Blood pools everywhere. It spreads on the rubber floor mat under his legs.
“Where are you hit?” I rip a med kit from the wall.
He tries pointing to his arm, struggling to lift it.
“Right arm. And...” He grits against the pain. “Side.”
I reach for the trauma shears. I cut his sleeve.
The fabric falls away.
The wound runs ugly. A deep laceration carved across the full width of his biceps, furrowing into the muscle belly. The bullet missed the bone and the major vessels but tore the tissue to ribbons. Dark, venous blood wells up from the wound, steady and relentless.
“Tourniquet.” I hold my hand out.
The big man slaps a CAT tourniquet into my palm.
I slide it high up on Boyd’s arm, near the armpit, and crank the windlass.
Boyd grunts. His teeth clench. A cord stands out in his neck.
“Sorry. Sorry.” I twist it until the bleeding slows significantly. I lock it in the clip.
“Arm is secured. Where else?” I cut the side of his tactical vest, rip the Velcro, and pull up his thermal shirt.
A massive, dark-purple bruise spreads across his entire left side, perfectly mapping the impact zone of his Kevlar vest. A long, angry furrow runs where a bullet skimmed the skin just below his armpit.
Not penetrating. No sucking chest wound.
“Deep tissue bruising.” My fingers probe the ribs beneath the mottled skin. “Structural integrity holds. No cracked ribs. Lung sounds remain clear, but you’re going to feel every breath for a month.”
I look at his face. His gaze is locked on me.
He isn’t fading out. He fights the crash. He forces himself to stay awake to supervise his own triage. Holding onto consciousness with both hands.
“How bad, Doc?” He stares at the ceiling.
“You’ll live. But you’re going to need proper layer closure to repair the muscle in that arm.”
“Sew it.” He meets my gaze.
“What?” I blink.
“Sew it up.” He grips his knee. “Stop the bleeding. We aren’t going to a hospital.”
“Boyd, you need an OR. You need a sterile field and deep fascia sutures.”
“I have you.” He reaches out with his good hand. He grips my arm. His hand shakes, but the grip lands hard. “We can’t go to a hospital. It’s too risky. Patch me up. Here.”
I look at the wound. The tourniquet slowed the bleeding, but a laceration this deep requires immediate traction, or the muscle will retract permanently.
I look at the medical kit. Suture packs. Hemostats. Lidocaine.
Field medicine. Meatball surgery.
“Hold the light. Steady.” I shove a flashlight at the big man.
He nods, thumbing on a tactical light to aim it at the wound.
