“Shit. Shit. Fucking…okay. Okay.” Abandoning Falco feels wrong but with no other choice, I force myself to pick up his gun andstumble out into the hall. At the far end near the living room, two bodies lay motionless on the floor.
My heart pounds so fast that I can barely feel it.
Each step is like I’m fighting for control over my own body.
As the hallway remains empty, I grow more confident and, in a surge of strength, sprint into Falco’s room.
His rucksacks sit in a pile near the window, so I grab the first one.
Just clothes.
The second has more guns and boxes of ammo than I can count, so I upend it onto the bed and watch them all pour and clatter onto the sheets.
“Shotgun,” I mutter, panting. “Shotgun… aha!”
Snatching up the green box, I sprint back to my room and trip over myself, landing hard on my knees next to Falco’s body. “I’m here!” I yell at the phone. “I’m here. Tell me what do I do?”
“Listen to me carefully, Aerin,” says Pidge as my hands return to Falco’s abdomen. “You need to crack open the shells and pour the gunpowder in Falco’s wound.”
“What?”
“I told you it would be messy and dirty, but it’s the only way. From the look of the amount of blood, we need to cauterize the wound as quickly as we can. It’s an old army trick. You need to pour it in his wound then light it.”
“Will that work?”
“Sure.”
Pidge’s reply is too casual. “Tell me the truth!” I yell as I throw my weight behind stemming the blood flow with my hands.
“If the wound is too deep or it tore something important then it won’t work and he’ll bleed out internally. But there’s a chance that hasn’t happened, which means this will stop him bleeding out until he gets real help.”
“Oh god. OhgodI hate my life. I hate my life so fucking much!” Setting the phone down, it takes several long seconds for my blood-soaked fingers to open the shotgun shell box. They scatter to the floor around me, tinkling against the wood. “How do I even open one of these?”
“Pliers,” comes Pidge’s distant voice from the phone. “Or pressure. Anything that will pop the cap off the end. Then to light it, you’ll need a flame of some kind. You can do this, Aerin. I know you can.”
I can do this.
I repeat it over and over as I slam the butt of Falco’s handgun down on the end of the shotgun shells, over and over again. Every ounce of panic and fear I feel floods through me, fueling my strength until finally one of the metal caps pops off the end of the shell.
“I got it!”
“Good, now pour it into the—” Pidge’s voice cuts off. My eyes snap to my phone where the dead battery symbol flashes once, and the screen goes black.
“Oh my fuck…” This is actual hell. It has to be. There’s no way this is my real life.
With trembling hands, I tip the shell and pour the gunpowder over the bleeding wound on Falco’s abdomen, half expecting him to wake up because there’s no way this is pain-free.
He doesn’t move.
Not even a sound.
“Light it,” I repeat, glancing around the room. “With what? What do I light it with?” Cursing my lack of planning, I desperately scan the room and then surge to my feet. “Stay there!”
I sprint out of the room and down the hall, then slam into the room my parents usually sleep in when they stay here. My mom used to be obsessed with candles, which means there has to be a lighter around here somewhere.
Each second I spend tearing through drawers and cupboards is a second too long away from Falco, and fear grips my heart like my ribs have turned into claws and are squeezing down against every painful heartbeat.
Finally, a lighter skitters across the bottom of a bathroom drawer. I snatch it up and sprint back to my room, tripping over myself in my hurry.
