The man rolled over and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “What happened?” he groaned, his hand coming up to the back of his head.
“You got your ass kicked by a chick, that’s what. Now get up and see how Ryan’s doing. He ain’t moved at all.”
“Don’t let him up,” Cat told Molly. “You’ve got the numbers, now. Don’t lose them.”
“Shut it!” Pete yelled. He pulled the knife away and held it over Cat’s chest, vertically. Molly watched as his other hand came up and gripped the hilt, both arms high over his head.
“Do it!” Cat yelled. She screamed, a long, piercing scream that shivered through Molly’s bones.
Molly watched in horror as the knife plunged down, the silver flash of steel disappearing in Cat’s chest up to the hilt. The man on the floor was on all-fours, groping for his senses. Molly threw her flightboot into his chin, making his search a little more difficult. As he collapsed into another silent heap, Molly dashed toward Cat, only she and Pete still standing.
With much effort, Pete wrested the blade out of Cat’s chest, pulling a fountain of blue with it. Molly slid under the gurney, feet-first, and aimed for his knees, impacting with a solid crunch. Pete yelled and tumbled straight down on top of her, his weight forcing her flat. Molly tried to twist her hips out from underneath him, tried to push up on his shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge. He threw a forearm across her neck and leaned into it, squeezing her airway down.
Molly gurgled and pushed at his shoulders. The knife came up, hovering behind Pete’s purple-glazed snarl. Molly’s body tensed in fear as it slid through the air and buried itself in her chest. It hit with a bang, with a sonic explosion, and Molly could smell spent gunpowder in the air.
Pete sagged down, his grotesque body limp with death. Molly tried to push him off, but her one arm was numb and useless. She shoved at him with her other one, grunting with effort, when his weight finally shifted. As Pete’s head rolled away, Molly saw Sheriff Browne’s on the other side, his face busted up, but the barest of smiles showing beneath his bloodstained mustache.
That smile sealed up when he saw the knife sticking out of her chest. Molly opened her mouth to say something, but all she could do was gasp. The pain was like a tunnel of cold air rigged up inside her, a hollow ache that pulled on her senses. Browne knelt by her side and placed one hand on her chest, the knife between the crook of his thumb and finger. He grasped the hilt with his other hand and pulled and pushed at the same time, sliding the weapon out.
Molly grunted from the pain and fought back the blackness swirling around her vision. The knife made a slick, sucking sound and came out coated with a purple mix of bloods. Her head fell back as Browne put pressure on the wound. She watched through heavy, slow-blinking lids as he tugged his bandana from around his neck and tucked it under his palm.
“Can you hold this?” he asked.
Molly nodded weakly, but she wasn’t sure if she could. Browne took both her hands and placed them over the bandage. He disappeared from her vision and staggered toward the tables. Over her throbbing pulse, Molly could hear leather straps flap back and metal buckles click together. She craned her neck to see what he was doing, but everywhere she looked, she saw with the tunnel vision of the half conscious. The world moved on the other side of a pinhole. Sheriff Browne flashed across the other side of that hole, moving from Cat’s gurney to another one further away.
Cat slid from her table to Molly’s side, her face filling Molly’s vision. Cat’s hands wrapped around Molly’s and pulled back the bandage. She put it back and helped apply pressure. “You’re gonna be fine,” she said. Cat looked up and scanned the room with a frown.
“My Wadi,” Molly whispered.
Cat looked over her shoulder. She patted Molly’s arm and moved away. Molly grunted and forced herself to one elbow, then struggled to sit up. She glanced back and wiggled toward one of the gurney’s legs, propping herself up to better see what was going on. She concentrated on pushing the blackness into the corners of her vision.
She regretted her efforts immediately when she saw what Cat was doing.
The Callite crouched over the Wadi with the blood-soaked knife. She had one of the creature’s arms splayed out—the blade resting against it, the palm of her hand flat against the dull side, as if about to apply pressure.
Molly managed a weak “No” as Cat shoved down on the blade, severing the limb. The sight of it nearly finished what her own wound had started—Molly could feel her consciousness try and slip away, could feel the black surge toward the center of her vision. She tried to call out to Cat, but managed just hoarse whispers as the Callite wiped the blade on the animals stump and leg before pressing them back together.
“What are you doing?” Molly croaked.
She clutched the sticky bandana to her chest and leaned forward, moving to her knees. She crawled closer to Cat and the Wadi, limping along with one hand.
“What have you done?”
Cat shook her head. When she turned, Molly saw tears dripping out of the alien’s eyes. Her lids scissored shut rapidly, but not quick enough to keep up with the flow of sadness.
“Shoulda seen it all along,” Cat muttered. She continued to hold the Wadi’s wound fast as she turned and surveyed the room. Molly crawled up next to her and looked down at the lifeless Wadi.
“So flanking obvious,” Cat said.
Molly fell to the side, resting on her hip; she turned and looked across the room. Sheriff Browne continued to move deeper through the sea of tables, leather straps swaying beneath the gurneys of those he’d already freed. Several Callites moved about as well, often clutching surfaces as if dizzy or weak. Molly saw more than a few straps hanging limp beneath bodies that did not stir at all.
Molly shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Ain’t about votes,” Cat told her. “Weren’t never about votes.”
Molly looked down at the rag in her hands, soaked purple with her blood and Cat’s. She glanced over at Pete’s still form, the sheen of purplish grease coating his skin and splotching his apron in long streams.
“It’s a drug,” Molly said. “They’re making a drug!”
“No. It’s worse than that. And I’m a flanking fool for just now seeing it.” Cat shook her head. “It’s no wonder the stuff reeks of death.”
“What? What is it?” Molly asked.
“This is what you’ve been looking for.” Cat held up the knife, which was coated in their combined blood. “This is Lok’s version of fusion fuel.”
Molly sat in numbed silence, her wound and head throbbing. She heard Callites crying in the background amid the staccato of their desperate footsteps. She heard the mixture of relief and grief, both wailed in sadness, as loved ones took stock of who had made it and who had not. Her mind reeled with what Cat was saying. It didn’t even register when one of the Wadi’s arms twitched.
“Look,” Cat said.
A tail swished feebly, and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped and reached with both arms, forgetting her own wound. Cat passed the animal to her, saying something about being careful of its leg.
Molly nodded and cradled the animal, holding it against her chest. She felt the tears well up as it nuzzled against her, stirring in a confused awakening. “I thought I lost her,” Molly cried. “Lost her before I even got a chance to name her.”
Cat squeezed her shoulder and stood up. “I need to see to the others,” she said.
Molly sniffled and nodded. The Wadi reached out and gripped her shirt with its tiny claws, holding itself close. Twin tongues flicked out, both of them wavering in the air.
“It’s okay,” Molly told the Wadi.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.