#nick furcillo is present but he's having slime time

[wolfawaycamp]

Hello! I would like to request a realistic aftermath of the shotgun amputation ;)

🐰 Okay, so, this was discussed on Discord prior to Torch's request (thank you Torch!) and Cas really thought we should get to see Kaitlyn plucking buckshot out of Dylan's arm. You're not actually supposed to do that, but it IS realistic that a bunch of teens/young adults might not know that. This is another long one from me because I'm incapable of being brief, but so far I've I've gotten positive feedback on my 'ficlets' that are so long they're basically just one-shots. I started my Quarry fanfic writing career with chainsaw hurt/comfort, so of course I had to inject some of that here! Hope you enjoy! :3

*******

When Ryan shoots Dylan’s hand off with his shotgun on the floor of the radio hut, he really doesn’t have time to panic. Some kind of black venom is visibly spreading up Dylan’s arm and, at that moment, Ryan agrees that it needs to be stopped. So, he stops it. He doesn’t second guess that decision at the time, because something huge and ugly is stalking the two of them and their fellow counselors. The fact that he’s just blown the left hand off the boy he’s spent the better part of the evening casually flirting with, the one he kissed for the first time a few hours before, can barely sink in because he’s trying so hard to finish engineering the feedback loop and keep them all alive. But once he’s sounded that earsplitting noise and chased the immediate danger away, Ryan’s better able to take in the horror of the scene that remains.

Dylan lies in a pool of his own blood, and the unrecognizable lump of tissue that used to be a hand sits inches from the mutilated end of his wrist. There are holes in the floor where buckshot has passed through Dylan’s flesh and bone entirely and into the aged wood. Ryan, still fueled by adrenaline, tells him his plan worked. He is genuinely impressed with Dylan’s ingenuity.

“It did the trick,” he says, “Nice work, Dylan.”

The bloodied boy on the floor begins laughing in a way Ryan finds deeply concerning, as if he’s completely delirious, before the chaos in front of him seems to sober him up. “Oh fuck, my hand!” Dylan exclaims, like he’s just noticed it. “Why did you do that?!”

“You told me to!” Ryan bites back in disbelief.

Does he really not remember?

“That was a bad idea,” Dylan admits, still holding pressure to the bleeding stump of his left arm, “aw fuck.”

At that very moment, the door bursts open, scaring the absolute shit out of both the boys. It’s Kaitlyn, likely having heard the gunshot and certainly the sound that followed. She’s come to see what’s become of the two of them. 

Kaitlyn manages to get out the words, “You guys all right… in… here?” before she begins processing the gruesome scene in front of her. Ryan watches her take in the handless Dylan, the pool of blood, and the detached former hand in silence, her mouth hanging slightly open for a moment.

“‘Sup Kaitlyn?” Dylan drawls from the pool of blood he’s lying in. He gives her a slight nod as a greeting since his one remaining hand is busy holding back arterial spray from where his other hand was once attached.

“What the fuck?!” Kaitlyn says breathlessly, “what the fuck happened here?!” 

“I—he—that thing bit Dylan’s hand and I, uh…” Ryan struggles to explain the situation, struggles to even understand it himself. 

Kaitlyn looks from Dylan to Ryan and back again, over and over, finally clocking Ryan’s bloodied face and the shotgun in his hand. Her shock gives way to fury. “Oh—oh my god, Ryan, what the fuck have you done?!”

“He—” Ryan points at Dylan like a child tattling to an adult, “he told me to!”

“I would really like for the record to show,” Dylan says, entirely too steady for the state he’s in, “that I said ‘cut it off.’ Not shoot. Cut. There’s a perfectly good chainsaw right over there.” He jerks his head toward the workbench where the chainsaw sits along with the other power tools.

“Why?! Dylan, why on earth would you say that?!” Kaitlyn asks. She wheels around to face Ryan without giving Dylan a chance to answer, “and why would you listen to him?!”

Kaitlyn glares at Ryan like she might bite him. He thinks he would probably deserve that. He can’t seem to get a word out to explain why blasting a hand off with a shotgun seemed like a good idea at the time but, for better or worse, Dylan is still fairly talkative despite his devastating injury.

“Hey, it’s okay Kaitlyn,” Dylan says, trying his best to sound normal and not quite achieving it, “you kinda had to be here to get the full effect, I guess, but there was this black stuff going up my arm, and we had to stop it before it got any higher, and this did stop it! I’m okay, really… I mean, I’m not, but it doesn’t hurt. I don’t even feel it. Which is… weird, right? I feel like having your hand shot off should hurt more than this.”

