And at that moment things went from bad to worse. Sam and Fiona knelt in the mud next to their wounded friend – applying pressure to the wound in his leg and hoping they could get the bleeding under control. Hoping they could fix it. Somehow.
Then, as they were immersed in their task, someone came up from behind them – arms spread wide, palms open.
"I can help," said a low, melodic voice, tinged with an accent that made no sense in South Florida, an accent that would have made more sense in sub-Saharan Africa.
Sam whipped out his pistol and spun to face the intruder.
He was a tall, dark-skinned man – older than Michael but younger than Sam. He wore lightweight, dark gray pants and a plain black t-shirt. Paired with his dark skin, the clothes helped him blend into the shady foliage.
"What do you want?" Fiona snapped, not looking up from the blood still coming between her fingers from Michael's injury.
"You're hurt," their visitor said, "I can help."
"And you are?" Sam asked, not lowering his gun.
"My name is Aubin. I came here as a refugee – from the Congo. I was a doctor back home – but here I have no license. So here I help people who can't go to a real doctor. I think that's probably you," he said calmly.
Fiona and Sam exchanged a worried glance, but soon Sam shrugged and lowered his weapon.
"Ricochet wound in his leg and her back. Superficial lacerations on both him and me, burns on her chest, and a lot of bruising on all of us. I think she might have a cracked rib – potential for a collapsed lung," Sam said, "work your magic."
"Can I take you back to my home first?" Aubin asked, kneeling next to Michael and checking his pulse, "I have everything I need there."
"You can – but not yet. Prove you know your stuff first," Sam insisted.
"Alright, let me see," Aubin said, still uncannily calm. He gently took Fiona's hands away from Michael's wound, and carefully pulled away the fragment of Sam's shirt they'd been using as a bandage. He examined the wound and checked Michael's pulse again as Michael's eyes fluttered open – waking up at the renewed pain.
"I can take care of it – the bullet's not deep – tweezers should take care of that – then a couple of stitches, some antibiotics, and lots of rest," Aubin explained, "But I can't do any of that here."
"Glad to hear you're not going to be taking a bullet out of me in a swamp," Michael muttered, pushing himself up to a seated position and rubbing his eyes.
"Okay…we will give this a try. But Aubin if you make this worse, if one of them dies…" Sam didn't finish his threat.
"Absolutely…I didn't catch your name?" Aubin replied.
"He's Lewis, I'm Chuck, she's Ella," Sam answered, "now let's get going."
Sam put a hand under Fiona's elbow to help her up, but stopped short when she cried out, grasping the puncture wound on her ribs. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her skin was going pale beneath the superficial tan.
"Aubin…here's your chance to prove your mettle," Sam insisted, laying Fiona down and pulling back the fabric of her bloody shirt.
"She has a collapsed lung…nothing I can do about it here," Aubin replied, lifting Fiona into his arms and starting off the way he'd come.
Michael and Sam just stared for a moment, hands on their weapons.
Aubin glanced over his shoulder, "Do you want her to die?"