Bliss

Chapter 16

Everyone began to race to the back of the dorm, some pushing past Margo to run upstairs.

Something elxploded through the house—a gun, Margo realized all too late. The girl that had been next to Margo collapsed, screaming, but Margo didn't help her.

More gunshots rang out.

"Sammy!" someone shouted.

"Move!" another person ordered.

Margo was swept into the crowd of people pushing to the back door. A short boy tripped. His screams faded as people stepped over him despite the sounds of his cracking bones. They'd trampled him to death.

Margo was lucky. The place where she'd been, the staircase, was invaded by a group of Spartans. Shrieks followed by gunshots echoed from upstairs.

A bullet whizzed past Margo, striking a boy in the shoulder. Margo froze—he reached out for her, moaning for help. But if she stopped to help him, she'd die. If she didn't help him . . .

She yanked him off the ground before the crowd could trample him. He shrieked—she pulled him by his wounded shoulder. Still, he came back to his feet, one arm slung over Margo while he cradled the other.

"Faster!" Margo shouted.

"I know," the boy muttered through gritted teeth.

He made an effort to move quicker, and soon, they were one of the first to pour outside the door. Margo helped him toward the wooded edge of the town. She figured the Spartans would be too distracted by the crowd of fleeting teenagers to see a girl escorting an injured guy into the woods.

Screams echoed through the forest, fading farther and farther away until Margo could barely hear them.

The boy groaned, leaning against a tree for support. In the darkness, Margo could only make out a few of his features: light hair, round face, glazed blue eyes. He was panting, close to hyperventilating.

"I don't know what to do," Margo told him.

"Help me," he pleaded.

She walked closer to him, peeling away his bloody button down shirt. He winced and held back a scream.

"I'm not a doctor," Margo said, "but I'm going to tie your shirt around your shoulder to give it some pressure. I saw it on the digital screen before—and now I'm rambling."

"'S good. Keep me awake," he mumbled.

The amount of blood made her vomit behind the tree, which she then returned to helping him there after. She began to talk to him, to tell him about her near-execution, Kiori, her sick bike skills—which earned a half-smile-half-grimace from the boy—and how good she was getting at swimming.

"You lost a lot of blood," Margo remarked.

"Yeah?" His voice was slurred. "Should . . . should we go back? Help . . ." His eyes closed and Margo shook him awake. "Help the others?"

"You're no help to anyone like this," said Margo.

"You can go," said the boy.

"I'm not leaving you." You'll die, she almost added.

The boy looked up at her. "I'm Ambrose Fredricks. My brother . . . Marshall . . . he was at the party. Find him. Tell him I won't . . ."

His eyes fluttered shut and he went limp in Margo's arms. She gasped, stumbling back from his weight. She shook his head but it was useless. He was dead, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

The sudden realization made her scramble back. She was alone in the woods with a dead boy, while the rest of Eden was under attack.

But she couldn't leave Ambrose.

Yet, she did. She sprinted through the forest, entering the town. It was mostly deserted. A few people lay on the ground, most of them past helping point. Margo scanned the streets for Spartans and Kiori and Zack.

"Have you seen Jake?"

Margo was startled by the voice—yet more startled by whom it was coming from. The woman staggered toward her, a hand cupped over her bloody ear. She was from the Sequoia dorm: Haylee James.

"I—I don't know him," Margo stammered, turning away and continuing her trek to the Sequoia, more determined than ever.

Moaning echoed down the street. The screaming had ceased, and Margo assumed the Spartans were gone. Only the sounds of the survivors prevailed. Margo saw very few.

Kiori, Margo thought.

She broke into a sprint toward the Sequoia dorm. She flung the door open, just to be face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.