Summer Wallock

Just south of the marsh, a cabin stood high on thick stilts at the edge of Requiem's River. A levee road led to this cabin, and provided access to a dozen others on this particular side of the water. Miles out from the main highway, and twenty minutes out from the city, the cabin was remote and difficult to find - and just as difficult to get into. With the flood waters, the lower steps that led up to the five-room house were underwater, along with the rest of the 'yard'; which was little more than a irregularly mowed patch of weeds, in any case. "We're here, Conan. Are you sure you're feeling okay...? We'll have to wait for Greg to bring the john boat in to reach the cabin."

Conan

The ride hadn't been very comfortable for Conan, considering that every bounce in the road made his chest ache all the more and paling his face even further than it had been. The moment they'd abandoned the more traveled roads though, he'd felt better - they were going someplace beyond the usual scope of the town, which was ideal. When finally the car shuddered to a stop, he was calmer, either through knowing they were fairly well disguised here or through the tiredness that had enveloped him, but either way he finally signed slowly, Okay - hand me my bag, please. And his arm uncurled from over his chest, ducking inside his coat and rummaging briefly - and out came a small, furry form so soaked in crimson fluid that it was barely recognizable; the soft fur was plastered to the body with blood as Conan drew it out and lay it across his jeans, cutting back a moan as his chest grabbed in pain. This wad of half-destroyed synthetic fur and stitching should be a familiar one - it had once been the bear that Conan had so despairingly cuddled to his chest in his sleep the morning after Raimi had been taken from him. The bullet had passed through the padding of the jacket, and through the bear in its inside zipper-pocket, and through his t-shirt - the three of them combined had slowed the bullet just enough to keep it from puncturing his heart and killing him... but now the bear was a bloodied, half destroyed mess. Pressing his hand tightly against his chest, he murmured on a broken breath, "My... bag..."

Summer Wallock

His draining color didn't go unnoticed by the woman, who didn't speak out about it, but kept it firmly in front of her thoughts as a matter that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. That urgency skyrocketed when he pulled the miserable teddy bear from beneath his jacket, and it was then that Summer saw the hole where the bullet had passed through, and knew that it was his own blood, and not someone else's. A hand went over her mouth, not about to quell the sharp gasp that came out, or hide the sheer alarm that whitened her own bronzed skin. Not staying shocked for long, at least not to a point where she was helpless with terror, Summer snapped too and grabbed up the bag, "You've been shot, Conan... oh, sweety..." Even as she handed the bag to him, Summer was helping to open it up, hands tense and eyes looking for any tool that she could put to use. So far out from town, she now had little choice but to deal with the wound herself.

Conan

All of Conan's medicinal stores were herbal ones - Aralyn had always hated pills, and he rarely kept them himself as a result. "S'not my firs'... time," he whispered, in response to her urgent whispers. "This'll be... num'r... twel'e... I thin'." As he said that, he reached the hand that wasn't occupied with clutching at his chest into the bag, coming up with a small pouch and beginning to open it with his teeth. Inside were some dried, brown leaves - he shuffled a couple out onto the leg of his jeans and scooped them up, popping them whole into his mouth and swallowing them down quickly so he couldn't taste them. As he was doing this, Summer might search the bag - there was pitifully little left. There were several pouches of leaves and powders that made up the last of his stores of painkillers and antibiotics, a half-used roll of handmade bandages, a half-dozen squares of thick gauze, aa collect of clean rags, belt knife, and a pair of scissors. With the pain slowly beginning to fade as the leaves took their proper effect, the teen took up one of the rags and transferred it to his bloody hand so that he could press this against the wound and try to stop the bleeding. He had no more words for Summer now - he knew perfectly well that this was the point where she wanted to take him to the hospital, but he hadn't dared let her do that - Lanny and Cassidy were both there.

Summer Wallock

Summer at least had the advantage of knowing her herbs, which served her well as she effectively sorted through the dwindling remains of Conan's supplies to organize which ones she needed. ",b>I have to get that out." She murmured in a light voice, reaching over to grab the lever that would lean the passenger seat into more of a horizontal position. A tension had risen into her voice, spawned by the fact that she would have to dig out this bullet herself, and didn't have near the proper medicines or tools to make it easy, much less spare the poor teen from the pain. To know that this was far from the first time he'd gone through something like this struck at her heart like a dagger with the cruel injustice of it all, "Breath evenly, Conan. How's the pain?" The scissors were being employed to cut away the clothing around the wound, where she'd briefly moved aside Conan's hand so that she could tug away the jagged square of cloth she'd snipped around.

