Grim Reaper 01 - Embrace the Grim Reaper

“Okay. We can take stock and patch ourselves up there.” She looked around. “Where are we?”
    “About as far away as we can be.”
    Of course. “Take us there.”
    Eric led her back toward the center of town, sticking to dark side streets and yards. Sirens were audible, and two cop cars hurtled past a street over, but Casey and Eric hunkered down in the shadows until they could no longer see the flashing lights. Soon the theater came into view.
    Casey grabbed Eric’s shirt to keep him in the dark as she scanned the area. No cars in the back, and no lights visible from the few windows. She gestured for him to wait, then snuck toward the front of the theater, staying in the neighboring yard. No cars in the front.
    She returned to Eric. “You have a key?”
    “Same key ring as HomeMaker. Right here.” He patted his pocket.
    “Get it out and ready. Is there an alarm system?”
    He gave a quiet snort. “Hardly. We’re lucky the lock even holds.”
    “Let’s go.”
    They skirted the parking area and approached the door from the side, sliding along the building. Eric unlocked the door with one twist of the key, and they were inside, closing and locking the door behind them. Casey put a finger to her lips, and they stood listening for several minutes. When all that greeted them was silence, they stepped further into the dark hallway.
    “No lights,” Casey whispered, gesturing to the windows in the outside wall. They found their way to the stage door, and entered. The blue work light spread its eerie glow across the stage and through the curtain legs toward the back, where they’d entered.
    Casey stepped forward and stumbled over a cable. Eric grabbed her arm and she gasped, reaching up to hold her shoulder.
    “Sorry,” Eric said.
    She swallowed. “Where’s that first aid kit Becca used?”
    “Back here.” He led her slowly toward the backstage bathroom, where the kit hung on the wall. He took it down and opened it on the toilet tank.
    “Painkiller,” Casey said.
    Eric popped open a bottle of ibuprofen and offered her a couple. She washed them down with rusty water from the sink.
    She grabbed one of Eric’s wrists and turned it over to look at his hands. “You need to get those stones out.”
    “Not until we work on your shoulder.”
    She sagged onto the toilet seat, feeling suddenly weak.
    Eric pulled his dark turtleneck over his head and tossed it aside, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead in the tiny, airless bathroom. He squatted in front of Casey, his back pressed against the sink, and helped her pull off her sweater. Once it was off he started unbuttoning her shirt.
    “Eric!” She swatted his hand away.
    He reached back up. “No time for modesty, Casey. I need to work on your arm.”
    He was right, of course, and she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth when he slid her shirt off and peeled away the bloodied ace bandage. Without a word he wet a wad of paper towels and swabbed the mess, the towels coming away red. He kept at it until he’d cleaned it all.
    “You need stitches,” he said.
    “Yeah, like I need a hole in the head. You know what will happen if I go anywhere for that.”
    He shook his head. “Then sit still.”
    “You are not going to sew me up with costume thread.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” He rummaged around in the kit and came up with a tube of antibiotic cream, which he spread liberally on the cut. The bandage box held several butterfly strips, which he used to close the wound, and he covered them with sterile gauze pads. There were no ace bandages this time, but he found several extra large Band-Aids, which he placed side by side over the gauze.
    He sat back. “That’s the best I can do.”
    “Thank you.” She shrugged the shirt back on and buttoned it up, her right hand working slowly, the injury to her forearm swelling her wrist, causing her fingers to stiffen. “Now you.”
    With the tweezers in the kit she was able to pick out most of the stones from his palms—only a couple were too deeply embedded to reach. When she’d finished, he washed his hands with soap before Casey poured peroxide over the wounds.
    He grimaced, but kept his hands under the stream of antiseptic. “What now?”
    “Now?” Casey screwed the top back onto the bottle and tossed it into the box of supplies. Her head swam and she leaned forward onto the sink.
    “You need to rest,” Eric said.
    “I can’t rest. They’ll be coming here eventually.”
    “The