The Traveling Vampire Show(13)

 

While that went on, Rusty stood near the edge of the roof, leaning over the big wooden BEER—SNACKS—SOUVE-NIRS sign to keep an eye on the dog. He said, “It’s still down there” and “I don’t think it’s even damaged from all that,” and “How the shit are we gonna get outa here?” And so on.

 

After a couple of minutes, I sat up and looked at Slim. There were scratches on her face, shoulders, chest, arms and on the backs of her hands. She even had claw marks on the top of her right breast, running down to the edge of her bikini top. Those weren’t bleeding, though. A lot of her scratches hadn’t gone in deeply enough to draw blood—but some had.

 

“It really got you,” I said.

 

“At least it didn’t bite me. Thanks to you.”

 

Looking over his shoulder, Rusty said, “You’ll still have to get rabies shots.” He sounded almost pleased by the idea.

 

“Screw that,” Slim said.

 

“You will,” Rusty insisted.

 

“You want to take a look at my back?” Slim asked me.

 

I crawled around behind her and winced. Her back, bare to the waist except for the tied strings of her bikini, was dirty and running with blood from her fall on the ground. In at least five places, bits of broken glass were still embedded in her skin.

 

“Oh, man,” I muttered.

 

Rusty came around for a look and said, “Good going.”

 

“I try my best,” said Slim, smiling.

 

I started picking the pieces of glass out of her.

 

“You’re gonna need a tetanus shot, too,” Rusty told her.

 

“No way,” Slim said.

 

“Besides,” I said, “she had a tetanus shot last year after that moron stabbed her.”

 

“That’s right,” Slim said.

 

“And one shot lasts like five or ten years,” I added.

 

“Couldn’t hurt to get another,” Rusty said. “Just to be on the safe side. And the rabies shots.”

 

After I pulled the pieces of glass out of Slim’s back, she was still bleeding. “You’d better lie down,” I told her.

 

She stretched out flat on the roof, turned her head sideways and folded her arms under her face.

 

Her back looked as if it had been painted bright red. Blood was leaking from ten or twelve slits and gashes. Nowhere, however, was it gushing out.

 

“Does it hurt much?” I asked.

 

“I’ve felt better. But I’ve felt a lot worse, too.”

 

“I’ll bet,” I said. I’d seen Slim get injured plenty of times and heard about other stuff—like some of the things her father liked to do to her. Today’s cuts and scratches seemed pretty minor compared to a lot of that.

 

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Rusty informed her. “A lot of stitches.”

 

“He’s probably right,” I said.

 

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

 

“Long as the bleeding stops,” I said, and started to unbutton my shirt.

 

“Unless infection sets in,” said Rusty.

 

“You’re sure the life of the goddamn party,” Slim muttered.

 

“Just being realistic.”

 

“Why don’t you make yourself useful,” I said, “and hop down and go get a doctor.”

 

“Very funny.”

 

I took off my shirt, folded it a couple of times to make a pad, and pressed it gently against several of Slim’s cuts. The blood soaked through it, turning the checkered fabric red.

 

“Your mom’s gonna kill you,” Rusty said.

 

“It’s an emergency.” Where the blood on my shirt seemed worst, I pressed down firmly. Slim stiffened under my hands.

 

Rusty bent over us and watched for a while. Then he took off his own shirt, folded it, knelt on the other side of Slim and worked on her other cuts.

 

“Applying pressure should make the bleeding stop,” I ex-gained.

 

“I know that,” Rusty said. “You weren’t the only Boy Scout around here.”

 

“The only one with a first aid merit badge.”

 

“Screw you.”

 

“Two Boy Scouts,” Slim said, “and no first aid kit. Very prepared.”

 

“We used to be Scouts,” Rusty explained.

 

“Used to be prepared.”

 

“Next time,” I said, “we’ll make sure and bring some bandiges along.”

 

“The hell with that,” said Slim. “Bring guns.”

 

Rusty and I laughed at that one.

 

After about five minutes, most of the bleeding seemed to be over. We kept pressing down on the cuts for a while, anyway.