The sharp, salty scent of blood in the air told him he was wounded. He glanced down and checked himself and found that he had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh. An experimental brush of his fingertips against the wound, a peer at the redness, the thickness of the blood against his skin, and he decided that he wasn’t bleeding that much. He tried to stand and nearly fell over for his leg’s disobeying him. So he wouldn’t be able to get away on his own.
There was only one choice, now - pretend he was one of the civilians and let the paramedics take care of him. He knew that as soon as one of the hackers realized he hadn’t made it into the transport with the rest of the demolitions team a false identity would be in the government databases to cover his treatment. He could say he was a musician - there had been plenty of them at the fundraiser that night. He had the calluses on his fingers to prove it - and the scars. He’d fumbled one of the charges, hadn’t made it out of the blast radius in time, and now he was wounded.
A paramedic entered his field of vision.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“I’m wounded,” he said. “Can’t walk. Leg.” He pointed at the wound, and turned his calm, unfeeling gaze on the paramedic.
“Sir, you’re in shock and losing blood - I need you to stay right here.” He nodded and did his best to prop himself up against the remains of the low cement wall and watched the paramedic dash toward the nearest ambulance and scramble for a med kit.
He’d have to remember to flinch away from her ministrations this time.
1 comment:
I have always been fascinated by a lack of physical sensation. I think you conveyed it very well.
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