Preacher

by Zahra Girard

  “Who the fuck wouldn’t like a blowjob? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Preacher’s shirt is slowly darkening and I can tell he’s bleeding pretty bad underneath. Blood drips from his shirt to pool on the floor.

  The thug slashes again and catches Preacher across his left forearm, opening up a red gash several inches long. He grunts in pain and hits back with a sharp right hand, catching the thug square in the jaw and sending spit flying and the man’s head snapping. The two men each take a step back, watching each other with murder in their eyes.

  “We had you marked the second you got here,” the thug gloats.

  “I don’t give a shit. You can watch all you want, it’s not going to change a damn thing, we’re still going to kill you bastards,” Preacher says, spitting his words along with a gob of thick blood. He’s swaying a little on his feet, and his voice sounds weaker. The blood loss must be getting to him.

  If he dies, I die, too.

  I scream again, trying to distract the thug with the bloody dog patch on his chest.

  It doesn’t work. He just laughs.

  Suddenly, the sound of more gunshots erupts from the front of the bar and I scream again so loud my lungs hurt. There’s a split second where the thug’s eyes flicker in my direction and, it’s in that second, that Preacher strikes with everything he’s got. He grabs the thug’s wrist with one hand and, with his other, seizes the man by the head and slams it into the wall. One, two, three times he bashes the man’s head into the wall.

  There’s a crack of breaking skull. I wince. The man howls and drops the knife and Preacher kicks it away.

  The sound of approaching sirens through the screams.

  The police are coming. This nightmare will soon be over.

  Preacher keeps his grip on the thug’s head and punches him relentlessly. Every hit is punctuated with a sick thud as the man’s head snaps back into the wall behind him. The thug buckles and collapses to the floor and Preacher follows him down, pinning him and continuing to batter him.

  He’s going to kill him.

  Even though Preacher saved my life, I can’t just sit back and watch him kill this guy. What he’s doing now isn’t self defense, it’s murder, and that’s against everything I believe in.

  “Preacher, stop!” I shout. “Don’t kill him.”

  He looks at me and pauses — just for a second — with his fist cocked back and ready to strike. There isn’t a shred of doubt in his eyes — he is going to kill this man — and he’s more surprised that I’m actually saying anything, as if it’s natural for him to kill anyone that gets in his way.

  It chills me to my bones.

  He’s a killer.

  Preacher’s hesitation gives the thug all the opening he needs; he rams his fist into Preacher’s groin and pushes him off. He leaps to his feet, spitting blood, and runs through the door..

  Preacher, with his hands on his knees, pushes his way to his feet. He glares at me. His face is pale from blood loss and he is swaying from side to side. That pool of blood on the floor is growing larger by the second.

  He rests one hand on the bathroom sink, bracing himself. “What the hell was that? Telling me to stop? That son of a bitch was going to kill us.”

  I don’t get a chance to respond — I watch as the last bit of color fades from his face and, with eyes still open, he crumples to the floor.

  He needs my help.

  I race to Preacher’s side while the sound of sirens and screaming tires blasts in my ears and the acrid, metallic smell of his blood floods my nostrils.

  I have to save him.

  If I don’t act now, he is going to bleed out and die.

  I strip his shirt back and my breath catches. He’s hurt, bad. It’s a miracle he stayed standing as long as he did.

  I rip open my purse, looking for the first aid kit I keep on me and I take out the bit of sanitary gauze I keep in there. It won’t do much, but it’s better than nothing and, right now, he needs all the help he can get. This isn’t my first time doing first aid in an emergency situation — for more than a year, when I first got out of college, I volunteered in crisis zones in Kenya and Myanmar.

  Applying pressure to the wound, I pray my hands will be enough to hold back the bleeding. I’m all he’s got and there’s no way I’m letting him die.

  I whisper a prayer as the sirens grow closer.

  Hurry.

  Chapter Three

  Jessica

  “Everybody stay down,” someone with a commanding voice screams orders out in the bar. “Keep calm and keep your hands where we can see them.”

  “We need an ambulance in here,” I call out.

  In seconds, there’s a cop standing in the doorway. The sight of his gun, out and drawn, makes me tense. “What the fuck happened in here?”

  “Some man broke in here, shooting, and he fought him. He got stabbed protecting me. I’m a nurse at Reno General, we need to get this man to the ER. Now.”

  The cop looks down at Preacher. I just know he’s judging him, thinking he’s probably a criminal just like whatever gang it was that broke in here shooting. With his outfit — his leather jacket, the tattoos that decorate his arms and every bit of his abdomen — I don’t blame him. It’s all over the cop’s hardened face that he doesn’t care whether Preacher lives or dies.

  There’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen.

  “Listen, get over whatever hangup you have. This is a person here and he is bleeding out through my hands, and he does not deserve to die. Go get an ambulance.”

  “Stay calm, ma’am. We’ve got medics on the scene. I’ll bring them in here.”

  “Stay calm? I’m a fucking nurse and I am calm. I see this stuff too often and trust me when I tell you that this is serious.”