Conan

This was ordinarily one of those places where the two would have battled wills; Conan's pride and resourcefulness wanted him to shrug off her care and tell her that he was perfectly capable of digging the bullet out on his own. But what was left of his logical mind, when combined with how very tired he was, forced him away from that step - he let her lay the seat back and closed his eyes, finally surrendering control of the situation to her as he let her take up his tools and set about doing just what she said; trying to relax, and making the effort to take slow, steady breaths. After a few of those, his head cleared some, and he answered softly, "'ve felt... worse. Jes... worry 'bout tha bullet. I'll... take care of... tha pain."

Summer Wallock

Contrary to how soft and pliable the woman often appeared to be, standing back and readily given in to other's wishes to avoid conflict, this was an area where her gentleness meshed with a quiet firmness. She didn't like to oppose anyone's will, but when it came to Conan's life, she would go against it as a last resort; and when it came to that, she found the task much easier when the boy relented to her treatment and handed the reigns to her, "I'll work as quickly as I can. Be brave for me, sweety." Improvising forceps out of a pocket knife, equipped with a toothed, plier gadget Summer didn't give herself the time to calm her nerves as she went to work, carefully probing the wound to find the metal buried inside, and to pry it out as swiftly as she possibly could.

Conan

Well, having someone burrow about inside his flesh was definitely not one of the more comfortable sensations on Conan's list; but his one saving grace was in how he'd been punished throughout his life for failing to live up to unreasonable standards set only for him - showing pain being one of these forbidden things. All of his training didn't let him get by the woman's treatment with nothing more than silent endurance - but it kept him from screaming or writhing in pain as she fishing in the meat of his chest for the projectile. His whole body tensed abruptly and he couldn't keep back a hoarse groan to indicate how uncomfortable this procedure was, and another when the improvised tool came into contact and jostled the bullet, causing white-hot pain to shoot through him. But he held still, showing an incredible amount of willpower.

Summer Wallock

Her face paled dramatically in response to the groan and the obvious agony she was causing him by digging around in the wound. Gentle and exceedingly careful as she was being about it, there was just no way around sparing him the pain, and before long, a few beads of perspiration formed along the edge of her brows, even though the weather was far from hot. "I've almost got it, I'm almost done... just a little bit more..." She spoke these general, light phrases as she went, forcing herself to keep on working until she'd located the bullet. Adjusting the pliers to grip the projectile, Summer retracted the metal and instantly had a bit of cloth picked up to press over the freshly disturbed wound, "There we are, it's out."

Conan

Summer wasn't the only one sweating - Conan was positively dripping with it. He managed to keep back anymore sounds of pain, at least until she caught hold of the bullet and popped it out of place. A final, much weaker moan left him as his consciousness swam - he didn't even feel her touch as she pressed the cloth to the wound. His breathing became more heavy yet as sweat poured down his face, and his body gave a sudden shudder. But finally, he managed to hang on to his tentative consciousness, enough at least to give her a little grunt to indicate to her that he was still awake and ready for her to keep going with whatever it was that she needed to do. He couldn't do more than that, having to concentrate on keeping the noises of pain to himself as he panted to catch up with the pace of his speeding heart. But it showed a degree of control that no sixteen year old boy should have needed.

Summer Wallock

The woman kept talking quietly, keeping a firm hand over his chest to hold the cloth in place and staunch the blood. Her own heart was racing frantically, but it was no where near the level of Conan's, and it was for his sake that her words went on, and she mustered up the strongest voice she could. It was one thing to pry out splinters and thorns... bullets were quite a new realm for Summer, but she managed it with the grace and ease that marked all of her actions. "There's a first aid kit in the cabin. As soon as Greg and the others arrive, we'll be moving over there. You've gotta stay awake for me, Conan, okay?" With one hand pressed over his chest, the other found its way to his hand. She knew well enough his touch-issues, but she also knew that deep down, everyone needed that human contact and security.

Conan

He was currently cursing the fact that he'd run out of stitches two months back when he'd dropped a plate and then accidentally given himself a good, deep cut in picking up the shattered pieces. With stitches along the edge of his finger and a good-sized bandaid to cover them over, he'd been able to write off the cut as something minor until it had healed, with neither Summer nor Collin the wiser. But now he wished for those stitches powerfully - as uncomfortable as it would be to have a needle repeatedly poked in and out of his already flaming chest, it would have him all patched up before Greg got here, and without the stitches they would have to wait, and someone else would have to see the wound he'd tried to hide from Summer and Kate. He was having trouble focusing on the soft sound of her voice, but one thing that got through to him was the way that she took his hand. He was too tired and too much in pain for his usual flinches to come into play; instead, he sighed heavily, half-suppressed a grunt for the pain, and closed his hand around her fingers, trying to focus on the soft, comforting touch of her hand rather than the pain that was ravaging him.

