Chapter 122 - Chapter 105: A Story of Being Well-Done
In Medieval Europe, it seems they closed wounds like gunshot injuries by pouring hot oil on them or pressing a branding iron against them. Since the proteins that make up the human body solidify with heat, they applied that to close wounds and stop bleeding.
Of course, in the modern era with advanced medicine, there is no need to purposely adopt such a pain-filled method. By applying anesthesia and tying off blood vessels, bleeding can be sufficiently stopped. However, only a doctor can do that, and there was no doctor near the boy now. No matter which hospital he went to, not a single doctor would likely remain.
This was because, in the early stages of the virus outbreak, many people injured by the infected were carried into hospitals, where they subsequently developed symptoms and turned into infected themselves. Most of the doctors and nurses who responded were reportedly killed. Even if any had survived, they would have fled just like the boy, so he wouldn't even know where they were.
Even if it were a battlefield, the situation would have been better than now. After all, even if one were injured by a bullet, comrades would provide first aid. And after that, there was still a possibility of saving one's life by receiving treatment from a medic or being evacuated for treatment by a military surgeon.
But now, none of that existed here. Lacking access to advanced medical care, and without sufficient equipment or skill, and being all alone now, the boy had no choice but to rely on classical methods. Inside the house where he had secured safety, a flame was lit on the gas stove placed on the floor, and onto the frying pan set atop it, the boy sprinkled the white powder from the small plastic bag. The powder he had been roasting little by little for a while now was the narcotics he had found along with the yakuza corpses about a month ago.
Drug addicts apparently roast narcotics using something like a pipe and inhale them, but he hadn't found such equipment. Instead, he roasted it little by little in the frying pan, filling the room with the gas and inhaling it.
Among narcotics, some are used as anesthesia. Even if it was to close the wound and stop the bleeding, burning one's own body would surely be accompanied by terrible, intense pain. To alleviate that pain even slightly, the boy decided to use the narcotics. Though, he didn't even know how much the pain would be eased, or if it would be useful at all.
When about half of the bag's contents were gone, the boy picked up the knife with a dulled blade that he had been heating over the stove flame along with the pan. The heated knife was hot enough to cause burns; he wiped the soot from the surface, wrapped the handle in a towel, and held it in his hand. Then, the boy once again rolled up the hem of his shirt, which was dyed bright red with blood.
Blood continued to flow from the small hole in his flank. The bullet had hit his back and exited through his abdomen. The amount of bleeding was decreasing compared to the beginning, but that might simply be because he was in a state of blood loss due to the volume being too high. Either way, he couldn't leave it like this. It was clear that if he didn't close the wound immediately, it would be life-threatening.
Perhaps because he had inhaled the roasted narcotics, or because he had lost too much blood, his head was a bit hazy. His thinking was dull, and perhaps because of that, he felt the pain in his abdomen had eased considerably. The boy bit down on a tightly twisted towel and, steeling his resolve, pressed the hot knife blade against the wound.
Instantly, his body trembled from the heat and pain that pierced his entire being, and tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. If he hadn't been biting the towel, he might have bitten his tongue. A wordless scream leaked from his mouth as a groan.
He might have been pressing the knife for only a few seconds, but to the boy, it felt as if his body had been burning for dozens of seconds. Looking at his stomach again, a bright red burn ran across the gunshot wound and the surrounding skin, and blisters were forming. However, the bleeding had stopped.
But this wasn't all. He had to close the wound on the back side in the same way. To be honest, he didn't want to do it anymore, but the boy reached his trembling hand toward the powder. He had to do it. No matter what kind of pain it involved, he had to do anything to survive.
The boy didn't remember how he closed the wound and treated it after that. When he came to, the wound on the back side had been burned in the same way, and the boy was collapsed on the floor with a bandage wrapped around his stomach.
Even though he had used narcotics, he remembered it was an unbearable pain, different from being shot. He wondered how many times he had been about to lose consciousness—no, he might have actually lost consciousness. It was a rough method, but thanks to it, the bleeding had stopped. Though it might just be that the amount of blood remaining in his body was insufficient.
However, now he had suffered a major burn. Furthermore, there was no guarantee that the penetrating bullet hadn't damaged his internal organs. He could manage the burn, but there was nothing he could do about internal injuries. If the treatment wasn't in time, or if fragments of dirty clothing remained inside his abdomen, there was even the danger of sepsis. To begin with, there was even the risk of contracting a new infection from the burn.
