"―make a run for it."
Thomas shook his head, realizing that Minho had been talking. Daggers of pain shot through his skull, but he focused.
"There's only about a mile left," Minho continued. "These Cranks aren't so hard to fight after all. So let's―"
"Hey!"
The shout came from behind Thomas, loud and screechy, filled with more than a hint of lunacy. Thomas spun around to see Blondie standing down on the bottom step, by the open door, his arm extended. His white-knuckled fingers held the gun, surprisingly steady and calm. It was pointed directly at Thomas.
Before anyone could move he fired, an explosion that rocked the narrow alley with a thunderous boom.
Pure pain ripped through Thomas's left shoulder.
CHAPTER 40
The impact knocked Thomas back, spinning him around so that he fell flat on his face, smacking his nose on the ground. Somehow, through the pain and muffled buzz in his ears, he heard the gun fire again, then the sound of grunts and punches, followed by metal clacking across the cement.
He rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where he'd been shot; he searched for the courage to look at the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that Blondie had been tackled to the ground. Someone was punching the living crap out of him.
Minho.
Thomas finally gazed down at the damage. What he saw there made his heart double its pace.
A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he'd thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this was like three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And spreading through the rest of his body.
Newt was at his side, looking down with worried eyes.
"He shot me." It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things he'd ever said. The pain, like living metal staples running through his insides, pricking and scratching with their little sharp points. He felt his mind going dark for the second time that day.
Someone handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it tightly against Thomas's wound. This sent another wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring how wimpy he sounded. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before. The world around him faded another few degrees.
Pass out, he urged himself. Please pass out, make it go away.
Voices came from a distance again, just like his own had on the dance floor after being drugged.
"I can get that sucker out of him." This was Jorge, of all people. "But I'll need a fire."
"We can't do this here." Was that Newt?
"Let's get out of this shuck city." Definitely Minho.
"All right. Help me carry him." No idea.
Hands gripping him from underneath, grasping his legs. The pain. Someone saying something about the count of three. The pain. It really, really hurt. One. The pain. Two. Ouch. Three!
He rose toward the sky, and the pain exploded anew, fresh and raw.
Then his wish to pass out came true and darkness washed his troubles away.
He awoke, his mind a haze.
Light blinded him; he couldn't open his eyes all the way. His whole body jostled and bumped, hands still holding him tight. He heard the sounds of breathing, heavy and fast. Feet pounding on pavement. Someone shouting, though he couldn't understand the words. In the distance, the mad screams of Cranks. Close enough that they might be pursuing.
Heat. The air was burning hot.
His shoulder, on fire. Pain tore through him like a series of toxic explosions, and he fled to the darkness once again.
He cracked his eyes.
This time the light was much less intense. The golden gleam of twilight. He lay on his back, the ground beneath him hard. A rock dug into his lower back, but it felt heavenly compared to the rot in his shoulder. People lumbered about him, talking in short and tight whispers.
The cackle of Cranks had grown more distant. He saw nothing but sky above him, no buildings. Pain in his shoulder. Oh, the pain.
A fire licked and spit somewhere close. He felt the heat wafting across his body, hot wind through hot air.
Someone said, "You better hold him down. Legs and arms."
Though his mind still floated in fog, those words didn't sound good.
A flash of light on silver in his vision, the fading sun's reflection on ... a knife? Was it glowing red?
"This is gonna hurt somethin' awful." No idea who said it.
He heard the hiss right before a billion pounds of dy***ite exploded in his shoulder.
His mind said goodbye for the third time.
He sensed that a long spell of time had passed this go-around. When he opened his eyes again, stars like pinpricks of daylight shone down from the dark sky. Someone held his hand. He tried to turn his head to look over, but it sent a fresh wave of agony shooting down his spine.
He didn't need to see. It was Brenda.
Who else would it be? Plus, the hand was soft and small. Brenda for sure.
The intense pain of before had been replaced. In some ways, he now felt worse. Something like an illness crept through the inner workings of his body. A gnawing, itching filthiness. Something foul, like maggots squirming through his veins and the hollows of his bones and between his muscles. Eating away at him.
It hurt, but now it was more of an ache. Deep and raw. His stomach, gurgly and unstable, fire in his veins.
He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure of it. Something was wrong.
The word infection popped up in his mind, then stayed there.
He drifted off.
The sunrise woke Thomas in the morning. The first thing he realized was that Brenda no longer held his hand. Then he noticed the cool air of early morning on his skin, which gave him the briefest moment of pleasure.