Marionette (A 'The 5th Wave' Fanfiction) [COMPLETED] #wattys2017

39. Silver and Blood; Chapter II.

    I cover my ears. The sound is high-pitched and ripping through the air like a hurricane. What the hell is Ben doing?

    Then a few buildings blow up, exploding in green smoke. I stare in horror as recruits pour from all sides of the curt.

    I've taken too long.

    I speed off to the safe place. More bombs go off and I'm sure they're getting closer. One was close enough to launch some plank at me and nealry jam my hand right off. I hardly pay it attention.

    The whole place looks like a minefield someone threw a pebble at, setting it off. Recruits are screaming and a few officers are barking precautionary orders. Most of them are nowhere to be seen.

    I fall to my knees and yank open the door that leads to the safe place. It's heavy and I narrowly miss a gunshot. What the hell?

    Taking all the steps would take too long so I jump onto about the sixth step. An officer yells at me (“What the fuck are you doing?!”) but I ignore him and keep running. Recruits are fleeing in the opposite direction and the sick feeling in my gut increases. Dammit.

    I sprint down the narrow staircase lit by red lights, meaning we'll be going into full-on lockdown mode.

    A maze of halls spreads out before me and I must make quick decisions. I recognize the turns and I'm glad—training is actually paying off for once.

    The hall stretches out and I fly right and left, all the while making sure I don't fly into a wall or trip over my own feet. That wouldn't be very heroic.

    I'm not in training gear and I'm limited to a simple pocket knife and pistol. I keep them both tightly clutched in my fist.

    Four more turns should do it. My destination is so close.

    Suddenly there's a small poof! and a sharp burning pain closes in and all over my knee. I mentally scold myself. How didn't I notice I was being followed?

    I scream and fall, instinctively strerching my hands out before me. Luck isn't on my side. Before the impact of the landing the pocket knife springs open and it pushes through my hand, knocking my rifle out of reach.

    I can hear and feel the bones breaking and snapping, and neither is pleasant. The tip of the blade is poking out. The sight makes my stomach churn. Blood is already seeping around the hole.

    With a sickening snap I pull out the blade and throw it far across the tunnel. I scream in agony. Imagine a flaming knife going through your hand, and as if inpaling it wasn't enough, someone decides to pull it in and out, sometimes turn it around. Yeah. It's that bad.

    I tilt my head to see some girl with short strawberry blonde hair aiming a semi automatic at me. She's wearing a soldier's uniform, but I doubt she's from here—her legs are slightly more apart than is appropriate and she's holding her rifle in a way I don't think I saw at camp yet. Reznik wouldn't let her live through that.

    I warily eye my pistol. It's a few feet away and I have no choice but to retrieve it. I thank the gods the bullet didn't hit my knee directly, just the area around it. With my bad hand I try to stop all the bleeding and with my good leg and hand I slowly push myself towards the pistol.

    The girl fires three more times—first misses entirely, second cuts through my good knee and third buries itself in my calf. I can feel the bone there being fractured and blown into pieces.

    I shriek in pain again. It's like I'm crawling on a carpet with machetes and darts flying at me. I'm left pulling myself by my one good arm. My fingertips merely brush the handle. Almost there, almost there . . .

    But she's faster. Swiftly (as in using both her legs) she comes infront of me, kicks the pistol away and stomps my good hand down with her combat boot.

     I scream.

   The rest happens in a blur of images. My left hand is under her foot and since I'm right-handed I shove it infront of my face, punctured-or-not. She fires.

    The bullet rips another hole in my hand and scratches the skin above my eyebrow. I stay quiet. It's agony. The kind of suffering that makes you want to say ️️‘Just kill me already. Please.’ I can't go there, though. I must join Ben.

    When I'm certain my face is covered in enough blood I let my hand drop limp next to my head. I hold in my breath. I must look dead. She won't leave me otherwise.

    I dare not move a muscle until her footsteps echo down the corridor and become inaudible. In the background I can make out the explosions from the bombs. Sometimes the tunnel shakes and pieces of dirt or ceiling fall on me.

    I try to lean a bit so I can stand but with blood in your eyes, nose, mouth, ears, legs—it proves to be challenging.

    I wipe my eyes with my jacket's forearm and spit some of the blood out of my mouth. Disgusting.

    I quickly conclude standing is not an option. Just sitting upright feels like fifty hammers are slamming into me from every side.

    I push myself along the wall. Slowly, very slowly. In my tempo I actually retrieve my rifle and use it to support myself. Well, shove myself a few inches firther with its help is a better way to put it.

     Red and black dots are dancing infront of my eyes and the world around me is taking on strange and unnatural shapes. It's light, then dark, then blurry, then spinning.

    I'm leaving a sleek trail of blood behind me as I move along the wall. No matter what I have to get to the safe place. I have to rejoin with Ben.

    The blood loss is starting to get to me. Everyone thinks losing your consciousness comes suddenly without warning. They're wrong. I know I'm going down. Hell, maybe I'm dying. It can't be healthy to leave so much blood behind you. It's only a matter of seconds.

    And I'm right, of course. My thoughts and actions are slipping away as if not under my control any longer.

    I see a silhouette—fairly similar to Ben's—running towards me, but I don't stay awake to see what happens next. I'm coming to you, Pa.