THE FÜHRER'S DAUGHTER

THE FÜHRER'S DAUGHTER (Episode 2 ) - Chapters 3, 4, 5

They went through dark alleyways in an unpopulated industrial district Grace had never seen in her life.

The monotonous beat of wiper blades lulled her into a daze. She might have fallen asleep, if not for the horrid images of Mother struggling with the man she once called Father over a gun, Mother lying on the ground, her eyes staring at her like those of the corpses in those photos she wasn’t supposed to see and were now putting her life in danger.

Unable to contain herself, she began sobbing uncontrollably.

Miles reached over and put his arm around her shoulders. “There now, child. You go ahead and let it all out. I’m so sorry about your Momma.”

There just weren’t any words.

Her entire life as she’d known it was suddenly a distant memory—as if she’d awoken from a pleasant dream to the horrors of reality.

She felt a slight trembling, but it wasn’t because she was cold. No, Miles had been keeping her warm with his arm around her.

It was Miles who was shivering.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

Glancing up, she could now see that he was shaking feverishly.

“Feeling a little cold.” He lifted his arm and removed his black servant’s jacket to examine his left arm. A deep red stain soaked the sleeve. “I do believe I’ve been shot.”

Jack turned around quickly, then set his eyes back on the road. “How bad?”

 “Got some nice bleeding going on.” Miles strained, but managed a valiant chuckle. “But it went clean though. Just a flesh wound. Maybe an artery, I’m not sure.”

Jack let out a whoop. “First blood, brother! Welcome back to the resistance!” He held up his hand.

With his good arm, Mile stretched his palm out to slap his friend’s.

Grace blinked incredulously. “Wait, you’re rebels?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jack said, a wide smile smugly stretching across his ruffian countenance. As they continued down the road, the path became straight, the violent turns had stopped.

Good.

Miles groaned as he ripped the sleeve off of his jacket and handed it to Grace.

“Would you be so kind as to help me tie this around my arm?”

 “A tourniquet? I can do that.” Grace wrapped the fabric up at the spot Miles pointed to—above the wound.