Summer Wallock

In the long minutes that they waited, Summer never stopped talking to him to give the suffering boy what distraction she could from the burning pain. After he'd gripped her hand tighter, she took that as a silent signal that he was okay with the touch, and more than that, accepted it as a source of comfort, whether it was a conscious act or not. That led her to stroking the edge of her thumb across the top of his hand, in a simple but consoling gesture to help get him through the agonizing wait.

Several minutes later, the foggy lights of a vehicle illuminated the rearview mirror, shining dimly through a light drizzle that had set in. The navy ranger puttered to a stop just behind Summer's car, and out clambered Nadeem, Greg, and Matt. "Matt, help me with the boat." Greg called his best friend after him as the scurried over the slippery edge of the ravine, rounding the back side of the truck, where the john boat was hitched. Nadeem was sprinting towards Summer's car as the others did this, and was met instantly by Summer's rushed words, "Conan's been shot - we need to get him into the cabin. There's a first aid kit in there. Here, help me with him, please." Mr. Tarak didn't have time to really digest the situation, and was moving to try and scoop up Conan as Summer tried to lift him from the seat. In the background, Matt and Greg were shoving the boat down the steep incline, towards the foamy waters of the swollen river.

Conan

Vaguely feeling hands begin to shift his body, Conan didn't open his eyes to try to see who it was. He was beyond interest for that - and fortunately for Nadeem, he was far beyond struggling and trying to land a punch to the other's gut when suddenly a touch that was not Summer's made it home to his brain. "I... can..." The words ended before Conan could begin them, and his fingers twitched a little in Summer's grip, trying to finish out the words but moving so little that it came out as garbled nonsense, even in his fingers. All in all though, there was little he could do to either help the others get him up - or to hinder them by struggling against their hands. He was doing remarkably well to still be awake after all the drama of today and the risky bullet removal with very few painkillers.

Summer Wallock

The two of them struggled to maneuver Conan out of the car, while causing him as little pain as they could - it was a desperately difficult task, considering the drizzle was increasing into a steady rain, and the mixture of mud, sand, and slippery grass didn't help their footing at all. It was a miracle that neither of them fell as the eased their way down the half-submerged back to reach the boat. And it was another miracle that they transfered Conan in without tipping the old craft - but they managed it all in good timing. After a few failed attempts, Greg got the engine going, and the little boat was powering towards the cabin a few dozen yards away.

Fighting against the sweeping current and dodging the debris, the little boat rumbled up to the steps, where Greg quickly tied it off to the railing and held it steady as Nadeem and Summer again lifted Conan, finally reaching the general safety of the cabin and taking him instantly to one of the many beds. "Open those curtains - we need light." It went without saying that they had no electricity, so it was a race to use what fading light they could before flashlights would have to be employed. "The kit is in the cabinet below the bathroom sink."

By the time Nadeem returned with the kit, Summer had Conan covered in two thick quilts, plus or minus several dozen ladybug shells from the critters that had hibernated in the building. Unscrewing a small jar, she scooped out a funky smelling paste and slathered this generously over and around the bullet wound. It was mostly antibiotic in property, but it did have the added benefit of being a mild analgesic as well, which would certainly help for the next phase of Conan's treatment. Taking out a needle and thread, Summer handed these over the the slightly more experienced Nadeem, who began work to stitch close the wound.

Conan

It was a very strange experience for Conan as they fought the current to cross the river. The rocking motion of the boat against the current was halfway between a soothing stimulus, and something that wanted to cause nausea in the teen, who paled a little more, if that was possible. Being red-haired and blue eyed, he had never been dark-complected, but now his face was like paper. He turned his head to one side against the boat's rough bottom and squeezed his eyes shut to combat the pain and queasiness...

And the next thing he knew was that Summer was spreading a blanket over him, and someone was shuffling about to his right - likely Nadeem digging for the first aid kit. A brief lance of pain made him let out a noise that was more of a hoarse whine than anything human; he didn't understand that Summer was rubbing medicine over the wound. All that made it into his mind was the pain. Thankfully, that subsided a little as the medicine kicked in - but Nadeem's stitching in the already agonizing area did what nothing else had been able to do; it made him wriggle to try to get away from it. As tiny as the pain of the prodding needle was, it was absolute torture to the boy, and he could no longer fight his body's instincts that bade him draw away from it. Thankfully for his caretakers, he couldn't move very fast or very far - but his pain-riddled mind had him sweeping up one hand to try to brush away the needle to stop at least that one tiny source of pain.

