OOM: Help
After this, Ramon is not thinking straight. To put it mildly. It's not like he canBut he knows three things; he has to get away from the outside and then away from the bar before he changes and shows off the very obvious signs of a fight. And then...he's going to need some help ( Read more... )
"I know. Come on. Hold on to me."
She eases him up and loops his arm around her shoulders. She's stronger than she looks, even without the adrenaline flowing in her bloodstream now. But her touch is steady and sure. She's done this once or twice.
"We'll go back to Miami, I'll call an ambulance."
She's just got him to a sitting up position when she notices his trousers have been cut. Her eyes go wide, but something tells her, that would be what triggered the change.
"Fucking hell, if you didn't kill him, I will."
She dashes to his side of the wardrobe, rummaging through his clothes for a pair of sweats. There. In the dirty clothes, of course. It takes her a few moments, but she eases him out of his ruined trousers and into the sweats. She resolutely does not look at the ruined flesh between his legs again. Fucking bastard, whoever he is, she's going to kill him twice.
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Attempting to stand is agony. There's a band of tight, white-hot pain across the base of his abdomen when he tries to straighten, the world swims in front of his eyes and he can't stop himself retching. He can taste nothing but blood and adrenaline and there's not enough heroin in the world that could block this completely.
'Lets go.'
It'll be hell itself but it has to be done and the quicker they move, the quicker the nice doctors wil knock him out.
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She shoulders his weight again, and starts the long walk down to the bar. The walk between the bottom of the stairs and her Door is the hardest, because she has to move quickly, but it's better than being waylaid by security or some 'concerned citizen.'
That accomplished, she deposits him on the couch in her condo and immediately dials 911, leaving his side to grab a clean kitchen towel, wetting it under the kitchen faucet, talking all the while.
"2259 Hyacinth Street, Number 2B, I need an ambulance... Patient is male, 53, and has been assaulted. No LOC, but he may have internal injuries... Okay, I'll leave the front door open. ETA? Okay."
She snaps the phone shut, and settles beside him, trying to wipe the blood from his face.
"Five minutes baby. Five minutes. Just breathe, okay?"
For half a moment, she hopes that Sam is actually listening to the police scanner today. No, because that would bring Michael too. Fuck.
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'Be OK. Will get there in time.'
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"Who did this to you?"
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'Doesn' matter. s'dead.'
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She can hear the siren now, and moves away to open the door.
"I'm going to tell them you got jumped. It means the cops will come and try to question you. You don't remember anything, okay? And all I know is that you went for cigarettes and came home like this."
She tries to hold his hand as best she can.
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It's a good enough story and he's too far gone to care about how it makes him look.
'Gun, on my ankle. Get rid of it.'
He wonders briefly what happened to the one he had in his waistband but it hardly matters now. It must have fell on to the grass when Urquhart cut his jeans off him.
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She secures the weapon along with hers, and checks his other pockets.
"Anything else?"
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'Tell them you gave me that shot so they don't kill me by accident.'
His eyes close and he shuts up. Not unconscious, though he wishes he were; he's just shutting himself off because it takes too much energy to talk and he'd rather just lie here and die quietly.
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I'm not an idiot.
And then there's voices, a man and a woman, and Fiona talking to them. She pulls the lead aside and tells him the precise dosage of heroin she used.
"Sir? Sir can you hear me? My name's Tomas and I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me what's going?"
Fiona answers, "His name's Ramon Salazar. He's been beaten. Broken nose, facial contusions, and his gut and groin have taken a pounding." She's rummaging through a desk, retrieving his ID and a checkbook.
"Mr. Salazar, is that correct? Can you tell me where it hurts?"
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"He's allergic to morphine. It makes him puke."
"That's okay, we have some better stuff."
Hands are moving him, and he hears the clatter of the gurney.
Fiona's voice asks, "Do you need me to take a separate vehicle or can I ride with you?"
"We've got room, I think you can ride with us."
She settles into the back of the ambulance with him, letting them do what they do. Somebody starts a line in his arm, and administers something that utterly wipes the heroin out for a few moments. As soon as they hear him groan, and Fiona asks what the fuck they're doing, they push something else and a warm glow takes him away from all the pain.
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'Thanks.'
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"It's okay, love. You're gonna be okay."
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'Don' worry. Be alright.'
And then he lets the drugs do their work, fading him out to sleep and away from all this.
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