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List this Seller's Books. Payment Methods accepted by seller. AbeBooks Bookseller Since: May 31, Items related to Hugo! Home Bart Jones Hugo! Stock Image. Published by Steerforth, Used Condition: Used: Good Soft cover. Save for Later. It was the third person Aranguren saw with a bullet in the head.
The shooting had started barely a minute ago. Shots were still raining down on the crowd. About fifty people were in the immediate area around Aranguren. Half a dozen or so had bullet wounds to their feet, legs, torsos, or arms. People were walking, trotting, sprinting in all directions. Others just stood there, dumbfounded.
No one knew where the shots were coming from or what was happening. Aranguren kept running, turning his eyes quickly again to the street in front of him.
Ten yards away he saw another man lying onhis back on the sidewalk in front of a men's clothing store. A protestor running in front of Aranguren spotted the man at the last minute and leaped over his body.click here
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The man was motionless except for his lower left arm and hand, which were extended into the air and moving back and forth weakly in a sweeping motion. Just as Aranguren reached him, his arm fell to the ground and stopped moving. Aranguren stopped in front of the man and looked down. He was about forty, had black hair, a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and white sneakers. His face was full of sweat from running in the tropical heat. On the left side of his neck was a gaping bullet wound. Blood was gushing out. He didn't look like he had much life left in him. His lips were white.
His eyes were 90 percent closed. His head moved slightly from side to side.
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Part of Aranguren wanted to leave the man and flee, since his own life was in danger. But he had seen his arm move a moment earlier, and thought he might still be alive.
He couldn't just abandon him. He dropped to the ground and straddled the man with one leg on either side. Then he did the only thing he could think of to stop the bleeding: He shoved the middle finger of his right hand into the warm, slippery wound, which swallowed his finger completely. The man's bleeding slowed but did not stop.
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The wound was near his artery. Aranguren could feel blood pulsing against his finger. Maybe there was a chance to save him after all, he thought. Another marcher came over, crouched down, and said, "How is he? Is he alive?
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Luckily paramedics were in the area in case the protest turned violent. Two quickly came zooming up the sidewalk on a motorcycle from the south of Baralt, where most of the protestors were massed. One jumped off and shouted at Aranguren, "Don't take your finger out of there! Wait a second! Its pockets were filled with bandages, needles, sutures, rubber gloves, splints, gauze, little bottles with liquid medicines. He was a walking emergency room. He crouched down next to the man on the sidewalk, pulled out a needle and a small bottle of medicine, and told Aranguren he was going to inject the man with it.
If he was still alive, he would respond, the paramedic said. He jammed the needle into the man's right arm, squeezed the lever, and pulled the needle out. Then he opened the man's eyelids and looked at his eyes. If he doesn't, he's dead, and I have to go to another victim that needs help. Aranguren protested, "But he's alive. I can feel the pulse.
You've got to do something. The paramedic explained that Aranguren might simply be feeling the man's blood draining from his brain.
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He injected him a second time, looked at his eyes, and again saw no response. Aranguren exploded with anger. The two shouted back and forth, and the paramedic ordered Aranguren to back away so he could look at the wound. He pushed him against the chest, but Aranguren, instead of backing away, simply pulled his finger out of wound and stood up. Just as he did, he felt something strike the back of his right leg. He turned around to see if someone was behind him, shooting, but didn't see anyone.
He wasn't sure if he'd been hit by a bullet or a rock. It didn't hurt much. But as he reached around, he felt that his pant leg had been ripped open. Blood was on his leg, just below the buttock. He'd been shot. He realized to his horror that the spot he'd been hit on the leg was exactly where his head had been just a second earlier, before the paramedic pushed him.
The bullet had been aimed at his head. He was in the sight of a sniper. Panicked, adrenaline pumping, he took off running down Baralt. He had his eye on the Plaza Caracas, a football field or so away, where he thought he might be out of the range of the snipers. He ran diagonally across the street, desperate to reach the plaza. But as he ran, his leg felt strange, like it was asleep in the area where he'd been shot. It was getting harder and harder to move it, as if he had a weight attached to it.
Then the part that was numb got bigger and bigger. By now he was practically dragging his leg. He made it across the street but only halfway to the plaza before collapsing onto a sidewalk. Terrified that the snipers were going to get him as he lay defenseless, he started screaming for help. Get me out of the line of fire because there are snipers! One of the most extraordinary events in modern Latin American history was unfolding.
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