Immobility

Chapter Thirteen

I analyze my surroundings to determine whether or not any auspicious passageways or doorways are in sight; to my dismay, there are none to be seen. Still pressing the windbreaker against the throbbing orifice weeping a lake of blood signifying the presence of the metal rod embedded within one of the muscles in my forearm prior to its unpleasant removal, I continuously envision the effects of hypovolemic shock ambushing me and gradually taking their toll. Realizing that one of the hospitals is just less than a mile away from the factory, I suppose that it is possible for me to, with the help of some tumbledown wreckage floating near the industrial building—what remains of it, to be accurate—navigate the flooded streets and smash one of the windows and climb into the building, then search for the surgical unit wherein numerous essential instruments to guarantee the application of treatment to my wounds can be found, like a suturing kit, for instance.

Grudgingly, I apply a greater amount of pressure to the wound with the jacket to minimize the duration of the suppression of the bleeding, grimacing from the sudden pain knifing through my brachioradialis, and raise it in the air—propping my right elbow atop the emergency lights to hold my weight up—to keep the wound above my heart. A sensation of slight chilliness and wooziness begins to settle over me, sparking something similar to hypochondria within my mind, as this indicates that I have lost a dangerous amount of blood. However, the feeling that sends these beetles of worry crawling across my brain begins to abate ever so subtly after what has to be ten or fifteen minutes as the blood leaves my forearm and returns to my heart, which pumps it to my organs—I check the wound, and to my luck, the profuse waterfall has downgraded to a light trickle. For the sake of safety, I tear off a large piece of one of the sleeves of the windbreaker and tie it as tightly as possible around the section of my forearm just above where the tattered hole lies, fashioning a tourniquet to stop the bleeding completely.

Taking the penlight out of my mouth, I decide to take my chances in these corridors rather than simply waiting here and lowering my chances of survival to zero—the metallic groans emanating from the disintegrating levels of the building below me sound as though they are demanding that I leave. Looking behind me, I notice that an entire flight of stairs—as well as an enormous chunk of the one after that—is missing, which means that I cannot climb to the next level. Wrapping the jacket as tightly as I possibly can around my waist and tying the sleeves into a knot, I swallow several breaths of air and duck underwater, retrieving the ax from where I left it on the hard floor, and begin to stroke down the corridor. Pain rumbles through my body, but I fight against it and continue my endeavors to find a way out of the crumbling factory. I am becoming increasingly edgy, as I am certain that at any second I will be surprised by another grotesque depiction of the dead body of a friend or family member.

My lungs begin to burn as my supply of oxygen is depleted, and I kick toward the surface. My head breaks through the sheet of foam and I draw into my respiratory system a stream of air. Hyperventilating for several seconds to flush out some carbon dioxide, I suck in an even deeper breath and plunge beneath the waves again. My eyes are practically aflame as the chemicals eliminate the tear film that acts as a defensive shield for my corneas, resulting in exposure to the dirt and bacteria that will eventually lead to an infection—I need some object that offers a veil of protection, like a pair of goggles.