The City Of Death

Chapter Twenty-Six- Macy

"Macy, he's not looking too good." 

"Oh, really, Israel? You think I don't know that?" I whisper-scream, hoping to keep Atlas from waking up. He needs to keep his strength up and to do that, he needs his rest. Every now and again, Israel asks me for an update on how Atlas is doing, and it's frustrating, to say the least. His concern isn't what's frustrating me- that much I understand. That's his best friend, and he's worried. What's frustrating me is the fact that despite doing absolutely everything I can, I have absolutely nothing good to report. 

Every hour we're down here, Atlas is getting worse. 

We finally made it to the City three days ago. By that point, Atlas was barely able to walk. He wouldn't admit it and kept putting one foot in front of the other, but I could see it. I could see how fatigued he was. I could see how out of breath he was and how pale he had gotten. Sometimes, if we stopped for a second, he would start to sway, as if he was fighting off dizziness, and I was sure that if I were able to feel his pulse, it would be irregular. 

We entered the City under the cover of night. For some reason, the Vultures didn't want the Citizens to know about our arrival just yet. They marched us through the empty streets and brought us to the Coliseum. Once there, they took us to the dungeons beneath. I'd never known that the gladiators were kept in such conditions. Down here, the floor is nothing but densely packed dirt, and the concrete walls have some sort of mold growing on them. It's dark and damp, and it's a breeding ground for infection. 

And in the three days since then, infection has started to creep in. Atlas won't let me take his shirt off so I can get a proper look, still insecure about the mystery scar on his shoulder. But from what I have been able to see, the areas around the arrows are starting to get red, swollen, and painful. He doesn't yet have a fever and there's no pus or red streaks along his veins, so the infection hasn't developed or spread too far. That doesn't mean it won't. 

I've been giving him half of my food rations in addition to his to try and keep his strength up and help his body stave off the infection. Half of my water rations go to trying to clean his wounds and my makeshift bandages, but it's not enough to heal him. Every time a guard comes by to give us more food and water or replace the small bucket that we've been given as a toilet, I beg them for the medical supplies the Vultures promised me. They always tell me I'll have them next time. Next time, next time, next time. 

It's been three days and "next time" still has yet to come. And I know that if "next time" doesn't come soon, I won't be able to save him. Eventually, the infection will get worse. It will spread, and it will turn septic. If it turns septic and I still don't have medical supplies, then there will be absolutely nothing I can do. When he was first shot, I thought the blood loss was going to be the biggest threat. But I was wrong. If anything is going to kill him, it's going to be the infection slowly creeping through his body. 

Jezebel let me keep the knife she'd given me, and I've tried to use it as the only medical tool I have. I cut away some of the excess on the front of his shoulders, leaving enough for me to pull the rest of the shaft out when the time comes. I pulled the waistband off of my jumpsuit and cut it in half, before carefully ripping out the seams on the stripes. The long blue one got cut in half, giving me six makeshift bandages. When I change them, I use as much water as I dare to clean them. But without knowing how clean the water they're giving us is, how am I supposed to trust that I'm not doing more harm than good? 

How am I supposed to heal him if I don't have any supplies to do so with? 

"I'm sorry, Macy. I really am. I know you're doing everything you can. I just... I don't understand it. I thought for sure that the Vultures would have wanted him alive. But maybe that's our punishment. To watch him die with the promise of medical supplies hanging over our head," Israel says, and I sigh, looking back at Atlas. He'd woken up, looking around with a disorientated glaze in his eyes. His legs are shifting uncomfortably, and I look over at Israel.