“Jo,” her small voice sounds like it’s right next to me.
The wind blows a few embers from the fire by my face, pieces of wood, ash, and possibly Skirt. Something wraps around my ankle, and I scream, jerking my leg away, but that’s when I see Mary. She’s laying on her stomach, and her leg is trapped under a chunk of wood. It looks like a beam. It’s charred at the end.
I cover my mouth when I realize she isn’t trapped under the wood, but pierced by it. “Mary…” I kneel on the ground, and the hard clay of the desert rubs against my knees.
“Wha—what are you doing here?” she asks with a tired smile on her face. Her skin has lost its color, and she’s lost a lot of blood. Not enough to kill her, but enough to make her feel weak. Her classic red lipstick is smeared across her lips, and she’s holding her hands against her thigh. “Aren’t you in the looney bin now?” she teases as her eyes drop to my arms. “Bitch, you should have talked to me.” She coughs, and the sudden jerk of her body must have tugged against her wound because she grips her thigh until her knuckles turn white.
“I didn’t talk to anyone. Mary,” I say her name on an unconfident breath. “I can’t take this out. I have to go get help.”
“No, don’t go. Please. I’ve been here forever.”
“I don’t have the strength to carry you, Mary. My arms are injured, and my stitches are pulling loose. I’ll go get Doc, okay? I promise.” I lay my hand on her good leg and squeeze her ankle.
“You look like shit for someone about to go see Doc,” she kids, reminding me she knows about my crush on him.
“That’s what happens when you escape the hospital. Crazy seems to morph and take over all the pretty features,” I try to joke with her, but it falls flat when I see the blood ooze from the inside of her thigh. “I’m going to go get help. Just please, keep breathing. We’ve been through too much,” I say, clearing the lump from my throat. “We aren’t going to let a damn piece of wood stop our streak.”
“You get me out of here! I’m never hanging with those cut-sluts again. I don’t know what I was thinking,” she cries.
“You were doing what made you feel better, Mary. Just like I was.” I show her my arms, the blood seeping through the bandages. I turn my head over my shoulder when I hear a few shouts and screams, breaking the moment between me and Mary. A white blob gets closer and whines. It’s Yeti. He’s next to me, soot all over his white fur, and his tongue is out as he pants heavily. I rub my hand down his back, and my palm touches something wet. Turning my hand over, red shines on what’s left of the sun peeking through the smoke.
And the blood isn’t coming from Yeti.
“Hey, boy. Stay here with Mary, okay? I have to go get help. Stay,” I repeat, standing slowly so I don’t fall over from how dizzy I am. Yeti whines and lays down, propping his chin on the front of his paw as he stares at Mary.
“Don’t forget about me.”
“I hot-wired a car for you. I’d never forget you,” I say earnestly, then press my arms to my chest again to try to keep pressure on my wounds. I hurry away, heading toward the smoke and heat. Instinctively, my eyes sting from the instantaneous threat of being burnt. I hold my breath and run through the smoke, looking for someone, anyone to help me when I hear someone crying out for help in Skirt’s burning house.
I can’t ignore it.
He’s been ignored too many times.
I look around to see if there is anyone else coming, someone like Bullseye, Reaper, or Tool, but there’s no one. I won’t leave Skirt. I don’t care if I can hardly walk, think, or am bleeding out of my stitches. These men deserve the risk because they are the reward. They saved me, saved my friends, and someone has to save them.
Even if it means sacrificing myself.
They are worth it.
What am I worth?
I’ve done nothing to add to the goodness of the world. I’m not special. There is nothing amazing about me. I cut. I’m depressed. I need more help than help can offer. The porch groans, and I hiss when I take my first step on to the stairs. The wood is hot, boiling actually. The step gives way under my foot. I can smell my flesh burning, and I step away, wondering how I’m going to do this.
I’ve been through worse.
I can handle this.
Limping, I walk backward and then sprint, climbing up the staircase and bolt inside. I run in place so my feet aren’t on the floor longer than a second. I can’t see anything. It’s so hot I can’t barely stand it. “Skirt!” I call out for him. I taste the burnt leather of the couch in the back of my throat and gasp for fresh air.
I don’t hear anything, only crackling of furniture, breaking of wood, and the static of the oranges and yellows licking the walls, roof, and parts of the floor. “Skirt!” I try again, lifting my arm to block the smoke.
The roof creaks above me, and I look up, watching shingles dissolve and fall, floating around me.
Oh. Shit.
I run to the left where there’s a hallway and see a door open right as a piece of the roof falls in, crushing the couch.
That could have been me.
A small groan from the room in front of me sounds in the wreckage. I tiptoe, doing my best to keep my arms to my chest. Everything hurts. I’m insane. My head is spinning, my eyes are like sandpaper, blood is dripping down my elbows, and the bottoms of my feet are burnt. I’m nowhere close to getting out of here.
I might die trying to save Skirt.
Running into the room, the smoke is thick, but the flames haven’t reached this room. Another groan penetrates the air, and I fall to my knees and decide to crawl around the room. The floors aren’t too hot. They are warm, tolerable, which is good. My feet need a break.
“Skirt?” I cough again and then fall flat on my face. I’m tired. The smoke is too much. I can’t breathe. My head is pounding, and I can’t feel the pain in my arms any longer. I can’t feel anything. “Sk-irt,” I stutter, and when I hear another moan of pain, it wakes me up. I dig my nails into the wood and drag myself along the floor. My gown has to be in pieces by now, but I don’t care. I’ve come to the realization that I’m going to die trying to get out.
“Mmm,” a mournful sound comes from the side of the bed.
They deserve this.
Skirt deserves to live.
I need to pay it forward.
When I stretch my hand out, I hit something solid, firm. It’s a beam. I follow it, and underneath it is a body. I stay on my knees, and the wood rubs against my skin making it raw. The rough feel of denim glides against my palms as I try to find Skirt’s face.
He moans again.
“Skirt, it’s Joanna.” Another coughing fit takes over. “Let’s get out of here.” I push my feet against the wall and my back against the beam, hoping it’s enough to push it off his back. The wall bellows in weakness from the damage sustained to the house. I grunt, letting a strained warrior cry escape my mouth and mingle with the blaze as I use every ounce of strength I have left.
I fall backward as the beam moves off Skirt’s back.
Holy Shit. I did it.
But the momentum and the exhaustion sends me to the floor instead of to Skirt’s side. It’s too hard. My arms hurt. My feet hurt. I can’t do it. I thought I could. I thought I could save him and repay the favor for what the Ruthless Kings have done for me.