  Every second that passes there’s more blood on the floor and less in him. It’s hot and sticky and I grit my teeth and apply more pressure. I’m mad as hell. I’m not going to let Preacher die from some asshole’s apathy after he saved my life. Even if he hadn’t, even if he’d been the man with the gun, I’d still do everything I could for him. It’s the right thing to do.

  There’s more voices outside and thank god a pair of EMTs step through the doorway. I recognize one of them and sigh in relief. Help is here. Finally.

  “Hey Jessica, what do we got here?”

  “Mark, he’s got multiple knife wounds — only one of them deep — and blunt force trauma to the face, groin, and probably elsewhere. Some guy broke in here with a gun and there was a fight,” I say, surprised at how level my voice is.

  Mark looks down at the growing pool of blood beneath Preacher and then nods. “We’ll need to get him to Reno General. They’re closest. We need to close up those wounds before he goes into hypovolemic shock. You good to ride with us and help keep the pressure on?”

  I nod. I trust Mark — he’s got years of experience on me — and I’m grateful for the offer to stay with Preacher. He saved my life.

  I’m barely paying attention to the world around me as we get Preacher onto a gurney and out through the bar. I’m vaguely aware of the crowd of people spread out on the floor, the pools of blood and the spent bullet casings, the smell of gunsmoke and spilt liquor, and the claustrophobic crush of cops and medics trying to turn this messy scene into something other than a war zone.

  I breathe another sigh of relief when I hear Cassie’s voice as we pass through the room. I’d forgotten about her. Thankfully, she’s more than ok — she’s on her feet and shouting instructions at EMTs and going through the room, checking on everyone who looks like they might be hurt.

  We lock eyes for a moment and I nod at her to let her know that I’m ok. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. She’s become my best friend ever since I moved back here to Reno, and I wouldn’t have made it through my first ninety days at Reno General without her.

  “I’ll see you back in the ER. It’s going to be a long night,” she yells. “Oh, and congratulations.”r />
  I don’t have time to respond. Mark and his partner slide the gurney into the back of the ambulance and I hop in with them.

  The doors shut.

  I don’t think I breathe the entire ride to the ER. All I can think about is that the man who saved my life is laying pale on the gurney in front of me. He’s bleeding out between my fingers and I don’t know if he’s going live long enough for me to thank him.

  Don’t die on me.

  Chapter Four

  Jessica

  I lose track of him for hours. Preacher gets carted off and I dive into the orderly chaos of the ER in a time of crisis. I shut off the part of my brain that tells me I’m exhausted and go through the rhythm of my work. Tracy is charging around, ordering nurses about like a general — an irate, tired-looking general who probably only got a few hours sleep before she got called back in to help with this madness — and doctors and nurses attend to patients while dodging around cops who seem intent to interview anyone with a pulse.

  Their questions are the same to every man and woman who looks like they might’ve been involved, regardless of the level of injury they’re showing. What happened? Did you see anything? What can you tell us about the shooters? Do you recognize any of them here?

  It’s the third time that I bump into some uniformed officer while trying to help someone that I lose my temper. There’s just something in the officer’s indignant, holier-than-thou look on his mustached face — or maybe it’s the upset huff he lets out or the way he flips his notepad closed — that sets me off. Like I’m the one interfering in things.

  I’m saving lives. He’s interrogating people with bullet wounds.

  “You need to get the hell out of our way,” I shout at the man.

  “I’m just doing my job, ma’am,” he says.

  “We’re trying to save these people’s lives. Look at this man, he’s got a bullet wound in his leg. He’s not going anywhere. You can talk to him after we get him the help he needs.”

  He’s about to open his mouth to respond, when Tracy comes storming in.

  “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Yes, there is,” he says. “I’m attempting to question this man, and she’s getting in the way.”

  Tracy nods, twice, slowly, and takes a step closer to the officer.

  “Well, Officer Kellerton,” she says, looking at his badge. “Do you know how to operate on a gunshot wound to the leg?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the level of hemorrhaging that requires a blood transfusion? Or how to diagnose internal bleeding?”

  A pause before the words dribble out of his mouth. “No.”

  There’s a frown growing on his face like some kind of fungus. I’d bet anything he’s fuming inside.

  “Then, officer, considering this patient is unlikely to walk out of here due to the bullet in his leg, and, based on the fact that he’s got a dishrag with the bar’s logo on it in his back left pocket — which probably makes him the bartender and not the fucking shooter — you can fucking wait,” Tracy says.

  She grabs the gurney before the officer can say anything further and helps me push the patient away.

  “Thanks, Tracy,” I say.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to remind them that we’re the ones in charge here,” she says, as we wheel the patient towards surgery. “I heard you were there when everything happened. How are you holding up?”

  It’s weird hearing concern in her voice. I’m used to Tracy being the distant, kind-of-cold woman in charge. I shake my head. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”

  I’m worried that if I stop at all to think about what I went through, I won’t be able to focus on all the work that needs to be done. And right now, work is more important.

