Vague Intention
The lines were blue, thin and exacting. Numbers were scrawled beneath each, neural jargon that Volke didn’t understand.
Only two incisions had been made before the surgeons had fallen beneath his blade, both to the left, the length of his longest finger. Couldn’t have gone so deep, not to the bone beneath. But still there was such blood, dripping down over the man’s ear and neck in a horrid cascade.
Had to stop the bleeding.
The one thing he was sure of right now, the one thing he knew. Fact unchanging.
Shouldn’t have come this far without tending to it, no matter that the base had been a pit of alarms and screams, fire enveloping the halls and personnel, the only distraction Volke had been able to manage at the time.
“Не двигайся,” he whispered, barely over the noise of the wind, pulling his sleeve over his fist to press at the red life seeping from the side of the man’s shaven head. Wasn’t more he could do without taking a blade to his own clothing. Had already wrapped the man in his coat, but such was still hardly a barrier against Siberia’s might.