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He jutted his chin in the direction of the wall shelves behind me next to the window and counter table. I raced over to it, spotting and pulling down the dingy stoppered bottle with tiny dried flowers.
“This one?” I asked, holding it up.
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Third...m-middle.”
I turned back and searched the shelf in question. “There are two filled bottles. Which one?”
“Both.”
“Got ‘em. Now what?”
“Grind...”
I set them all three on the wood plank counter, then looked around for something to put them in, finding a wooden bowl.
“How much do I use?” I asked. “Bryant, wake up! I need you to tell me what to do! How much of these plants do I grind up?”
“All.”
“Right, then.”
Anxiously I dumped the contents of all three bottles into the mixing bowl and used a spoon I then located to crush the dried weeds.
“Okay, they’re all mashed up. What now?”
“Spit,” he rasped.
“What?”
“Spit,” he repeated. “Need...human...spit.”
It sounded grossly unsanitary and useless in the extreme. Even if it didn’t work though, and it probably wouldn’t, it couldn’t hurt him any worse than he was already.
I hoped.
Furiously I tried to spit into the bowl of pulverized weeds, but my own anxious fear had dried my mouth to the Sahara Desert and it took several attempts to draw up enough saliva to do the job. Finally there was enough moisture to make a small puddle, and I lightly mixed it around the aromatic herbs.
“Done,” I called out. “What now?”
He didn’t answer for several seconds.
“Bryant!” I yelled with a streak of fear.
“Bring...”
I raced over with the slimy mixture, unprepared with what I horrifically witnessed next. Bryant weakly unsheathed the Bowie knife from his belt, sucked in a deep breath, then stabbed the blade directly into the center of the bullet wound, letting go of an unearthly howl that made my own blood run ice cold.
“Bryant! What’re you doing?” I screamed. “Stop it!”
Shoving my groping hands away, he then plunged two fingers into the gaping, bloody depths of the wound, growling with clenched teeth as he masochistically dug around.
Seconds later, he retracted a thick bullet and weakly dropped it to the wood plank floor with a metallic plink.
“God, I can’t believe you just—”
But he wasn’t finished, I appallingly learned at his next instruction.
“Push in...herbs,” he said.
