Ash and Cinder

12| Maverick

My feet pound the grassy ground, my arms pumping. Blood cakes around my nose, but no longer pours out my nostrils. My right leg protests with every step, but I don't dare stop because if I do, I might not start again.

The gate we came through is lost in a haze of dust and black smoke. We forego it and throw ourselves up the side of the ridge. I can hear Delilah causing an uproar in the camp. Sweat dampens my forehead and stings in the burn.

Almost there, come on!

Maverick is at my side, urging me on, his grip on my arm making sure I don't slip all the way back down to the bottom. Almost there. I repeat to myself, wiping the sweat from my forehead before it can drip into my eyes.

I see it before I hear it.

The glint of polished metal in the sun. The barrel of a gun pokes out from behind a tree up on the ledge. Then, a gunshot. And another, and another, and another, and another, all in rapid succession, until the rifle clicks empty. The distant sound of Maverick shouting pierces the cacophony.

Go home.

His words hit my ears, dull, like walls of glass separate me from him. Ethereal, too. But if the command is for me, I can't follow it. I brace for the impact, for agony, for death, because there's no way in hell every one of those shots missed.

The hit never comes.

The bushes rustle and stones go skittering down the incline as the sniper makes his escape. I look down, expecting to be riddled with bloody holes, but there's nothing there.

There should be blood by now.

And there is, flowing down the trampled bracken from uphill. I drag my gaze up, heartbeatless, to where Maverick stands stretched out and crooked. Eight bright flowers bloom on the front of his shirt, a ragged hole spills red from his neck.

Horror floods in, cold enough to burn. He didn't, that idiot. That stupid, psychic idiot.

"What did you do?" I choke out.

Red leaks out the corner of his trembling lips.

Sorry... Take care of them.

His words are whispery as his powers fade. As he fades. He sways, falls, I jolt forward to catch him. His dead weight crashes against my arms, toppling us both. It's sheer luck that keeps us from crashing down the steep hill.

"Don't you dare, don't you blazing dare die," I demand, it comes out more like a plea. I cradle him to the ground and press my hand to the wound on his neck to stop the flow of blood. Air rattles in his lungs, the bullet holes in his chest pour lifeblood freely onto the earth. No, please, please no.

His fingers find my elbow for the briefest of seconds, then he exhales, and his chest doesn't rise again.

"Come on, man," I say, tapping his cheek. "Get up, come on." But there's no answer. And there's no answer. And there's no answer. His hand falls away from my arm and when the pressure is gone, the realization finally hits home.

Maverick is dead.

I clutch him close. My teeth grind against a blinding, bone-shattering spasm. A scream dislodges and forces itself out. Screeching agony works through me. I swallow it. Drag in breath after breath. Lift Maverick. Red, red blood stains his shirt, his chin, my hands.

Up, over the edge of the ridge.

I have to get him out of here.

I have to.

I have to.

My legs buckle at the top of the ridge, the precarious hold I have on him with my one good arm slipping. Looking down, all I can see are the neon bright splashes of red marking the path from there to here. Even now, with my ears ringing too loud to think, there's a part of my brain telling me this won't work.

Think of Elle, the blood will lead them right to her. And the body, how am I supposed to show her that the only other person who cared for her died like this, torn to shreds and choking on his own blood?

I cradle him closer, he's already growing colder. I want to scream again. We were supposed to be free. Instead, I look to the sky, but even that offers no relief The blue blotted out by billows of oily smoke rising out of the camp.

There's a war raging below. Cracks of guns. Claps of thunder.

There's silence here. No breath, no movement, no future.