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I reached into my backpack and took out the first aid kit. A bunch of cartridges and food caught my eye again. I looked at the rifle that stood against the wall, and the thought crept into my head that all this could be mine. Well, theoretically, if you still can’t save her, don’t leave these things here … I looked at Irina, who was lying unconscious, her chest heaved measuredly.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I opened the first-aid kit and immediately found a paper brochure in it, which contained a list of contents. After a quick run through the list, I found out that there is everything you need and much more. I needed bandages, peroxide and painkillers. There were even broad spectrum antibiotics. I looked at the girl again, she was still breathing heavily and was unconscious.
Grabbing the first aid kit that was in the girl's backpack, I quickly shook it. Having found hydrogen peroxide and a bandage, he began to tear off pieces of the bandage and, after soaking them with peroxide, push them into the wound with dense balls, thus making a tamponade to stop the blood. At some point, Irina groaned from unbearable pain, and I tried to talk to her, calming her down and explaining what you were doing, but she was already unconscious again and did not hear me. When the blood had been stopped, I took dicynone and novocaine from the first-aid kit, making injections around the wounds, as taught in the shooting club, I proceeded to dressing.
Ten minutes later I finished and sat next to the girl on the boxes of tiles. She was still unconscious, and I felt exhausted and sweaty. Now everything depended on her. I washed off the dried blood from my hands with the rest of the peroxide and wiped my hands on the girl’s pants. “You don’t care to wash things, don’t be offended,” Irina did not answer …
After sitting like that for some more time, I finally calmed down a little and began to think about what to do next. In a good way, you should not leave Irina here in this state, she needs medical help. We should at least take her to the survivor camp she was talking about. Would also like to know where to look for it. Picking up the first-aid kit, I found a bottle of ammonia and sniffed its contents. It seemed that the pungent smell penetrated to the very brains, even the eyes got wet. Raising the girl's head, I brought a bottle of stinking liquid to her nose, and after a few seconds, she, moaning, began to turn her head, trying to take her nose to the side. I helped her sit up, holding her and putting my arm around her shoulders.
– It's all right, I treated and bandaged the wounds – I tried to smile at her, but it didn't seem to come out very well. – You need to see a doctor. Do you have a doctor in this Stronghold?
For a while she looked at me with expressionless eyes. Her vidocq was such that for a second I wondered if she had been infected for an hour? God forbid now how he rushes at me. But the girl, having parted her dry and blue lips, croaked: “Give me a drink …” – pointing to her backpack with a glance. I quickly found a can of cola and, having opened it, gave it to Irina. She slowly drained it to the bottom, then, hiccuping loudly from the gas that hit her nose, she writhed in pain, but after a moment, noticeably perking up, she began to examine herself. Only now did she notice that there was nothing above her waist except for bandages and an unbuttoned unloading. Although her chest was bandaged around and tightly fixed, Ira quickly fastened the unloading, and her gray-pale face darkened noticeably:
– Bandaged so that I'm about to suffocate, – she tried not to look into my eyes and, pointing to the bandaged chest, asked. – As there? Everything is bad?
“If you are talking about a wound,” I smiled, “it’s not that it’s completely bad, but it’s not enough good either.” The wound is deep, but the lung is not affected, but the artery is cut. You need to be sewn up and quickly, there is a risk of pneumothorax and infection.
– You're a signalman, aren't you?
– I go to the shooting club … I went. There we were taught how to help with bullets and knives.
– So I'm lucky?
I did not have time to answer. Two armed and well-equipped fighters in black balaclavas quietly entered the room. Two AKM muzzles stared at my face. I looked towards the SVD standing against the wall, but one of the guys shook his head, making it clear what not to do.
Anyone who has ever been directed with a military weapon knows this nasty feeling of fear, covering from head to toe, trying to relax the muscles in the lower abdomen …
– Calm down, guys! – I raised my hands up and heroically covered Irina with myself, but she pushed me aside.
– Guys, put it down … he helped me, – she began to get to her feet and one of the guys, putting the weapon behind her back, picked her up. – I need to see a doctor … stitches.
– What about this? – The second fighter pointed at me with his head.
Irina stopped the fighter, who was already carrying her to the exit.
– Thank you, Artyom… go to the industrial zone, go to Oplot, you will see the sign. It’s better not to go to the Zastava – they don’t like strangers. Orientation in general.
After these words, the big man carried the girl out of the room, and the second fighter, picking up the SVD and Irina's backpack, approached me and extended a hefty paw in a fingerless leather glove.
– Thanks bro! His voice was no less impressive than his appearance. I responded to his handshake, after which he, winking at me, quickly followed his comrades.
I was left standing alone in the middle of the room, a little discouraged by the swiftness of what was happening. My attention was again attracted by the corpse of a bum. Overcoming disgust, I decided to search it and not in vain: in one of the pockets there were several cartridges, and in my clamped hand I found a token on a torn chain. The name on the token indicated that it belonged to Irina Nikolaevna Borkova. Judging by the date on the token, Irina was twenty-nine years old, and she had the first blood type. Most likely, in a fight with a girl, a bum tore the token from her neck, and it remained in his hand. Maybe you should return it to its owner? Let's see… Putting the finds in my pocket, I carefully brushed off the white dust and left the building.
The day was in full swing, and the sun was hot in full force, causing a desire to hide in the shade. The singing of morning birds was replaced by the chirping of millions of insects from the grass, which formed into a rumble against the background of general silence.
I was standing at a fork in the road that had been broken by trucks. On my right side was a yellow gas pipe, mounted on metal supports, on the left was an artificial bridge, and under it was a dirty semi-permanent rivulet, the banks of which were everywhere trampled by cattle. A low picket fence, rickety in places, framed private houses and stretched in a string along the road into the very depths of the village. The houses here were different: both small, rickety old ones, and solid-looking cottages, but they all looked empty and abandoned with the shutters of the windows tightly closed. I did not hesitate to go to the city.
The sun was in full swing, and the streets of the city center were clearly visible. Garbage not removed for months, which was taken away by stray dogs, cats and crows, filled the roads and sidewalks. Colliding wrecked cars were abandoned at almost every intersection.
People in a panic left these places, leaving the city infected, which at that time were not so many, and I even met other survivors. True, everyone who could now be met looked too belligerent, so it was not always desirable to make contact. Most often they exchanged greeting gestures and dispersed.
Sheets were hung from the windows, with calls for help written on them or radio frequencies to communicate with rescuers. Blood stains on the walls and sidewalks and the unbearable smell of burnt plastic created a depressing atmosphere. You usually experience something similar when you are in a cemetery.