Page 9 of Split You Open

My question dies on my lips.

There, in the recliner—situated in the center of the room—is the bloated body of an older man. Judging by the state of decay, he hasn’t been gone for long. His chin is resting against his chest. The old baseball cap he’s wearing is covering his face but there’s no mistaking the grey flesh that can be seen. On his lap is a half-eaten, moldy television dinner.

Blair steps further into the room. “I don’t see any more trip wires and the wear on the floorboards tells me he felt comfortable walking everywhere so there’s no traps hiding beneath them. We should be safe.”

I eye the dead man. “Given your bad arm, I have a feeling it’s going to be me cleaning up Mr. Dead Guy over there.”

“If you need any moral support, I can offer it from a distance.”

I stomp over to the body. “Geez, thanks.”

It takes me about twenty minutes to roll the guy up in his throw blanket and toss him out back. I feel kind of bad just throwing him out like trash but I sure as shit don’t have the time, or the energy, to bury him.

He can feed the wildlife.

By the time I get back inside, Blair has opened two windows and is rummaging through all the strange canned items on the bookshelves that line the walls. The fresh air makes the depressing, musty space a little more bearable. I don’t know what Blair’s looking for and I don’t ask. Now that Mr. Dead Guy is gone, there’s something more pressing to deal with.

There are only two other doors in the small house. I push open the first one and sigh in relief that it’s a bathroom. When I flip on the switch, a light flickers on.

“Huh, must be solar powered,” Blair mutters from behind me before she wanders off in another direction.

I check the medicine cabinet first. Inside is only a bottle of heart medication and an old razor. Under the sink, I have better luck.

“Found the first aid kit!” I call, pulling out the large red case.

When I open it, I’m pleasantly surprised to find it fully stocked. I place it on the counter and peer my head out of the bathroom to find Blair opening the kitchen cupboards.

“Come here,” I order.

“This guy was a prepper, look at this stuff. Canned food and water, rice and beans in separated containers packaged perfectly to be stored for years, boxes and boxes of ammo, seasonings…” Her voice trails off as she continues poking through things. “My dad would’ve loved him.”

Given what little I know of her dad, he sounds like a fucking dick. I don’t care what he would love about this place.

“Are you going to let me patch you up or what?” I demand when she continues opening cupboard doors.

“Unless you have any idea how to pull out a bullet, I’ll have to do it.”

Fuck, it’s still inside of her? Why didn’t she said anything? I should’ve asked. Not that it would’ve done any good knowing earlier but… damn. I’m not great at this shit at all. Santi or Wes would’ve been all over her, figuring out what exactly it is she needed.

Clearing my throat, I tell her, "Actually, I do.”

Blair pauses to look at me, a brow rising in curiosity.

“If you get your ass over here and let me help you, I’ll tell you about it,” I offer, gruffly.

Blair walks over to join me in the bathroom. I pretend not to notice her stumble and the way she reaches out to hold the wall as she approaches.

I’ll take care of her.

I’ll fix this.

“You don’t have to do this, Rhett. I was just trying to muster up the courage to deal with it myself,” she admits as she sits down on the toilet lid. Once seated, she attempts to pull her shirt over her head but stops to hiss in pain.

“Damn it, Blair. Let me help you,” I snap.

Together we work the shirt off her. When we’re done, Blair turns her attention to the first aid kit. Immediately, she begins pulling things out.

“What are you doing?” I ask.