I climbed over the back of the UTV as quickly as I could without slipping, the sting of my own injuries muffled by adrenaline. With my foot supported by two rocks, I leaned into the vehicle. “Nico!” I shouted. There was no response. With his head against the steering wheel, he looked terribly still.

I pushed my hand to his neck and felt his pulse. It thrummed against my fingertips, but my hand came away slick with blood. It was everywhere, covering Nico’s shirt, head, and the dashboard of the UTV.

After making sure he wouldn’t fall, I unbuckled his seatbelt and tore the remainder of his shirt away. His skin was spotted with new bruises and fresh blood, but my eyes were drawn to a crater of flesh in his right shoulder. It was no larger than a quarter, but dark and deep. A gunshot wound, I realized. It must have happened as we turned.

I leaned back and assessed the situation. With Nico in the driver’s seat, I couldn’t get a clear view of his wound. As unsafe as it would be to move him, he was in danger of bleeding out if I left him inside the UTV. I yelled his name again, but there was no response.

As gently as I could, I slid my arms under Nico’s armpits and around his back. To keep my balance and avoid his wound, I had to twist my body at almost a 180 degree angle.

My muscles shook with exhaustion as I dragged Nico out of his seat and onto the slope. He groaned, but his eyes didn’t open. “Bear with me,” I panted. I planted my feet in the spots that looked solid and pulled him up the hill inch by inch, cursing the whole way. Finally, I managed to maneuver him onto a flat outcropping.

I glanced over the edge. We were about two stories above the ground, and the UTV was to my right, about six feet below us. I pushed Nico closer to the rock and doubled over, trying to catch my breath. When I looked back, his blood had already stained the sand-colored rock.

Grimacing, I climbed to the back of the UTV and pulled out Nico’s pack. After tucking it under one arm, I scrambled back to the outcropping and bent before Nico. His face was beaded with sweat, and his breathing was erratic. Panic welled in my chest, but I forced myself to stay calm. I know as well as anyone that gunshot wounds can be deadly, and his head doesn’t look good either.

I rifled through the backpack and pulled out the canteen and Nico’s first aid kit. Inside were scissors, bandages, and a small bottle of antiseptic. I cleaned my hands, then cut off the remaining shreds of his shirt and threw the blood-soaked fabric to the side. I propped his head up with a jacket and grimaced. “This might hurt.”

I turned his body slightly to examine the wound. The bullet had passed cleanly through the tissue in his shoulder, in through the side and out of the back. I rinsed the dirt and blood off of his skin and dabbed the exposed flesh with antiseptic. My mind flashed back to all of the times I had bandaged my own injuries, and my hands seemed to work on their own as I fashioned a tourniquet around his shoulder and bound the wounds.

I used the last of the water in the canteen to clean the dirt off Nico’s face and wet his lips. His brow was furrowed with pain, and I touched his arm gently in an attempt to soothe him. As my adrenaline subsided, I realized my own limbs were littered with injuries from the crash. Suddenly, I felt the sour bite of stomach acid against my cheeks and threw up over the outcropping.

I took a couple deep breaths, and only then did it occur to me that I did not know the fate of the soldiers. I stood up again and peered over the side of the hill at the spot where the truck had crashed. It lay upside-down like a flipped crab, its wheels slowly turning in the air. I have to be sure.

I pulled Nico’s pistol from his belt and pointed it downwards. In my hand, the hard metal stung with cold. I hiked down the hill, each step filling me with more trepidation. Coming to a stop right above the truck, I stared at the aftermath of the accident.

The sides of the truck were smashed inwards, and the wreckage was surrounded by a cloud of smoke and dust. Through the shattered window, I could see the bodies of the two soldiers hanging limply by their seatbelts. They had been reduced to bloody flesh, stabbed by metal and crushed by rock. There was no doubt that they were dead. The sight made me sick, but even looking at the bodies, I felt only a modicum of remorse.

Without looking back, I climbed the hill again and sat down next to Nico. As the sun rose in the sky, marking noontime, the hill cast a shadow over us. The only sound was Nico’s shallow breaths. With his hardened muscles and wounded arm, he looked like the cover photo for a war newspaper.

I tilted my head back and tried to focus. They will come for us, I realized. They will come when the soldiers do not report back to Westborren, maybe sooner if they were being tracked. We can’t just stay here. Yet, Nico’s pale brow was slick with sweat, and the blood had already soaked through most of the bandages. Moving him could be deadly. Besides, where would we go? I do not know the path ahead.

As I tried to think of a solution, I moved to the edge of the outcropping to keep watch over the hill.

***

Nico’s first words were feverish. “Anabelle,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering open. His head turned from side to side as if seeking something invisible.

“Yes?” I asked, crouching next to him. “What is it?”

“Listen… leave here…”

I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t leave you, and besides, where would I go?”

Nico groaned again. “Have to… Keon’s secret…” My eyes widened. Of course. If we both die here, Keon’s secret will never make it back to the resistance’s HQ. “Go south… to Chibron… find Whitacker Brown.”

“Nico, they’ll torture you.” Weakly, he pointed to the pistol sitting on the rock beside me.

My voice trembled. “I can’t-”

“You… must.” He went silent. Staring down at him, I faced the worst dilemma of my life. If it was anyone else, I would not hesitate to save myself. But Nico risked his own safety to help me on the night of the Fortress attack. Even if I didn’t take his life, leaving him would be a death sentence—to even have a chance of survival, I would need to take our food and water, and the soldiers will come soon.

I put my head in my hands. Of course, I could not deny the importance of passing on our great realization. If Keon was not stopped, millions might die. I leaned back against the rock, feeling my heart pound. Next to me, the pistol seemed to bore a hole in the rock. It would be a quick, painless death, much more merciful than one of Keon’s death camps.

I thought of all the people who had suffered under Keon–Peter, Owen, the boys at the school bombing, and now Nico–and my blood grew hot with rage.

Fine. If his fever does not break in an hour, I will continue this journey on my own.