Silo

Chapter 15

I peeled my shirt from her forehead and stared down at the purple knot above the cut. Its angry swelling threatened to squeeze her left eye closed. I hadn't noticed it before, hadn't noticed anything but the streams of blood snaking over her eyebrow and down the side of her face. Now, with her eyes fluttering open and closed, I realized my mistake. I'd seen enough head wounds to know what I was looking at. Hell, I'd been responsible for a few myself when a wild pitch of mine got the best of a batter. I should've paid more attention to Coaches' hushed directions as he prodded one of our players after they took a ball to the head. But none of that mattered then. Sitting in Redwood's dugout, sucking down Gatorade, I had no idea our lives were coming to an end. No idea that today I'd be scouring every corner of my brain for that information.  

Angry and feeling helpless, I slammed my fist down onto an old crate, sending my collection of water bottles scattering across the floor. One skidded to a stop at my feet and I snatched it up, smacked the semi-frozen bottle against the wall to break up the floating pieces of ice into smaller chunks. It wasn't ideal, and it sure as hell wasn't sterile, but it was the best I could do. 

"Let me see," I said as I carefully moved her hair away from the gash. My hands whispered over the cut, trying to figure out where the wound stopped and dried blood began. I nudged at what I though was unbroken skin, and she winced in pain. 

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, and whatever control I had over my anger lapsed. I spent five days trying to get her to speak, five damn days tip-toeing around her, trying to gain her trust. And when she finally spoke, her first words were whispered in defeat. I'd been going on about how she was safe, and here she was dazed and bleeding, sobbing in pain - pain that I could have, no should've been able to prevent.  

"I know," I said, fully aware of how she felt and completely lost as to how to make it better. "I know." 

I rifled through my stack of clothes, tearing a strip from a towel and drenching it with icy water. Apologizing in advance, I pressed the soaked rag to her head, putting one hand behind her neck to hold her steady.  

"Jake?" Evan appeared in my doorway, his eyes immediately going to my blood-covered hands. Tossing his map to the floor, he sat down next to the girl and eased the wet rag from her head. "What happened?"  

"How the hell should I know? They came in while we were topside." 

"What are you saying? That they were here? That whoever took Keith's 

Bow and my stat book was actually here? In this room?" 

That was exactly what I was saying. 

Evan shook his head, obviously dismissing any suspicion that it was me who had harmed her. "They hit her with something," he said. 

I growled, did my best to push the images of her scared face from my mind as I cycled through thoughts of what they could've used. A fist. A bat. The butt end of a rifle. Each image jacked my anger up a notch, and I cursed long and hard, promising vengeance.  

"We need to clean it up," Evan said. 

Was he blind? What the hell did he think I was trying to do?  

"I can splint a leg," he continued. "And I can tell you how to treat a bad case of poison ivy. I can build you a fire with nothing but pine needles and a flint, and I can get you anywhere with a compass or the stars. But, I have no clue how to give stitches." 

No, Evan couldn't stitch up her head, but I could. I'd given stitches to myself last month - six of them after getting into that stupid fight over a can of food. 

"What do you want me to do?" Evan asked, no doubt remembering the vile string of words that escaped my mouth the day I dragged that rusty needle through my skin, my face going pale and my breakfast coating his boots.