They were sweating. The children of the revolution. The wolves. They couldn’t handle the blood. The large black guy was trying to take some sort of control. He was sweating profusely. As a steady stream of blood flowed out of the short stout man they had saved minutes ago. He lay prostrate, awkwardly on a crate of some sort. The blood dripped onto the naked floor of the van like a leaky tap and splattered around every time it made another high speed corner.

Burke pushed himself up against the far wall of the van. He wasn’t supposed to get involved. He was a newby. So he just watched. In his confusion the large guy had pumped all his vials of morphine into the man. Atleast the poor guy would feel no pain as he bled out.

“Right. We have to stop the bleeding”, the black guy stammered “Everybody, apply pressure on the wound. As hard as you can.”

“That’s not a good idea”, Burke blurted out. Against his instructions. He knew he would regret it. There were two other kids in there with the large black kid. They all stopped. Froze in their places and looked up at Burke. So he continued, “The bullet. It’s still in there. From the blood I would say it’s lodged pretty deep. Probably close to the axillary artery. You put pressure and the bullet will move around. And if it slices the artery, it’s all over. He’ll have about 2 minutes to bleed out.”

The black guy held Burke’s gaze. He wanted to challenge it. But somehow he was relieved that somebody else was calling the shots.

“Fine”, he said “Don’t put pressure.”

“That’s not going to do much good either”, Burke mumbled. “He’s losing blood pretty fast. He has maybe another 15 minutes. After that he would just have lost too much blood. Only way to save him then would be a transfusion.”

The other faces were stunned.

“But we have another 25 minutes atleast till we reach the den.”, said one of the other kids.

“He needs medical attention. A hospital”, Burke said softly, almost wishing he hadn’t.

“There isn’t going to be a hospital”, came the reply from the black guy.

Burke stood hunched and looked down at floor, avoiding the gaze of the searching eyes. He didn’t want to say it. He dreaded saying it. But he finally did.

“The bullet has to come out. Then the bleeding has to be stopped.”

He knew they would look shocked. So he dared not make eye contact. He hobbled over first aid kit and fumbled a while. He pulled out a pair of forceps, and antiseptic lotion. He went over to the man lying on the crate, almost unconscious. He pulled off the cotton swabs and exposed a gaping hole of a wound on the right shoulder.

He looked up at the black guy.

“You have to do this. Put your thumbs on either side of the wound and pull it apart. Like breaking bread. And hold it. Don’t let go until I tell you. You must not. Ready?”

The black guy nodded and put his fingers where burke had asked him.

“Now.”

The black guy pulled apart the wound, widening the hole as a fresh spurt of blood gushed out. Burke swabbed the blood away and peered in. He saw a glint. There it was. Lodged exactly where he predicted. Resting against the artery. The bullet itself moved back and forth with every pulse. He would have one shot. A jab the wrong way would cause more damage. Fatal damage. He yanked off the cap from the antiseptic with his teeth. He poured half of it onto the forceps and the rest onto the wound. He didn’t care. Infection could be haldled. Dead people couldn’t. He needed a drink. The black guy was looking away. He gripped the forceps hard. He stared at the bullet. The swaying of the van. The pulsing artery. The spinning lamp. And then for one moment - one fraction of a second – it all stood still. He reached in and pulled it out in one smooth motion. He dropped it onto the floor with a clang.

“Close it. Pressure. Pressure”, he screamed. The kids put large pads of cotton and pressed down on the wound. Within minutes it worked. The dripping slowed down.

Burke clumsily sat down on the floor in a corner. Hugging his knees. His hands shook inconsolably. He shoved them inside his shirt to hide it.