Summer Wallock

That rumbling, ominous roar of the surging water all but drowned out the sound of the john boat heading back to the levee to pick up Matt and the rest of their supplies, since the water craft had been too small and unstable to carry all of them in one trip. Inside the cabin, Summer reached forward to grab Conan's hand, gripping them firmly in a strength that didn't seem to match her wiry frame, "Shhh, sweety. I know it hurts, I know... it's almost over..." It stung at her heart to have to hold the boy down, and watch him suffer through it, but as ever before, her motherly voice was always there to talk to him and remind him that he was in save, loving hands - if even he was able to comprehend the words at this point.

Nadeem was biting at his lip, hands threatening to tremble as he made quick work of the thread and needle, hastily drawing close the rendered flesh and tying off each of the stitches. From Aralyn, he'd learned the basics of healing, and by now was efficient at such things. But this was the first time he had to stitch up a human, much less one that was still very conscious and fighting against him. But in the end he had the bullet hole closed off, and reached a tainted hand to shuffle through the kit and pull out a swab of gauze to press over it. Surgical tape was applied over that, to hold the gauze in place, and help protect the wound from infection.

Conan

At his full capacity and strength, when he was very much himself, Conan was more than a match for Summer, and could have broken free of her grip easily. As it was though, he couldn't begin to fight her with any great success. Not to say he didn't try - time and again, he spent his quickly waning strength to bunch his muscles and try to force his arms upward to shake off her grip, only to have them ended by her grip, and the renewed soft tones of her voice. His breath was coming in harsh gasps now, his skin slick with streams of sweat caused by fear, pain, and the adrenaline that had newly been awakened in him by the first two. So it was difficult to tell the difference when tears joined the perspiration rolling in sheets down his face - the only hint was in how every once in a while one of the gasps would take on an airy, breathy sound that might have been a sob. All of this ended only when Nadeem was finished with his task, and the needle removed from his being. It was then that his fight against Summer's grip abruptly ended, and he lay in a panting heap on the bed, the twitching of his fingers growing slower and slower as he fought the darkness that wanted to reach up and take him. The last thing he'd understood from Summer was her request that he try to stay awake - and it was this that he put his attention to.

Summer & Others

It was a quiet but emotionally straining fight for Summer to keep him Conan down, when she knew all too well that he was fighting against the horrible pain in his chest, and that she was stopping him from fighting off the source of torment. It reminded her of times when she had to firmly hold down a young Greg and gently work loose the random thorns that would get lodged in his being, and how he hollered and fought against it. Only, Conan was much older than those days, and the complete breakdown was a stressfully clear reminder of just how uncomfortable this all was for him. As long as she'd known the boy, she'd never seen him come to this.

"There should be matches in a tin above the kitchen sink. There should be enough wood in the fireplace; if not, check the blue woodbin on the front porch." Orders were dictated to Nadeem, who was all too happy to get to the kitchen sink and wash his hands of the blood. Summer pulled the blanket up a little further around Conan, and remained sitting on the bed with him while the sound of creaking floorboards marked Tarak's path as he gathered supplies for the next task. "It's over now, it's all over. You can rest, sweety." Using a mother's strength to withhold a tiny tremor from her voice, the woman took a spare bit of cloth to wipe away the sweat running down the boy's face, and once he had stopped fighting, she took up his hand again, "All of your friends are safe now, they're all here, Conan. Try to relax now."

Conan

At this point, it was clear that Conan didn't really understand what was going on. He hadn't opened his eyes since closing them in the car, though his head had tossed violently to one side as he struggled against Summer - it was hard to tell if he was aware that Greg, Matt, and Nadeem had all arrived. But with the agony still pulsing through him every time his heart beat and irritated the surrounding tissues, it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto his consciousness. Since it brought no more pain to him, he did not try to wiggle away from the rag the woman used to wipe his face, offering no response at all to this - but when she took up his hand again, her fingers solid and real in the world that felt like it was spinning around him, he gripped her hand tightly - well, as much as he could, in his weakened condition. His face, turned toward her since he didn't have the energy to draw it back upright after he'd thrown his head to one side, was twisted in pain and fear, and white as chalk with exhaustion... and likely more than a bit of shock for the unusual circumstances under which his bullet had been removed. He continued to sweat profusely - but finally, as she minutes went by and she continued to speak softly to him, the harsh lines in his face began to smooth, and his feeble grip on her hand loosened as his his gasping breath and racing heartrate began to fall again to more normal ranges. It was a trial and a half for him to unwind - but finally, his tired and injured body forced him down into the darkness, and he relaxed against the bed.