Chosen

Chapter 42

"NOOO!" I scream, charging at Crane. Before I can take two steps, he has the gun trained on me once again. I stop and raise my hands in the air. West groans behind me. "Don't do this," I say, barely controlling the tremors in my voice.

Crane sneers triumphantly. "It's already done." He touches the trigger.

I remember my father teaching me about how guns work when I was about eight years old. He showed me a diagram of a revolver, pointing out the barrel, the trigger, the bullet chamber. The gun in the diagram could carry six bullets. It looks a lot like the one Crane has in his hand now.

Click.

His mouth drops open in surprise. Before he can do anything else, I'm charging him again. I have to get rid of the gun. I have no idea if he has more bullets or not. This time I leap and manage to tackle him to the ground. The gun skitters across the floor, just out of our reach. Crane is bodily attempting to shove me off of him. With almost a foot in height and a hundred pounds on me, I don't stand a chance for long.

Without thinking, I shove his face with my hand and use him to propel myself toward the gun. My fingers scrabble to find purchase on the cool metal. Crane tries to grab it too, fumbling blindly from my forcing his head in the other direction. After several seconds of fighting, I finally get a grip on the gun near the back of the barrel. Crane digs his fingers into my my arm to try to get me to drop the gun and I cry out as his nails pierce my skin. Reflexively, I bring my hand down, smashing the gun into Crane's temple.

He goes still. Blood trickles down the side of his face and drips on the floor. I scramble back, horrified. Did I just kill my father?

"He's still—breathing...he's just...out cold," West's pained murmur comes from behind me.

"Oh my gosh, West!" I shriek and crawl over to him. I can't believe I was so singularly focused on Crane that I didn't check on him right away. Then again, he was pointing a gun at my head.

West is sitting on the floor against the wall, gripping his right shoulder. His face is white, his right arm draped uselessly at his side. Blood has blossomed on his shirt and pooled on the floor. "What do I do?" I sob, finally breaking. "You can't die on me, I couldn't take it!"

"Shh, it's okay. I'm going to make it," West says in a would-be soothing voice, except it's rough from his labored breathing. "Listen I'm going to need your help, okay?"

I drag the heels of my hands through my tears. "What do I do?"

"The bullet went all the way through. You'll need to pack something in to stop the bleeding on both sides," West grits his teeth. I look around for something to use as a bandage, but there's nothing on hand. "Use my shirt," he offers.

I bite my lip. "Are you sure?" After he nods, I help him lean forward so I can pull his shirt over his head. By the time I get it off, his face is a few shades paler than before. Using the holes torn by the bullet, I rip a few sizable pieces of the sleeve off. I try to ball them up a little and press them into the wounds on both sides of his shoulder. West can't help the groan that escapes when I try to poke the fabric into his shoulder with my fingers. "I'm going to have to tie them on somehow," I tell him, my voice shaky. It looks like he's lost a lot of blood already.

"Yes," West shudders, and he looks like he's starting have trouble focusing. "Loop some fabric under my left arm and over my right shoulder, then around my right arm. Tie it as tight as you can to keep the pressure on."

"Okay," I say uncertainly. After a brief struggle with the shirt, I manage to tear more strips off and knot them together. "Ready?" I ask him. He nods in reply, and I start to loop it around his body.