Through The Gates Of Hell

Six Crows A.K.A Death

Sandstorm chaos whirls,

Winston collapses, gun woes, 

Thomas and Teresa dance.

Y/N's P.O.V

Winston collapsed like a rag doll, sliding partway down the dune in a plume of ash-white sand. We skidded down after him. As we turned him over, he groaned softly. 

"Winston!"

"Dude!"

"He's hurt pretty bad. What do we do?" Teresa, Mistress of the Obvious asked.

"Find shelter. It won't be smart to check his stomach out here, seeing that the dust will just make it worse or even infect the wound. We have to find a place with cover, and definitely no Cranks." I said, my instincts as both a fighter and a medic kicking in.

"Winston. Winston. Can you hear us?" Newt asked, the British boy's voice laced with concern for his friend. 

I moved away from the group. Using metal rods I found half-buried in the sand and the sheets in my bag, I fashioned a frame to carry Winston. Dragging it back to where the rest of the group was, we gently lifted him onto it. 

The boys took turns lifting the makeshift stretcher, while Teresa and I walked ahead of the group, scouting for shelter.

Our journey definitely wasn't easy. Mother Nature, being the absolute asshole she was, stirred up powerful winds, blowing against the direction we were travelling in. Sand flew into our eyes, noses and mouth, choking and gagging us.

Tying pieces of cloth around our noses and mouths, we continued trekking through the wasteland. Sweat, hot and salty, trailed down my spine, the sides of my head and the tip of my nose. I considered taking of my jacket, but looking at Teresa's red face, I decided against it. The jacket was all that protected me from the Sun burning by skin to cinders.

At last, we spotted what we wanted -- a shaded spot under part of a collapsed bridge. Groaning from utter exhaustion, I flopped down in the sand like a limp noddle, as did Winston. The sick boy lay in the sand, panting. Through my haze of exhaustion, I dimly heard Teresa ask to talk to Thomas in private. 

As the two moved away, I heard Frypan groan.

"What?"

"If those two start making out right now, I'll jump off a cliff." Frypan grumbled.

I sat up.

"They're a thing?" I asked casually.

Minho let out a short bark of laughter. "You should have seen them in the maze. Drooling over each other with moony eyes, holding hands, exchanging soppy looks and whatnot." Then, turning to Newt with an exaggerated lovey expression and a high-pitched voice, he said, "Marry, me, Thomas. Marry me!"

The corners of my mouth twisted into a nervous smile. Newt rolled his eyes and gave Minho a playful shove. Frypan let out a hearty guffaw.

"Sounds familiar. Aris and Rachel were exactly like that."

"Were not!"

"Were too."

Frypan grinned, flashing his pearly-white teeth. "Seriously. Teresa acted so familiar with Thomas, calling him Tom and everything that I wondered if she even lost here memories."

We all giggled, the golden moment of happiness suspended in the movement of time, only to be pierced by Thomas' raised voice.

"What don't I understand, Teresa? They were killing kids. We escaped. Winston nearly died. Now you want to go back?"

"Listen to me, Tom-"

"No. Don't Tom me, Teresa. Why--"

He was cut off by a gunshot and an exclamation.

"Winston, man, what are you doing?" Frypan yelled as he wrestled the pistol away from Winston as the sick boy tightened his grip on the handle of the gun. 

"Please. Please. I'm not going to make it. Give it back. The gun. Please. Ple-" 

Winston broke off coughing and sputtering so hard that his entire body shook. Thomas, who had been moving closer to Winston, staggered back in alarm as the latter reviled a dark, sticky substance onto the sand. My stomach flipped anxiously as he lay down panting hard. 

As he uncovered the bandages wound around his torso, we inched closer. 

"It's growing." 

And indeed it was growing, as dark veins of infection branched off from the deep scratches in his stomach. Frypan looked away, cringing. 

"I'm not going to make it," he whispered again. "I don't want to- to become one of those things, please." The desperation in his voice grew with every syllable uttered.

Tears raced down Frypan's face as he looked at his dying friend. It occurred to me that maybe the two of them had been closer than I suspected. Newt, Thomas and Minho had banded together, and as a result, they had probably become better friends than they let on. 

 Newt was the first one to move.

Gently, he pried the gun out of Frypan's unresisting grip. Kneeling tenderly beside the Winston, who was breathing hard, the blonde boy placed the gun over Winston's heart. 

"Thank you."

Glancing at the sick boy one last time, Newt moved away. Wordlessly, he picked up his bag of supplies and marched off. One boy one, the others followed suit, until only Thomas and I were left standing. 

"It's okay. Keep them safe, Thomas. Keep them safe."

Eyes glimmering with tears and regret, Thomas, too left.

"Don't hurt him Y/N. Don't hurt Newt." Winston brought his attention to me. 

"Wha-"

"Go. And thank you, for giving them a chance to escape."

Shaking my head, I picked up my pack and turned my back on the boy I'd known for barely twenty four hours and left him to die.

We'd only been walking for ten minutes when the gunshot rang out, loud and clear.

Well, well, well. 

Look who's decided to come back after half a year to update (with only a short-ass depressing chapter, too).

Hehe.

Also, let's have a brief moment of silence for Winston dearest.

You're not my favourite character, but I still love you, Winston 

K.

Bye.