Black Sea Horan: First Responder

"THORSTEN!" Rose's scream echoed off the tumbled walls of the ruined house as she completed her ineffectual lunge, landing on her knees beside his terrifyingly still body. PLEASE let him be alive. She shook his shoulders, yelling his name (a hair below the previous scream) like she'd learned to do in that first aid class, but there was no response. She'd never gotten the hang of feeling for a pulse at neck or wrist, so she simply put her ear on his chest, holding her breath – and sobbed in relief when she both heard a strong heartbeat, and a moment later, saw and felt his chest rise. He was breathing.

But still not moving. She tilted his head to check for injuries, and saw the reason why. The rock he'd bashed his head on was covered with blood, and it was still seeping out of the gash on his scalp, a couple of inches above and behind one ear.

Forcing herself to stay calm and breathe, she grabbed the knife at his belt and attacked her own white skirt, grimacing at the mental image of a thousand trite movie heroines doing the same thing, and ripped off several inches around the hem – and then another strip. She folded one into a pad, placed it on the wound, and pressed it in place with her hand. Time to put her OCD to good use, for once: she counted her own breaths until she reached two hundred, then carefully lifted a corner of the pad. The red was still seeping, but a little more slowly, so she pressed again and continued till she reached five hundred. That time the bleeding had stopped, and for a moment, she almost let the light-headed relief swamp her vision. Leaving that soiled pad in place for a moment, she quickly folded the other strip, then hacked off one more from her skirt, leaving it just below her knees. Then she carefully pulled the first pad completely off the wound and quickly replaced it with the new one, and finally wrapped the last strip around his head to hold the pad in place, tying the ends securely.

That wound taken care of as best she could, she looked the rest of him over, carefully feeling along his arms and legs, but found no obvious signs of a break. She couldn't check his spine, though, but after a moment's terrified thought, she just put it out of her mind. If his back was broken, there wasn't a damn thing she or anybody else could do about it. What are you going to do, Rose, call for an ambulance? She gave a hysterical giggle, then clamped down, and made herself move on.

She tried again to wake him, but he remained out cold. Looking around at last, she saw the sun was truly setting now; they would have had to stop for the night soon, anyway. But a night out here in the open under that blasted tree wouldn't do him any good, no matter how warm it was – and the June nights had been very pleasant.

She certainly wasn't going to get him very far, but the ruined house was only a few yards away. A quick inspection proved that it wasn't going to provide much shelter with half the roof caved in, but it was still better than nothing. She got her arms under his shoulders, supporting his head with one elbow, and heaved.

Nothing. He was too heavy for her to drag, even.

Rose sat on her heels, stifling sobs of frustration and fear with the back of one hand. And then her eyes fell on faithful Caesar, still tied to the trunk of the tree, stripping the bark off with his teeth and munching contentedly.

Scooping up a windfallen apple from the ground nearby, she cut the rotten part off with Thorsten's knife, and walked up to the donkey to offer it to him. He accepted it greedily, showing his appreciation with white teeth, as she scratched his forehead. "Caesar, little buddy... I need your help," she pleaded.

She pulled the rope out of the pannier, along with the heavy blankets, then stopped to plan how she was going to accomplish this little maneuver. The panniers would have to stay on the donkey, so she could attach the rope to something. Rolling Thorsten to his side briefly, she spread one of the blankets underneath him as best she could, and then tied the rope around his chest and the blanket combined, under his arms, the end coming up from under his back and alongside his head.

Untying Caesar, she led him over to the right spot, pointing his nose in the direction of the house, and tied the rope to the pannier straps, looping it also around the donkey's chest to take the strain off the thin leather pieces. Then she lifted Thorsten's head carefully off the ground, having no other way to support it, and clucked to Caesar, hoping against hope that he'd cooperate.

He did. Starting forward, he stopped, confused at the extra weight, then continued at her encouragement. Slowly, in fits and starts, together they dragged the unconscious man across the grass and into the house. How she would have managed if Caesar had balked at the door, she had no idea, but he didn't – perhaps remembering a shed he'd once lived in. There was just enough room to get Thorsten inside the door and under the existing roof, Rose tugging him the last few inches on the blanket.

Then she untied everything, took the panniers off Caesar, and took him back outside to stake him out on the grass like Thorsten had been doing each evening; tying one end of the long rope to the tree and letting him graze in a large circle at the other end.

There was a stream a few dozen yards away; she took their water bags down and filled them, bringing them back to the little hut just as the last streaks of sunset were dying in the west. Caesar had proven amazingly adept at drinking from a stream of water shot from the bag; she gave him a drink now, and then went back to the house.

Suddenly exhausted; mentally, physically, and emotionally, she couldn't even be bothered to scrounge a bite of supper out of their packs, let alone struggle to light a campfire as he'd been teaching her to do. She draped another blanket over Thorsten, then wrapped herself up in the last one, snuggled up close to his unresponsive side for warmth, and cried herself to sleep.