Hell Bound

Five

Graham didn't have anything other than what was already in his backpack. So once we got our food, I took him back to my house. He seemed as fascinated by the house as he was by the car. Even though one looked kind of shabby compared to the other. The moment I opened the front door, he abandoned his quest to help me unload groceries and went right for the bookshelf.

"Oh, wow," he said, plucking one off a shelf. "What's this one about?" I dumped the bags in the living room and turned to get the rest.

"I don't know. I've never read it. My commanding officer gave it to me the last time I saw him," I told him. Then I paused at the door. "At least I think it was the last time I saw him."

"Radical." He flipped through the pages, and I headed back to the car to empty the trunk.

When I returned, he was right where I'd left him, but now fully immersed in whichever book he picked up next. I made it two feet into the hallway with the groceries before I stopped.

The backdoor was cracked open. There was a smear of blood above the door's handle. I followed the trail that almost blended into the shadows before disappearing into the kitchen. I slowly set the bags down on the floor and slid my pink knife out of the pocket I'd made for it in my sleeve. Then I cautiously crept down the hall with my heart in my throat.

He was sitting on the kitchen floor, propped up against the counter in a pool of his own blood. His long legs were spread out, and the entire left side of his body was red. His head was dropped back against the counter, and his eyes were closed. If he heard us come in, he didn't react. My heart leapt.

"Bucky?" I dropped my knife and rushed to his side. I fell beside him, and his eyelids parted just enough to peek at me. He had one of my dish towels pressed against his stomach, and I peeled it back to look at the wound. The towel was soaked through with blood, and there was a chunk of metal sticking out of his abdomen.

"I didn't know where else to go," he muttered.

"What the hell happened?" I jumped over to his other side to keep pressure on the wound while I dug my first-aid kit out from under the sink. He lifted his right hand, stained red with sticky blood, spread out his fingers, and said one word.

"Boom."

It was obvious he'd turned his body to the side so his left arm would take the brunt of the force and protect his skull. But there was blood from his head to his legs. I couldn't tell exactly what the damage was, except for the obvious bits of shrapnel and broken glass that were sticking out of his clothes and dotted across his jaw. Graham came running down the hall and made it to the doorway before coming to an abrupt halt.

"Is everything ok...," he started. But Bucky had a gun pointed at him so quickly that I didn't have time to explain. The movement was obviously causing him tremendous pain. His lip was pinched between his teeth. He was breathing rapidly, and his hand trembled as if the gun was too heavy.

"Bucky, stop," I said, putting my hand on his arm and forcing him to lower it. "He's my friend."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Graham McGuire, sir."

"He's okay. Put the gun down. You can't shoot my friend or I'll never forgive you."

I wasn't sure if he was actually obeying my wishes or just couldn't hold the gun up anymore. He dropped it to his side. The gun thunked against the linoleum, and he went back to breathing through his teeth, clutching at the sharp piece of metal lodged in his gut.

"Help me move him to the couch," I told Graham.

"We should take him to the hospital," he replied, cautiously stepping toward Bucky's other side. Bucky's hand shot up and gripped the kid by his jacket. He pulled him down so hard that he slipped in blood and came face to face with Bucky's pallid face and cold eyes.