Sacrifice

  “Michael was here,” she said.

  “Was?”

  She shook her head quickly. “Is. His truck . . .” She pointed. “Do you hear that?”

  Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

  The rhythm had changed. It was slower. Fainter.

  Clinkclinkclink.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  And then it stopped.

  “We all hear it,” he said.

  “It stopped,” she whispered.

  His own radio, tuned to the police channel, fired off a lot of codes she didn’t know. He paused to listen, then said, “Bomb squad is en route.”

  His voice was so practical. Had he always been like this? She wanted to smack him. “Can’t we send a crew in? Can’t we—”

  “That’s up to your chief. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  “Dad! Don’t you want to help? Don’t you think we should be rescuing them?”

  “Hannah.” His voice sliced through hers, cutting her off. His eyes were ice cold and furious. “I have a job to do here. There are more people involved than your boyfriend. There are procedures here, for your safety and everyone else’s. Do you understand me?”

  He might as well have hit her. She stared up at him.

  She remembered that photo from her dining room wall, the way she’d looked up at him in admiration.

  She’d been so stupid.

  Hannah turned on her heel and started walking. She waited for him to call her back, but she wasn’t five steps away when he was speaking into his radio.

  And then her phone chimed.

  A text from Michael.

  Her heart cheered. It was almost enough to send her running into the wreckage, and procedure be damned. But no message appeared. Just a picture.

  At first she didn’t understand. It was dark, and the image was gruesome. A limb—and she couldn’t even identify whether it was an upper arm or a lower leg—with a piece of rebar impaling it. Torn denim. Blood everywhere, speckled with dirt.

  Then a line of text appeared.

  Not me. Tell me what to do.

  CHAPTER 13

  When the text finally sent, Michael almost fainted from relief. He had about fifteen texts with a little red exclamation point beside them, showing that they hadn’t gone through. Calls wouldn’t connect at all, and he watched his battery percentage drop with each attempt. Water sprayed from exposed pipes overhead, creating puddles everywhere and misting his skin.

  He was twenty feet below the surface, in a ravine of his own making.

  Along with almost everyone else from inside the bar. Debris had fallen among them. And through them. Michael had turned on the flashlight feature of his phone and shined it around until he’d found familiar eyes staring back at him.

  “Did it go through yet?” said Tyler. His voice was wispy. From what Michael could tell, they were the only two people conscious.

  Michael was terrified that they were the only two people alive.

  Tyler’s leg was impaled on a steel bar—which was attached to a slab of concrete.

  Hannah sent back a text.

  DON’T MOVE BAR. Could bleed out. Conscious?

  Yes.

  Keep him talking. What else you got?

  “She says we have to leave it,” said Michael.

  “Fuck that!” Sweat bloomed on Tyler’s forehead despite the chill in the air. “Get it out!”

  “She said you could bleed to death. Your call.”

  Tyler inhaled a long breath. It mixed with a sob. “Damn you, Merrick.” He coughed and cried out. His fingers dug into the dirt surrounding him. “I need a fire. Sunlight. Anything.”

  “I know. I know.” Michael slid his fingers along the face of the phone.

  I smell gas. Open line maybe?

  They’re getting BG&E to kill the line. Anyone else hurt?

  Everyone.

  Michael held up his phone and took a picture. In the flash, he saw movement, but he couldn’t identify the source. Had something fallen into the ravine? Or was that another survivor? He sent the picture, then turned on the flashlight again.

  No motion. “Are you okay?” he called out to whatever he’d seen. “Move again. I’ll try to get to you.”

  Nothing.

  Dirt shifted and skittered from above, and Michael put a hand out, sliding his fingers along the wall. He sent power into the earth, begging for stability. This ravine might have saved his life, but it could just as easily end it for everyone else if it collapsed.

  The sliding dirt stopped.

  He took a long breath. His head pounded, and he wondered if he’d been hit by something in the fall.

  Another text from Hannah.

  Can you send me more injury pics?

  I’ll try.

  We want to prep for rescue. Waiting on bomb squad. Need clearance before we can enter.

  “Don’t move,” he said to Tyler.

  The response was slow, but it came. “You’re funny, dickhead.”

  Michael crawled through the dirt to the next body he could find. An older man, his legs bent at unnatural angles. Unconscious, but he was breathing, though it was shallow. He had a pulse. No bleeding that Michael could see.

  Michael took a picture and sent it.

  Another man in a T-shirt and jeans, crumpled just beside the first. The light reflected off his eyes, and Michael jumped.

  Then he recognized the unnatural angle of his neck. Specks of dirt clung to the eyeballs. No breathing at all.

  He took another picture and added text.

  No pulse, no breathing. I think his neck is broken.

  Another man, bleeding from the head. Unconscious, but breathing steadily. Good pulse. Michael took another picture, sent another message.

  Water was running across the face of the next man, and Michael’s flashlight app revealed a lot of blood. At first he couldn’t find a source of the bleeding, and he used slippery fingers to send a pic with a message.