He could only pray that no abnormalities would occur in his body from now on. The place he was shot was the lower abdomen, and since it was a few centimeters from the flank, there was no worry about the liver or spleen, but if the intestines were ruptured, it was game over. If the internal organs were damaged—then that would be that.
Furthermore, although the bleeding had stopped, the hole in his stomach wasn't completely closed. Also, he had lost a large amount of blood before the bleeding was stopped. It might take two to three weeks, or even more than a month, until the wound closed and he could move as before.
He had applied Vaseline to the abdomen where he received the bullet and wrapped plastic wrap over it to completely shield the wound from the outside air. It was an effective treatment for burns or light injuries, but he didn't know how far it would work for a penetrating gunshot wound. But now, with neither a doctor nor sufficient medical equipment, the boy had no choice but to fully mobilize the books he had read and his own knowledge to overcome this situation. If he couldn't do that, he would only die.
Whether it was due to blood loss or the intense pain, or perhaps because he had inhaled the narcotics, his head was hazy. Perhaps because the residents of this house had time from the appearance of the infected until evacuation, there were traces of luggage being taken out of the house. The dresser drawers remained open, and the doors to every room were half-ajar. Nothing remained in the refrigerator.
Left with only this, the boy lay down on the remaining bed and looked up at the ceiling covered in white wallpaper. Why did it turn out like this? Such words floated in his head.
Why did he have to experience such a painful thought now? It was because that JSDF member shot him in the stomach.
Then why did he end up fighting them? When he thought about that, the boy realized that his actions had violated his rules.
First of all, the one who took hostile action was the boy. Against the men who stepped into the supermarket, it was the boy who pointed the gun first.
It is normal to be considered as having the intent to kill the moment a gun is pointed, and in fact, whenever the boy had a gun pointed at him until now, he had regarded the other party as hostile regardless of their intentions and taken action to eliminate them. And to justify himself, the boy had decided on a rule not to point a gun at others first.
Until fired upon, or until the opponent takes clear hostile action, I will not attack. That was the only way to continue justifying himself in this world, and the rule established according to that. But the boy broke it. Out of fear, he pointed his gun at men who had only come to the supermarket seeking food.
If so, the one who took hostile action first was me, and according to the rules I decided, shouldn't I be the existence to be eliminated? The boy was about to reach such a conclusion and hurriedly tried to deny it. However, the more he thought about it calmly, the only conclusion that floated in his head was that he was the one in the wrong.
The fact that the JSDF man suddenly opened fire was a natural act from his perspective, since he witnessed the boy thrusting a gun at his comrades. Just as the boy had done in the past, that JSDF member was only trying to save his comrades.
As expected, am I the bad one? Reaching that conclusion, he tried to deny it as usual, but he couldn't even do that now. The fact that he had made a mistake, and as a result, he was now dying. Realizing that fact, the boy trembled.
Could it be that, like this time, I have been piling up mistakes all along? Such a thought floated and wouldn't leave his head. That day when the infected appeared in Japan, he opened the gate of the school that served as a shelter and allowed the infected to enter, resulting in many people dying. Killing his father and mother, who had turned into infected, with his own hands, and surviving while abandoning many others thereafter. Even the people he went to the trouble of saving, or the people he met, were all either killed or driven to death by his own hand.
As usual, he wanted to believe it couldn't be helped, that it wasn't his fault. But now, he simply couldn't do that. The voice accusing him, "It's your fault," echoed in his head and wouldn't disappear.
Then what should he have done? Were there any other options? Even when he asked himself that, the voice accusing him, "It's your fault," did not disappear. The boy closed his eyes on the bed and tried not to think about anything. As usual, he told himself he wasn't bad and believed that the people who died were the ones in the wrong.
But even on this day, such self-suggestion did not go well. There were no friends to consult when he was troubled, no parents, no one. There was no one to listen to him, no one to show him the answer.
And even though he had a life-threatening injury, there was no one to help him. Last year, when the boy had a fever and stayed home from school, his mother would make him meals or look after him after coming home. There were doctors, and there were medicines they prescribed.
But now, all of those were gone. The boy had to treat himself, look back on his past actions himself, and then reach a conclusion and find the answer himself. While harboring a dull pain in his abdomen, the boy understood through his own body the terror and loneliness of being all alone.