Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cam said.

But Felix thought he got it. “You need her blood.”

Cam looked at him. “Huh?”

“Transfusions,” Felix said. He stared at John. “Is that why you’re so worried about bleeding?”

“If’n I get cut, it don’t stop. Takes too long to heal up.”

Cameron shook his head. “No way. I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true,” John implored. “We don’t hurt her none. We just use her for bleedin’. And...” John’s voice trailed off.

“And, what?” Cam said.

John pursed his lips. Cam pointed the hunting knife at Jon’s face. An inch from his nose.

“What!”

“And makin’ babies,” John whispered.

Felix sank to his knees, feeling like someone had punched him. He’d been overwhelmed by emotion after hearing Maria was alive. Now, hearing why Maria had been taken—to be bled and raped by a family of psychos—it was too much to handle.

“Bullshit,” Cam said, shaking his head. “You’re lying.”

“I ain’t. I ain’t lyin’.”

“We’ll see.”

And then Cam stuck him with the knife. In his right arm, just below the shoulder.

John screamed. High-pitched and loud, like a girl. Cam jammed the sock back into the hunter’s mouth, while Felix watched, slack-jawed, as blood began to soak John’s shirt.

The giant thrashed, breaking the chair, crashing to the floor. Landing on his broken fingers made him scream even louder, and he rolled onto his side, kicking to get the rope off his legs.

Felix tore off John’s sleeve to assess the injury. The knife wound did more than bleed. It gushed with John’s heartbeat, pumping out of his body with a lub-dub rhythm.

“Wild,” Cam said. His face twisted into a grin.

Felix pressed his ruined hands to John’s wound, then spat out at Cam, “You asshole! If he dies we won’t find Maria!”

Cam stuck out his lower lip. “What do I do?”

“My tool kit! In the truck! Get the superglue!”

Cam ran off. John flipped, onto his belly, knocking Felix away. Blood soaked the carpet beneath him. He pulled the sock out of John’s mouth and implored, “Where is she?”

“Stop the bleedin’... gotta... stop the bleedin’”

“Tell me where Maria is, and I’ll stop the blood.”

“Turn...” John mumbled.

“Turn? Turn where?”

“Turnikit...”

Shit. John’s going to die without giving up where she is.

They’d used all of the rope to tie John up. Felix could have cut off a length, used that, but John was too big to be able to control. Felix’s eyes wandered the room, frantic. They locked on the closet.

Hurrying to it, he grabbed a metal clothes hanger and stretched it in his hands, wincing as he bent back the hook on top. When the wire opened up, he tucked one end under John’s armpit. Then Felix brought the two ends together and began to twist the hanger around John’s biceps. It was easy at first. But once the wire began to meet with resistance, Felix didn’t have enough strength in his mangled fingers to make it tight.

Dammit, where’s Cam?

Felix picked up a broken chair leg and jammed that under the wire. He began to turn the leg, like a propeller, cinching the wire tight against John’s skin.

John moaned.

The wound still bled.

Gritting his teeth, Felix jammed the sock back into John’s mouth and twisted the leg even harder.

The hanger pressed deep into John’s flabby arm, then broke the skin. More blood poured out, covering the wire. Felix tried to twist the wire off, and the blood dripped out of the split flesh like a towel being wrung out.

No. No no no no...

“John. Listen to me.” Felix grabbed John’s cheeks, which had grown sickly pale. “You need to tell me where she is.”

“Help... me.”

“I’ll help you. But I need to you tell me.”

John’s eyes glazed over, and he seemed to be looking far away. “Help... me... Dwight...”

Dwight?

Felix felt the gun press against the back of his head. He knew who Dwight was. The Sheriff of Monk Creek had been of no help to Felix during his quest, refusing even the simplest of requests.

“Stand up. Hands over your head. Slow and easy, or I’ll have to use force, like I did with your friend outside.”

Felix felt his entire world crumbling. He lifted up his hands.

“This man tried to kill me, Sheriff. He’s got my fiancé. The one I told you about.”

“Is that so?”

The Sheriff grabbed Felix’s wrist, twisting his arm and forcing him face-first into the blood-soaked carpet. He felt the Sheriff put a foot on his back, and the handcuff go on.

“You have to believe me,” Felix said, his words blowing a bubble of John’s blood. “Please.”

“We’ll get to the truth of this whole situation.” The Sheriff gave his arm another rough twist, then slapped on the second cuff. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Help me, Dwight,” John said again. His voice had gotten very weak.

“You don’t look so good, Johnny. Where’s your styptic?”

“I dunno, Dwight. In my truck.”

“Shit lot of good it’s doin’ you there.”

Felix turned and looked up at the Sheriff. Though not as big as John, Dwight was a large, portly man, with a doughy face and a bald head. He was wearing a brown shirt and green slacks, his badge handing on his belt next to his gun. The Sheriff knelt next to John, and unwound the coat hanger.

“Don’t move, dummy. I got to open the wound for this to work.”

The Sheriff unclipped a knife from his belt and brought the blade next to John’s arm.

“Don’t... move.”

With a quick motion, the sheriff jammed the tip into the original wound and cut sideways. John howled, jerking his whole body sideways.

“Goddamn it, John! I almost nicked my finger!”

“It hurts! They broke my fingers, Dwight! They broke all my digits!”

“I gotta expose the goddamn artery.”

The blood was really gushing now, almost like a water fountain. Felix watched the Sheriff pull a tan package out of his breast pocket. It had QuikClot printed on the paper. He tore off a corner and poured white powder into John’s wound. John yelped.

“Shush, now. Stop being a baby.”

“It burns, Dwight. B-burns bad.”

“Hold still. I need to see if I got it all.”

John twitched. Felix stared at John’s arm. The powder indeed stopped all the bleeding. But there seemed to be another problem.

“Jesus, Dwight! Hurts even worse!”

Felix could see why. The hemostatic agent apparently had stopped the blood from leaking out, but it hadn’t stopped the internal bleeding. John’s triceps began to expand, like a balloon.

“I’m gonna have to open you up again, John. Hold on, I got more styptic in the car.”

“No! Please, Dwight!”

Without provocation, the Sheriff kicked Felix in the side, so hard he actually saw red.

“Now don’t you move none, or I’ll make it worse for you,” he told Felix. Then he lumbered off.

My gun. It’s in the sink.

Felix pressed his head into the sopping carpet, then pulled his knees up under him. He got to his feet, unsteady, feeling like puking again, and staggered into the bathroom. The Beretta was still there. He backed up against the sink, reaching his cuffed hands behind him, seeking the gun.

The sink was deep, the bowl curved, and every time he touched it, the weapon slid away from him. His fingers, wrapped in bandages, had no feeling in them, and he couldn’t see what he was doing over his shoulder.

He felt fresh sweat break out on his forehead, stinging his scalp wound.

Slow and easy, Felix. You can do it.