  Blood everywhere. Breathing. Pulse. Help?

  Head wound? Sit him up if you can.

  He kept going, moving debris as he went. Some pieces were large, and it took him a while to get past them. Three more dead bodies, but then three who seemed alive. Two were moaning. Michael sent pictures with as much description as he could.

  Another man was ashen in the light from the app. Something large had sliced across his thigh just above the knee.

  Hannah’s response was quick.

  Rip a shirt. Tie a tourniquet HERE. Elevate if you can.

  She sent a picture of someone else’s leg, with a hand pointing.

  He ripped a T-shirt off one of the dead bodies and tied as fast as he could.

  “Tyler?” he called. “How you doing?”

  No response. “Tyler!”

  Nothing. Michael shined his flashlight in that direction. Tyler was still, his eyes closed. The metal bar still impaled his thigh.

  But his chest rose and fell. He was still alive.

  The light died, and Michael’s phone chimed a warning at him.

  Low battery. 5% remaining.

  Almost immediately, another text appeared from Hannah. When he opened it to try to reply, the phone died altogether.

  Damn it! In the darkness, he patted the pockets of the next body he came to and found a phone. It was the older flip kind that probably wouldn’t take a picture. He moved on to the next body. An iPhone! Yes!

  Passcode protected.

  “Christ,” he muttered. Next body. An iPhone, though an older model. No passcode. A picture of a young girl and a boy as the background.

  Kids.

  Michael’s breathing shook as he felt his way up the body to find a pulse.

  He almost cried when he found one.

  He opened the texts and started a new one. He typed in Hannah’s number.

  Phone died. Found a new one. Missed last message.–M

  Asked if any burn victims?

  T
his phone didn’t have a flashlight app, but Michael had seen enough to know that he hadn’t seen any burns.

  No. Why?

  Bomb squad investigating. Found fragments. Burn damage to building. Propane tanks intact. Still waiting on clearance to enter.

  So a bomb had gone off. But no one was burned. And the propane tanks were intact? Had his ravine somehow insulated them from damage? Or had—

  Then Michael realized.

  Tyler. He was a Fire Elemental. Had his powers weakened the bomb, the way Michael’s powers had offered a way out of the blast path?

  More dirt rained down the walls. Splintered planks of wood fell from above. Michael shoved his back against the ravine wall and sent power into the earth again.

  “Steady,” he whispered. “Steady.” He could feel vehicles moving now, where they’d been still for the longest time.

  He texted quickly.

  Don’t move vehicles. Ground unstable.

  It took a minute, but the motion stopped. Michael choked on his breath.

  Hannah sent another text.

  Are you in a basement? Can you send me pics of layout?

  Michael aimed the phone up and started snapping pictures, trying to get the angles right. More debris fell from above and stung where it struck his face and forearms.

  Then the flash lit up a face looking down at him from above.

  “Hey!” Michael called into the darkness. He sent the photos to Hannah while he was peering up. “Hey! The edges aren’t stable! Be careful!”

  No response. Michael snapped another pic, hoping to get another image of the person. Was this a bomb squad technician? Or another survivor?

  The flash went off. A gun fired.

  Michael felt the bullet hit his shoulder. Goddamn, it hurt. It knocked him into the wall, and he lost the phone. More dirt poured down around him. The ground rumbled.

  Another gunshot. He had no idea where it hit, but pain blossomed through his chest.

  That wasn’t good, right? He wished he still had the phone so he could ask Hannah. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move.

  Another gunshot.

  Shouting erupted overhead. More gunfire.

  Then nothing but darkness.

  CHAPTER 14

  Michael could move before he could see. Intermittent beeping filled his ears. His chest felt tight and painful, like someone had parked a car on his midsection. He shifted and felt soft cotton against his skin.

  His eyes cracked open and found a blurred ceiling, edged by beige walls with a bland flowered border. Metal poles towered over him, complete with dripping bags. A small monitor showed jagged lines and beeped at regular intervals.

  A hospital. He was in a hospital.

  His brain didn’t want to work. How—when—?

  He lifted a hand to rub his eyes—but his arm hit resistance.

  He tried again, and this time he heard the rattle of metal against plastic. He jerked hard and blinked his eyes before he figured out what was going on.

  Handcuffs chained his right hand to the bed rail.

  His heart rate tripled, making the beeping behind him accelerate. Every muscle in his upper body protested, but he forced himself upright. His chest felt as if it might cave in. More metal clinked and rattled.

  His ankles were chained.

  Now he was fully awake. He jerked at the handcuffs again, as if maybe he’d been wrong, and this time there’d be nothing there. His head pounded, keeping pace with his pulse. Breath rattled in his chest, every inhale like a stab through the heart.

  If he was here, where were his brothers? Who had chained him to the bed? He didn’t even know which hospital this was. The décor revealed nothing more than careful neutral blends of beige and pink.

