He laughs, a wet sound that ends in coughing.“You’re all dead anyway.Riggs is going to burn this place to the ground.”
The name confirms my fears.The Reapers’ president has come personally for this attack.Which means this isn’t just about territory, it’s about annihilation.
A crash from the main room pulls my attention.More gunfire, shouts, the distinctive sound of Zach’s voice calling orders.He’s alive.The relief nearly causes my knees to buckle.
I need to get back to him, but I can’t leave an enemy combatant behind me, even a wounded one.Medical ethics war with survival instincts once again as I look at the bleeding man.The doctor in me wants to help, to stop the bleeding.Meanwhile, the man fighting for his life, for Zach’s life, knows better.
“On your stomach,” I order, stepping closer.“Hands where I can see them.”
Surprisingly, he complies, though the movement costs him.I quickly check him for additional weapons, finding a knife in his boot that I kick away.Using zip ties I spot on the counter left from someone’s kitchen project, I secure his hands behind his back.
“This doesn’t have to be fatal,” I tell him, medical training asserting itself despite everything.“But you’ll bleed out if the bullet nicked an artery.”
“Fuck you,” he manages, but there’s less heat behind it now, pain and blood loss taking their toll.
I grab a clean dish towel, pressing it against the wound.“Apply pressure,” I instruct, guiding his bound hands to hold it in place.“And don’t move.”
He stares at me with confusion.“Why would you help me?”
“Because I’m a doctor,” I reply simply.“And because I’m not like you.”
Leaving him secured, I move back toward the main room, staying low as I assess the situation.The initial chaos has evolved into a more organized defense.Club members have established firing positions, working in coordinated pairs to push back the invaders.But the Reapers keep coming, using the smoke and confusion to press their advantage.
I spot Greyson behind an overturned table, blood still streaming down his face as he reloads.Without thinking, I hurry to his side, dropping into cover beside him.
“What the hell are you doing down here?”he demands, though there’s no real anger in his voice, just concern.
“Helping,” I reply, gesturing to his head wound.“You’re bleeding pretty badly.”
He waves off my concern.“Just a graze.Where’s Zach?”
“I was hoping you knew,” I admit, anxiety tightening my chest again.“I haven’t seen him since he left our room.”
* * *
Zach
I slam my combat knife into the throat of the Reaper charging at me, feeling the blade slice through skin, muscle, and cartilage with precision.Hot blood sprays across my face, metallic and warm, as I twist and yank the blade free.The gurgling sound as he drops tells me everything I need to know: he’s dead in seconds.
Three more Reapers converge on me, their faces contorted with a mixture of hatred and fear.Good.They should be afraid.
“Slaughter!”one of them screams, raising his gun with hands that shake just enough to notice.
I’m already moving before his finger finds the trigger.My pistol feels like an extension of my arm as I squeeze off two shots in rapid succession.The first catches him in his chest, punching through his cut and into vital organs beneath.He stumbles backward, eyes wide with surprise as he looks down at the spreading crimson stain blooming across his chest.His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water before he collapses in a heap of leather and blood.
The remaining two split up, trying to flank me, a smart move if they were facing anyone else.The one on my left is older, more experienced, moving with purpose rather than panic.The other is younger, wilder, adrenaline making him sloppy as he circles behind.
I drop to one knee, pivoting to fire at the experienced one.My bullet catches him in the meaty part of his thigh, tearing through muscle with a wetthunk.He howls, stumbling but still advancing, determination overriding pain.Admirable, but futile.
The whistle of a blade slicing through air behind me sends prickles racing up my spine.I roll left, feeling the wind of the near miss as steel parts the air where my head was a heartbeat before.The younger Reaper’s momentum carries him forward, off-balance from the missed strike.
I come up with my knife in my left hand, gun in my right, muscles singing with the familiar dance of combat.Blood pounds in my ears, time slowing to that familiar crawl that happens when your body understands it’s fighting for survival.Every detail sharpens: the sweat beading on the younger Reaper’s upper lip, the slight hitch in the wounded one’s step, the copper tang of blood filling my nostrils.
“Come on, motherfuckers,” I growl, baring my teeth in what might be a smile but feels more like a snarl.“Let’s finish this.”
The wounded one fires wildly, desperation making him careless.Bullets splinter the wood beside my head, showering me with fragments that sting my cheek.I return fire with mechanical precision, the recoil traveling up my arm as I squeeze the trigger twice.First shot catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around.The second finds his neck, opening his throat in a spray of arterial red.He goes down hard, body thrashing as his life pumps out onto the floor in rhythmic spurts.
The younger one charges with a roar that’s more fear than courage, swinging a machete in a wide, telegraphed arc.I sidestep easily, letting his momentum carry him past me, then drive my knife deep between his ribs.The blade slides in with surprising ease, finding the space between bones as if guided by some higher power.He gasps, a short, shocked sound, as his weapon clatters to the floor.I twist the knife, feeling tissue tear and organs rupture as I yank him close, our faces inches apart.
