Dust

Thirteen: No Longer Children

A/N:  Sorry for the long wait on this one, guys. It's been a long week.

The way out of the city is closer than I would've thought, and while Mikhail practically ignores me, I could care a lot less. Felix is dead, and I'm the only one who was there to blame. Even if it wasn't directly my fault, I was there and didn't try hard enough to save him. His blood is on my hands, just like my mother's was.

"Mikhail, stop. Let me see your leg," I huff, annoyed at his silence. He's been practically dragging himself out of the city, pretending he's fine when the blood seeping through his clothes says otherwise. He stops to face me, blue eyes meeting mine, and then seats himself with a sigh. We're nearly at the edge of the city now; less than a quarter of a mile if my guess is worth anything at all. With a sigh of relief, I kneel next to him and reach for his blood-soaked leg.

Well. That's a mess.

Something obviously fell on his leg, for it's mauled to the point you could mistake it for hamburger meat. It's bleeding severely, with little shards of debris protruding out of it at certain points. His knee is dislocated as well, and how he managed to drag himself this far is beyond me.

No wonder he was so grumpy.

With a cringe at the horrid sight, I reach for my pack and pull out the strip of cloth he used to cover his face.

"Bite down on this," I say, without meeting his gaze, but he catches my hand. I look over to face him, and have to turn away. I've never seen him so afraid; so broken.

"Your knee's dislocated. Stuff it in your mouth and bite down; it'll muffle your yells," I tell him, and with only slight hesitation, he does as I asked.

"You gonna give me a count..." he starts, voice muffled by the cloth, but then bites down as he screams. With a sharp yank on his leg, a loud pop sounds as I snap his knee back into its socket.

His chest heaves with exertion as he collapses against the ground, so I remove the cloth from his mouth myself. With steady fingers accustomed to such gore due to my previous occupation, I pull what I can from the wounded leg before wrapping it in a spare bandage as tightly as I can muster.

"That's all I can do until we get to Callie. She's got the medicine with her," I say, wiping the blood on my hands off onto my jeans before helping Mikhail to his feet. He doesn't say a word, face pale and sweaty as I hang his arm over my shoulder. As the added weight hits my wounded shoulder, I bite my lip to fight a scream.

"I'll come back for the packs once you're back out of the city. Come on," I urge, and he merely staggers silently by my side. With no Burned in sight, we stumble out of the ruined city and into the desert once more. I leave Mikhail under a huge chunk of building, resting in the sand, before returning for our packs.

Once I return, I collapse next to him in the sand as I gasp for air.

The chunk of fallen building we're under is little more than a giant slab of concrete stabbed diagonally into the sand, but it provides shelter from the sun. While someone exiting the city probably wouldn't see us, we can see whoever exits and enters.

I pull two bottles of water from one of the packs and open one for Mikhail, who's now half-unconscious in the sand. With a slight shake, he's awake, and drinks the water wordlessly, draining it in record time. I swallow mine down a little slower, relishing the lukewarm liquid after the night from hell.

"What happened back there?" Mikhail asks, his voice thick with pain, emotion, and exhaustion.

I swallow another sip of water and refuse to meet his gaze. The gentle Southern wind blows some sand across my field of view, and I follow the dancing patterns of the gusts with my tired eyes.