Page 89 of Fighting for You
“Hey, hey, are you okay? Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?” asks Hayes, frantic concern lining his face as he looks between me and Dad. “What do you need?”
“He needs a hospital. I… I can’t do much. I need something to pack the wound,” I say, my eyes catching on the scarf, now soaked in my dad’s blood. “I need… help.”
“Let’s get him in the truck and to the hospital.”
I’m shaking my head before he even finishes the sentence. “It’s thirty minutes to the nearest hospital, we need an ambulance, they have supplies…” I trail off as my mind whirrs. “The trailer. You said you got what I asked for at the trailer.” My eyes meet Hayes’, and understanding dawns.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding and already in motion to stand. “Yeah. Let’s get him in the truck. I’ll call 9-1-1 on the way.”
I’ve never been so thankful for my dad’s small frame as I am now. Hayes is able to lift him easily in his massive arms. Carefully, with me still applying as much pressure as I can to his belly, we hurry through the woods, dodging branches and bushes to Hayes’ truck. He loads Dad in the bed, and I climb in after him.
The ride to The Pit is bumpy. Hayes does his best to not jostle us around, but I silently urge him to go faster since time is not on our side. My dad is unconscious and pale. I feel for a pulse at his neck and find it’s faint. He’s losing too much blood.
The truck skids to a stop on the grass in front of the trailer, and Hayes hops out. “I called 9-1-1. They’re sending an ambulance and cops,” he says as he lowers the tailgate.
Motioning for Hayes to hop into the bed of the truck and hold pressure on Dad’s stomach, I waste no time running into the trailer. I gather everything I could possibly need from the newly outfitted cabinets: every packet of gauze I can find, antiseptic, a bag of saline with an IV kit, even a suture kit—though I know this is beyond anything I could stitch up. Dad needs surgery, thebullet is still inside him, and with the amount of bleeding, I’m sure it’s nicked something important.
Running back outside, I throw everything into the bed of the truck and jump in myself. After opening all the supplies, I move Hayes’ hands and the scarf to quickly replace it with gauze. The bleeding seems to be slowing a little.
“Just hold on, Daddy. Please,” I whisper and then add louder, “Hold here, Hayes.” I push his blood-covered fingers firmly on top of the gauze and busy myself with setting up the saline drip. I’m praying this will be enough to buy him time to get to the operating room.
Just as I’m applying antiseptic to the crook of Dad’s elbow for the IV, I hear sirens in the distance, slowly getting louder.
“Thank God,” I exhale. Abandoning the IV, I turn to Hayes. He’s quiet, brow furrowed, concentrating on his hands where they press into our father’s stomach. After checking for a pulse again and finding it even more thready, I gently touch Hayes’ shoulder. “Just keep holding. They’re going to help him.”
He nods, his eyes looking lost. I don’t dwell on how seeing my big brother—my rock—so unsure and scared shakes me to my core. He’s always in charge of every situation. He always has the answers. But right now, he looks disoriented and unsettled.
The EMS rig pulls up next to Hayes’ truck followed closely by two sheriff’s cruisers. The sirens cut off right as the paramedics hop out and rush over to us, jump bags in tow.
“What happened?” the female EMT asks, pulling blue gloves out of her bag and assessing my dad, starting vital signs. Her eyes quickly scan over me and Hayes, pausing on the blood on our clothes but determining we’re not hurt.
Her partner also gloves up before pulling out a saline bag and prepping it. The woman takes Hayes’ place by my dad, and we jump out of the truck bed so the emergency responders have room to work. They’re talking quickly to each other, the womanis reading off my dad’s vitals, and the man records them. She turns to us and asks again, “What happened?”
Four police officers join us, eyes looking around The Pit. I clear my throat, “My dad—he was shot. About half an hour ago. A man got into his house—just on the other side of these woods—and shot him. I managed to get us away, but he lost consciousness fifteen minutes ago, and I couldn’t carry him. My brother,” I motion to Hayes, “brought us here in his truck. I’ve been keeping steady pressure on the wound, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
At the mention of the shooting, the police officers spread out, hands on their holsters, one of them talking into his radio relaying the incident, sending more officers to Dad’s house.
“I don’t think he’s there,” I say to the officers. “I think he followed us. My boyfriend—Brooks—he ran off after him. Maybe ten minutes ago,” I say, my voice wavering.
“Thank you, we’re going to find them,” says one of the officers. He motions for one of the deputies to stay with us while the other three unholster their weapons and make their way toward the trees.
“Okay, we have to get your dad to the hospital. Please step back,” the female EMT says, and I bring my eyes back to what’s right in front of me. With my attention on the police officers, I didn’t notice the paramedics loading my dad on a gurney.
I grab his hand and pull it to my chest. “Can I come to the hospital with him?”
“You can,” says the policeman who stayed with us. “But we’ll need to get your statement there.”
Just as I open my mouth to respond, a gunshot rings out in the distance, and my world freezes.
There’s a flurry of movement as the officers who were at the treeline take off running farther into the woods. The cop next to me barks into his radio and guides us behind the cars.
Hayes’ large hands grab my upper arms and shove me to the ground for cover, but I can’t feel my body. Blood rushes in my ears, and all I hear is thewhoosh whoosh whooshof my heartbeat.
My every thought is focused on only one thing:Brooks.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Brooks