  The door stood partly ajar, and aside from a few people dressed in white passing by outside, he couldn’t see anyone. A good thing or a bad thing? He didn’t like this. He needed to be out of here.

  “Hey,” he called out. Speech forced a cough from his throat, and he almost doubled over from the sudden pain. He gasped and tried again. “Hey!”

  The door swung open, and a policeman peered into the room.

  Michael blinked in surprise. He’d expected a nurse or an orderly.

  Then his brain caught up. Nurses didn’t use handcuffs.

  The man didn’t seem much older than Michael himself—but he looked fierce and determined, like he enjoyed his job a little too much. His hand actually rested on the butt of his gun.

  “You’re awake,” he said. “I’ll let them know.” Then he pulled the door almost all the way closed. Michael could hear him murmuring to someone—or maybe into a radio.

  Handcuffs. A cop. He was being guarded.

  What happened?

  “Hey!” he called again. His voice sounded thin and reedy, and his entire rib cage really wanted him to lie back down.

  The door swung open again. “Calm down. They’ll be up in a while.”

  “Who?” Michael paused for breath. It took him a minute. “Why am I chained to this bed?”

  The officer snorted and began to pull the door closed again. “Because we don’t usually let bombing suspects wander free. Go figure.”

  “Hey. Hey!” Michael yanked at the chain restraining him to the bed rail. It felt as if his chest were being pulled apart from the inside. His muscles finally rebelled, and he collapsed back into the bed.

  Bombing suspect.

  Did that mean he’d been arrested? If he healed, would he be taken to jail? He couldn’t catch his breath at all. His shirt felt too tight, like someone had grabbed hold and started twisting the fabric at the center of his back.

  Then he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His chest was wrapped in bandages.

  The door opened, and Michael gritted his teeth, ready to let loose on the policeman. But no, this was a nurse with a tiny cart. The officer followed her in and stood at the foot of the bed.

  He looked like he was hoping he’d get a chance to draw his weapon.

  The nurse—whose name tag read ELISSA—pulled a blood pressure cuff off the cart. She wore no makeup and her skin was barely lined, but there were traces of grey in her blond hair. Her movements were sure and confident. “Good morning,” she said, as if she treated patients in handcuffs every day.

  “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” She pushed a few buttons on the monitor at the top of the cart, then reached for Michael’s restrained arm. “May I get your blood pressure?”

  “I didn’t set any bombs,” he said darkly, his eyes on the cop.

  “I didn’t say you did,” the nurse said equably. She pulled the nylon cuff around his bicep and fastened the Velcro, then pushed a button on the machine to make it inflate.

  Then she frowned and leaned closer. She pulled the sheet down, exposing the bandages around his chest. “We’ll need to redo your dressing.”

  “He’s fine,” said the police officer.

  “You can do your job and I can do mine,” she said. “I need to check the stitches.”

  “Stitches?” said Michael.

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a little box on the cart. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I remember the restaurant. People were hurt.” He glanced between her and the policeman. He remembered Tyler and the steel beam. He remembered exchanging texts with Hannah. He remembered finding people alive—and dead.

  The blood pressure machine beeped and the cuff deflated. The nurse ripped the Velcro free. “You took four bullets.”

  Michael stared at her. His brain didn’t want to process this information, and all he could say was, “I did what?”

  “You were lucky. Only one needed to be removed.” She gestured. “Your shoulder. The others glanced off your rib cage.”

  Only one needed to be removed. But he’d been shot four times?

  She peeled at the edge of the bandaging. “I was going to yell at you for pulling your stitches loose, but these look great. You kids always heal fast.”
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  His voice was tired. “I’m not a kid.”

  She chuckled. “One day, you’ll wish someone was calling you a kid.”

  Michael hoped he’d live long enough for that to be true.

  Then he realized what she’d said about healing. “How long have I been here?”

  Her eyes flicked up to his. “Almost twenty-four hours.”

  A day! He glanced at the dim light peeking through the window blinds. It must be evening. The machine behind him kicked up its rhythm again. Michael swallowed. “My brothers. Do you know if my brothers are okay?”

  “They’re fine.” A male voice spoke from the doorway, but Michael couldn’t see past the nurse or the police officer. Then Hannah’s father stepped into his line of sight. He carried a cup of coffee, and he looked about as worn and weary as Michael felt.

  Then again, he was walking around unhindered, not chained to a bed with a bullet wound in his shoulder.

  Marshal Faulkner clapped the police officer on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tony. You can take a break.” He glanced at the nurse, then pulled a plastic chair away from the wall to sit down beside the bed.

  Michael didn’t want to look at him. He gritted his teeth as Elissa changed the gauze.

  “Feel up to answering a few questions?” the fire marshal finally said.

  “I want to see my brothers.”

  “Prisoners don’t get visitors,” he said.

  Michael turned his head to glare. He tried to force as much fury into his voice as possible—because that was infinitely better than breaking down sobbing. “I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I didn’t do anything.” His breath caught and he winced.