Story code: ST-001803
Part 2: The Tourniquet
Mateo’s heart pounded a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs, vibrating through his chest and into the cold vinyl tile. Every rapid beat pushed more warmth out of his shredded calf. He didn’t need the harsh blue light of his confiscated phone to know the puddle beneath him was expanding. The metallic tang of fresh blood was already overwhelming the scent of dry erase markers and stale floor wax in the cramped classroom. His right leg felt entirely disconnected from his body, replaced by a roaring, white-hot column of pure agony that pulsed in time with his failing pulse.
His phone was gone. The only lifeline he had to a 911 dispatcher, to a tactical medic who could bypass the lockdown protocols, had been swallowed by the deep canvas pocket of Rick’s cargo pants.
Mateo shifted his weight, biting down on his lower lip until the skin broke and he tasted copper in his mouth. He had to stop the bleeding. The compound fracture of his tibia had almost certainly severed a major vein, maybe an artery. If he didn’t apply a tourniquet immediately, he would bleed out on the floor before the lockdown was ever lifted.
His blood-slicked fingers scrabbled at his heavy leather tool belt. It was thick, stiff hide, designed to carry thirty pounds of framing hammers and nail strips. It was the only thing robust enough to act as a tourniquet for a lower limb. He managed to pop the brass buckle with his thumb. The metal hardware clinked softly, a tiny, sharp sound against the quiet floorboards.
Instantly, a heavy work boot pressed down hard on his good ankle. Rick.
The foreman leaned in, his massive bulk blocking the faint ambient glow seeping from beneath the classroom door. Rick’s breath, hot and smelling of wintergreen chewing tobacco and old coffee, ghosted over Mateo’s ear.
“Keep still,” Rick hissed, the sound barely louder than the rustle of his thick flannel shirt. “You want to get these kids killed? You want to draw a shooter right to this door?”
Mateo grabbed Rick’s wrist in the dark, squeezing with what little strength he had left. He pulled Rick’s hand down toward the soaking wet denim of his right leg, trying to communicate the desperate, undeniable reality of his situation. *I am dying.*
Rick’s hand went rigid as it met the slick, hot pool of blood soaking Mateo’s jeans. He didn’t pull back. Instead, Rick’s thick fingers curled into the fabric, pressing his knuckles down slightly near the jagged bone protruding beneath the cloth. It wasn’t to apply pressure to the wound. It was just enough force to send a localized shockwave of blinding agony straight up Mateo’s spinal cord.
Mateo gagged, his back arching off the floor like a strung bow. A scream exploded in his chest, dying in his throat only because his vocal cords paralyzed from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the pain. Black spots swam violently across his vision.
Rick’s face pressed closer, hovering inches away in the pitch black. “I said, stay still. They’re looking for noise.”
Mateo stared upward into the darkness, his lungs burning for oxygen. The realization hit him like a second plunge off the scaffolding. The aluminum rig hadn’t been braced correctly. Mateo had warned him yesterday. He had pointed out the missing cross-braces, the stripped bolts. Rick had said they were a week behind schedule, threatened to fire him, and told him to get up there anyway.
An OSHA investigation into a collapsed, non-compliant rig would ruin Rick’s construction company. It would cost him his contractor’s license, his livelihood, and likely send him to prison for gross criminal negligence. But a construction worker bleeding out in the dark during an active school shooting lockdown? That wasn’t a crime scene. That was a tragedy. That was an unavoidable casualty of a national epidemic. The police and EMTs would blame the fatal delay entirely on the shooter.
Rick wasn’t protecting the classroom. He was going to let Mateo bleed to death right here on the floor.
Across the room, a child let out a soft, whimpering sob. The teacher shushed them frantically, the rustle of clothing sounding loud in the suffocating silence.
“Is he okay?” the teacher whispered from the far wall, her voice trembling violently. “I smell… is he bleeding?”
Even in the dark, the scent was undeniable. The wet, rhythmic dripping sound every time Mateo shuddered was too loud to ignore.
“He scraped his arm on the way down,” Rick whispered back, his tone projecting a calm, protective authority to the terrified civilian. “I’m wrapping it now. Keep those kids down and away from the door. Don’t look over here. Keep them quiet.”
Mateo tried to speak, to croak out a denial, to beg the teacher to turn on her own phone, but his throat was bone dry. Hypovolemic shock was setting in fast. His extremities were going freezing cold as his failing heart desperately shunted his remaining blood to his vital organs. A terrifying gray static began to creep into the edges of his vision.
He needed the belt.
Mateo let go of Rick’s wrist and grabbed the leather strap of his tool belt again. He yanked it forcefully from his waist, the heavy canvas pouches of galvanized nails scraping loudly across the vinyl tile.
Rick reacted instantly. The foreman’s knee dropped hard into Mateo’s chest, pinning him to the tile. The sheer weight drove the remaining breath from Mateo’s lungs in a silent, agonizing rush. Rick’s massive, calloused hands clamped down on Mateo’s forearms, pinning his wrists to the ground.
It was a desperate, entirely silent wrestling match in pitch blackness. Mateo writhed, kicking his good leg, trying to dislodge the larger man. Every movement ground his shattered tibia against the concrete subfloor beneath the vinyl, sending fresh starbursts of white light through his fading consciousness. He bucked his hips, trying to roll, but Rick simply shifted his weight, using his knee to grind deeper into Mateo’s sternum, slowly suffocating him.
Mateo’s grip on the leather belt began to slip. His fingers were too slick with his own blood. He had maybe two minutes left before he passed out forever.
He could scream. If he screamed, he would blow Rick’s cover. The teacher would realize the truth. It would force Rick off him. But if there really was a gunman roaming the halls, a scream would draw a killer right to this locked door. He would be trading his last chance at life for the lives of twenty hiding children.
Rick leaned his weight harder into Mateo’s chest, waiting patiently in the dark for the blood loss to finish the fight.
Mateo gathered every ounce of saliva left in his dry mouth. He braced his core against the crushing weight of Rick’s knee. He was going to scream. He had to. He opened his mouth, drawing in a ragged, whistling breath to shatter the silence.
Then, a heavy, metallic slam echoed down the hallway.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, heavy boots thudded against the vinyl tile outside. They were moving down the main corridor, pausing at every classroom. A doorknob rattled violently next door. Then, a massive shoulder slammed against the neighboring wood frame.
The footsteps resumed, moving closer.
Rick froze, his knee still pinning Mateo’s chest, his head snapping toward the hallway. Across the room, the teacher let out a muffled, terrified gasp, frantically pulling the nearest students beneath a heavy oak desk.
The footsteps stopped right outside their door.
The thin sliver of hallway light bleeding beneath the threshold was suddenly eclipsed by the shadow of a pair of boots.
And then, the brass doorknob slowly began to turn.