  “Let me know if you need anything. I know it’s a lot to process.”

  “It isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I really feel. My first year out of nursing school, I volunteered with Nurses Abroad, a charity that places nurses in high-risk areas around the world. Six months in a camp in Kenya working with Somalian refugees and another six in Myanmar toughened me up. Or so I thought.

  Still, right now, I know that if I stop working and sit down and actually allow myself to think about what just happened, I’ll start shaking.

  Someone, for reasons I don’t even know, just tried to murder me.

  “Well, we’re glad to have you here, but the last thing I want is you having a break down. You’re important to the team,” Tracy says.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, letting go of the gurney and heading back out into the ER to see where I can help.

  It takes hours before the chaos stabilizes.

  All in all, there’s twelve people injured, some of them serious, but, thankfully, no fatalities. That’s on top of the normal craziness of the ER this late at night. The cops have finished most of their interviews and, while I don’t doubt that we’ll be seeing them around again soon enough, right now, it’s as quiet as the ER gets at two in the morning.

  I finally manage to take a breath in the nurse’s break room.

  I slump down into the old couch we keep and stare longingly at the coffee maker sitting on the break room’s kitchen counter. It’s empty, and even though I want coffee more than I’ve wanted anything in my life, making some would require standing and moving and actual energy.

  I don’t think I have it in me.

  “You know, this isn’t what I had in mind when I said we should go out and get into a little trouble,” Cassie says coming through the doorway behind me and making a beeline right for the coffee maker. Somehow, she seems as chipper as ever. “Want some?”

  “Oh God, yes, please. If I don’t get some coffee, I think I might die.”

  She has a pot made in no time and, soon, she’s sitting next to me on the couch, steaming mug of black and strong coffee in her hands.

  She stares at me with wide-eyed intent.

  “What the fuck happened?” she says at last.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I was in the bathroom, and then this guy just burst in with a gun, trying to kill this other guy I was talking to. And then I’m pretty sure he was going to kill me just for being there. What did you see?”

  She sighs and then takes a sip. “A whole bunch of craziness. I remember wondering why you were taking so long, and then I went up to the bar to get another drink, and while I was waiting there, these guys with all these symbols on their jackets just burst in through the doors and started shooting. Everyone started screaming. It was so fucking scary, Jessica. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  While she’s talking, her voice starts shaking and tears are glistening in the corners of her eyes.

  I reach out and put a hand on her arm. Sometimes, even though she’s been here longer than I have, I forget she hasn’t seen half the stuff that I have.

  She needs my help to be strong.

  “Hey, it’s going to be ok. We’re alive, nobody died, and I’m sure the cops will catch who did it.”

  “But who would do that? Just go into this place and just start shooting? And why? It’s just so fucked up.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Let’s just focus on getting through tonight, ok?”

  She pounds the rest of her coffee and sits in silence. I can feel her shaking with agitation and fear. After a moment, she stands up and slams her empty coffee cup down on the table.

  “I can’t be here anymore. I’m too tired and I can’t take seeing all this,” she says, gesturing out towards the ER. “I’m going home. I’m going to drink myself to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, ok?”

  I stand up and give her a hug. “Text me when you get home, ok?”

  She hugs me back. “I’ll be fine. But, yes, I’ll text you.”

  She leaves and I sit back down with my coffee, staring into the jet-black liquid while my mind hunts for answers.

 
; I want to know what happened. I want to know why it happened.

  I have this nagging feeling that tonight’s events won’t be the last. And if I don’t get some answers, I know that next time I might not be so lucky.

  Fortunately, I know just who to talk to.

  Chapter Five

  Preacher

  Fuck, I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi.

  I sit up in bed and realize moving right now is the biggest mistake I’ve made in a long time; my brain sloshes around in my head, pulsing with pain, my eyes want to focus independently of each other and make everything look blurry, and every single part of me throbs in agony.

  “Don’t move. You need your rest. You’ve had a transfusion and more stitches than you can count on your fingers and toes. You’ve got a concussion, too. But, you’re lucky — the knife missed any major arteries. With some rest and time, you’ll just come out of this with a few scars.”

  “They get any of my ink?”

  “Yeah, the one with the skulls is a goner.”

  “Fuck, I really liked that one.”

  I blink a half dozen times, trying to focus my eyes on the person the voice is coming from. There’s a vague second where I’m hopeful it’s the woman from last night; I have these flashes of concussed memory where I can recall her at my side, pressing on some gash in my gut and yelling at me to stay awake.

  My eyes focus a bit, enough to see it’s not her — this woman isn’t nearly as hot.

  “Who the hell are you?” I say.

  She doesn’t answer, except to throw a contemptuous look at me that tells me plain as fucking day that she thinks I was intimately involved in all the violence at the bar.

  I decide to ignore her — if she’s not going to answer, she’s not worth my fucking time — and look down at myself to get an idea of just how fucking bad I’m torn up.

  It ain’t pretty, but I’ve had worse days.

  I frown. My favorite tattoo really is a goner.