Alan stood and found that he was
naked, his shoulder and bicep dripping blood down his side into a pool
on the polished floor.
"We'll take him to the basement," he told Kurt, and dug through the
laundry hamper at the foot of the bed for jeans. He found a couple of
pairs of boxer shorts and tied one around his bicep and the other around
his shoulder, using his teeth and chin as a second hand. It took two
tries before he had them bound tight enough to still the throb.
The bedroom looked like someone had butchered an animal in it, and the
floor was gritty with Darrel's leavings, teeth and nails and
fingerbones. Picking his way carefully through the mess, he hauled the
sheet off the bed, popping out the remaining staples, which pinged off
the bookcases and danced on the polished wood of the floor. He folded it
double and laid it on the floor next to Davey.
"Help me roll him onto it," he said, and then saw that Kurt was staring
down at his shriveled, squirming, hateful brother in horror, wiping his
hands over and over again on the thighs of his jeans.
He looked up and his eyes were glazed and wide. "I was passing by and I
saw the shadows in the window. I thought you were being attacked --" He
hugged himself.
"I was," Alan said. He dug another T-shirt out of his hamper. "Here,
wrap this around your hands."
They rolled Davey into the sheet and then wrapped him in it.
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