But I know what I have to do.
I have to get him to town.
Up on this godforsaken mountain, he’s as good as dead. We have no medicine, nothing to operate with, and no one who knows how to do that shit anyways.
And even though I haven’t seen any more signs of the men who did this, there’s no telling if they’ll come back. All that’s left of them is the blood on the earth and stomped tracks leading away.
So we have to move. That’s the only option. Every other route leads to death.
The question is… how?
I try to pick Artem up, but he groans again, louder. He’s too heavy anyways.
Which means my only hope is to bring the car to him.
I kneel back down and lean forward so that my lips are at Artem’s ear. “Hold on. I’m coming back. I’m coming back for you.”
I don’t know if he hears me or not. It doesn’t matter. I’ll keep trying until he’s cold in my arms.
I turn and run through the forest with moonlight guiding my way. I run fast despite my shaky legs and my fast beating heart. It feels like I’m burning up on the inside, but cold air hits my skin from all directions. I’m tired, but I refuse to give in to the fatigue. I can break down later.
For now, I have to run.
As I go, I search the forest for any sign of Cillian. Did he chase the attackers? Did they take him? Did he go for help?
I can’t wait around for him to get back, though. I just have to keep going forward.
It’s what Artem would do.
I get back to the cabin in record time and head straight for the car.
I’m aware that traversing through parts of the forest in the car will be difficult and quite possibly dangerous, but what fucking choice do I have?
I get into the car and turn it around slowly, inching into the woods with the headlights on. They only highlight how treacherous the path is. Huge boulders rear up on every side with barely enough room to squeeze between them. Unstable gravel could send the car sliding into the ravine at any moment.
I navigate through it carefully, but my pace enrages me. I’m moving at snail speed. It’s not fast enough. Artem is bleeding to death and Cillian is who the fuck knows where.
“Faster, faster, dammit!” I cry to the empty car. I smack the steering wheel like that’ll help.
I inch through the forest. Every scrape of rock on the car doors makes me wince, but it doesn’t matter.
At long last, by some fucking miracle, I make it. My headlights pick out Artem lying in the middle of the clearing.
Dying a little at a time.
I’m as close as I can get, but the trees still keep me from getting any nearer. There’s still a good fifteen or twenty yards to traverse with a comatose man who weighs double what I do.
I throw the back doors open and then sprint over to him.
“Artem,” I gasp. I’m praying that I’m not too late.
I nearly keel over with relief when I realize he’s still breathing. But his breaths are even shallower than they were before, dwindling down to almost nothing. I grab the collar of his bloodstained shirt and try to pull him up.
He doesn’t budge.
“Artem,” I beg, frantic. “Please, you have to help me. Please… just get up.”
The panic ratchets up to my throat when he stirs. His eyelids flicker open for a moment—one beautiful, heart-wrenching moment—before sealing shut again.
“Artem!” I slap his cheek several times, hard. “Artem, please. I can’t get you into that car by myself.”
Where the fuck is Cillian? He’d know what to do. He’d be able to help.
The dying man in my arms is well over six feet. I try again to slip my arm under his shoulders and tug, but all my might amounts to about three inches of progress. When his groans turn into agonized whimpers unlike any noise I’ve ever heard him make, I stop and collapse to the ground again.
I’m tired. I’m freezing. I’m pregnant.
And as strong as I think I am, I’m just not strong enough.
All of that means my husband is going to die out here. He’s going to bleed away, wither to a cold corpse, and I’m just going to have to sit here and watch that happen because I’m too fucking weak.
No.
No.
No.
Something lights up in my chest. Like a fire within. It’s not just desperation. Not just determination.
It’s anger.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m mad. Mad at him and at the guns that did this to him and the world that keeps doing this to me, again and again.
“Fuck you, Artem!” I half-cry, half-scream. “Fuck you for bringing me here and leaving me like this!”
I’m so angry I can barely form words. I pound my fists against the cold, hard-packed dirt of the forest floor.
“I didn’t ask for any of this, but you came out of nowhere and you gave me this baby! You gave me your name! You married me. So fuck you—get the fuck up!”
I’m mad at him.
I hate him.
I love him.
I can’t possibly lose him.
I start beating my hands against his chest over and over again like a woman possessed. The forest echoes with my cries.
And then by some miracle, my madness breaks through his catatonia.
His head lurches forward, but it falls back onto the forest just as quickly.
But his eyes remain open.
I grab his face with both my hands and meet his eyes. He looks through me at first, but I don’t care.
“Artem, listen,” I start to say. “Get up now. You’re not dying here. Not like this. I know it’s hard, but you need to get up. Now.”
I can’t bring myself to be gentle or patient. I can’t bring myself to be kind.
I just need to get him in the car and then I can concentrate
