The Deepest Red Read Online Free PDF Page B

at me in relief.
    I help him to sit on the edge of the trench and position his injured leg. It was a small clean break, no protruding bone or anything life threatening.
    “You wouldn’t have gotten far,” I banter as I take two strong sticks and position them on each side of his break. Cutting off strips of rolled gauze, I begin to wrap each material around the leg and bark stripped wood. I pull tightly and tie three separate knots supporting the makeshift splint. Tom watches my progress making sure I don’t make any mistakes. I take my time under his scrutiny. He is constantly endeavoring to teach me how to survive in the red zone and at the moment I’m thankful for the attempt. 
    “You’re probably right. I think I might be getting a little too old to be out here in this deserted place.” Pausing he reaches up and gives my hat a tug. “You look like shit,” he says in an annoyed yet playful voice.
    I stop treating his leg and peer up into his eyes. I notice he seems older than the man I had come to know so well four months ago.
    When he had first started training me for the red zone, he had had a little spark in his eyes. Now, the glint had disappeared. Maybe the spark so full of determination and willpower was gone only because he was in pain and so far away from home. Maybe I’d disappointed him or failed him in some way. I don’t remember when I started caring about what he thought but I did and the idea of him thinking I was a horrible scout, bothered me. If I can find a way to get him back to the prison’s infirmary, maybe he might want to stick around and continue teaching me.
    I ignore his compliment and say, “Oh please, if you start talking like this now, who is going to go into the red zone for all those lazy ass scared folk at home.”
    I make quotation marks with my fingers as he smiles at me. The skin at the edges of his eyes crinkle, radiating a warmth I’ve come to enjoy.
    “You’re a pain in the ass. You know that?” He quips.
    “That’s what they keep telling me,” I reply as I grin back.
    He inspects his leg and grabs the gauze roll. He cuts two small pieces with his small pocket knife and places them firmly on an open gash. His silver knife always makes me laugh with its engraving of a centipede on the side, such a strange animal to have a likeness of on a blade. I sit back and restrain a laugh.
    “We should’ve called you centipede instead of Old Tom.”
    He flips the knife’s blade back into it’s hiding place- feeling the weight of it in his hand.
    “Did you know that centipedes are predators?” He questions, watching me closely.
    “No. Really?” I retort a little too eagerly. I wonder if my Dad knew that little bit of information. “They look like a weak insect to me,” I say as I make myself comfortable on the hard ground.
    “Yeah. No lie.” Tom’s bushy eyebrows lift in surprise at my sudden interest. “They wrap themselves around their prey and wait for their venom to take effect. Then, they feast on one big happy meal.”
    I smirk at his enthusiasm.
    “Na-uh. Who told you that? I’ve never read anything about centipedes in the library.” I shake my head. “God, I hate bugs.” I murmur.
    Tom opens his fingers revealing the pocket knife to the night sky.
    “My father told me a good bit about centipedes.”
    He sighs softly and takes a moment to observe the old engraving in his hand. 
    “I stole this from him two days before the EMP and the good Ole’ fashion bombs dropped.” He glimpses at me with haunted eyes. “I was a child and thought showing my friends my father’s knife would make me cool. I was too scared to give the pocket knife back to him afterward because he’d been searching for it around the house. I was only seven at the time and didn’t want to be in trouble. So I kept the chunky thing in my shoe at school. I remember thinking how heavy and awkward the metal was up against my skin.” Tom reaches down to rub the side of his ankle,