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Content warning: This chapter contains descriptions of injury and first aid.
Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
The first thing Sheppard does when he becomes cognizant of anything is relocate his jaw so he can tell Murre to stop.
"You're bleeding out."
"I don't bleed."
Murre's backpack is open on the soft dirt of decades of decomposition, they have nitrile gloves on, there are packets of gauze and hemostatic powder amongst the miscellany strewn about in orderly panic. They're genuinely surprised Sheppard can lift his hands enough to ineffectively push theirs away. They're genuinely horrified Sheppard is too weak to push them away.
"I assure you. There is blood."
What's leaking from the several holes in his chest is a black sludge, emulsified and rotten, questionable but presumably blood. Murre doesn't have other words to describe what it is. Murre rips open multiple packets of gauze.
"No, just take me to—"
"You're going to die first. I need to pack your wounds."
Sheppard laughs. It's a strangled gurgle that adds reassessing his lungs to Murre's running checklist. He fails to say "I'm not going to die" without more strangled gurgle interruptions.
Giving up on pushing Murre away, Sheppard instead places his hands over the several holes to try blocking access. Murre presses his hands down, "Good. Apply pressure."
It's at this moment, gazing up at the pinpricks of sky through dense branches of tall trees, Sheppard thinks of you. He thinks of you, running after him. He thinks of It, leaving in the direction he had come. He can't feel your thoughts. A gush of black sludge pushes out between his fingers.
Murre curses in French. With a coil of gauze in hand, they try to move Sheppard's hands out of the way but Sheppard won't budge. "Sheppard I need to pack your wounds."
"You can't," he gurgles. "It's poison in there."
Murre compromises. They're done—an efficiency from practice and practice—and their hands are joined with Sheppard's in holding pressure when you arrive.
When you couldn't hear Sheppard break through the brush anymore, you had hoped you were close, had hoped Sheppard wouldn't run so far ahead you couldn't find him, so far ahead that if something happened to Murre he wouldn't have to attempt first aid before you could reach them. You had to slow to make sure you were still following his trail. You haven't tracked an animal since houses on fire.
You're rounding a tree he must have clipped, already spotting the trampled brush ahead, when you come across It. So tall and facing you, you mistake It for a tree until you don't—you're already jogging past It, It doesn't stop you.
Sheppard has never described emotional distress and shock from an injury, but Murre is speaking to him like he is, like they've been trained. This helps you find them.
At first glance, external pressure is the only apparent treatment but there's too many open empty gauze packets and Murre is already telling you the rundown. "Multiple chest punctures to the heart. Packed and stable now. Possible fluid in lungs. Broken bones and dislocations. Neck jaw maybe ribs and something big broke."
Sheppard is looking at you with eyes you've never seen before. He looks like the worst possible thing happened to him, like he had been pleading for it not to, for you to not let it and still it had. It twists you up inside.
Murre tells you where more gloves are. While grabbing them from their backpack, you notice Murre's multitool and what must be their paramedic scissors. The tools are simultaneously corroding and admixing from and with something from Sheppard, melting them and staining the ground with a darkness that is spreading. You skirt its growing edge.
You don't hate the evaluation and prioritization process. You're very good at it. If houses on fire taught you anything, it's making a decision with unrelenting certainty and follow-through. It's what makes you good at your job.
Right now your job is deciding how much field surgery Sheppard should have before being dragged into the back of your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive and dragged out of your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive into the clinic. And right now you wish you'd made the emergency protocol from all of Dr. Lacey's and your notes that you didn't think you'd ever need. In all fairness and in two years, Sheppard has only ever presented himself to you as an emergency once—a very, very bad house call. Without a Sheppard-specific emergency protocol on hand, you're now glad for that experience.
"Sheppard, is this going to kill you?"
"I think it would have," he gurgles.
There were so many injuries that should have killed him that didn't so you trust—because you have no other option—in the moment that he knows he's not going to die, as bad and unprecedented as this is. Packing is a stopgap, he's not out of the woods yet. He's literally in the woods and you need to get him to the clinic.
"I'll take over pressure." With your hands with Sheppard's on Sheppard's chest, you tell Murre to get your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive. "The keys—"
"I know." They're already running. Later, when things are as okay as they could be, your stomach drops and your heart hurts with the realization It could have stopped Murre, could have consumed Murre when they'd run off. You spend a very long time working piece by piece through your memory of all this and all the realizations it brings.
While you wait, Sheppard gurgles and you tell him not to speak. You're thinking of each step to get him in your clinic, of what instruments you'll tell Murre to prep, of the procedure for every operation you'll be doing. You also think about how much you love Sheppard. You think it over and over again, so he can hear you.
Murre brings your backpack when they return with your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive, brings the backpack to you in the woods with the tarp from the already folded down seats, along with ratchet straps and hospital blankets from the car bin. Everything they could think of you needing that they could carry to help carry Sheppard back. "I wish we had a cervical collar."
"I unfortunately know he'll be okay without one."
"Fuck."
You can say for sure that this supersedes the very, very bad house call for worst Sheppard injury.
Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
The first thing Sheppard does when he becomes cognizant of anything is relocate his jaw so he can tell Murre to stop.
"You're bleeding out."
"I don't bleed."
Murre's backpack is open on the soft dirt of decades of decomposition, they have nitrile gloves on, there are packets of gauze and hemostatic powder amongst the miscellany strewn about in orderly panic. They're genuinely surprised Sheppard can lift his hands enough to ineffectively push theirs away. They're genuinely horrified Sheppard is too weak to push them away.
"I assure you. There is blood."
What's leaking from the several holes in his chest is a black sludge, emulsified and rotten, questionable but presumably blood. Murre doesn't have other words to describe what it is. Murre rips open multiple packets of gauze.
"No, just take me to—"
"You're going to die first. I need to pack your wounds."
Sheppard laughs. It's a strangled gurgle that adds reassessing his lungs to Murre's running checklist. He fails to say "I'm not going to die" without more strangled gurgle interruptions.
Giving up on pushing Murre away, Sheppard instead places his hands over the several holes to try blocking access. Murre presses his hands down, "Good. Apply pressure."
It's at this moment, gazing up at the pinpricks of sky through dense branches of tall trees, Sheppard thinks of you. He thinks of you, running after him. He thinks of It, leaving in the direction he had come. He can't feel your thoughts. A gush of black sludge pushes out between his fingers.
Murre curses in French. With a coil of gauze in hand, they try to move Sheppard's hands out of the way but Sheppard won't budge. "Sheppard I need to pack your wounds."
"You can't," he gurgles. "It's poison in there."
Murre compromises. They're done—an efficiency from practice and practice—and their hands are joined with Sheppard's in holding pressure when you arrive.
When you couldn't hear Sheppard break through the brush anymore, you had hoped you were close, had hoped Sheppard wouldn't run so far ahead you couldn't find him, so far ahead that if something happened to Murre he wouldn't have to attempt first aid before you could reach them. You had to slow to make sure you were still following his trail. You haven't tracked an animal since houses on fire.
You're rounding a tree he must have clipped, already spotting the trampled brush ahead, when you come across It. So tall and facing you, you mistake It for a tree until you don't—you're already jogging past It, It doesn't stop you.
Sheppard has never described emotional distress and shock from an injury, but Murre is speaking to him like he is, like they've been trained. This helps you find them.
At first glance, external pressure is the only apparent treatment but there's too many open empty gauze packets and Murre is already telling you the rundown. "Multiple chest punctures to the heart. Packed and stable now. Possible fluid in lungs. Broken bones and dislocations. Neck jaw maybe ribs and something big broke."
Sheppard is looking at you with eyes you've never seen before. He looks like the worst possible thing happened to him, like he had been pleading for it not to, for you to not let it and still it had. It twists you up inside.
Murre tells you where more gloves are. While grabbing them from their backpack, you notice Murre's multitool and what must be their paramedic scissors. The tools are simultaneously corroding and admixing from and with something from Sheppard, melting them and staining the ground with a darkness that is spreading. You skirt its growing edge.
You don't hate the evaluation and prioritization process. You're very good at it. If houses on fire taught you anything, it's making a decision with unrelenting certainty and follow-through. It's what makes you good at your job.
Right now your job is deciding how much field surgery Sheppard should have before being dragged into the back of your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive and dragged out of your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive into the clinic. And right now you wish you'd made the emergency protocol from all of Dr. Lacey's and your notes that you didn't think you'd ever need. In all fairness and in two years, Sheppard has only ever presented himself to you as an emergency once—a very, very bad house call. Without a Sheppard-specific emergency protocol on hand, you're now glad for that experience.
"Sheppard, is this going to kill you?"
"I think it would have," he gurgles.
There were so many injuries that should have killed him that didn't so you trust—because you have no other option—in the moment that he knows he's not going to die, as bad and unprecedented as this is. Packing is a stopgap, he's not out of the woods yet. He's literally in the woods and you need to get him to the clinic.
"I'll take over pressure." With your hands with Sheppard's on Sheppard's chest, you tell Murre to get your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive. "The keys—"
"I know." They're already running. Later, when things are as okay as they could be, your stomach drops and your heart hurts with the realization It could have stopped Murre, could have consumed Murre when they'd run off. You spend a very long time working piece by piece through your memory of all this and all the realizations it brings.
While you wait, Sheppard gurgles and you tell him not to speak. You're thinking of each step to get him in your clinic, of what instruments you'll tell Murre to prep, of the procedure for every operation you'll be doing. You also think about how much you love Sheppard. You think it over and over again, so he can hear you.
Murre brings your backpack when they return with your very practical hatchback with four wheel drive, brings the backpack to you in the woods with the tarp from the already folded down seats, along with ratchet straps and hospital blankets from the car bin. Everything they could think of you needing that they could carry to help carry Sheppard back. "I wish we had a cervical collar."
"I unfortunately know he'll be okay without one."
"Fuck."
You can say for sure that this supersedes the very, very bad house call for worst Sheppard injury.
