The Humvee speeds through the night. A few more hours of darkness left.
In the front seats, Sergeant King sits with his broken arm laying in his lap. "Thank you, Private Marsh, for driving. I am sure the general will overlook that we had to abort our mission this quickly when he sees what we found."
Private Marsh grips the steering wheel so hard his hands have gone white. His eyes are glued to the street ahead, only interrupted by a glance left or right every now and then. "Is this boy really that special? I mean, we don't know if he is that strong. I wasn't there when you fought him, so I don't know what he's capable of. But just from his frame alone, he doesn't seem that capable."
Sergeant King's eyes drift to Private Marsh with an irritated look. "Do you really think that if he wasn't capable, he could have broken my arm? It wasn't even a fair fight — he had a bullet through his leg and his ribs are shattered. He killed a beast on his own. But you're right, he doesn't look like he could do all that. Even so, luck is a skill, and everyone needs it now more than ever. Especially in this apocalypse."
Private Marsh's grip tightens even further. "My apologies, Sergeant King. I didn't intend to doubt you. I just went by the book."
In the back seat, Lucius slowly opens his eyes. The moment he does, pain shoots through him harder than anything he has felt before. His head spins. Everything blurs. And then — slap. His own hand hits his face. The sound of flesh on flesh rings through the car.
Sergeant King turns around with a small smile. "Hey, kiddo. You're awake. That's good — for a moment I thought you might never wake up from blood loss. What you're feeling right now is the aftermath. The adrenaline is gone and I think the painkiller still hasn't fully kicked in. Takes around thirty minutes to do its magic."
"How long was I out for? And where are we driving?" Lucius says, his voice stuttering from the cold. His whole body feels like ice.
"Around twenty minutes. We need another twenty. And where do you think we'd take you?" Sergeant King's eyes glide back to the front. "We're bringing you to our camp. First because you and I both need medical treatment, and second because I want to see what the general has to say about you. Maybe you can even become part of the military."
Lucius stares at the back of the sergeant's head. "Don't I need basic training to join the military? And I thought you said you only execute the ones that are dangerous."
"You're right about that. We take nearly everyone who isn't a danger to society, but we don't take just anyone into the military. There are two groups — the military personnel who actively fight, protect people from the beasts, and go out on rescue missions or supply runs. And then there's what I'd call the village. People unfit for military service — children, the elderly, people like that." Sergeant King turns his head slightly, just enough to keep one eye on the street.
The rest of the ride continues in silence. Whether it's exhaustion or something else, nothing happens. Private Marsh asks "are you two still alright?" every now and then, and that's all.
Then they stop before a tall metal gate at the far end of town.
Behind it sits a school. An enormous building, four stories high, surrounded by a two and a half meter concrete fence covered in graffiti. The building is shaped like a wide U and faces the gate directly. Most of the windows are covered by either newspaper or blankets, blocking most of the light coming from inside.
Private Marsh pulls a walkie-talkie from inside his jacket. "Private Marsh and Sergeant King reporting arrival at base. Requesting passage and medical staff for two people."
A pause. Then a single word, cold as if spoken by a machine. "Understood."
The gate begins to slide open. Two men in military uniform push it to either side, both roughly as tall as Sergeant King but broader.
Private Marsh drives through and stops on the left side of the building where several more Humvees are parked. The moment the engine cuts off, four people come rushing toward the car carrying two stretchers.
Sergeant King opens his door with his functioning arm. "I don't need a stretcher. But I'm not sure about the boy in the back — I'm fairly certain he'll have trouble walking."
They open the back door and look at Lucius in horror. His face and clothes are still covered in blood. Even his hair. His leg bled so much that a small puddle formed on the floor of the car.
Lucius gives them a small wave from the back seat. "I may need a little help getting out of here." Still a small grin on his face.
One of them climbs in beside him. "What happened, boy? Is that all your blood?" He lays Lucius's arm around his shoulder and helps him move. The moment Lucius tries to put weight on his leg it fails completely, like pulling dead weight.
"Most of it, yeah. The stuff on my face and my leg is mine. The rest is either Sergeant King's or from a hound." Lucius answers while being laid down on the stretcher. "Also, just so you know — besides the leg I have a few broken ribs. Hopefully broken. Maybe shattered." He points at his side.
One of the medical staff turns to Sergeant King. "Please follow us to the infirmary. After we've checked you both out, the general wants to see you on the top floor, middle room. You can't miss it."
Sergeant King nods and follows.
The medical team moves inside the building, one person pressing a piece of fabric hard against the wound on Lucius's leg as they go. They move down into the basement and push open the door.
Inside, at least twenty people are laying on cots and makeshift beds. Wounds ranging from shallow cuts that barely needed a bandage all the way to people who had lost at least one limb. The dim light is not nearly dark enough to hide any of it. Paint peeling from the walls. Dust everywhere. Old bloodstains on the floor.
A cold shiver runs down Lucius's spine. His head spins. His breakfast threatens to come back up his throat.
"This is what could have happened to me," he thinks. "I got extremely lucky. I hope Lune and Liam made it out in time."
He looks at Sergeant King walking calmly beside the stretcher. "Why doesn't this affect you at all? And how did the military set all this up so quickly — hasn't it only been a few hours since everything started?"
Sergeant King answers without breaking stride. "Kiddo, I've been deployed five times. Everything I've seen there was worse than this. All of those people are probably going to make it. But have you ever seen what a missile does to a truck with five people inside? Have you ever heard how a person sounds when they try to scream without lungs? That is horror. This here is basic hospital work." He pauses for a moment. "And as for how we set this up so fast — your're right, it's only been a few hours. But our general is a smart man. Less than an hour after it all started he already had a location picked out and people moving. Everything you see here is running on borrowed time though. No solution yet for when the electricity cuts out. No plan for when the water stops running. But for now it holds."
A person approaches Sergeant King. "Sergeant, please take a seat. I'd like to examine your arm."
King complies without argument, sits down on a chair, and points to his arm. "The kid on the stretcher broke it. Just give me a cast — it should heal in a few weeks. Until then I'm out of action."
While the sergeant gets examined, two people carry Lucius to the far corner of the room.
Then a person approaches him. A young woman, not in military clothing. A jacket over a red shirt, tight-fitting pants, loafers. Long hair so dark it's almost black, which makes her blue eyes stand out sharply. Her face is covered in freckles. From the angle Lucius is laying, she looks just slightly shorter than him. Cute is the only word that comes to mind.
She leans down and smiles. "Good day — or better said, good evening. My name is Emilia, and I'll be taking care of you."
"O — okay," Lucius manages, his voice barely coming out.
"As I've been told, you have a gunshot wound and some fractured ribs — possibly shattered. I'll get you sorted." She brushes her hair behind her ear and places a hand over his leg.
A circle appears on her palm. Seconds later, another one forms on his leg, exactly where the wound is.
Then the pain comes back. Without warning, without mercy — at least ten times worse than before. Everything the painkiller had been covering floods back all at once. Lucius bites down so hard his jaw goes numb. His hand grips the edge of the stretcher like it's the only thing keeping him in the world.
"Don't faint," he tells himself. "Don't you dare faint. Not yet."
"Hang in there," Emilia says quietly. "I know you can do it. Just a few more seconds."
He can feel everything. Each fragment of his shattered ribs shifting and resettling. The flesh in his leg pulling itself back together.
Then she lifts her hand. "We're done. Just rest here — someone will bring you something to eat and drink so you don't pass out." She gives him one last smile. "You did well." Then she turns and walks to the next patient.
Lucius stares at the ceiling.
"She looks like an angel," he thinks. "But what she did hurt like hell."