I went from the living room into the kitchen, and got into the drawer where Murphy kept her matches. I lit a couple of candles, then used them to find a pair of old glass kerosene lamps and get them going.
Thomas came in while I was doing that, grabbed the glow stick, and held it in one hand while he opened the refrigerator and rummaged inside.
"Hey," I said. "That's not your fridge."
"Murphy would share, wouldn't she?" Thomas asked.
"That isn't the point," I said. "It's not yours."
"The power's out," Thomas replied, shoulder deep in the fridge. "This stuff is going to spoil anyway. All right, pizza. And beer."
I stared at him for a second. Then I said, "Check the freezer, too. Murphy likes ice cream."
"Right," he said. He glanced up at me and said, "Harry, go sit down. I'll bring you something."
"I'm fine," I said.
"No, you aren't. Your leg is bleeding again."
I blinked at him and looked down. The white bandages had soaked through with fresh, dark red. The bandage wasn't saturated yet, but the stain had covered most of the white. "Damn. That's inconvenient."
Butters appeared in the kitchen doorway, ghostly somehow in his pale blue scrubs. His hair was a mess, all muddy and mussed. His glasses were gone, and he had his eyes squinted up as he looked at us. He had a cut on his lower lip that had closed into a black scab, and he had one hell of a shiner forming over his left cheekbone, presumably where Grevane had struck him.
"Let me wash up," Butters said. "Then I'll see to it. You'll want to make sure that stays clean, Harry."
"Go sit down," Thomas said. "Butters, are you hungry?"
"Yes," Butters said. "Is there a bathroom?"
"Hall, first one on the left," I said. "I think Murphy keeps a first-aid kit under the sink."
Butters moved silently over to one of the candles, took it, and left just as quietly.
"Well," I said. "At least he's clear now."
"Maybe so," Thomas said. He was moving things from the fridge to the kitchen counter. "They know he doesn't know anything. But you risked your life to protect his. That might start them to thinking."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You were willing to die to protect him. You think Grevane understands enough about friendship to comprehend why you did it?"
I grimaced. "Probably not."
"So they might start wondering what made him so valuable to you. Wondering what you know that they don't." He rummaged in a cupboard and found some bread, some crackers. "Maybe it won't amount to anything. But it might. He should be careful."
I nodded agreement. "You can keep an eye on him."
Thomas glanced at me. "You think you're going out now?"
"Soon as I eat something," I said.
"Don't be stupid," Thomas said. "Your leg is hurt. You can barely walk straight. Eat. Get some sleep."
"There's no time," I said.
He glared at me for a second, then pressed his mouth into a line and said, "Let's talk about it after we eat something. Everyone's angry when they're hungry. Makes for bad decisions."
"Probably smart," I said.
"Take the coat off. Go sit down. Let Butters look at your leg."
"It just needs a new bandage," I said. "I can do that myself."
"You're missing my point, dummy," Thomas said. "A friend would let Butters deal with a problem that he's capable of handling. He's had plenty of the other kind tonight."
I glared at Thomas, shrugged out of the duster, and limped for the living room. "It's easier to deal with you when you're a simple, selfish ass**le."
"I forget how limited you are, brain-wise," Thomas said. "I'll be more careful."
I settled cautiously down onto Murphy's old couch. It creaked as I did. Murphy isn't large, and I doubt that her grandma was, either. I'm not exactly layered in muscle, but as tall as I am, no one ever mistakes me for a lightweight. I shoved some doilies off the coffee table so that they wouldn't get blood all over them, and propped my throbbing leg up on the table. It took a little bit of the pressure off of the injury, which didn't mean it stopped hurting. It just hurt a little bit less aggressively. Whatever, anything was a relief.
I sat like that until Butters emerged from the hall that went back to the bathroom and the house's two bedrooms. He had Murphy's medical kit in hand. I remembered one of those little standard first-aid kits that would fit into the glove box of a car. Murphy had evidently been planning ahead. She'd replaced the little medical kit with one the size of a contractor's toolbox.
"I don't think I'm quite that hurt," I told Butters.
"Better to have it and not need it," he replied quietly. He set down the kerosene lamp and the toolbox. He rummaged in the box, came out with a pair of safety scissors, and set about stripping the bandage away, his motions smooth and confident. Once he had the bandage clear, he peered at the injury, moved the lamp to get a better look, and winced. "This is a mess. You've popped the two center sutures." He glanced up at me apologetically. "I'll have to replace them, or the others are going to tear out one at a time."
I swallowed. I did not want to do sutures without anaesthetics. Hadn't I already experienced enough pain for one day?
"Do it," I told him.
He nodded and set about cleaning the bloodied skin around the injury. He wiped his hands down with a couple of sterilizing wipes, and snapped on some rubber gloves. "There's a topical here. I'll use it, but it's not much stronger than that stuff you get for a toothache."
"Just get it over with," I said.
He nodded, produced a curved needle and surgical thread, adjusted the lamp again, and set to work. He was fairly quick about it. I did my best to hold still. When he was finished, my throat felt raw and rough. I hadn't actually done any yelling, but only by strangling any screams before they came out.
I lay there kind of limply while Butters re-covered the wound. "You started on the antibiotics, right?" he asked.
"Not yet," I said.
He shook his head. "You should take them right away. I don't want to think about what might have gotten into the wound back at your apartment." He swallowed and went a little pale. "I mean, my God."
"That's the worst part about the walking dead," I said. "The stains."
He smiled at me, or at least he tried to. "Harry," he said. "I'm sorry."