Page 41 of The Genius
“We have to get out of here,” I yelled in the noisy chaos and pulled at his shirt to get him to move with me toward the door again. Still covering our heads, we made it to the exit, where people were pushing to get out. “Hurry,” I screamed in panic when I heard the first shot.
Tristan was pushing from behind me and I was stuck between large sweaty bodies on all sides.
Fear has a smell. I knew that from my training, and while being pushed and squeezed by men trying to save their lives, the analytical part of me was going over scientific facts about the olfactory bulb, which is the part of the brain that detects smell. It’s located justabove the nasal cavity and below the frontal lobe, and I fixated on all the details I could remember to keep from panicking from the lack of air in my lungs or the constant shots from inside the bar.
And then, finally,finally, we got pressed through and I could breathe again.
Taking Tristan’s hand, I moved fast in the direction of his drone, but we’d only taken twenty or thirty steps when his hand slipped out of mine. I turned to see why, and gasped.
Blood was running down Tristan’s face and he was staring at his fingertips, red from the blood as if he’d just touched his face.
“Tristan, what happened?” I exclaimed with concern. He was pale as a corpse, and I only just managed to support my friend before he fell to the ground, passed out.
With hands trembling from the sheer panic I was in, I searched his scalp to see where the bleeding was coming from and saw a large open wound.
Did he get shot?
No, it looked more like a large cut, like he’d been hit by an object sharp enough to break his skin and hard enough to cause him to pass out.
I needed something to stop his bleeding, but there was nothing close to us that I could use.
His shirt.
I tried pulling it off him, but he was too large and heavy for me to move around and get his t-shirt off.
Looking around in a panic, I shouted for some of the men back by the bar to lend me a shirt, but they were arguing among themselves and too far away to hear me.
Determined not to let my friend die from blood loss, I did the only thing I could. Pulling off my yellow summer dress, I pressed it against his wound and called for Tristan to wake up.
He was limp and lifeless and it scared me.
“Tristan, open your eyes,” I coaxed and supported his head in my lap, while drying off blood with my dress.
The dark night was lit with flashing lights coming from inside the bar and the loud sound of the police drones ordering people to get on the ground and surrender without resistance. At least the shooting had stopped by now. Still holding my bundled-up dress to Tristan’s wound, I looked around, hoping to make eye contact with someone who could help me. Seeing only large angry-looking men, many still holding glasses of beer in their hands, my better judgment told me they would be more dangerous than helpful.
Call for help. I raised my wristband but had no clue who to call. The people I knew were on the East Coast or in the Motherlands and I didn’t know the number for medical emergencies in the Northlands.
Raising Tristan’s wristband, I chose recent calls and Storm’s name came up. When his face popped up in front of me, I almost cried with relief. I would have recognized Storm anywhere. He had been two years younger than me at the school, and often gotten in trouble for his impulsive behavior.
My voice was frantic. “Storm, it’s me, Shelly. You have to help Tristan. He’s hurt.”
“What the fuck is going on? Where are you?”
“Outside a bar. They were shooting and we made it out, but then he fainted. I don’t know what to do. He’s unconscious.”
“Is he breathing?” Storm asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. I recognize where you are, I’m on my way.”
“Hey, what happened to your clothes?” someone called from behind me and others chimed in. “She’s only wearing underwear.”
“Look, her protector got shot.”
Men were gathering around me and my worry for Tristan grew to include fear for my own safety. I wanted to scream at them that Tristan wasn’t shot, but I was too afraid to even look at them. Like predators sensing a weak prey they moved closer, and tears began dripping from my eyes. Most Nmen were protective of women, but drunken men in a group had been known to suspend their values and do things they later regretted. I was unprotected, and only wearing panties and a thin white camisole that went to my navel. This was definitely bad.
“Hurry,” I begged Storm, who from the look of his picture was running.
