be right back." He sprinted away to get the first aid kit. She started to feel uneasy again. You didn't just travel the wastelands by yourself in a rover. Not unless you wanted to get high jacked. Working vehicles were rare; the gas to make most of them run was even rarer. Maybe he didn't come alone. She looked at the dead man a few feet away. A cold wind from the north blew down, chilling her to the bone. She started to shiver.

When he came back, he found her with her eyes half-closed and shaking. She was going into shock. He nudged her awake and took off his jacket and put it over her. His hand accidently brushed the sides of her breasts and a completely inappropriate image crossed his mind. Get out of the dirt, he admonished himself. "I'm back. I've got a medical kit." He held up a steal rectangular box and waved it in the air. She opened her eyes wider and shook her head, like she was trying to keep awake. "Look, there's no two ways around this, you are going to need stitches to close the wounds. I've got a needle and thread in the box."

The woman shook her head, "No, no. No good. Have you ever even done this before?"

"Well, no," he confessed. "But I've repaired clothes and have had it done on me, so that must count for something, right?"

"Not much. Why don't we just leave it until my friends come? They'll take care of me." Spin knew how to break down a human body. She was sure he could help put it back together too.

The man didn't believe that she had any friends coming, but didn't voice his doubts about their existence. "Maybe they've ran into the same problems you have? Those bandages will only do so much good. What, are you afraid of a little needle," he ribbed her, smiling to counter the seriousness of the situation.

"I'm not afraid," she countered hotly, ego bruised a little.

"Good, here's some liquid courage, just in case." He handed her a flask. She once again decided to trust him, which was unusual for her. She needed help and she didn't have much choice in the matter. As she took a large swig she began coughing. It was vile, some kind of distilled moonshine, but it probably would do the trick. She drank fast until she could feel the effects of the alcohol. "Save a little," he cautioned. "I've got to use some of it for the wound." He spread out a blanket he had brought and lifted her on to it. She felt like a feather in his arms, easily blown away by a strong wind. He wasn't a religious man, but he silently asked whatever fates existed to make sure he did this right.

He poured the alcohol on her wound and she moaned. He worked steadily and quickly, trying to not let her cries of pain get to him as he focused on the task. She looked like she was going to pass out, but she kept her consciousness. "So tell me, what are you doing out here? Not much luck out here for individuals," he tried to distract her with a conversation.

She tried to focus on his words. "Not alone," she corrected him, finding it difficult to get the words out. "Just looking to get by. You?"

"Same. I guess that's all anyone is looking to do," He sounded a little wistful.

She studied his face. He looked completely focused at the task at hand. When she first saw his eyes, she had to admit, she almost got lost in them. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it. She realized that she had put her life in his hands and didn't even know anything about him. She felt another wave of pain. She finally asked, "What's your name?"

"Fitz."

"Stupid name," she grunted.

"Hey, it's a family name," he said in mock offense. "What's yours?" When he was finished he wrapped her leg up, he noticed that she looked like she was about to pass out.

She could feel herself disconnecting with her body, almost like she was outside of it. She tried to shake her head to keep awake and replied, "Liviana Bishop."

A look of shock crossed his face. She wasn't surprised he knew her name; after all she did to gain her reputation across the wastelands. He shook his head and almost looked a little rueful when he said, "Liv Bishop, I've been looking for you. Did you know there's a bounty on your head?"

That was the last thing she heard before her consciousness faded.

A/N: Well, what a coincidence, they have the same names! I decided to keep their basic names just to keep things straight for storytelling purposes.