Free Resistant by Michael Palmer

there hemorrhage between his skull and brain? It didn’t look like it, but if there was, Lou knew there was little he could do about it. It had to be first things first. He had to continue to stem the blood loss.
    “Cap, it’s Lou. I’m here.”
    The moaning began again—barely audible, then louder. Lou got to work on the fractured leg.
    “Cap, you’re bleeding badly,” he said, uncertain if his words were registering. “I’m going to have to apply a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. It’s going to hurt. I need you to brace yourself. I’ve got to move your leg.”
    From within his pack he removed the nylon rope and his Spyderco knife. He measured off an arm’s length of cord and was readying to cut it off when something made him stop.
    Again, the process. He had to remain focused, but at the same time stay cognizant of what might lie ahead.
    If things went as he hoped, the rope and the other ACE bandages would be needed intact for something else entirely—getting out. Setting the cord aside, he pulled off his sodden shirt and, using the knife, cut and tore off two strips. Next, as gingerly as he could manage, he knotted them together, slid them around Cap’s thigh inches below the groin, and tied the ends tightly at the skin.
    At the first movement of his leg, Cap screamed. Then he screamed again, and thrashed his head from side to side as much as the makeshift collar would allow.
    Lou hated the way his friend came to, but was ecstatic that he had. The odds of pulling things off and saving his life had just improved. For one thing, the man was light—awake or at least responsive to deep pain. For another, the cervical spine was almost certainly intact. If Lou needed the ACE bandage for what he had in mind, he would use it. He took what remained of his shirt, and blotted the perspiration that had suddenly materialized on Cap’s face and bald pate.
    “Sorry to hurt you, pal. Your leg is broken, and I have to stabilize it. Do you understand?”
    Silence.
    “Cap, can you hear me?”
    Suddenly a faint nod, followed by a coarse whisper.
    “I … hear you.”
    Yes!
    “Squeeze my hand, big guy. That’s it. That’s it. Now the other hand … Perfect. Cap, try to just lie still and concentrate on your breathing. Deeply, now. In and out. I’ll explain everything in a few minutes. For now, I need to tighten this thing on your thigh. It’s gonna hurt.”
    “Go … for … it.”
    The hemorrhaging was starting to slow, but only marginally. The tourniquet, arterial spasm, or diminishing volume? It was impossible to tell. He had to add torque. Lou crawled in an arc until he found a hefty stick, two feet or so long. He slipped it under the makeshift tourniquet and slowly rotated it clockwise. Cap cried out, but he didn’t scream. Instead he grabbed a fistful of soil and squeezed it tightly.
    “Fuck,” he groaned. “… Oh, fuck.”
    His breathing remained steady.
    After two full turns, the bleeding was reduced to a slow ooze. Lou used the hi-tech, hemostatic bandage to finish the job.
    “Cap, stay with me. Stay strong.”
    From his pack, Lou retrieved his cell phone, not at all surprised to see there was no signal.
    “Help!” he hollered. “Someone please help!”
    It felt as if his voice had traveled only a few feet through the heavy air.
    Another check of Cap’s pulses. Still palpable, but down to a two.
    Lou sat back and wrapped his arms around his knees.
    Either he figured out something to do, and soon, or Cap was going to die.
    It was as simple as that.

 
    CHAPTER 9
               To place economic security in the hands of the government is quite literally a return to our medieval ancestry where feudal lords took responsibility for the economic survival of the serfs working their estates.

             —LANCASTER R. HILL, Climbing the Mountain , SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1941, P. 18
    Lou estimated they were five miles from the lodge, assuming they had averaged ten minutes per mile over the