Jimmie wiped his face quickly, he didn’t have time to cry; He needed to focus; He needed to save Dick.

“Dick, are you there?” He asked, looking down at Dick’s glazed eyes, his head nodding very weakly, but that would do, thought Jimmie. Bringing out one of the painkiller vials, he fumbled with it as he inserted it into the needle. Jimmie would need it, would need the numbing effects, at least bits of it, to function. Jimmie didn’t know exactly why his legs weren’t functional, but one reason was the pain, and he had a solution for that. After quickly filling up a fourth of the needle, he pocketed the rest of the vial, and inserted the needle into the top of his leg, pressing in the liquid painkiller. Almost immediately, the pain faded, and his mind started wandering. He hit himself repeatedly, forcing himself to stay focused, stay at the task at hand. He then picked up the gun for closing wounds, and ripped off his pants, seeing deep, clawed wounds on his legs, swelling and smelling like shit smeared in piss, wet and squishy with splashes of dark goo. But Jimmies muddled mind didn’t dwell on it, pressing the gun on the right leg first, and pressing the trigger. A searing burning pain started wafting up to his mind, partially blocked by the painkiller, but not enough. He choked on spittle, blood trickling out of his dry mouth. Then he stopped the gun, breathing heavily, panting and struggling, but quickly pushing the gun at the left leg, repeating the procedure. As the left leg wounds closed, he lied down on his back, briefly looking up at the dark sky, streaks of orange making itself known on the horizon. He panted, chest moving up and down in fast motions, trying to regain composure. Jimmie looked at Dick, seeing him also staring up at the sky, still nodding weakly. “Stop, you need to preserve your strength.” Dick stopped nodding, breathing slowly, still pale and ghostly. Jimmie rolled around on his stomach, pressing down on the ground with his arms while trying to push himself up. But noticed that his right arm wasn’t pushing properly, he lied back down and looked. Seeing a small metal bit sticking out of it, he swiftly removed it with a wet plop, blood trickling out, and looked at it. It looked like scrap metal, edges and points sticking out at random, not made like any normal bullet. He tossed it aside, then tried pushing himself up again, getting his upper body up and off the ground. He flexed his legs, feeling a dim pain shooting up, but ignored it, feeling happy that they could move at least. He slowly raised them, pressing them towards the ground, and eventually got up to his knees. He felt wobbly, unstable, but knew he could, with effort, get up on his feet. Jimmie turned around, searching for his backpack, seeing it tuckered up on the railing, bullet holes spread around. Jimmie started inching towards it, each step uncomfortable and weird, but with time he made it to it. Bending down, he picked it up, seeing the water collector trashed and ruined. He didn’t dwell on it, instead opening the bag and looking inside, finding two ration bars and nothing else of importance. He took the bars, then wobbled back to Dick, looking inside Dick’s bag, noting that his water collector was functional from what he could tell. But inside there was nothing, no magazines, no ammo, no extra weapons. His hand took a firm hold on the railing, glancing up and out on the battlefield they’ve been desperately defending. Noting bodies, none alive, distant shapes moving, not towards him. Jimmie looked backpack down, and started removing everything from the backpack, throwing the stuff aside, making the bag as light as possible. Next he removed his own clothes, everything except his glasses and boots. After that he started, gently, removing Dick’s clothes, except for his glasses and boots. If he was about to save Dick, he would need everything to be as light as possible, no extra clothing to slow them down. Why would he need clothes, there was no ammo to defend himself with. He then took his own clothes and Dick’s, tying them up as best as he could. A task that took longer than he expected, glancing over at Dick more often than necessary, even stopping to let Dick and himself drink some water. When he found the clothes tied to his satisfaction, he very gently, rolled Dick on top of the makeshift stretcher, noting that most of Dick fit the stretcher, except for his feet, poking out from the bottom. Then Jimmie tied the top of the stretcher to the straps of Dick’s backpack. Feeling that done, he tested it, dragging Dick gently around the top of the ship, feeling weighed down, but stable. The strength in Jimmie’s legs were weak, felt weak, but the pain was muted, and he knew that he had the willpower to move. “Dick, I’m gonna drag you behind me. I’m gonna take you to safety.” Jimmie said, more to himself than Dick, knowing that Dick wasn’t really in a state of mind to understand. He looked behind himself, looking at Dick, pale and staring, mouth closed but shivering slightly, his feet scratching the floor of the ship. Nothing he could do about that, thought Jimmie, even if it gnawed on his mind. Breathing out, Jimmie dropped the bag gently, letting go of Dick as he walked up to the opposite side of the ship, peeking out over the horizon, trying to spot anything. And as he got there, his heart took an extra beat, seeing no more aliens. Feeling hope blossom. He could do it, he would do it, he would take Dick to safety, they would survive. Walking back to Dick, Jimmie noted that the sky had turned a brighter orange, day looming up, a hint of surprise on Jimmie’s mind as he did not feel tired. But he shook the thought away, focused on Dick, putting on the backpack, ambling towards the stairway, inching around the pile of bodies, blood still wet and soaking into the makeshift stretcher. Jimmie pushed bodies aside while dragging Dick, then slowly made it to the stairway, his legs still awkward, making the short journey longer than it should be. Jimmie didn’t know for how long the painkillers would work, but he had three fourth of a vial left, and he hoped it would last the whole journey to safety. Moving down the stairway was hard, it took time and patients, two things Jimmie lacked at the moment, taking almost a half hour, not helped by the slippery blood and pieces of metal strewn around. But eventually he got down, his boots sticking to the bloody ground, pieces of meat squished and making popping sounds. He ignored it, looking towards the alien ship’s hole, drifting towards it, eyes opened and ready for anything. Boots echoing through the dead ship, scraping of boots and clothing. Then Jimmie made it to the hole and looked out, a field of blooming dead met his eyes. And the suns peaking itself above the horizon.