zack pressed his knuckles against his forehead, leaning heavily against the dark wall. he had been told about the clinic weeks ago -- how the medic rarely asked questions about the hows or the whys and took anyone in that was hurt. off the grid and out of sight of the street surveillance, zack had sought out the clinic with one hand pressed tightly against the open wound at his waist. he had done what he could himself, using sugar and water to seal the bullet wound but moving around had split open the skin again and he hadn’t been able to dig the bullet out. he could feel it, in a disturbing way, moving under his skin and in between his flesh and muscle. his shirt was soaked, blood spilling down his waist, hip and thigh as he pressed a bloody hand against the window and braced his weight as his knees threatened to buckle beneath his weight.
he couldn’t remember if there was some coded phrase or knock that he was supposed to know to be given access. couldn’t think straight beyond putting one foot in front of the other so he slapped the flat side of his fist against the door three times. bang. bang. bang. and hoped for the best. // & a starter for @fidelismedicus