The Magpie's Death

The Way Home (1)

The Magpie cringed. The pain in his calf was agonizing now, but he still had a few blocks left before he reached his destination. Red had sent a message to the Suns on the drive down to boast of his capture and notify them of his location, but he hadn't done it until after they reached the city. It was smart of him, whether he knew it or not. It kept the Magpie trapped in the car until the last minute.

Pain-in-the-ass Red. You're supposed to be loyal, not smart.

He opened the windows and took a breath. He wasn't sure if car exhaust and trash was any better, but he was tired of the hot rust smell that now permeated everything in the car. Glancing over at the limp body in the passenger seat, he sighed in frustration. Leave it to Mr. Reliable Red to wait to check in. He should have been dead before they ever crossed the bridge into Manhattan. Now there was very little time to move from the original route to where he needed to be before the Suns realized something was wrong. Then he would have even less time to escape before they sent the Horizon after him.

The wound in his shoulder throbbed and bled, but it was nothing compared to the one in his calf. Amazingly, Red had managed to miss both bone and major arteries and it didn't feel like the force had shattered his shin. That didn't mean it didn't hurt. After five hours, he'd lost too much blood, and the blur creeping past his periphery combined with his growing nausea made driving difficult.

In a haze, he finally parked the car in an alley and grit his teeth as he spun out of the seat. Maybe if he clenched tight enough, the aching in his jaw would distract him. It would at least stop him from crying out at each little movement.

Exhaling a long breath to steady himself, he stuffed Red's gun into his pants, then looked around for something to use as a crutch. Finding a piece of scrap wood, he propped himself up and hobbled through a small side door leading to the kitchen of a restaurant for lease. It was a good find, in a neighborhood at the cusp of gentrification. Quiet, but still slummy enough for most people to avoid.

As quickly as he could, he rummaged through cabinets, searching for the supplies Squirrel had stashed. After preparing a large bucket of water and a rag, he undid the makeshift shirt-bandage. It had been long enough for the blood to dry and crust, sticking to the fabric as he pulled. His eyes began to water, pain shooting up his leg, and his head felt light, the room going fuzzy.

A few deep breaths brought him back. He wiped away bits of black blood and loose scabs, then poured half a bottle of alcohol over the entry and exit wound. Nothing could prevent him from calling out as the harsh liquid spread through torn skin and bit into his nerves. He immediately pressed gauze over each bullet hole to dull the feeling and wrapped a clean pressure bandage around his calf. Pulling tight, his temples were pounding and a blackness began to tunnel his vision.

Shit. This is not the time to pass out...

Choking down antibiotics and painkillers, he cleaned and bound his shoulder as well. From start to finish, the process took less than ten minutes, but that was still ten minutes too long. He grabbed the clean clothes and changed, then after a few large chugs of water, he headed back out to the street.

He briefly turned on his phone's GPS as he dragged himself down the sidewalk. They would find this location soon anyway, since he hadn't bothered to hide Red or the car. He needed to find somewhere to buy a crutch or cane. Hobbling around with an old, splintered piece of wood under his arm was a little too suspicious.

Pharmacy, pharmacy...

It was out of the way, but he didn't have a choice. He turned the corner and headed down the block. As expected, he received more than one curious stare limping to the register.

"Do you sell crutches?" he asked through a low groan. "Any kind is fine."

"We do, in the back..." The teenager at the counter gave him a sympathetic grimace. Her eyes darted to his leg, then up to examine his face. "You look really pale. Are you okay? Do you want me to get someone?"

He waved at her and shook his head. "No, I'm fine. It's just the heat, and my crutch broke on my way home... Walking around with this scrap wood is difficult."

His smile was awkward but gentle, something he was never able to do before. It seemed to make the girl feel better. She told him to wait and rushed to the back, returning with a new pair of crutches. Handing over some cash, he thanked her and hurried back out to the street.

I don't have time for this shit.

He didn't blame Red. He would have done the same thing in his position and expected some kind of gunshot wound, but it didn't make this any easier. Cutting through a narrow alley, he was back on his intended path. After another ten minutes, he was in an area where he could catch a cab.

He slipped into the back seat, shutting the door. "I'll give you five thousand to turn your meter and GPS off and pretend you never saw me."

The driver only nodded and pulled away from the curb.

It wouldn't stay a secret. There was a camera in the cab and the driver would tell eventually, since he already had the money. He just hoped he could rely on New York apathy and the man wouldn't say anything until his shift ended. At least not to anyone important.

Finally reaching Long Island, he had the driver drop him off at the port and staggered his way onto the ferry. It was a risky move, but as long as no one was able to track the cab, it would be his least expected choice of transportation. Even taking the express service, it would be almost an hour before he reached Connecticut, with no options for changing course.

Slouching into a corner, he let out a long breath. The dizziness and fatigue took over and everything went black.