TA - First Aid

He looked around for materials to dress the wound, spotted a first aid kit still hanging on the wall. It would do for the gunshot wound. At least he’d live until morning.

But he still needed to set the arm. He didn’t know how to do it. All he knew was that his arm was sticking out at a peculiar angle, and that he needed to fix that. As far as he could tell, there was no internal bleeding—the arm was swollen, but it wasn’t bulging. But if he left the broken bone hanging around inside, it would cut an artery sooner or later.

Brett backed himself up until he was about two feet from one of the walls. Then he gripped his upper arm tightly, took a deep breath, and smashed his hand against the wall. The pain shot up his arm like a thunderbolt, making him gasp; involuntarily he screamed. Before he could think about it again, he smashed his hand into the wall again—this time, he heard the arm crack back into place. He lay back on the floor, his chest heaving, his stomach cold with sweat, tears of pain in his eyes.

Now, he thought, let’s stabilize this son of a bitch.

He’d seen temporary splints before. All he needed was two straight sticks to place on either side of his arm and some cloth to tie them in place. The cloth wasn’t hard to come by. The rods were.

Brett scooted around the floor on his butt, looking around for something that could serve the basic purpose. The Taliban had done a thorough job of cleaning the place out—they had made their living from scavenging for so long that they were sure to take everything of value. He’d been lucky just to find the first aid kit.

Half an hour later, he was still looking. He hadn’t eaten or drunk in twelve hours, and he’d suffered a gunshot wound and a broken arm. His body was crying out for sleep, for reprieve, for any sort of relief.

- True Allegiance, Part 1: Brett (2)