Then the natives disappeared. They faded back into the jungle, and just like that, it was over. They were completely alone in the jungle, spinning around with weapons drawn in a sea of bodies. Lucas lowered the bow, arms quivering, and waited for a moment, but there was no resurgence. They were really gone.
He dropped to his knees, quickly taking stock of himself before turning to the wounded. A few minor scratches, but nothing else. He turned to Rohan first, who was bleeding profusely. The **** in his leg was right above the knee; a clean stab wound. In his pack, Lucas found bandages and bound the injury tightly. Rohan would walk with a limp for awhile, but it would heal. He straightened and saw Sorokin a ways away with Dusty. With his splinted arm, Dusty had troulbe moving still, and he’d taken a blow to the stomach. The next man Lucas turned to lay with his eyes wide open and unmoving, and it was easy to see he was long dead. His blood had already begun to dry around the arrow lodged in his shoulder.
The last soldier, propped up on a rock a few feet away, followed Lucas’ gaze. “He dead?”
Lucas nodded wordlessly.
“He was a good man. Those arrows are something, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” Lucas said. “What about you? Where are you hurt?”
The soldier leaned forward, grimacing, to show a large bleeding scrape on his skull. The skin had pulled apart and he could see blood pulsing from the wound.
“You need stiches, man,” Sorokin said from behind Lucas. He hadn’t heard him approach, as he was too busy scrambling for bandages upon seeing the man’s injury.
Lucas said, “Stiches?”
09-Sep-2011 22:51:05