Hungry by H. A. Swain

Author:H. A. Swain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan Children's Publishing Group

Within ten minutes of twisting and turning through alleyways and dirt yards, we’re back on a crumbling, dusty road heading toward the tollgates with nobody behind us. Every once in a while, we pass the remains of decrepit strip malls and old hotels looming in the moonlight like memories lurking in the shadows of my grandparents’ minds. The landscape here is so burned out and bald that it looks like the playing field for Pesky Petey before the virtual effects kick in. In the distance, beyond the toll wall, I see the highways circling the city Loops like tiny twinkling strings of gemstones. I keep blinking, half expecting this world to light up with virtual trees and grass and flowers, but the other part of my brain is slowly coming to terms with the fact that this is the reality behind every facade One World has created.

Once I believe we’re safe, I gather my courage and slow down to check on Basil. “Hey,” I call. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“He got my arm,” he tells me through gritted teeth.

“Are you bleeding badly?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says.

I cruise to the side of the road and kill the motor. “We have to take a look,” I tell him.

“It’s fine,” he says as I slide off the seat. “We should just keep going.”

I shake my head and come around to his right side where his arm hangs limp. “You’ve been shot, Basil,” I tell him because I think he might be in shock and not realize the seriousness of the situation. In the dim light, I gently press my fingers against a warm, sticky splotch on the back of his coat sleeve. Basil moans and slumps forward a bit as if he’s going to be sick.

I crouch beside him and lay my hand on the back of his head. “We have to stop the bleeding,” I tell him.

When I was little, I loved to play a game with Papa Peter. The game was always the same. We were doctors in a war with few supplies. I’m sure it was my childish way of making sense of the stories I overheard. Sometimes we’d rip up old bedsheets and dress each others wounds. He usually ended up looking like a mummy by the time I was done with him. Now I try to remember how he did it when he tended to my imaginary injuries. “First we need to make a bandage,” I say, looking around for something to use. “Then we’ll get you to a doctor.”

“No doctor,” he says.

I choose not to argue with him even though he’s wrong. “Are you wearing a T-shirt under there?”

He nods.

“I’m going to need it.” I take a deep breath and grab the cuff of his jacket. “I’m going to take this off you slowly. It might hurt, but you’ll be okay. Why don’t you talk to me while I do this?” This is a trick Papa Peter used on me when it was time for my inocs.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.