Page 88 of Theta

But it's too little, too late.

Two more men appear, and then two more, and I'm pouring fire at them, but I'm lying down flat on my back, firing down the length of my torso, and the angles are all wrong. My shots go high and wide, and behind me, Killian's firing has stopped.

"Killy?"

"Fuck." His voice is tight and pained.

"Killy!"

"Ah fuck. I'm hit." I hear him grunt.

The four at the other end are pouring suppressive fire at us, two on the left and two on the right popping out in alternation, and it’s only the fact that they seem to want me, at least, alive that keeps either of us breathing.

"How bad?"

"Dunno. Hurts."

"Where?" No answer. "KILLIAN!" I spray a long burst and then roll to my stomach.

Killian has one hand clamped to his left side, blood welling red between his fingers. "I'm fine, I’m fine. It's not bad."

What do I do? I can't fight back and triage him at the same time.

No one is coming to save us.

This was my idea.

Killian is hit.

There are too many.

Killian fires, and the report is right beside my right ear, leaving my ears ringing and the ghost of the sound banging off the inside of my skull in a brain-scrambling crush of sonic pain.

I twist to my back and scrabble my heels against the ground, pushing myself backward toward Killian as I fire and fire and fire, anger and terror and nausea hot and thick in my throat.

Killian fires past me again as I rummage in the backpack for a maxi pad. I find one and peel Killian's shirt up, leaning half-reclined to keep my head down as Killian tries valiantly to keep the enemies at bay. The wound is deep but not problematic—it chewed through the edge of his vest at an oblique downward angle and spiked through his side just above his hip. Definitely not just a through-and-through flesh wound, but it didn't hit anything major. I stick the pad to his skin as an emergency measure because it's all I can manage under the circumstances.

I pick up my rifle again and fire just as a merc pops out and takes aim—I hit him in the belly, more through luck than skill. "We have to get out of here, Killy," I say.

He winces and hisses, shifting his position as he tries to get a read on how many bad guys there are left. "Too fucking many. Goddammit."

I'm choking on my panic and guilt. "This is my fault."

"Fuck that. Not gonna help." He twists and fires, and then slumps back with an agonized groan. "Ah fuck me, that hurts like a motherfucker." He digs in the bag for a spare mag and comes up with one. "Last one. You?"

I fire, but my target ducks out of sight just in time. "I'm on my last one."

"And then it's handguns all the way." He growls. "Fuck this. Fuck them." He thuds his head against the tire. "Okay. Fuck. Okay."

I glance at him—he sounds like he's psyching himself up for something stupid. "Kills, what are you—"

He snatches my MP-5 from my hands, slaps a pistol in its place, and then slaps a fistful of spare magazines in my other unresisting hand. I clutch them, confused.

"You're gonna army crawl under the trailers that way," he points perpendicular to the long axis of the row, indicating that I'm supposed to head across the width of the pier. I'll draw their fire."

"Killian, fuck that. I'm not—"

Fury suffuses his features, and he grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, shakes. "You're gonna fucking go, Story. I'm not asking. I don't plan on dying, but I sure as fuck will not let them have you. I'll die first."