flashlight caught the edge of Jodi’s red jacket. She lay on her back, head to the side, her face ghostly white. He dropped beside her and took her hand. “Jodi?”
The porter who had remained with her stood above them. “We were afraid to move her.”
Air whooshed from his lungs. “Jodi.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she groaned before closing them again. Blood had run down her face and dried on her cheek. He felt along her temple where blood matted her hair.
“Jodi, what happened?”
“I don’t … know.” Her eyes opened again. “They came with guns … I ran …”
He wiped away the blood with his shirt, but all he found was a cut along her hairline. There had to be something else. “Were you shot?”
“I … ran.”
“Were you shot?”
“My arm … hurts.”
Frantically, he began looking for holes in her clothes — anything that might signify the entryway of a bullet. Blood seeped from her left shoulder. He told the porters where to aim their flashlights, then, after gently slipping off her jacket, ripped her shirt sleeve, exposing the wound. He’d seen enough scars from gunshot wounds to know that both entrance and exit wounds were not always easy to distinguish, and that he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she’d been hit twice.
He pulled off his own jacket and pressed it against the wound to stop the bleeding as his mind scrambled to deal with the emergency situation. He was used to working with patients who’d been seriously injured — but in physical therapy, long after they’d been patched up by ER doctors and surgeons. He reached for her wrist and took her pulse. It was fast, but steady. Breathing seemed normal, with no signs of a blocked airway.
What else?
“Do you hurt anywhere beside your shoulder?”
She shook her head. “Just my ankle, but that’s to be expected.”
If she was right, the metal pin was the least of their problems at the moment.
“We’ve got to get her out of here.” He felt her forehead. Beside the gunshot wound, she was burning up with fever. He looked up the incline toward the camp. “Can you walk?”
Her chin quivered. “I don’t know.”
Brandon helped her to her feet. Even with Jodi’s slight frame, he wasn’t sure how far he could carry her down the mountain. But without a stretcher, any other options began to fade. “I’ve got to get her off this mountain and down to the base camp so she can be evacuated.”
With the help of the porters he hoisted her onto his back, careful not to jar her shoulder. Ten minutes later they were at the camp, where he laid her on their sleeping bag in the tent and began to pack their water and supplies. He’d pay whatever it took for two of the porters to help get her down the mountain.
Mosi appeared outside the tent, holding one of the high-frequency radios. “It’s a miracle the rebels missed this after tearing everything apart, but we found this in one of the tents. I’ve been in touch with the base camp.”
“What did they say?”
“They will arrange for medical personnel to be waiting for us at the base camp, along with a plane so Jodi can be medivaced to the nearest hospital.”
Brandon’s mind swam with the daunting task ahead of them. Even going downhill, at a much quicker pace, it would take at least two or three hours to get to the base camp in the daytime. At night it could take them twice that long. And carrying Jodi …
“How do we get there?”
“Porters from the base camp are on the way up with stretchers right now.”
“How long until they arrive?”
“Another five or six hours.”
Which meant it would be almost dawn before they made it. “Forget it. I’m going to go now. I’ll meet them halfway.”
That would cut the time in half.
Ashley stood at the entrance of his tent. “I’m coming with you.”
He threw his bag over his shoulder. “I meant what I said. I can’t be responsible for you. I’ve got to get my wife the help she needs.”
“I’ll get down the mountain on my own.”
The porter who had remained with her stood above them. “We were afraid to move her.”
Air whooshed from his lungs. “Jodi.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she groaned before closing them again. Blood had run down her face and dried on her cheek. He felt along her temple where blood matted her hair.
“Jodi, what happened?”
“I don’t … know.” Her eyes opened again. “They came with guns … I ran …”
He wiped away the blood with his shirt, but all he found was a cut along her hairline. There had to be something else. “Were you shot?”
“I … ran.”
“Were you shot?”
“My arm … hurts.”
Frantically, he began looking for holes in her clothes — anything that might signify the entryway of a bullet. Blood seeped from her left shoulder. He told the porters where to aim their flashlights, then, after gently slipping off her jacket, ripped her shirt sleeve, exposing the wound. He’d seen enough scars from gunshot wounds to know that both entrance and exit wounds were not always easy to distinguish, and that he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she’d been hit twice.
He pulled off his own jacket and pressed it against the wound to stop the bleeding as his mind scrambled to deal with the emergency situation. He was used to working with patients who’d been seriously injured — but in physical therapy, long after they’d been patched up by ER doctors and surgeons. He reached for her wrist and took her pulse. It was fast, but steady. Breathing seemed normal, with no signs of a blocked airway.
What else?
“Do you hurt anywhere beside your shoulder?”
She shook her head. “Just my ankle, but that’s to be expected.”
If she was right, the metal pin was the least of their problems at the moment.
“We’ve got to get her out of here.” He felt her forehead. Beside the gunshot wound, she was burning up with fever. He looked up the incline toward the camp. “Can you walk?”
Her chin quivered. “I don’t know.”
Brandon helped her to her feet. Even with Jodi’s slight frame, he wasn’t sure how far he could carry her down the mountain. But without a stretcher, any other options began to fade. “I’ve got to get her off this mountain and down to the base camp so she can be evacuated.”
With the help of the porters he hoisted her onto his back, careful not to jar her shoulder. Ten minutes later they were at the camp, where he laid her on their sleeping bag in the tent and began to pack their water and supplies. He’d pay whatever it took for two of the porters to help get her down the mountain.
Mosi appeared outside the tent, holding one of the high-frequency radios. “It’s a miracle the rebels missed this after tearing everything apart, but we found this in one of the tents. I’ve been in touch with the base camp.”
“What did they say?”
“They will arrange for medical personnel to be waiting for us at the base camp, along with a plane so Jodi can be medivaced to the nearest hospital.”
Brandon’s mind swam with the daunting task ahead of them. Even going downhill, at a much quicker pace, it would take at least two or three hours to get to the base camp in the daytime. At night it could take them twice that long. And carrying Jodi …
“How do we get there?”
“Porters from the base camp are on the way up with stretchers right now.”
“How long until they arrive?”
“Another five or six hours.”
Which meant it would be almost dawn before they made it. “Forget it. I’m going to go now. I’ll meet them halfway.”
That would cut the time in half.
Ashley stood at the entrance of his tent. “I’m coming with you.”
He threw his bag over his shoulder. “I meant what I said. I can’t be responsible for you. I’ve got to get my wife the help she needs.”
“I’ll get down the mountain on my own.”
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