"You were telling the truth," Ally breathes.
"That's what I said."
"There's a—a guy in your playhouse—"
Dylan's expression turns sour. "It's not a playhouse—"
"Who is he?" Ally interrupts. She looks at the man on the floor. "Who are you?"
"His name is Falcon," Dylan says happily, pointing. "Like the bird."
Falcon shifts, dragging himself back a few inches and then rests his head on the wall. His skin is pale. Sweat drips down his cheeks and neck and he reaches up to brush it aside, smearing blood everywhere.
"We need to call for help," Ally says fearfully as she stares open-mouthed at the blood.
"No," Dylan and Falcon say at the same time. Ally looks from one to the other.
"You're both insane!"
"Somebody wants him dead. Look, they shot him," Dylan waves a hand wildly in Falcon's direction. "Everywhere," he adds, stretching his mouth in a sudden grimace.
"That's exactly why we need to call for help—"
"You can help him!" Dylan grabs Ally by the arm and drags her closer. She resists, pulling away, and slips on the pool of blood. It's wider than ever—more blood than a human body should be able to lose.
"He should be dead," she mumbles, staring at the carnage. "How is he not dead?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Just listen to me, okay. He needs a hospital." She knows that look on Dylan's face. The stubborn little asshole has no intention of listening to her at all. "Didn't you say he tried to kill you?" she demands, hoping for some leverage.
Dylan nods—very slowly—and crosses his arms. "Yeah. So?"
"So? So?" Ally grabs Dylan's arm and drags him toward the door.
"Hey!"
"Shut up, idiot!" she snaps, pulling him through the door. It's lighter outside, and the air smells damp like morning. With Dylan outside, Ally pulls the door shut and turns on her brother with a look of pure exasperation. "You need to do what I say."
"Or what?"
"Or nothing, Dylan! This isn't some little game you're playing. This is someone's life on the line. Your life!"
"I'm alive," he retorts.
Ally sighs, pressing two fingers above her nose as a headache begins to knock along the base of her skull. "Look, if what you told me on the phone is true, then that guy is dangerous. Mom would kill me—and you—if he hurt either of us."
Dylan looks away, frowning deeply. "I shouldn't have told you that," he mumbles.
"What? Of course you should. What is wrong with you right now?"
"Nothing is wrong with me. What is wrong with you? You're supposed to be a nurse. Didn't you promise to help people? Isn't that what the hypnotic oath is for?"
"Hippocratic."
"I am not!"
"No," Ally shakes her head, trying not to laugh. Aside from this being the wrong time for hysterics, laughing would hurt her head more. "It's called the Hippocratic oath. The only oath I've made is to take care of your sorry butt when I'm home. And boy do I regret it."
"You don't have to take care of me. I'm just fine," Dylan says confidently. There's something about the look on his face that forces Alley to believe him. Somehow, after everything that has happened to him throughout the night, her brother really does seem okay. "Falcon is the one who needs your help."
"Falcon?" Ally repeats the name with a tilt of her head. "Is that, like, a last name or something?"
Dylan shrugs.
Ally sighs.
"I know it looks really bad, but can you at least try?" Dylan pleads.
Glancing up at the sky, Ally thinks about how much time has passed since her brother made that phone call. She hadn't believed his story about the dying man. Maybe if she had believed, they'd have more choices right now. But hours have gone by. It's a miracle that he isn't dead. A miracle, or something else. Whatever the opposite of a miracle is.
"Alright," she breathes, her hands already starting to shake. "I'll do what I can. But when I say hospital, we go to the hospital. No arguments. Got it?"
Dylan nods quickly, jittery and excited. He turns from Ally to open the door, the two of them slipping inside to face the impossible situation that awaits. It's dark in the fort and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. In the meantime, she turns to shut the door.
"Um...Ally," Dylan says softly, tugging on her arm.
"What is it?" she whispers, confused. Her eyes search the dark and land on the figure of the stranger—just a blur of shadows for a few seconds—until her eyes adjust. That's when she sees the man on his side, no longer moving.
"Is he...?" Dylan can't finish the question.
"I don't know," she answers, stepping around her brother to get closer. Crouching in the blood by his side, she checks Falcon for a pulse.
"Uh—be careful!" Dylan warns.
Ally ignores him, pressing her fingers against Falcon's neck. At first, she feels nothing. Her fingers press harder, deeper, and it's there. A pulse. Feather-light but present, nonetheless. "He's alive," she says, relieved.
Dylan sighs and smiles. "Cool," he says. "So...now what?"
"Now we make sure he stays that way," she answers, turning away from Falcon to the mess of supplies scattered all over the floor. "Did you raid mom's medicine cabinet for all of this?" she asks, surprised that there were so many bandages in their house. Unfortunately, it would take more than a few Band-Aids to save Falcon from bleeding to death.
"Yeah, but she won't notice. For a while," he adds sheepishly.
Ally turns around and stares at her brother, focused and no longer at odds with what she knows needs to happen next. "Do you think you could go back home and raid her sewing kit?"
Dylan swallows. "What for?"
"I'm going to make him a dress."
"What?"
