Page 26

As the boys run in and out of the plane, the girls huddle quietly. They cry, moan, and sob, and I sit silent, watching the body count increase a few feet away from me; an eerie half light glows from the forest illuminating them. The boys, the ones still breathing, line up the bodies one by one, some still alive, most lay half strewn with limbs and flesh missing from their bodies. Thomas carries one girl over his shoulder and lays her down like a feather.

She doesn’t move because she’s already dead.

The fumes inside the plane become too toxic for them to get in and out of safely. Micah called it when Thomas came out puking and wouldn’t let anyone else inside. A part of the plane looks like it might collapse any second, and Micah didn’t want anyone alive trapped on board. Whoever is still left in there is hopefully dead, or at least, they will be by the end of the night.

I can’t think about that.

Maison is helping those he can, but he’s not come to see me since we crashed. There are over forty of us on board who all need help, and he doesn’t owe me anything.

I finally notice the tall frame of one twin hovering over a boy who is lying, grasping his side a couple of feet away from where I sit with my head between my knees. From here, I can’t tell if it’s Maison or not.

But the boy is still alive.

Move. I have to move. I can’t just sit here while people are dying.

My muscles are locked in place, and I try to dispel a thickness in my throat, but I manage to crawl over to them, sliding myself against the slimy rock.

It’s Micah—he’s pressing his hand onto the boy’s wound. I place my hand on Micah’s back, and he flinches. He is so adsorbed into helping this boy he didn’t see me coming.

“Let me help,” I whisper as the whites of the boy’s eyes find mine.

Micah shifts over to let me in. “Press down on the wound like this. Keep the blood from spilling out of him. That’s the only way he will survive. Find an extra shirt if you can and wrap it around him.”

I blow out a breath and mirror his movements, pressing my hand on the boy’s shirt where something had clearly impaled him. Micah doesn’t look at me as he rises to his feet, strong, unscathed, and pretty as always. He was at the very front.

“What do I do with him after?”

He swallows and purses his lips. “There is nothing we can do after. He’ll either live or he’ll die. He’s in the same fucking boat we are.”

I watch him in horror—the way he says it, so matter of fact and completely void of emotion. Although, I guess he’s used to being around dead bodies. Nevertheless, he had laser-like focus trying to save this boy. He wants him to live as much as I do.

“What about the pilots and the flight attendant? Or the coaches?” I ask him.

A responsible adult who can help us.

He cocks his head as he finally looks at me. “They’re fucking dead.”

I balk in horror as he stalks to the next body, skipping those already deceased and focusing only on the ones convulsing. Conversation is over, I guess.

I focus my attention on the boy in front of me. I’m solely focused on preventing this boy from dying in my arms.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, trying to place if he’s on the junior or senior team. He has two cute dimples on his cheek, sandy blond hair, and eyes that seem to have maturity about them way beyond his years.

He lets out a heavy breath and smiles, his teeth flashing super white. “James,” he says in a pained voice.

James Carey, the captain of the junior team. I hadn’t given them much notice, honestly. All my attention has been on the two tall, mysterious hockey players on the older team. But I remember his name from the roster as technically, I was supposed to write about them, too.

I assess his injury the best I can. He’s bleeding, but the cut on his side doesn’t seem too deep, and the spilling blood is already subsiding.

“Tell me about yourself, James. Do you have any siblings?” Keep him talking. At least that’s what they do in movies. His heavy eyes start to close, and I nudge him till he opens them again. “Keep your eyes on me, James, please. I’m not going anywhere, so you need to stay awake and talk to me.”

A pause and then he swallows. “I have one brother.”

“Does he play hockey, too?” I ask in a soft voice.

He manages a smile. “He’s terrible at it. I was going to help him this winter.”

I squeeze his hand. “Well, you still can. Someone will come help us soon. I bet you’ll be skating around with him in no time.”