Stronger people than him had been killed in this war, and this was not a battle—it was a slaughter.
I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt another person.
Plus, I didn’t have the time to search for him in the forest. Every second was precious.
Before I could think, before I could panic, before I could remember I wasn’t a soldier, before I could change my mind, I grabbed my crutches and slammed my hand down on the second RJE device I’d grabbed.
Yet again, time and space warped.
Crack.
I was in a musty brick corridor that reeked of death. Rotting gore was splattered everywhere.
Gagging, I slammed my crutch against the brick floor. It sounded solid.
Ignoring the leftover substances from an old battle, I lowered myself down awkwardly and pressed my ear to the floor.
I distantly heard the muffled sounds of war.
Patting my pocket to make sure I had what I needed, once again, I didn’t give myself time to think about what I was doing.
I started to use my crutches to move forward, then stopped.
Looking down at the rubble, I awkwardly bent down and picked up a jagged piece of broken brick. I pulled my pants up and sliced it deep across my leg.
Then, as fast as I could, I crutched into the darkness.
Toward the screams.
Chapter 53
Aran
THE TRUTH IS SPILLED
Makebate （noun）： one that excites contentions or quarrels.
DAY 36, HOUR 4
It was the underside of the e as it was carved into my back.
It was the fiftieth mile of what was supposed to be a forty-mile run—legs pumping furiously, lungs rattling for relief—as Lothaire screamed at us to run faster or we’d do another lap.
It was hour three of being set aflame by Mother.
I suffocated.
Persisted.
Drowned in a melee of screams.
I hallucinated that Lothaire stood off to the side, watching the battle. “You’re my daughter,” he said proudly. “You’re powerful, I know it.”
“I’m your daughter. I’m strong,” I whispered as I swung, hoping if I said it aloud, I’d believe it.
Blood splattered across my face, and I barely noticed the warm fluid. Green gore sprayed from carapace shells as I mercilessly sliced them to pieces. A woman screamed in my face as she died.
Despite it all, the haze hadn’t swallowed me.
The world flashed in vibrant colors, and time moved at its usual speed. Terror for my best friend replaced any emptiness I might have once felt. My necklace and bracelet pulsed.
I dodged a pincer, then sliced off the ungodly’s head.
Sweat poured down my face, and the oppressive warmth kept my fingers clammy. There was no ice.
I kept my back pressed against Sadie’s unconscious form.
The corner provided cover.
It was the only upper hand I had.
I stabbed an infected through the heart, turned and disemboweled another, then sliced through the heads of both ungodly as they ripped free.
They fell in pieces before they could rise to their full height.
Death himself hadn’t wrapped his cloak around my shoulders. Not yet. I existed in the in-between: a land of fortitude and intrusive thoughts.
It was just me, the battle, and the familiar out-of-breath, winded, barely alive feeling.
My arms prickled with numbness.
Hours of blocking heaving blows and swinging my sword were taking their toll. My fingers were cramped around the hilt. I couldn’t remove them even if I wanted to.
Terror for Sadie, who was slumped helplessly against the wall behind me, had me repeating a stream of expletives to myself.
She should have woken up by now.
But I’d had to do it.
She’d been losing a significant amount of blood and had been in danger of permanently harming herself from exhaustion.
The mental war raged as I refused to give in to the exhaustion.
The physical war persisted.
Life was intolerable torment, and anyone who thought otherwise had never stood over their closest friend and swung a sword as they held back a room full of mindless monsters.
Time marched forward as I sliced and blocked.
A large middle-aged male infected slammed his enchanted sword down with so much force that my right arm went completely numb.
I felt nothing.
I couldn’t move my shoulder or forearm.
Slamming my foot into the man’s knee, I used my left hand to rip the hilt out of my unmoving fingers and rammed the blade through his stomach.
Right arm useless at my side, I resumed fighting with my left. I wasn’t fully ambidextrous, but my nondominant hand was sufficient.
Sufficient was enough.
It had to be.
For Sadie.