The gunfire had stopped, leaving only the sting of smoke that clung to her throat and the sharp smell of powder and blood spread thick across the dirt.
The last raider lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving, his weapon cast aside in the dust.
Silence pressed in heavy, broken only by Iyisha's ragged breaths.
"Malcolm..." She gasped.
Her shoulder burned, heat and pain radiating down her arm as blood seeped steadily through the torn fabric of her shirt.
Malcolm crouched beside her, jaw locked tight, his presence as solid as the rusted car he dragged her behind.
His eyes swept the field without pause, counting the still bodies, marking every discarded gun. The fight clung to the air, hot and restless, even though it was already over.
He cursed under his breath and pressed her lower, shielding her with his body while his gaze refused to stop searching for movement.
"Hold still," he muttered, already tearing at the edge of her shirt to see the wound.
Iyisha tried to force a smile, though the effort made her lip tremble. "I'm not moving."
"Quiet." His tone was clipped, stripped of anything but command.
She laughed weakly, a breath that came out cracked and raw. "You're not much of a nurse, are you?"
He ignored her words, ripping cloth with sharp precision. His hands pressed down hard, steady and unflinching even when she groaned and bit back a scream. He wrapped fabric, pressed harder, checked the bleeding, moved without hesitation. His world seemed narrowed to the rhythm of battlefield medicine—decisive, fast, merciless.
The silence between them stretched, broken only by the groan of hot metal cooling in the distance and her shallow, uneven breaths.
Her eyelids fluttered as her vision dipped and swam.
A sudden shake brought her back, Malcolm's grip tight on her arm, his voice low and fierce: "Stay awake."
Malcolm yanked open the med kit with a snap. Gauze, tape, nothing that looked like enough. He peeled back the torn fabric at her shoulder, scanning fast. Through and through. No bullet lodged inside. That was something. He pressed gauze in hard, and blood darkened it almost instantly.
Iyisha hissed, teeth clenched. "You're not gentle."
"Better alive than gentle." His voice flat, eyes darting between her wound and the road beyond.
The pressure made her vision flare white.
He wrapped tighter, knots biting into her skin, then tore another strip and worked it into a sling that pinned her arm against her chest. His focus never wavered, even as sweat dripped down his temple, even as his hands moved with brutal speed.
"I'm supposed to be the medic… " Her breath hitched, but she forced the words out. "Not the one bleeding out."
"Don't talk." He pulled the bandage tighter, locking it in place.
Iyisha's breath caught in short bursts. She could see the way his jaw set, the thin line of his mouth. His silence scared her more than the blood.
Her lashes drooped. The heat of the wound, the exhaustion, the fight—it all dragged her under. Malcolm's voice cut sharp, forcing her back.
"Open your eyes."
She whispered, almost slurred, "I'm tired."
"Not yet. Talk to me."
"Where did you learn to do this?" she asked in a gasp. For a moment, he hesitated, his hands slowing just slightly before tightening the bandage again.
He didn't answer further, just pressed down harder, his gaze fixed far past her, searching the horizon as if daring anything else to move.
Her head turned weakly against the pavement, eyes following him.
He moved through the bodies, one by one, stripping rifles, pistols, spare magazines. Each weapon went into a pack, each magazine counted with the same detached focus he used to check her wound.
Watching him strip rifles and pistols while she bled should have offended her. But this was Malcolm. Survival first. Everything else after.
Malcolm twisted the key of the ATV after he was done looting but the engine only coughed, sputtered, then went silent. He popped the seat, checked the tank, then the lines. The sharp reek of old fuel hit his nose. He poured in fresher gas from the jerrycan, shook the frame hard, and tried again.
Iyisha's lips moved, her voice thin, almost swallowed by the growl of the motor. "You could've left me…"
The words lingered, heavy with the truth she knew. Even as a doctor, she could feel it without proper care, without supplies, the wound could still finish her.
Funny how she now had a chance to find her sister just to end up dead now.
Malcolm didn't look at her. His reply was flat, clipped. "Shut up."
The engine hacked, rattled, then caught. After a grinding pause it roared to life. Smoke belched from the exhaust before settling into a rough idle.
He lifted her onto the seat, secured the packs, and swung on behind her. The ATV lurched forward, its rough idle turning into a steady growl as the highway stretched ahead.
He set her lengthwise across the seat, strapped one of the packs behind her to keep her from sliding, then climbed on. She sagged against the machine, head turned to the side, lips parted in uneven breaths.
"It will run," he said, more to himself than to her.
Her world shrank to the vibration of the machine beneath her, the pressure of the bandage at her wound, the unbroken hum of the engine that carried them forward. She forced her eyes open, then closed again, clinging to the pain because letting go meant darkness.
The ATV lurched forward, coughing now and then like a sick animal, but it kept moving. The highway stretched wide and broken, rusted cars scattered like bones. The sun pressed down, heat baking into her skin.
She held on, barely, until the sound of rushing water cut through the haze.
She clenched her jaw, clinging to the rhythm of the engine, the steady vibration beneath her, the single fact that they were still moving. Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, she forced herself to hold on.
The miles blurred, her world shrinking to vibration and pain until the sound of rushing water cut through the haze.
She lifeted her head and saw steel rise ahead, the bridge stretching across the water in a cage of girders.
At its entrance the barricade waited. Trucks blocked the lanes, armored plates welded across their sides. Concrete slabs stood shoulder to shoulder with barbed wire coiled between them. Watchtowers bristled over the approach, rifles angled down, scopes catching the sun.
The ATV rattled forward as Malcolm eased it toward the line. Soldiers moved behind the barrier, their helmets dark, their weapons raised in practiced rhythm. She heard the shout — sharp, commanding — but the words blurred in her ears.
Figures closed in as boots pounded against asphalt. Rifles lifted, barrels steady, all of them aimed at her and Malcolm.
Her breath caught, the world tilting as her body gave way to the pull of blackness. The last thing she saw through the blur was Malcolm's profile, hard and cold, not slowing even as the soldiers shouted again.
The ATV rolled to a halt.
"Hands where we can see them!" a voice roared.
Iyisha's vision broke apart, the sound of the river swallowing everything.