Dr. Krantz, for the first time since I'd met him, actually looked a little embarrassed.
"Well, you see, I followed you in my car as far as that extraordinary little bar you went to. Chick's, I believe it is called? And then when I saw the two of you—you and Mr. Wilkins—leave by snowmobile, why, I got my skis out of the trunk and followed your tracks."
I stared at him. "Your what?"
"My skis." Dr. Krantz cleared his throat. "Cross-country skiing is one of the finest forms of cardio-vascular exercise, so I always keep my skis with me in the winter months, because you never know when an opportunity might arise to—"
"You're telling me," I interrupted, "that you skied all the way here. You. Cyrus Krantz. Skied here."
"Well," Dr. Krantz said. "Yes. It wasn't far, really. Only twenty miles or so, which is nothing to a well-conditioned skier, which I happen to be. And really, I don't think it at all as extraordinary as you're making it out to be. skiing is a perfectly viable form of exercise—"
When the shots rang out, that's what we were doing. Talking about skiing. Cross-country skiing, to be exact, and its viability as a form of cardiovascular exercise. One minute I was sitting there next to Rob, listening to Dr. Krantz, a guy that, it had to be admitted, up until then I really hadn't liked too well.
And the next, I was talking to air, because one of the bullets the True Americans sent flying in my direction pierced Dr. Krantz, and sent him flying.
C H A P T E R
16
It was my fault, really. My fault because I'd known people were shooting off guns, and I hadn't mentioned anything to Dr. Krantz like, "Oh, by the way, look out for flying bullets," or, "Hadn't you better stand behind this truck instead of in front of it? It might make better cover."
Nope. I didn't say a word.
And the next thing I knew, the guy was curled up in the snow beside the pickup, screaming his head off.
Well, if you'd been shot, you'd have screamed your head off, too.
I was out of the cab bed and into the snow beside him in a split second.
"Let me see," I said. I could tell the bullet had gotten him in the leg, because he was clutching it with both hands and rocking back and forth, screaming.
Dr. Krantz didn't let me see, though. He just kept rocking and screaming. Meanwhile all these spurts of blood were coming out from between his gloved fingers, and hitting the snow all around us, making these designs that were actually kind of pretty.
But you know, I took first aid in the sixth grade, and when blood is spurting out that hard and that far, it means something is really wrong. Like maybe the bullet had hit an artery or whatever.
So I did the only thing I could do, under the circumstances.
I punched Dr. Krantz in the jaw.
I felt pretty bad about it, but what else could I do? The guy was hysterical. He wouldn't let me look at the wound. He could have bled to death.
After I hit him, though, he kind of fell back in the snow, and I got a good look at the damage the bullet had done. Too good a look, if you ask me. Just as I suspected, the bullet had severed an artery—I can't remember what it's called, but it's that one in the thigh. A pretty big one, too.
Fortunately for Dr. Krantz, however, I was on the case.
"Listen," I said, to him, as he lay in the snow, moaning. "You are in luck. I did my sixth grade science fair project on tourniquets."
For some reason, this did not seem to reassure Dr. Krantz as it should have. He started moaning harder.
"No, really," I told him. I had pulled his coat up, and was undoing the belt to his pants. I was relieved to see he was wearing one. I know I sure wasn't. Though I could have used one of the laces from my Timberlands in a pinch.
"My best thing," I told him, "was tourniquets made from found objects. You know, like if you were out camping, and a big stick went through you, or whatever. You know. Maybe you wouldn't have a first aid kit with you." I ducked, and looked under the pickup. As I'd hoped, the snow wasn't so deep beneath it. I was able to find a good-sized rock … not too big, but not too small, either. Artery sized. I tried to get the dirt off it as best I could.
"The major thing you have to worry about," I assured Dr. Krantz—it's important that you talk to a victim of a major injury like this one, in order to keep him from slipping into shock—"isn't secondary infection so much as blood loss. So I know this rock looks dirty, but—" I jammed the rock into the wound in Dr. Krantz's leg. The blood stopped spurting almost right away. "—it's performing a vital function. You know. Keeping your blood in."
I took Dr. Krantz's belt, and looped the other end through the belt buckle, then pulled until the belt buckle wedged the rock deeper into the wound. I wasn't too thrilled about having to do this, but it didn't help that Dr. Krantz screamed so loud. I mean, I felt bad enough. Besides, all the screaming was making Chigger, still in the cab bed with Rob, whine nervously.
"There," I said to Dr. Krantz. "That will keep the rock in place. Now we just need to find a stick, so we can twist the belt, and cut off the circulation—"
"No," Dr. Krantz said, in what sounded more like his normal voice—although it was still ragged with pain. "No stick. For the love of God, no stick."
I looked critically down at my handiwork.
"I don't know," I said. "I mean, we may not be able to save the leg, Dr. Krantz. But at least you won't bleed to death."
"No stick," Dr. Krantz gasped. "I'm begging you."
I didn't like it, but I didn't see what else I could do. Fortunately at that moment, Chick sped up to us, Seth clinging tightly to his waist.
"What the hell happened?" Chick was down off his snowmobile and into the snow beside us in a flash. For a big man, he could move like the wind when he needed to. "Christ, I leave you alone for a second, and—"
"Somebody shot him," I said, looking down at Dr. Krantz's leg, which, truth be told, looked a lot like a raw hamburger. "He won't let me use a stick."
"No stick," Dr. Krantz hissed, through gritted teeth.
Chick was examining my field tourniquet with interest. "For torsion, you mean?" When I nodded, he said, "I don't think you need it. Looks like you've got the bleeding stopped for now. Listen, though, we don't have much time. You gotta get this guy out of here. Wilkins, too. And the little guy." He nodded his head at Seth, who was looking owlishly down at the crazy pattern of blood in the snow, as if it were the worst thing he had ever seen. As if what had happened to his own hand was just, you know, incidental.
"I know," I said. "But how am I going to do that? Dr. Krantz can't drive a snowmobile. Not in his condition. And Rob'd never stay on one. . . ."
"That's why—" Chick stood up, and started for the front of the pickup. "—you gotta take the truck."
I looked skeptically at the ancient vehicle. "I don't even know if it runs," I said. "And even if it does, I don't know where we'd find the keys."
"Don't need keys," Chick said, opening the driver's door, then ducking beneath the dash, "when Chick is on the case."
I looked over my shoulder. Up the hill from us, the flames from the barn now seemed to be reaching almost to the moon. Thick black smoke trailed into the sky, blocking out the cold twinkle of the Milky Way. True Americans were still running around, shooting off guns. I could dimly make out the small figure of Jim Henderson waving his arms at his brethren. He seemed to be encouraging them to fight harder.
Behind me, the pickup suddenly sputtered to life.
"There ya go," Chick said, with a chuckle. He came out from beneath the dash and blew on his fingertips before slipping his gloves back on. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I still got the touch."
I stared at him, as wide-eyed as poor Seth.
"Wait a minute," I said. "You want me to drive these guys out of here?"