THE NEXT SEVERAL minutes were a cluster fuck of activity as agents swarmed over every inch of the building searching for Johnson. Unsurprisingly, he was already long gone, having slipped out before the alarm had even been raised. I soon grew bored listening to Santos bark orders into his phone and at the bewildered agents crowding into his office. I decided to go in search of Holbrook, who had edged out of the room shortly after the building was locked down.
I found him alone in the small break room, sweat beading on his forehead as he eased his swollen hand into a large bowl of water. His breath whistled between clenched teeth as the water flowed over his skin, tendrils of pink swirling throughout. I noticed the open canister of salt sitting close by but didn’t ask for an explanation.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled as he shook his head, dark hair falling over his glistening brow.
“How bad is it?”
His voice was thick and rough when he answered, “It’s fine. I’m dandy.”
Peering into the bowl I saw the blisters covering his hand erupting, tainting the water with pus and blood.
Sure doesn’t look fine to me, I thought, deciding to keep my mouth shut. He didn’t look like he was in the mood to talk about it. Wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell emanating from the bowl, I took a couple steps back to lean against the edge of the counter.
“The building is still on lock down, but they’re pretty sure Johnson is in the wind,” I said to fill the silence, needing to say something to distract myself from the pained sounds he was making. For some reason, I couldn’t stand seeing him in pain.
He didn’t say anything, opting instead to merely grunt in acknowledgement.
“So…turns out Johnson’s totally whack-a-doodle,” I said, inspecting a hang nail on my right thumb.
“Looks that way,” Holbrook responded stiffly between sharp breaths.
Looking over, I gagged at the sight of him removing his hand from the bowl, bloody water dripping from his raw fingers. The surface layer of skin was completely gone in places, the rest of it riddled with open blisters that oozed and gave off a smell akin to raw meat left too long in the sun.
“Ugh, gross,” I murmured, wrinkling my nose at the foul odor.
“Wanna help?” Holbrook asked, holding his dripping hand over the bowl.
Raising my eyes from his hand to see if he was serious, my stomach clenched when it looked as if he was. “Er, sure.”
“First aid kit is under the sink.”
I moved over to the sink, crouching down to fish the first aid kit out of the cabinet, ignoring the way my ribs felt like they were grating against one another. After a few moments of digging around amongst the clutter, I fished out a white plastic box that looked like one of the old lunch boxes I’d had as a kid. Of course, my lunch box had been pink and plastered with My Little Pony stickers rather than a large red plus sign. The layer of dust on the top gave me the impression it hadn’t seen much action. Then again, I supposed that working in an office, even if it was with the FBI, didn’t pose many hazards beyond the occasional paper cut.
“What now?” I asked, setting the first aid kit down on the counter.
“I’m gonna need some gauze, antiseptic, and bandages.”
Popping the kit open I riffled through its contents before pulling out a box of bandages, a couple packs of sterile gauze pads, and a small spray bottle of antiseptic. “All right. Now what?”
“Wow, you really are sheltered, huh?”
“Bite me, asshole,” I grumbled. “You know, before you came along, my life was blessedly devoid of dead bodies, psychotic FBI agents, and whatever this is,” I added sourly, tilting my chin at his hand.
“Somehow I have a feeling that trouble doesn’t have a problem finding you all on its own. Now, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there like a princess?”
“I’m not a princess,” I replied, choosing not to acknowledge the amused curve of his lips.
Following his directions I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and liberally sprayed antiseptic over his hand, trying not to gag every time I breathed in another lungful of the putrid smell of his decimated skin.
“Oh, that’s just nasty.”
“Seriously? You regularly kill and eat rabbits and deer, and this grosses you out?”
“That’s different,” I sniffed, slapping a gauze pad on his hand with a little more force than was strictly necessary.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry,” I said, adding another layer of gauze with a bit more care.