“It’s probably the adrenaline,” Kaitlyn explains, “or else you’re going into shock. Either way you’re going to be in a world of hurt sooner or later. You’ve probably got a bunch of buckshot still in your arm. Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t leave the two of you alone for a minute.”

Ryan thinks this is a somewhat unfair assessment of what they’ve accomplished here, given that Dylan’s plan and Ryan’s execution of it saved Kaitlyn’s ass as well as theirs. Dylan, for his part, laughs at Kaitlyn, because he’s apparently gone insane and lost all fear of death. Kaitlyn looks like she’s considering snatching Ryan’s gun, blowing Dylan’s head off, and calling it a total loss instead of trying to patch him up. She inhales deeply and lets it back out, as if meditative breathing will repair the rift in reality they’re currently experiencing.

“Ryan get the first aid kit,” she says, her tone more measured now, “we have to stop the bleeding before we move him, but if we can get Dylan down to the poolhouse, we’ll at least have running water to rinse this wound off. That’s where I sent Abi and Nick when I headed up here.” Kaitlyn kneels next to Dylan, then she grabs his arm roughly and he cries out in pain. “Stop moving so much!” she snaps, though the boy with the shot-off hand has barely moved a muscle.

“Fucking hell, Kaitlyn, be careful!” Ryan barks at her, and Kaitlyn’s head whips to the side to face him with a challenging look.

“Oh, I’m sorry Ryan, should I be as careful as you were when you turned Dylan’s hand into raw fucking meatloaf?” The boys are speechless at her outburst.

Wow, Kaitlyn’s being a kind of a bitch, Ryan thinks, and then it clicks in Ryan’s head that she’s not actually angry, not at him or at Dylan, she’s afraid. This is what fear looks like on Kaitlyn Ka, who he’d mistakenly thought was fearless. It’s raw and ferocious. Other than Jacob, who she’s known most of her life, Dylan’s the person she’s closest to at camp. Kaitlyn expresses her concern like a mother bear and if Ryan isn’t careful he really might get mauled by her before whatever the fuck bit Dylan gets a chance to sink its teeth into him.

Kaitlyn fashions a tourniquet out of bandages and a screwdriver, warning Dylan that it’s going to hurt, and Dylan winces as she twists the metal tool over and over to tighten it around his forearm, just below his elbow. She hands him a bottle of what appears to be ibuprofen from the nurse’s station, saying it’s the last of the supply after she gave some to Nick. 

“Ooh, fun,” Dylan says, throwing back the pills and swallowing them dry, and Ryan can feel Kaitlyn rolling her eyes at him even if he can’t see it.

The bleeding appears to stop, though there’s so much blood already that it’s difficult to tell. It seems stable enough that the three of them can set out for the poolhouse. Dylan is a bit wobbly at first but once he gets a few steps in he seems steady on his feet. Kaitlyn and Ryan flank him with Kaitlyn on the left holding onto his injured arm. Ryan carries the first aid kit with him, even though there’s another one in the poolhouse. It can’t hurt to have more supplies.

On the way, they get into a minor argument about whether the pellets of buckshot from the shotgun shell should be removed from Dylan’s arm or left in. Ryan thinks they should come out, he’s seen that in a number of TV shows and movies and while he knows those aren’t always accurate, he doesn’t think it seems right to leave foreign bodies in a wound. Kaitlyn is more hesitant. She knows that doctors will remove pellets from wounds but if they’re deep they might do more damage trying to remove them. In the end, Dylan says it’s his arm and therefore they’re his buckshot pellets and he should get a say, and he thinks they should compromise and get the ones that seem close enough to the surface to grab with tweezers and leave the others.

When the three of them make it into the poolhouse, Abi has Nick laid out by the showers, resting on a stack of rolled towels. She turns to them, saying “I was wondering when you guys would…” and is cut off at the sight of Dylan’s bloody arm stump. She shrieks. “Oh my god, ohh my god Dylan, what happened?!” Abi is keeping her eyes off of Dylan’s arm. She looks like she might cry, or faint, and Ryan watches, stunned, as Dylan tries to comfort her instead of the other way around.

“It’s okay Abi,” he says, a little too jovially, “just a flesh wound.”

“It’s literally not,” Ryan corrects him, thinking of the bits of bright white bone he could see in the remains of Dylan’s obliterated hand, and Dylan shakes his head at him to keep him from saying anything else.

Kaitlyn explains the situation much more succinctly than either of the boys could, then she sends Abi to find the poolhouse first aid kit while she and Ryan drag Dylan over to the sinks to rinse his wound in warm water. Dylan flinches when they direct the flow of the water over the end of his wrist but he doesn’t pull away. As the coagulated blood is rinsed away, Ryan can see exposed bone at the end of Dylan’s arm and several perfectly round holes that, as Kaitlyn predicted, almost certainly contain pieces of buckshot. The sight of it makes his stomach clench with guilt and worry.

