Page 312 of Alchemised
“Mum …” he said.
“She’ll be here soon.”
He wouldn’t let go of her wrist. He tugged again. Her vision flashed white.
“Mum … sorry. Forgot to say goodbye. Sorry.”
“It’s all right, d-don’t worry,” she said.
His fingers relaxed enough for her to slip her hand free. She looked down.
He was dead.
She took another sip of laudanum. It was growing harder and harder to keep from coughing. She couldn’t tell if the blood in her mouth was from her lungs or her tongue.
She tried to listen for any sound of the lorries. The sounds of fighting were fading. She headed for the doors.
She was growing increasingly certain that her injury was beyond the Resistance’s means. The bone and potential heart damage would require extensive manual surgery beyond what Maier could manage without alchemy. One of her lungs was likely punctured. She’d need at least two surgeons, possibly three.
If triage protocols were in place, which they would be given the mass injuries, no one except Luc or Sebastian would qualify for three surgeons.
She leaned her head against the wall.
Even with a successful surgery, her likelihood of survival would be low. She’d be at high risk of complications and infection, a drain on their limited supplies. The hospital would save far more people if they passed her over. Any half-rate medical assessment would realise that.
Whether the lorries arrived or not, she was going to die. She looked down at her hand, wishing she had the resonance to send a pulse code to Kaine. Some way to tell him she was sorry. That she had tried.
The edge of her vision was beginning to fade, unravelling like fabric, slowly shrinking smaller and smaller.
When she blinked, there was someone standing in front of her. Her mind stumbled through the fog of pain before realising it was a necrothrall. It stood studying her as if confused about whether she was dead or alive.
Her lungs seized, trying to force a cough, to clear the fluid inside her chest. A rasping whimper escaped her as she tried to hold it back.
Movement caught her eye. There were more necrothralls. The sounds of fighting had ceased. Althorne and his men had died or fallen back. The necrothralls were coming for the hospital. For the dead and the survivors.
She couldn’t let them take the survivors.
She stepped back, trying to find a scalpel, something sharp, something that would be quick and painless. She wouldn’t let them be taken to West Port. All she could find were filthy bandages and empty bottles of medicine. She needed one scalpel.
Something under her clothes bumped against her leg. It took her a moment to remember what was there. The obsidian. She had been holding it when the bomb went off; she’d shoved it in her pocket without thinking.
She fumbled for it and slit her finger open. The piece must have shattered in the explosion, but it was sharp at least.
She was too slow. The necrothralls were already inside. There were bodies by the door, and several necrothralls had stopped there, dragging them away, while the rest moved deeper.
They weren’t moving fast, but they were faster than Helena. They reached the survivors before she did.
“No!” Helena rasped out, her raised voice splitting her chest.
One of the necrothralls moved towards her. She tried to fend it off. All she had was the obsidian. She slashed at the necrothrall with it. The soft, deteriorating skin split easily on contact, and then the tip hit bone.
She’d used barely any force, but that pressure alone caused enough pain that her legs failed her.
When her head cleared, she was on the ground—and so was the necrothrall.
Blood dripped from her fingers where she was gripping the obsidian, the edges of the black glass buried in her skin. There were still so many necrothralls.
They moved towards her, bodies blotting out the reddish light filtering through the door. Wind fluttered across her face.
