You know the danger, but really, you don't care. You did this; you'll fix this. You're spilling your own water on his leg, working furiously with a bar of gritty soap. Yelling to the others, you advise they wash too, if you can call "screaming at the top of your lungs" advising someone. You yell to the soliders, asking them if they have any treatment agent; Kuznetsov yells back in a panic, "We don't have shit!"
That's not a surprise. What's a surprise is a barrel full of nerve agent in a civilian gas station in the fucking Zone of Exclusion.
Seconds drag on and you peer at your comrade, looking for the signs that would spell his death - eyes like pinpricks, drooling, crying, vomiting.
"Am I going to die?" Twitch sounds bewildered.
"I...I don't think so," you say.
(Sorry, guys, but I can only stay a post or two longer; seriously late here.)