Kaitlyn sits on the floor, picking through the two first aid kits for what she needs. She assembles gauze, more bandages, a small set of forceps, only slightly larger than standard tweezers, that Ryan assumes were intended for pulling splinters out of campers, some rubbing alcohol, an empty glass bottle she’s found to corral the pellets in—Ryan thinks it likely once contained apple juice, though the label has been peeled off—and a lidocaine spray intended for sunburns. It’s the best they have, under the circumstances.

Kaitlyn tells Ryan to join her on the floor and instructs Dylan to essentially sit between Ryan’s legs. Dylan raises an eyebrow at this and Ryan sighs and gestures at him to hurry up. Dylan sits where he’s told.

“This is not going to be fun,” Kaitlyn warns Dylan, then she looks to Ryan and says, “you’re going to have to hold him down, hold his arm still so I don’t cause any more damage.” 

Ryan swallows and holds Dylan’s left arm down, pinning it between his own arm and his bent knee with his hand steadying the wounded forearm just below the wrist. He reaches over Dylan’s right shoulder with his right arm and presses his hand to the middle of the injured boy’s chest, encouraging Dylan to lean back against him. It’s already pretty intimate, with Dylan's head resting on Ryan’s shoulder, and then Dylan grabs Ryan’s hand with his and interlocks their fingers, needing something to hold onto.

“Okay,” Dylan tells Kaitlyn, “let’s get this over with.”

Kaitlyn dunks the forceps in the rubbing alcohol and sprays around the wound and all the pellet holes she can find with the lidocaine spray. It’s not very strong, and she tells Dylan it’s only going to numb the surface, everything below that he’s going to feel. He nods, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, and Kaitlyn gets to work.

The first pellet is close to the surface and Ryan watches it pop out of Dylan’s skin easily with the fascination some people feel for those pimple extraction videos online. Kaitlyn drops it into the glass bottle where it makes a satisfying plinking sound.

“Oh!” says Dylan, that wasn’t so—OW!” He’s spoken too soon, and before Dylan can finish his statement, Kaitlyn has gone back in for another pellet. This one must be deeper, she has to fish around where the anesthetic spray hasn’t been able to reach before it comes out. Dylan has a vice-grip on Ryan’s hand by the time this one joins the other in the glass bottle.

“Two down,” Kaitlyn says, “only… six or so to go?”

“Awesome,” Dylan says sarcastically, and even in the dim light of the poolhouse, Ryan thinks he looks paler than usual.

Dylan is clearly in pain now as Kaitlyn digs for buckshot in his forearm and Ryan feels terrible about the choices he’s made. He’d thought the shotgun would be cleaner than the chainsaw, leave less chance for infection than a rusty tool Chris Hackett uses to carve up firewood, but Kaitlyn doesn’t seem to think it would’ve make that big a difference. She had warned him about the shotgun’s spread earlier, and though he’d taken the shot pretty close to his target, they certainly wouldn’t be playing this very advanced game of Operation right now if he’d gone for the chainsaw instead. On top of everything, the light from Abi’s phone flashlight keeps wavering, making it difficult for Kaitlyn to see what she’s doing.

“For fuck’s sake, Abi, can’t you hold that thing steady?!” Ryan snaps before he can stop himself.

“Ryan!” Kaitlyn chastises him as another pellet of buckshot clinks into the glass bottle.  

“I’m trying! You know the sight of blood makes me nauseous!” Abi nearly sobs the words and Ryan immediately feels bad, realizes he can, in fact, feel even worse than he had a moment ago. He’d forgotten how much she hates blood. She’d nearly fainted earlier in the summer when one of her campers had a nosebleed. It’s a rough night for all of them, certainly roughest for Dylan and Nick, but Ryan finds some sympathy for Abi—it’s a particularly bad night for anyone who hates the sight of blood.

“Sorry,” he mutters lamely.

“It’s all right,” Abi says, “I’ll try to do better.”

Ryan doesn’t think of himself as having a particularly comforting presence, but for Dylan he does his best, murmuring a steady stream of reassuring nonsense like he might if his little sister crawled in bed with him after having a nightmare back home. “It’s okay,” he says, “it’s okay, you’re okay. Just hang on, all right?This’ll be over soon. I’ve got you. Just stay with me, Dylan. I’m here. I’m right here and I’ve got you.” 

