Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

“Not if we bury them,” Banks breathes.

I nod. “We’ll come back here tonight, Kits. I have those shovels at camp.” Pooper scoopers, Winona calls them. I packed shovels to dig latrines.

Now we’re going to be digging graves.

“Okay,” Akara says and looks to Banks. “After yo—”

“No way in hell,” Banks refutes. “You’re not following behind again. We walk side-by-side together this time so I can have your six.”

Akara winces, more so at his wounds while he shifts. “I thought you hated making the calls, Banks.”

“But this one is too easy.”

“My vote is with Banks,” I tell Akara. “And I know I’m not a bodyguard and I probably don’t get a vote, but I’m creating one right now. So it’s two-to-one. You’re outvoted.”

His smile looks like it aches to rise. “No I’m not. Because I’m voting with you.”

And that’s how it goes. Step-by-step, we trek to our secluded camp. All the while, I never drop my gun. The closer we get, the tighter my grip becomes. Banks and Akara keep looking at me, at the weapon, and I feel their building concern.

Shoes crunching leaves, our empty camp comes into view. Darkness has nearly set in, and I’m just on autopilot. Grabbing a couple battery-operated lanterns from our gear, I switch on the light.

One tent.

The emptiness of the tent doesn’t feel as safe as the spot between Akara and Banks. I venture back out to the fire pit. Where they both are popping lids to two First-Aid kits.

Once more, Banks eyes my hand that clutches the gun. He says nothing to me and instead turns to Akara. “You’re going first. Don’t fight it, man.”

“Hey, I’m supposed to order you around. Stop trying to take my job.” He sits down on a tree stump.

I come up behind him. “How do you feel about going topless, Kits?” His shirt hangs by one inch of fabric at his shoulder.

“Rip it,” he tells me.

To do that, I’ll have to put the gun down. Instead, I decide to lean in and take the fabric in my teeth. I tear it off easily, and the bloodied shirt falls to the ground.

Akara watches me for a long second, and when my eyes meet his, I’m throttled with his worry. “Sul, you’re going to have to set it down eventually.”

“Not yet.” It scares me how much my voice shakes.

“Okay.” There’s pain behind his eyes. A different kind of pain. He knows it’s not okay. I’m not okay.

Banks comes over, his hand just covers mine for a second. Encased over my fingers and the hilt of the gun. He stays there.

My pulse is in my throat. “I can’t…” I shake my head.

“You can. It’s alright. I’m right here. Akara is here.”

I choke out, “I need to protect myself.” Is that it? I think I’m more terrified of not being able to help them again. Of losing them, of being alone.

The emptiness.

The painful, guttural cavern they’d leave behind. How could that ever be filled again?

Akara reaches out to me and places a hand on my back. “You don’t need the gun to do that, Sulli. You can let go.”

Banks never forces the gun from my grip. He waits.

His hand feels more like a comfort. So does Akara’s on my back.

And slowly, I loosen my fingers and release my clutch.

Banks checks the safety on my gun, then stores it safely in a backpack. None of us can hug, not when we need to clean up and deal with our wounds. So that’s what we do first.

Quietly and methodically, we use the lanterns to help assess Akara’s wounds.

The worst gashes are along his shoulder blade and a bite mark near his elbow. Akara washes off the blood with water. Antiseptic, gauze, and a tight bandage—that should hold up until we see Farrow.

“If you feel dizzy at all, you better tell us,” I say to him.

“I will,” Akara promises.

Banks pulls off his shirt and lowers his shorts. Dried blood stains his skin. I shrug off my Camp Calloway tee and cargo shorts. Blood drips from my hair and down to my chest, soaking into my sports bra.

There is no hesitation. I can’t keep it on. Gripping the bottom elastic band, I pull off the bra and let it fall to the ground.

We’re all standing, and I stay between Akara and Banks. For some reason, this feels the safest. I stop shaking between their warmth and height. I pile my hair up into a high bun.

“Where does it hurt?” Akara asks me.

“My waist mostly,” I whisper. “Right here.” I reach down to the spot near my belly button. The blood is mine, not the cougars’.

Carefully, Akara pours water over the claw mark. I bite down in a wince, and Banks uses a cloth to wipe the blood away. Revealing fresh scratches. We rip open more bandages. Add more antiseptic to each other. I can tell they’re trying hard not to cause me more pain.