Chapter 3 #6
I move toward the blood trail, signaling to my father and Greyson with a quick hand gesture.
The droplets lead us down the hallway, growing larger and more frequent splatter patterns that tell me someone’s bleeding badly.
The metallic scent of fresh blood mingles with hospital antiseptic, burning my nostrils with each breath I take.
My boots make soft squeaking sounds against the polished floor.
The fluorescent lights above cast harsh shadows, making the blood appear almost black against the sterile white tiles.
I keep my weapon at the ready, finger resting just outside the trigger guard, muscle memory from years of training guiding my movements.
A scream pierces the air. Sharp, female, terrified.
The sound slices through the eerie silence, making my pulse spike.
We break into a run, my father’s footsteps heavy behind me, Greyson’s breathing controlled and measured to my right.
We round the corner into radiology, and the scene before us stops me cold.
Xavier kneels on the floor, his blue scrubs already soaked dark with blood.
His hands press firmly against a woman’s chest, crimson seeping between his fingers despite the pressure.
The woman, a nurse based on her uniform, lies pale and still, her breathing shallow and labored.
Xavier’s face is set in intense concentration, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. He hasn’t noticed us yet.
“I need more gauze, Kelly. Now.” His voice cuts through the chaos, steady, authoritative, completely at odds with the destruction surrounding him. “And get me another chest tube kit if you can find one.”
Another nurse frantically digs through an overturned supply cart, packages of medical equipment scattered across the floor. A trail of bloody footprints leads from their position through another doorway. The Reapers have been here, left this carnage, and moved on.
I scan the room methodically, weapon raised, checking every corner, every potential hiding spot. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. We’re exposed here, vulnerable.
“X,” I call softly, not wanting to startle him.
His head snaps up, eyes widening as they lock with mine. I watch emotions flash across his face in rapid succession: shock, relief, fear, then something else, something that makes my chest tighten. Recognition. Trust.
“Zach,” he starts, but gunfire erupts somewhere nearby, the sound bouncing off the walls, and impossible to pinpoint exactly.
Xavier flinches at the noise, but doesn’t abandon his patient. His hands remain steady on the wound, applying crucial pressure. I watch a drop of sweat track down his temple, leaving a clean path through a spatter of blood on his cheek.
“GSW to the chest,” he reports, slipping into clinical language. “Through and through. She’s lost at least two units. Need to get her to an OR, but we’re cut off from the surgical floor.”
Greyson moves to secure the doorway while my father checks the connecting room, their movements synchronized from years of working together. I position myself between Xavier and the most likely entry points, creating a human shield with my body.
“How many?” I ask, voice low, eyes never stopping their constant scan of our surroundings.
“Three men,” Xavier answers, glancing down to check his patient’s pulse. “Motorcycle cuts. Black with red trim. They came through, shooting. No warning, no demands.” His voice tightens. “Just opened fire on unarmed medical staff and patients who couldn’t even run.”
More gunshots echo, closer now. The wounded nurse moans softly, her breathing becoming more labored. I hear the wet, sucking sound with each breath she takes, a sound I recognize from too many battlefields.
“She’s decompensating,” Xavier mutters, pressing harder. Fresh blood wells between his fingers despite the gauze pads. “Likely tension pneumothorax developing. I need to release the pressure or she’ll die.”
His calmness in this chaos strikes me anew. While I hold a weapon, ready to take lives, he fights to save one, his hands steady despite the danger surrounding us. The contrast should feel jarring, but somehow it doesn’t.
“Clear,” my father reports, returning from the adjacent room. His voice is tight, controlled. “But they can’t be far. Blood trail leads to the east stairwell.”
Xavier reaches for a packaged needle on the cart, tearing it open with his teeth since his other hand is occupied keeping pressure on the wound. “Kelly, help me roll her slightly. I need access to the second intercostal space.”
The assisting nurse moves to help, her hands shaking but determined. I reposition myself to shield them both, my back to Xavier as I scan the doorway. The weight of my weapon is reassuring against my palm, the grip worn to the exact shape of my hand.
“Do what you need to do, Doc,” I say over my shoulder. “We’ve got you covered.”