Ally rolls her eyes. "To suture the gaping holes all over his body. Duh."
"Oh. Right. Su...uture..." Dylan chuckles awkwardly. "Um...so I guess you need a needle and some...some kind of string stuff?"
"It's called thread. Just grab mom's sewing basket, the matches on the mantel, and the bottle of vodka from the shelf in my closet."
"There's a bottle of vodka in your closet?"
"Just do it, moron," Ally snaps.
"Right, I'm going, I'm going," Dylan says, hurrying out the door.
Ally glances back down at Falcon, taking in the damp pallor of his skin. "Hurry, Dylan," she whispers, knowing in her heart that it's already too late.
Exhaustion creeps into Dylan's bones the moment his feet hit the front yard. Home. Bed. Warmth. He's so tired, so ready to catch up on sleep. Adrenaline kept him up all night but that can't keep him going forever. He'll need to rest at some point. Keep going, butthead, he tells himself, imagining Ally's voice in his head. She's counting on him. Falcon is counting on him. This is a lot of responsibility for a kid, he thinks as he grabs the matches from the fireplace and sticks them in his back pocket.
The sewing kit isn't hard to find. His mom keeps it in the garage next to the Christmas decorations. The little plastic container has a lid that's held on with a couple of rubber bands. As long as he doesn't drop it, everything should be fine.
The bottle of vodka is the last thing on the list. Dylan trudges up the stairs, no longer able to take them two-at-a-time. His legs are burning and weak. He's not even sure how he's going to make it back to Fort Death without at least a five-minute nap or something. Don't be stupid, Ally speaks to him again. You sleep, he dies.
You're so stupid, Ally thinks as she takes a blanket from the corner of the room and covers Falcon's body. He's not dead yet, but it's only a matter of time. With everything she knows about modern medicine, no one who has lost this much blood can survive. Even with an immediate match from a blood donor, the shock to his body would be too great. She didn't want to tell Dylan, but Ally knows there's nothing left to do but make him comfortable. It's likely he'll be gone before Dylan gets back. That's what she hopes, anyway. Her brother has had enough loss already. This whole thing was far more traumatic than anything a child should ever have to go through. If he was honest in everything that he told her, this man almost killed her brother. Aside from that fact—which was bad enough already—the stranger supposedly had people after him. Ally needed to know what the chances were of them catching up to Falcon, and of finding him here with her. Would she or her brother get in trouble for helping him? What if he was a criminal? The possibilities of danger were immeasurable at this time. Ally would need to know more about the stranger before she could properly assess how much trouble they were all in.
Unconscious, the stranger remains still as Ally lifts the blanket to search his clothes for pockets, hoping to find a wallet with an ID. He had to have some form of identification on him. Something that would give her a clue as to who he was and why he was in this condition. Hands shaking, she glides her fingers over his thighs. There is nothing—no pockets, and certainly no ID. Dropping the blanket back over him, she sighs in frustration and sits down outside the pool of blood. Glancing down, she realizes it's more of a stain now than a pool. Muted dripping noises tell her the ground underneath the fort is peppered with red droplets. Reaching out, she touches the stain furthest from Falcon. The wood, stained black in the dim light, is already dry.
The vodka is right where Ally said it would be, hidden behind some old stuffed animals and covered in a layer of dust. He blows on the label and sneezes on the way out of her bedroom. She hasn't been back in months—not since the last break. It was good to see her, especially since she had agreed to help him. He wonders if she will tell mom about all this, or if he can convince her to keep it a secret. The last person they need finding out about tonight is their mom. She won't get it, to say the least. And she'll be mad that he tried to help a crazy, gun-toting stranger instead of getting away and calling the police. His mom and Ally are a lot alike in that way. Both of them are way too practical for their own good. That's why life is always so boring for them. They never do anything for fun.
Vodka under one arm, sewing kit under the other, Dylan heads down the stairs. It would have been faster if Ally had given him a ride, but she hadn't suggested it and neither had he. Maybe she hadn't thought about it. It is probably easy to forget things after a shock like this. Finding a dying man in the middle of the woods can't be the most relaxing thing in the world. Definitely not the kind of thing someone wants to run across. Warning her hadn't seemed to make it any better, but that's probably because she didn't believe him. That was her fault though, not his. Dylan did exactly what he was supposed to do, what Falcon had needed him to do. Dylan just hoped it was going to be enough.
Adjusting the bottle of vodka, Dylan reaches for the door. He needs to hurry back. Falcon doesn't have much time, and Ally didn't seem super comfortable around him. What if she says something dumb and Falcon gets upset and...
Dylan pauses, suddenly nervous. Was Ally in danger? He hadn't thought about Falcon being a threat to her in his condition. But, if he didn't die, would he hurt her?
A new sense of urgency arises in him as he yanks open the front door and bolts across the yard. Behind him, a car pulls into the driveway. Curious, he glances over his shoulder. It's his mother's car. She's staring at him through the passenger side window, eyebrows raised. Dylan swallows hard before turning around and making a beeline for the woods, refusing to explain anything. It would take too long, and time is already running out.
