“Unless you like the look of it, we’s going to have to git ’er out. Your shirt was all bloody so I cut it off ya.”

“Ah.”

“Wound’s a funny color and it smells, which bothers me ’cause that’s too fast for ordinary infection. So I packed some stuff around the entry and exit holes—spiderwebs and moss and suchlike. Keeps it from going septic.”

Chong nodded; he knew something about natural medicines. These days everyone did, and he’d read several survival manuals during the Warrior Smart training. Sphagnum moss had acidic and antibacterial properties; spiderwebs, apart from also being antibacterial, were rich in vitamin K and helped blood to clot. Chong found it comforting that this girl knew her natural medicines. Out in the Ruin, infection was every bit as dangerous as zoms and wild animals.

Over in one corner was a small fire, and some herbs were steeping in a shallow pan of water. The bow and quiver of arrows that had once belonged to Brother Danny lay on the floor. Souvenirs of an encounter Chong would rather have forgotten.

“How . . . how bad is it?” he asked cautiously. “How bad am I hurt?”

“You ain’t dead, so that’s something. Arrow missed most of the good stuff, and you ain’t spittin’ blood or nuthin’.”

“Hooray?” he muttered weakly, making it almost a question.

“On the downside, you lost about a bucket of blood, boy, and you didn’t do yourself any favors when you grappled hold of Andrew back there. I wouldn’ta bet a dead possum on you making it this long, you being such a skinny boy an’ all. But there’s some pepper in your grits.”

“Thanks. I think.” He closed his eyes for a second as a wave of nausea swept through him. His skin felt greasy and clammy. “Can you just pull it out?”

Riot snorted and bent down to pick up Brother Danny’s quiver of arrows. She fished one of the arrows out and held up the point. “That arrow’s got the same barbed point as this. Big bear tip. I’d tear a flank steak offa you if I tried to pull it out. That what you want, boy?”

“No. And will you please stop calling me ‘boy’?”

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked, her eyes filled with challenge and amusement.

“My name is Louis Chong. Most people just call me Chong.”

“Chong, huh. That Korean?”

“Chinese.”

“Okay. Well, t’other thing is that I don’t know what this black stuff is that’s smeared all over the tip. Smells like death, and that’s generally not good news.”

“Poison?”

“Or something,” she said. “Either way, we have to be smart about how we take it out and what we do about infection.”