I hear the tear of packaging, the quiet of Xavier’s voice as he explains the procedure to his semiconscious patient. “This is going to release the pressure, help you breathe better. Small pinch now…”
Professional to the end, even with killers stalking the halls.
Another burst of gunfire erupts, followed by shouts. Closer still. My grip tightens on my weapon, index finger moving to rest lightly against the trigger.
“Grey,” I call softly. “They’re circling back.”
He nods, expression grim. “Butcher, take the south exit. I’ll cover the main hallway.”
My father moves into position, the leather of his cut creaking slightly with the movement. He gives me a quick nod, silent communication honed over decades. I won’t leave Xavier’s side, not while those bastards are still in the building.
“Almost done,” Xavier says behind me. “The needle’s in. Air’s releasing.”
I risk a glance back. The wounded nurse’s color is improving slightly, her breathing less labored.
Xavier’s scrubs are soaked with her blood, his face spattered with crimson droplets, but his hands remain rock steady as he secures the chest tube.
A smear of blood marks his forehead where he must have pushed his hair back at some point.
“We need to move her,” he says, meeting my eyes. The intensity in his gaze hits me like a physical force. “She needs surgery, blood products. I’ve bought her time, but not much.”
Before I can respond, the door at the far end of the hallway slams open. A man in a Reaper’s cut appears, weapon raised. I catch the flash of metal, the wild look in his eyes, the red trim on his cut marking him as one of the shooters.
“Down!” I shout, turning and tackling Xavier to the floor as gunfire erupts.
The impact knocks the breath from both of us.
I feel Xavier’s body beneath mine, the solid warmth of him, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Bullets punch into the wall where he’d been standing seconds before, sending fragments of drywall showering down on us.
I roll slightly, keeping my body over his while bringing my weapon up to return fire.
The Reaper ducks back around the corner, my shots splintering the doorframe where his head had been.
“Stay down,” I order, rolling off Xavier and into a crouch. My knee throbs where it hit the floor, but I ignore it. “Both of you, behind that lead barrier. Now!”
Xavier and the nurse scramble for cover, dragging the wounded woman with them. The radiology room’s lead-lined walls offer some protection. Designed to contain radiation, they now shield from a different kind of danger.
Footsteps pound down the hallway, multiple sets approaching from different directions. Voices call out in harsh, urgent tones. I catch snippets of conversation, enough to know they’re coordinating, trying to trap us.
“Slaughter!” My father’s voice reaches me from the south corridor. “Three coming your way!”
I position myself at the doorway, weapon at the ready. Xavier has managed to get both nurses behind the massive X-ray machine, its bulk providing additional protection. His eyes meet mine across the room, steady, determined, trusting me to keep them safe.
The first Reaper appears at the end of the hallway, moving fast but carelessly.
I don’t hesitate. Time slows as I exhale, aim, then squeeze.
My first shot catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around.
The second finds his knee, dropping him to the floor with a howl of pain that echoes off the walls.
“Zach!” Xavier shouts in warning.
I spin just as another Reaper crashes through the side entrance. He raises his weapon, a 9mm with an extended magazine, but I’m faster, years of training taking over. Two shots. The impact lifts him slightly off his feet before he crumples without firing, his weapon clattering to the floor.
The third appears behind him, using his fallen brother as cover.
He manages to get off a shot that shatters equipment inches from my head, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
Glass and plastic fragments spray across my cheek, stinging like tiny knives.
I drop lower, adjust my aim, and fire twice more.
The first shot misses, the second finds its mark.
He falls forward, weapon sliding from lifeless fingers.
In the sudden silence, I hear only my own breathing and the quiet whimpers of the wounded nurse. The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs heavily in the air, mixing with the copper scent of blood. My ears ring slightly from the close-quarters gunfire.
I move carefully to check the downed Reapers. Two dead, one incapacitated and no longer a threat. The wounded one glares up at me, recognition dawning in his eyes as he sees my cut.
“You’re dead,” he spits, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “All of you. The whole fucking club.”
I press my boot against his wounded shoulder, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. “Wrong answer,” I say quietly. “Your club made a mistake coming here. A fatal one.”