“I think he’s going into shock,” I hear Otto say.
Careful to keep my face in the shadows, I peer around the corner. A man is writhing in pain on a bed, and Otto is kneeling beside him while another biker in an Inferno cut pleads with my father.
“He’s all burned up. Look at him, Prez. He’s fried to a crisp.” Just as he says it, the odor of burned skin hits me. “His skin is falling off him. And the groaning, Jesus… he won’t stop groaning.”
I can’t stop myself.
I have to help.
Without thinking, I step into the room, and everyone turns to look at me except for the injured biker on the bed.
Max is going to lose his shit at me, but I can’t worry about that now.
The man on the bed is burned really bad.
The nurse in me takes over, and I rush over to him. First, I check his airways, looking for soot or swelling, and I’m relieved to see they’re clear. But his face is badly burned, and his eyebrows and eyelashes are gone. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he’s gone limp, so I look at Otto and the other biker whose name I don’t know. “Get him up and into the bathroom,” I order them.
They don’t move.
Instead, they look at my father for permission.
“Don’t look at my father. You do as I say, got it? Every second that passes is a second closer to your friend being dead. Now, if you want him to live, get him off the bed and into the shower cubicle in the bathroom.”
While the bikers do what I say and help their friend into the shower, I run to the linen closet I passed in the hallway. I need sheets and lots of them. Thankfully, I find several, along with some pillowcases, all folded up nicely but sour from years of abandonment.
Stashing them under my arm, I run back to the room and into the bathroom, where I run cold water over them until they’re drenched and some of the dust and sourness is removed.
“What are you doing?” my father growls.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to save his life.”
“Should we remove his clothes?” the panicked biker asks.
The fire has destroyed most of the man’s clothes, leaving only his jeans and boots. “Remove his jeans and boots… but carefully.”
Working fast, I carry the saturated sheets across the wet tiles to the shower cubicle and begin draping them over the biker.
“Want me to turn on the water?” Otto asks.
I shake my head.
“No, this will work.” What I’m doing isn’t ideal, but it’s better than dousing the biker in a continual flow of water that could send him into shock or expose him to more bacteria. I need to cool down the skin and stop the burns from penetrating further. Not that I think it will work, but I have to do something. “Get me those pillowcases, will you?”
Otto returns with the soaked pillowcases, and I wrap them around the biker’s hands, sliding some of the wet fabric between each of his fingers.
“You need to get him to a hospital,” I say to my father. “He’s going to die without proper medical care. If the trauma doesn’t kill him, then the infection will.”
“Taking him to the hospital will create a problem for the club.”
“So?”
“So… it’s not going to happen.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s going to die if you don’t get him there.” I stand and look at the injured biker slumped at the bottom of a shower cubicle wrapped up like a mummy in bedsheets. He’s passed out from the pain. “Let me guess. He’s a wanted felon.”
“Not yet, but if he goes to the hospital, he might find himself implicated in the unfortunate demise of the Redbud County Courthouse that burned down an hour or so ago. Terrible thing, really, an old building burning down like that. Someone must’ve left the gas on or something.”
I just stare at Max.
He talks like this is all a big joke.
No, he talks like an insane man.
I want to walk out, but I’m stuck here, just like the doc.
I change tactics and adopt a calmer voice, hoping my father might see reason. “Listen, if we don’t get him the medical care he needs, then he will die. That’s a certainty. Now, would he prefer a short stay in prison for arson, or would he prefer to be dead?”
“He’ll prefer to be dead if any of this lands on the club.”
My jaw tightens.
Max has ice in his veins.
“Then let the doc look at him,” I insist.
“Once he’s delivered my son safely. Speaking of which, you should be helping him, not doing this shit.”
“Doc has it handled.”
“Just like I have this handled.” His expression tells me I’ve pressed my luck far enough. “Go help my wife deliver your brother.”