Chapter 16 #4
Time distorts again, and I see a shape moving in slow-motion, see a muzzle flaring bright yellow, hear a snap-snap-snap of rounds whickering past my ear.
I see what I assume must be Killian's pistol firing—spark, spark, spark.
The muzzle flare rakes skyward. I fire again at the space a foot to the right, hear a thud as a body hits concrete.
And again, my world detonates in a barrage of noise and pain.
I see the muzzle flash in a starburst that leaves afterimages in my eyes.
I fire, but it's too late. Fists crash into my chest and stomach—onetwothreefour.
The force of the impacts sends me flying backward, and darkness rolls over me as the sudden and crushing lack of oxygen squeezes my consciousness to a dwindling pinpoint.
My finger does its own thing, and the rifle bucks, flies out of my hands.
My pistol digs into my back; I fight weakness, fight the onrushing nothingness, grasp the hard, skin-warm handle.
One-handed, I fire, half-blinded and desperate, hear a curse—or what I assume is a curse in another language, judging by the tone.
CRACK!
Once again, the report comes after the impact, and then there’s a moment of numb nothing.
Fuck.
Something hot and wet spreads over my stomach, low, down near my hip. I don't feel pain, exactly—it's just heat and a weird kind of pressure…
I scream through gritted teeth as a sudden wave of excruciating agony washes over me all at once—it's a mass of pain, not pinpoints, although the worst of it is centered on that point of spreading hot wetness low on my left side.
I hear a crack.
Another, closer.
And then…the weird, ringing silence of tinnitus as the gunfire ceases all at once.
Darkness rises in me, but I fight it. "Killy?” It's a ragged whisper.
"Hey, hey." His voice is tense and tight and harsh with pain, and right above me. "Story?"
"Kill…"
Something hits my foot, and the jostling sends a sharp bolt of agony through what I know, even in my nearly-unconscious state, are multiple broken ribs. My scream is loud and involuntary, and causes yet more pain.
"Fuck, sorry." A hand pats my shin, my knee, my thigh…the wet spot just below the bottom of my vest. "Fuck, fuck! You're hit!”
"You?" I ask. "Hit?"
“Took another one, but it's just a crease through my bicep. I'll be fine." I hear him grunt as he lowers himself next to me. "You hit anywhere else?"
"Vest," I manage. “Bad.”
"Let's get this off," he says, fumbling in the now-silent dark to find the closures of the body armor.
"W-we—we w-won?" I ask, shock hitting me now, making me stammer as my teeth start to chatter.
"Yeah, honey. We did." He finds the Velcro and rips it open, and then gently shifts the vest off—which rips another guttural scream from me. "Fuck, babe. You're in rough shape."
His hands gingerly probe my torso. "Just the one bleeder. Ribs?"
“Fucked.”
“Goddammit.” A pause as he works the backpack out from under me, finds the gauze by feel, and presses a wad of it to my wound. "You were supposed to fucking go, Story, goddammit. Go, as in escape this shit.”
Panting through a wave of agony, I grab his hand and squeeze through the pain, pressing the bandage to myself with the other. "You…you really think I'd…I'd leave you? In the-the middle of a gunfight? Bleeding?"
"You said you would."
"I tried. C-couldn't."
"And now look."
"Both…alive." I cough, and it fucking hurts. "Time?"
He turns my wrist—my watch is down to its last 1% of battery, the numerals glowing a dull red, the battery ring down to a tiny sliver. "Eleven-fifty."
"Ferry," I hiss. "Go."
"Not without you, dumbass."
I groan in irritation. "Go get him, dumbass."
"And leave you here?"
"Yes."
"Fuck no."
"Won't…won't make it in time. With me."
"Story—"
"Be for nothing. If—if you don't go meet your—your dealer buddy." Another wave of pain washes over me, and I scream again, or try to, at least, through the sharp slice of shattered ribs. "Go. Now."
With a long series of curses consisting of a good half-dozen variations of "fuck," Killian pushes to his feet. I hear the sound of a magazine being swapped, and then he puts a pistol in my hands. "Here."
I gesture with it. "Pull me over there. By the tire."
It's a slow process since he's hurt, too, but he gets me over to a trailer, propped up with my back to the massive dual wheel. The chrome center of the wheel is still warm from the day's blazing heat.
"Story, I—"
"I love you too. Now fucking go," I snap. "Gotta get off this island."
"Stay awake."
“Yeah."
"You're a badass, y'know that?"
His praise means more to me than I can handle at the moment, and I can't find an answer. "Go," I repeat. "Hurry."
I hear him lope off in a shambling, limping, shuffling run, and his shadow dissipates into the darkness.
I'm alone.
The silence is thick and profound.
Staying awake proves nearly impossible, which is a serious goddamned problem. I fight the black of unconsciousness for as long as I can, reciting titration tables, listing every medication I know and their possible side effects. I picture Killian with his mouth between my thighs.
I imagine us alone on a beach somewhere, naked and gasping together.
But in the end, the darkness wins.