Chapter 140: Ink and Ash
The pain hit me like a second explosion.
I screamed. A raw, guttural cry tore from my throat as I clutched the mangled stump where my left arm had once been. Blood poured in thick, hot rivers, soaking through my sleeve and down my side. My knees buckled. The world swayed.
"No," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Not here. Not now."
I dropped to one knee and yanked off my coat with trembling fingers. It was coarse and thick—old wool—and all I had. I wadded it up and pressed it hard against the wound, my vision speckling with white as fresh agony lanced through me.
"Come on," I whispered, staggering forward. "Move."
My boots slid across the rubble-strewn road. Firelight flickered against the crumbling buildings. Screams and sirens echoed like a funeral chorus. My breaths came shallow, wet with copper. I couldn't afford to pass out. Not yet.
I followed the flow of the crowd. Dozens of civilians ran—families, workers, soldiers in outdated uniforms—toward the same location, a squat building partially buried into the side of a hill. Reinforced metal doors yawned open, people flooding through. The faint clatter of bombs still rang in the air.
I stumbled inside just as the doors slammed shut behind me.
The interior of the bunker was dim and claustrophobic, lit by flickering oil lamps hanging from rusted chains. Concrete walls pressed close, and the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and fear. People were crammed into every corner. Children sobbed against their mothers. Elderly men clutched prayer beads, whispering desperate invocations. A teenage girl vomited in the corner while her brother rubbed her back.
Eyes turned to me as I entered, blood soaking my side, my face pale. Someone screamed.
"Medic!"