Page 66 of Theta

"Mia figlia," he mutters. "Dille che l’amo."

"I don't speak Italian, buddy," I say, using the box cutter to slice his shirt open at the chest, automatically going into triage mode. "But it sounds like you're being melodramatic. You're gonna be fine." Killian helps me lean him forward; there's a much larger exit wound. "It went right through. I can patch this up, but you need a surgeon. There's nothing I can do if the bullet hit an organ."

"Mia figlia."

"Your daughter says to hold on, Enzo," I tell him, ripping a chunk of shirt off and folding it into a bandage, and then using the rest of the shirt to tie it in place around his midsection. "I know it hurts, but you're gonna be okay."

Killian touches my wrist. "You good here for a second?" I nod, and he stands. "Be right back. Just hold on, Enzo."

I pay no attention to what Killian is doing—I trust him to do what's necessary while I handle this. He's already bled through the tiny scrap of shirt, which means I need a hell of a lot more bandage material. "Be right back. I need to find something more to staunch the bleeding."

Enzo blinks at me. "Toilet. Ha una ragazza."

I frown. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"Il gabinetto. The toilet." His words are labored. "He has a girlfriend. She stay here some of the time."

Oh, right. I scramble to the bathroom, which is a typical male space—a bar of soap and a twenty-in-one bottle of shampoo-conditioner-bodywash-gun cleaning solution-WD-40 in the shower, a pump bottle of antibacterial hand soap on the counter, a toothbrush in a rocks glass with a rolled-up tube of toothpaste, and a hair-scuzzed comb. I rifle through the drawers and only find more soap and 3-in-1, and a container of ear swabs. I check the under-sink cabinet, and hit the jackpot: a box of tampons and a box of pads.

I take both boxes and hurry back to Enzo.

I notice, absently, that Killian has carefully removed the bullet-resistant vests from two of the corpses and has gathered a pile of weapons, cell phones, cash, and magazines, and is shoveling everything but the vests into our backpack—Enzo's backpack.

Enzo gives me a wobbly smile as he sees the boxes of feminine products and reaches for the pads. I gently tap the back of his hand. "Which of us is the medical professional here, Enzo?"

I unwrap a tampon, prepare the applicator, and untie the makeshift bandage. "This is gonna hurt like hell, okay?"

Enzo grimaces, nods. "Okay. Cazzo. I am ready."

I spread open the exit wound with my fingers, slide the applicator into the ragged opening, deposit the tampon into the hole, and withdraw the applicator. The absorbent material instantly balloons inside him as it struggles to absorb the flow of blood—exactly as it was designed to do.

Killian is watching. “Huh. Wouldn't have thought of that."

I roll my eyes. "You're not a woman. The modern tampon was invented in 1931 and popularized in World War II, both by medics using them like this and more so by the women working in manufacturing who needed a better menstrual product than what was available at the time because they were suddenly working on their feet all day with all the men gone to war.” I adhere a pad over the exit wound, and then repeat the process for the entry wound, and then triple the protection with another makeshift shirt bandage; the verbal patter is an automatic thing, a response of my brain working on multiple levels while my hands do their thing. "Internal absorption has been used for thousands of years, though. The big invention in 1931 was the cotton core and the insertion applicator."

"You just…know this?"

I shrug. "I'm curious. And I've studied the history of battlefield medicine extensively. I've actually considered a P-H-D in it. It'd be pretty cool to have a P-H-D."

"And the tampon is part of that?"

I shrug. "To a degree." I assess Enzo—weak, sluggish, pale. "We need to get him to a doctor, ASAP. I think he's bleeding internally."

"Mia figlia," Enzo grumbles, eyes rolling around, confused and scared and in pain.

"Fuck." Killian shrugs into a vest, straps it down, and shoulders the backpack. "C'mon. We'll take their car." He crouches in front of Enzo. "Hey, bud. Can you stand?"

Enzo nods floppily. "I will try."

“Okay. C'mon. Let's get you up." He grabs Enzo's hands, stands on his feet, and then heaves backward and upright, levering Enzo's huge bulk to his feet before shrugging under the larger, older man's shoulder and staggering under his weight. "Jesus, Enzo. You're a big boy."

"Too…much…ahhh cazzo cazzo cazzo—merda, it hurts. Too much of the good food, hey?”

"No kidding," Killian jokes. "Maybe try a salad or two, huh?"

"You are calling me fat?" Enzo grumbles, pretending to be insulted. "Now we are enemies. You insult my shape, you stupid, loud American boy."

"Oh, is that right? Well maybe I'll just toss you down the stairs, huh? Save myself the effort of dragging your tubby butt down three flights of steps."