Blogtober 2020 Day Five Entry
When Phin returned, the Swede was lying on his back in the wagon, his ruined arm extended. Murphy had tied a tourniquet above Gunnarson’s bicep, and he had cut off the Swede’s sleeves for bandages.
Phin looked at the axe and said, “Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” Murphy said. “He’ll die if we don’t do something.”
Phin thought the Swede’s death might be retribution for killing the old man in the Wells Fargo office, but the prospect of being alone in the wilderness without an adult, even one as dangerous as Gunnarson, was even more terrifying.
“Okay,” Phin said. “Try and hold him down.”
“Wait,” Murphy said. “Pour this on the axe or he’ll get gangrene.” He handed Phin a flask. Phin did his best to clean the axe head, but no amount of whiskey could remove all the grime and rust.
“I’m sorry, Sven,” Phin said, and his brought down the axe in an overhead sweep. It cut through the muscle and most of the bone, but he had to swing a second stroke to sever the arm. Gunnarson didn’t scream or thrash but instead made a low moan like a distant coyote. Murphy worked quickly to bandage the wound.
“What now?” Phin asked.
“Let’s get moving,” Murphy said. “I’ll stay back here with him. We’re bound to come upon a town soon.”
Phin set the axe inside the wagon and then drove the horse forward. The sun dropped toward the horizon and turned the sky blood red.
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