to look up at me. His face goes ashen when he sees my bloodied fingers. “Where?” he demands. “Where’d it hit you?”
I can’t get my balance. Ploy’s gripping me tight to his side. The hand he mashes against my ribs burns. I’m having trouble keeping my arm slung around his neck. He stumbles under my sudden weight and I realize I’ve fallen. “He’s coming. Jamison,” I cough, staggering to my feet. I wheeze in a deep gasp, but don’t feel like I’m getting any air. Collapsed lung, I think absently. “We’ve got to go.”
Stupid, I think. I should have let Ploy play the hero. I blink and must lose a few seconds because I’m staring down at dirty wooden floorboards, further below me than they should be. My arms hang, limp. They brush Ploy’s back as he carries me over his shoulder. I have to stay conscious. If I don’t, and I die, Ploy will leave me. He won’t know he can help me.
“Talk to me, Allie!”
I manage a moan.
“Hang on.” Frantic, stilted words. He’s afraid.
I’m scared too, terrified to blink again, in case my eyes won’t open. Tiles bounce and blur. The kitchen. Ploy flips me off him. I land hard on the floor, the bullet wound searing. The pain wakes me. “My messenger bag,” I say through gritted teeth as he adjusts me against the wall.
He brushes my hair back and I catch the first glimpse of his raw panic. “What do I do? Tell me what to do!”
I raise a leaden arm and grip the neck of his shirt. “You listen to me and you stay calm.” I dart my eyes down, grateful to find my messenger bag wrapped around me. Using the hold I have on him as leverage, I lean myself forward, off the wall. “Get my bag.”
He yanks it off me and starts to unzip it before I ask.
“Syringe.” My lungs rattle as I suck in air to form the words. “In the kit.” I cough hard. Wet, metallic tang fills my mouth, spills over my lips. I don’t have the strength to wipe it away. The bullet punctured a lung for sure. May have hit an artery. Heart. I don’t have much time.
While he’s digging through the bag, I drop my head to my shoulder, glance down at the wound. It’s too high up on my chest. I’ve got no chance. My blood will heal me, bring me back, but it’ll be too slow. I need foreign blood, something to jumpstart the process.
I need him.
He’d lost so much of his own blood when he was stabbed, my cells copying his until his volume was high enough for survival. He’s got a weird mix of the both of us running through his veins. It might be different enough to help me.
Ploy’s opened the box and unwrapped the plastic. He looks up at me expectantly.
“I’m dying,” I start but he cuts me off.
“No.” His fingers grip my cheeks. “You stay with me, Allie. What do I put in the syringe? Your blood?”
“Rubber tie. Your upper arm.” A person can lose about half their blood volume before remaining conscious becomes impossible. How close am I? The puddle under me is spreading. Internally, things have got to be even worse. I feel like I’m drowning. There’s no time. If I pass out before I can give him instructions, he won’t know what to do. “Fill the syringe.”
“Allie…”
I give my head a slight shake. He has to listen. He has to hear me and follow the directions exactly. “Your blood. Here,” I say, cringing as I lift my arm to point. “Between the fourth and fifth rib. Into my heart.”
“But I’m not—”
“You can do this, Ploy.” The closest I can get to reaching for him is uncurling my fingers. Still, his hand finds mine, our fingers slick. “Don’t leave me behind.”
He’s shaking his head when my eyes close.
“Don’t leave me,” I say. Death feels like floating. Then nothing.
Ploy
She’s breathing. Even over the sound of my own ragged breaths, I can hear the gurgling rattle that started a few minutes ago. Her head bobbles and I curl my arm tighter. My legs burn. My arms don’t; they’ve been numb for the past ten minutes, every muscle pulled. Allie’s deadweight. Her arm flops lifelessly to the side, but I know it’s not lifeless. Not anymore.
She lied to me. About everything.
The betrayal eats at me as I stumble through the woods. I’d asked her if I could bring people back, too,