Hawley looked at the vet mangled on the tracks. The splayed limbs, reminded him of three more corpses fifteen years ago. It was the way they were arranged, that made it hurt to look at. Limbs don’t bend that way. They don’t, and the blood was rushing out, fleeing the twitching, broken body. He kneeled down, place his hands above the rushing blood, and pressed. The blood slowed, someone tore cloth and pressed it forward, he pushed it inside the leg, feeling the blood soak through the cloth, through his fingers, sticky and warm. He shouted for more cloth. Someone removed their belt and handed it with a stick; wrapped it, slipped the stick under and turned it till it tightened and the man screamed. He relieved the woman holding the other shattered leg.
“I got,” she said and he let go.
As he walked away, he walked past a sherrif’s squad car, head ducked, hoping they wouldn’t recognize him. Mc Dolan was out in the back, some of his men were chuckling, “Could be worse,” a young one said, “it could have been me.”
Hawley stopped. Thought about it. Then kept walking to his truck.
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Really, really nice description here. I'm so glad you free wrote into this. I also really love the sheriff's comment, and Hawley's reaction to it. Terrific stuff!
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