It’s bullshit, he knows it and Dylan probably knows it too—his wounded friend is in bad shape and Ryan hasn’t got shit, nothing is under control and nothing is okay, but Dylan squeezes his hand, his head turned so the right side of his face is pressed against Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan can tell he’s trying very hard to be brave. Dylan holds back from crying out for the most part, expressing his pain through bitten off groans that he tries but can’t quite silence. Occasionally, he sucks air through his teeth and swears. Dylan’s trembling a little and sweating and he sniffles from time to time because he can’t keep the tears from streaming down his face, dampening the fabric of Ryan’s Cult Damage t-shirt.

Kaitlyn digs for a pellet at the very end of Dylan’s wrist, and he’s completely quiet for a moment, then he goes limp in Ryan’s arms.

“Oh, shit. Dylan?” Ryan hears the panic in his own voice when he speaks.

“Fuck, he passed out.” Kaitlyn pats at Dylan’s cheek, not all that gently but not quite hard enough to qualify as a smack. It does nothing to rouse him. Her fingers press into the side of his neck to feel his pulse, but she doesn’t seem overly concerned with whatever she finds there. Ryan can feel Dylan breathing, but he’s terrified by this development just the same.

“What? Why would that happen?!” He demands of Kaitlyn. “Why now?”

“I don’t know!” Kaitlyn says, “Pain, I guess. Shock? Maybe that last pellet was near a nerve? I barely scraped a B in anatomy.”

“Blood loss?” Abi offers, her expression grave. She looks over at Nick, who adjusts his position a little, and then turns her attention back to Dylan.

“Let’s just get this finished,” Kaitlyn says, “then we can get him cleaned up.” 

She plucks three more pellets from Dylan’s arm, dropping them into the bottle, and then declares that if there are any more, he’ll need an x-ray to find them and trying to dig for them blindly would do way more harm than good. She sends Abi to the sink for a couple of wet washcloths and Kaitlyn wipes down Dylan’s arm while Abi dabs at his face.

Dylan begins to stir, finally, as Kaitlyn is working to bandage his wound. Ryan watches his face intently as he comes around, his brows scrunching and relaxing, eyes moving behind his closed lids. He groans softly before his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at Ryan, seeming to search Ryan’s face for clues as to what the fuck is even happening right now. 

“Dylan,” Ryan says, relief washing over him, “hey! You’re awake.” 

“G’morning Hacketteers,” Dylan rasps weakly, his voice a pale imitation of the one that has boomed out over the PA all summer. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Cap’n Crunch,” Kaitlyn says, rattling the bottle of pellets, “it’s the ‘Oops! All Buckshot’ flavor, unfortunately.”

“Oh, no thanks,” Dylan snorts, “I’m full.” He looks down at the bandaged end of his left forearm. “Though… less full than I used to be, apparently.”

Dylan’s jokes are as obnoxious as ever and Ryan is thanking the cosmic space gods that he’s coherent enough to make them.

As Kaitlyn finishes taping up the bandages, Dylan looks down at his remaining hand and seems to realize it’s still loosely entwined with Ryan’s. He grips Ryan’s hand and Ryan squeezes his right back.

“Thanks you guys,” Dylan says, almost uncharacteristically earnest, and Ryan is reminded of their conversation about his blasé persona and ‘Dylan-Dylan,’ which feels like it happened weeks ago.

“Don’t mention it,” Kaitlyn says with a smile, “just, never do anything this stupid again if you can help it, please.”

Dylan nods. Ryan doesn’t really need to hold onto him anymore, but he is just the same.

“I’m just glad you’re still with me, buddy,” Ryan says in a half whisper.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Ryan. You know how the old saying goes, ‘hand a man a gun, he shoots for a day, shoot a man’s hand off with your gun and you have to, um, let him hold your hand in the hand that he has left. Forever. Or at least for one date. But probably forever.’”

“Yeah,” Ryan deadpans, “I can see how that became a proverb for sure. Real snappy.”

Kaitlyn bursts out laughing. Even Abi giggles at this, putting a hand on Dylan’s shoulder before hurrying back over to check on Nick.

“What? He can shoot my hand off but I can’t shoot my shot? Seems unfair. I—”

Dylan’s words are cut off when Ryan leans down and kisses him on the mouth, his hands pressing to either side of Dylan’s face. It’s the only thing he can think to do to express his relief and concern and gratitude at that moment, to say that he’s sorry but also not. And another feeling is in the mix there, something soft but undeniable and deeply unfamiliar, something that, Ryan’s terrified to realize, might actually be love.

“Let’s save our strength with some quiet time, hm?” he says, still holding Dylan’s face in his hands.

Dylan looks back at him, awestruck. He nods, slowly, and then there’s a gunshot outside. A howl of inhuman agony follows and then a splash. 

Something big has just landed in the pool.