Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Five minutes later, I’m racing back down the broken, grass-covered streets of the city with a rusty wheelbarrow. It takes some maneuvering to figure out how to get Zohr onto it, but I eventually manage it by tipping the wheelbarrow on its side, rolling him in and then slowly righting it. It’s not the most comfortable ride for him, but we can move faster, despite his big legs dangling over the sides.
I kind of have to laugh at the mental image we present as I wheel him down the road, looking for a suitable hideout. I’m in a bra and panties and combat boots, wheeling an unconscious man down a deserted street. Life in the After is definitely never boring.
I find a row of apartment buildings not far from the strip mall and wheel my dragon toward them. For a second time, I park him safely into a hidden spot and then go to check the closest apartment and make sure that it’s safe to inhabit. I don’t want to wander in on a place covered in black mold, cockroaches, or infested with snakes—or worse, other armed squatters. Luckily, the place I check out is empty of people, and I wheel Zohr’s unconscious body inside and then barricade the door.
It’s hot as fuck inside the apartment, so I spend a few moments cracking windows and trying to get a breeze flowing. Some days, I remember what air conditioning was like and could almost cry with the loss. Most times I don’t notice that it’s gone—I’m too used to the heat now—but when you walk inside a place with stale air, it hits you like a wall. I do what I can to make the place comfortable, and hope that the day isn’t too hot.
I poke around in shelves and dig through the rooms of the wrecked apartment, looking for salvageable things. This place isn’t as picked over as most. Everything central is usually pretty scavenged, so we must be farther out than I thought. There’s clothing in one of the closets, a few dust-covered blankets on a bed that can be shaken off, and a pantry that’s seen better days. Still, there are a few cans of food, and I feel like I hit the jackpot when I turn one of the taps on the sink and it dribbles out fresh water.
Thank god for that.
I collect the water in a pan, grab the cleanest shirt I can find off of its hanger, and then move to Zohr’s side. I set my stuff down, spread out a clean sheet over the floor, and then gently roll him out of the wheelbarrow and onto his stomach. Everything is a slow and arduous process because he’s so big and ungainly, but I manage to do it without making him groan too much. He doesn’t rouse from his faint, which tells me he’s under pretty far. That’s good, I guess, but it worries me that I won’t be able to rouse him later.
I can’t stress about that. Right now, I need to tend to him.
With the water, I gently bathe his wounds and clean them with an old bottle of mouthwash I found in the bathroom. I hope its disinfectant properties are still good after seven years, but who knows. It can’t hurt. His back is sliced up badly, though, and it quickly becomes obvious to me that stitches are going to be needed.
“Fuck you, Azar, and your shitty vest,” I mutter as I dig through the apartment for needles and fishing line.
It takes me three apartments and two hours of searching to find what I need, but when I return, Zohr’s still asleep. I try to send him comforting thoughts as I work on stitching his back, but it doesn’t matter. He’s completely out of it. I make my stitches as small as I can, moving up the lower portion of his back. I can see exactly where the spikes buried themselves as he transformed, because they get deeper the closer to his shoulders I go.
I have to pause and get fresh water and clean my hands off. I’m tired, sweaty, and hungry, but I can’t stop. I don’t know how fast—or slow—dragons heal, and I want to make sure his wounds are taken care of as best I can. Jack cut his leg open once and I had to sew it up, and I thought that was awful work, but it’s nothing compared to the multiple stab-like wounds poor Zohr has. I take a small break, choke down one of my granola bars, and then get back to work.
When I get to his shoulders, I have to pause. His skin and muscle are more torn up here, and I spend extra effort cleaning the wounds a second time to try and stave off infection. As I go over him, gently moving torn portions of skin back into place, I notice something odd. His shoulder blades are shaped differently than my own. They seem wider, flatter. I knew his shoulders were large in human form, but this seems…odd.