Ally sits with her head braced against her arms, refusing to look up. Falcon hasn't moved since Dylan left. She's not even sure he's still breathing and she's kind of afraid to check. Letting out a sigh, she forces her body to move, sliding close enough to reach the blanket and lift it one more time, viewing the bandages by the morning sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the walls. They're completely soaked through, and oozing. How? She shakes her head, totally confused. How does he have any blood left to bleed?
Panting, followed by footsteps up the stairs, alert her to Dylan's presence. She looks up as he shoves open the door and enters with the vodka and sewing kit in his hands. "I got them," he wheezes, handing them to her before collapsing in the corner.
"Great," Ally says, realizing she'll have to check Falcon for a pulse before she bothers threading the needle.
"Is...he...okay?" Dylan asks, breathing heavily. The collar of his shirt is soaked with sweat.
"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" Ally asks, trying to distract him as she pushes her fingers against Falcon's artery and feels for a pulse. There it is, weaker than ever, but still present. "No way," she shakes her head.
"What? What is it?" Dylan leans forward, voice strained with worry.
"Nothing. He's still alive, that's all."
"Weren't you checking on him while I was gone?" his tone is accusatory.
Ally opens her mouth to answer but can't find the words.
"What are you waiting for?" Dylan demands. "Help him."
"Alright," Ally snaps, annoyed that he is giving her orders. "Who made you king, anyways?" she mumbles, opening the sewing kit and searching for the needle.
Something begins buzzing in her back pocket.
Dylan stares at the top of the screen peeking out from her jeans. "Did you call someone?" he asks, both angry and afraid.
"No," Ally snaps. "Maybe I should have," she mumbles, pulling out the phone. She looks up from the screen at Dylan. "It's mom," she says.
"Shit," Dylan breathes, eyes widening.
"We should tell her what's going on," Ally insists, her thumb hovering over the answer button.
"No! You can't!" Dylan lunges forward and grabs the phone out of her hands, hanging up the call.
"Dylan!"
"You promised to help!"
"I am helping!"
"No, you're trying to push him off onto mom. Mom can't help him, she's not a doctor."
"I'm not a doctor!" Ally exclaims.
"A nurse, whatever," he corrects.
"I'm not a nurse either," Ally tells him, grabbing at her phone. He holds it out of reach.
"Almost a nurse," he says, maneuvering away from her.
"No, you don't—just give me the phone!" Ally grabs Dylan's shirt, pulling him closer. They wrestle for the cellphone before she manages to hit it out of his hand. It skitters across the wood floor to the wall near the extension cord, wedging itself between either side of the hole in the wall. "Great," Ally mutters, crawling forward to get it. Dylan moves faster, shoving the phone through the hole with the heel of his hand. "Dylan, you idiot!"
"Ally!" he points behind her.
Ally turns. The blanket is in a ball in the middle of the dried blood, the stranger no longer beneath it. She swivels around further, seeing only a blur of movement before there is a hand around her neck. Falcon's face is inches away, his eyes cold and empty.
"What th—" she chokes, words cut off as his hand tightens.
"No Falcon!" Dylan cries, scrambling forward to put his hand on the man's arm. Ally watches, tears welling in her eyes, terrified for herself and her brother. She would tell him to stay back if she could, but Falcon's tight grip prevents her from speaking. Air becomes scarce and she begins to see shadows at the edge of her vision.
"Danger," Falcon growls through gritted teeth.
"There's no danger!" Dylan insists, pulling hard at the man's arm.
Falcon turns his icy gaze on Dylan, his expression shifting into confusion. "Hostile," he squeezes Ally's throat tighter as he says the word.
"No, no she's not—wasn't—we were—she's my sister!" Dylan's voice squeaks and shatters, sobs eking out before he can say anything else. "Please, please don't hurt her! Don't hurt my sister!"
Ally sucks in the deepest breath of her life as Falcon releases her throat. She coughs, dropping to the floor. Consciousness was fading, and it takes a moment for the room to stop spinning. When it does, she finds Dylan crouched in front of the stranger, both hands on the man's arms, holding him back. Falcon is still watching her, empty eyes promising violence if she makes one wrong move.
"Dylan," she chokes. "Get away from him!"
"It's okay, Ally," Dylan glances over his shoulder at her, forcing a calm expression to cover up the fear she hears in his voice. "He won't hurt you again. He just doesn't understand."
"U-understand?" she repeats, pushing herself onto her knees. "Understand what?"
"Us," Dylan says and backs away, leaving Falcon on the opposite side of the room, curled against the wall.
"Understand what?" Ally demands. "A-and h-how is he still alive? You shouldn't be alive!" she shouts, her voice trembling. Falcon's cold stare doesn't waver for a second, his eyes pinned to her. He pants and stares, feral and bloody. Her own eyes drift over his body and the fresh blood flooding from his wounds. "How...how are you...?"
"...I don't think he's like us, Ally." Dylan's voice is low and soft. He's scared, she can tell. And not just of Falcon.
"What are you talking about?" tears burn her eyes and her throat aches. She starts to cry as she looks at her brother. "Not like us how?"
Dylan glances at Falcon, then back to Ally. "Not...human."