Page 34 of Hurting Hunter
With a grim expression, Brick tried Slate’s number again, the phone ringing hollowly through the speaker with no answer. His efforts yielding nothing, he finally slammed his phone down and ordered a search party.
Hunter, his mind a storm of emotions, volunteered to check Slate’s apartment. Rex joined him. As they stepped outside into the chilly evening, Hunter’s thoughts churned. The betrayal felt personal, a deep-cutting treachery that questioned everything he believed about brotherhood.
They drove to one of Seattle's more rundown neighborhoods, Rainier Valley, where Slate’s apartment lay hidden among rows of tired buildings, all wearing the weary appearance of neglect. The area was known for its economic struggles.
Rex broke the silence as they parked near the dilapidated apartment complex. "If Slate was mixed up in something as dirty as trafficking for cash, why does he still hole up in this dump?" His question hung in the air, unanswered, as they approached the building.
Hunter felt the weight of betrayal grow heavier with each step toward the crumbling structure. With graffiti-tagged walls and broken windows patched up with cardboard, the building was dilapidated.
As they ascended the broken steps to Slate's apartment on the sixth floor, bypassing the out-of-service elevator, the physical exertion did little to dispel the turmoil inside Hunter. Each floor passed in grim ascent, the air growing more stifling, filled with the smells of old garbage, piss, and lingering smoke.
The grime-coated door of Slate's apartment building seemed to groan under the weight of neglect as Hunter and Rex approached, the hallway echoing their footsteps. The decrepit elevator was out of service—no surprise—forcing them to ascend the narrow, musty stairwell. Six flights up, Hunter’s boots thudded against the worn steps, his mind racing with the weight of betrayal.
Reaching the top, they paused, catching their breath and preparing for what might come next.
Hunter and Rex approached the shabby door of Slate’s apartment, its surface marred with scratches and faded paint. Rex reached out first, pressing the doorbell. The dull chime echoed faintly inside, its sound muffled by the worn walls, but there was no movement from within.
They exchanged a glance, the tension between them palpable in the heavy silence that followed. Impatient, Hunter balled his fist and knocked forcefully. The impact caused the poorly secured door to tremble, and, to their surprise, it creaked open. Pausing only for a heartbeat, they pushed the door wider, the old hinges groaning in protest.
The apartment was a stark reflection of the building's exterior: rundown, barely lived-in, with peeling wallpaper and a lingering smell of mildew and a faint scent of copper.
As they stepped in, the atmosphere felt oppressively still. No sounds of life, just the distant hum of traffic and the faint drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the depths of the flat. Rex muttered under his breath, his tone a mix of concern and disbelief, "If he was in this for money, he sure wasn’t spending it here."
They cautiously moved through the sparse living room, past a sagging couch strewn with yesterday’s clothes and old newspapers. The kitchen was a similar story; dirty dishes piled high, and only the essentials stocked in the cabinets. It painted a grim picture of a man who lived alone and not in wealth.
Hunter's gut clenched as they approached the bathroom door, the silence of the apartment now feeling heavy, charged with foreboding. He reached out, pushing the door open with a resigned push.
Slate lay slumped against the cold tile floor, his wrists slashed, blood mingling with the water pooled around him, a bottle of prescription medication spilled on the tile beside him. Hunter's heart lurched, adrenaline spiking as he shouted for Rex to call 911. He picked up the empty bottle, read the label, and swore. Oxy. He vaguely remembered Slate talking about being in recovery for years. Was this his first trip off the wagon? Ending like this? It didn’t make sense.
He grabbed a towel hanging limply from the rack and pressed it firmly against Slate's wrists, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Slate's eyes fluttered open, his voice a ghost of its usual strength, "H-Hunter? I'm. S-sorry... They. G-got. Aubrey." His teeth were shattering.
Rex, now on his knees beside Hunter, applying pressure to the other wrist, looked up sharply. "Who the fuck is Aubrey?"
"His baby sister, maybe sixteen or so." He glanced back at Slate's pale, fading gaze. "Help on its way?"
Rex nodded. "Ambulance will be here in five."
The room fell into a tense, grim silence, broken only by the distant siren that grew louder as help approached. Hunter's mind was a whirl of anger, confusion, and a deep, unsettling fear—not just for Slate, who lay bleeding and broken before him, but for the unknown dangers facing a young girl caught in a web too sinister for her years.
Chapter 24
Hunter pressed the towel firmly against Slate's wrists, his hands stained with deep crimson. As the bathroom door swung open to admit the EMTs, he barely acknowledged their arrival, his focus locked on the slowing pulse beneath his fingers. The sharp, sterile tang of medical supplies filled the cramped space, mingling with the heavier, metallic scent of blood that seemed to coat this inside of his nostrils.
“Sir, keep pressure on the wounds until I tell you to let go,” a Black EMT with a calm, resonant voice and a faintly familiar face, ordered.
Rex hovered in the hallway near the bathroom door, his clothes splattered with dark spots. Hunter caught a glimpse of him, and something in Hunter clenched tight.
In the tight, chaotic space of the bathroom, with the calm-voiced EMT issuing instructions to his partner and the clatter of medical equipment, Hunter's world narrowed to the pale, desperate face of his brother. Each movement from the EMTs seemed both frantic and painfully slow. A heaviness settled in Hunter’s chest, a numb ache that spread through his limbs, making them feel like lead.
His heart thudded painfully in his throat, the beat so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. The despair threatened to overwhelm him, to drag him down into a dark abyss from which there seemed no escape.
“Thank you, sir. You can let go. I’ll take it from here.” The EMTs voice reached Hunter’s ears, like he was under water.
With a deep, shuddering breath, he forced himself to stand back, to make room for the EMTs to do their work. He wiped his hands on his jeans, looking down to avoid the questioning looks of the paramedics.
Hunter straightened his shoulders, the movement stiff and deliberate. In his head, he recited the details of what needed to be done next, the tasks piling up like a lifeline thrown across the tumultuous sea of his thoughts.
