Chapter 4:What Is Going On?
425 Words
Andrew stood in the storeroom doorway for a long moment, staring at the collapsed shape on the floor. His breath came in slow, deliberate pulls — the same controlled rhythm he used at crime scenes when everything inside him wanted to sprint in the opposite direction. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Let the body catch up with the brain.
He holstered the Glock.
Whatever that thing had been, it wasn't getting up again. He was certain of that much. He turned his back on the storeroom, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood in the quiet of the pharmacy aisle until his hands stopped trembling.
Then he got to work.
He moved through the store with quiet efficiency, pulling items from shelves and building a pile on the front counter. Sterile gauze pads. A roll of medical bandage. Antiseptic solution — he grabbed two bottles, figuring generosity was warranted given the night he was having. Surgical tape. A pair of latex gloves. He found a small first aid kit behind the counter in a plastic case and cracked it open, supplementing it with everything he'd gathered. Ibuprofen. An instant cold compress. A penlight, which he pocketed immediately.
He found a staff bathroom at the side of the store, narrow and smelling of disinfectant, with a mirror above a small sink. He flicked the light on and got his first real look at himself.
He looked worse than he felt, which was saying something.
A gash ran along the back left side of his skull, matted with dried blood that had tracked down behind his ear and stained his collar a deep rust brown. His left forearm had a long scrape he didn't remember getting, already beginning to purple at the edges. His bottom lip was split.
He turned on the tap, let the water run warm, and began cleaning the head wound methodically. The antiseptic made him hiss through clenched teeth, the sting sharp and clarifying. He packed the gash with gauze, pressing firmly the way field training had taught him, then secured it with surgical tape wrapped twice around his head. Imperfect, but sufficient.
The forearm he doused and wrapped without ceremony.
He straightened up and studied his reflection. Bandaged, bloodstained, still in yesterday's uniform.
He thought about the morgue. About the 911 call. About the thing on the storeroom floor.
His jaw tightened in the mirror.
Someone needed to know about this. And he needed to figure out fast whether there was anyone left who was safe to tell.
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