“Jesus!” The pilot’s voice held raw terror. “Jesus!”
Joaquin willed himself to let go of the straps that had enabled him to hold onto the shelter despite the terrible wind created by the fire. That’s when he noticed the blisters on his hands and wrists. He looked as bad as Silver.
Shit.
No wonder he hurt so much—his face, his lips, the backs of his legs, his neck, his ass. Every bit of exposed skin and every part of him that had touched the foil of the shelter, even through the clothes Hawke had given him, was burned.
He pushed the shelter away and sat up, gasping at the pain caused by even the slightest movement. His skin felt like it was still burning. “Fuck.”
“Chief, you still with us?”
Joaquin glanced over, saw that some of the silver foil had come loose from one side of Hawke’s shelter.
“Hawke?” Silver hurried over to him, peeled back the shelter. “Fuck.”
Hawke lay there face down, unconscious and unmoving.
Silver rolled him onto his side, checked his pulse.
Joaquin fought to stand, his body starting to shake. “Is he breathing?”
Silver bent low over Hawke, listened for breath. “Yes. He’s in shock, I think. His shelter had partial failure. He’s got some third-degree burns on his right leg.”
Hawke rolled onto his back, moaned, his face contorted with pain. He opened his eyes, looked up at Silver, frowned. “I hope to fuck you didn’t just give me mouth-to-mouth.”
Silver grinned. “No, chief.”
“Thank God.” Hawke coughed, fought to sit up. “Is everyone okay?”
Silver answered for them all. “We’re all a bit toasted, but we’re all alive.”
Hawke reached into the front pocket of his brush shirt. “I took these … out of the med kit. I hope to fuck they still work.”
He held out his hand to reveal seven little black tubes with yellow tips, the wordMorphine Sulfatewritten in all caps on the side.
Silver took them. “You first, chief. You’re hurt worse than the rest of us.”
“I won’t … argue.”
Silver opened one, hit Hawke in the thigh.
Almost immediately, the lines of pain on Hawke’s face eased. He sank back to the ground. “Got a radio?”
Silver shook his head. “Sorry. I threw mine with my pack.”
Hawke grinned. “You, too?”
Silver clearly didn’t think this was funny. “Fuck.”
“I’ve got my cell phone.” Joaquin reached into his camera bag, the nylon straps of which had melted in places, and pulled it out. “It’s not working.”
“It probably got a little cooked. They’ll send a helicopter to search for survivors.” Silver met Joaquin’s gaze and then the pilot’s. He glanced down at the morphine pens and up again. “I’m not sure how long that will be.”
Joaquin understood.
Once they used the morphine, there wouldn’t be more until help arrived. Silver wanted to save it all for Hawke.
Mierda.