Page 4

AUTUMN

T he world is burning, and this time I’m on the wrong side of the flames.

Thick, bitter smoke pours into the bar, stinging my eyes and clawing down my throat, choking every breath before I can fully draw it.

Heat pulses against my back as the barricade collapses, torn apart by fire and rotters.

The front shelves are catching now. Glass bottles explode with sharp pops and flames crawl like starving vines across what remains of the wood. The worst part? Mars isn’t moving.

“Mars,” I cough out his name and drop to my knees beside him.

He’s sprawled behind the bar where the blast threw him. His eyes are closed, blood trickles from his temple, and one arm is splayed across his chest. He’s covered in soot. I press trembling fingers to his throat. There’s a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s alive.

Relief hits me so hard I almost miss the roar of flames creeping closer. I tear a strip from my already-shredded shirt hem and press it to the cut on his head. He doesn’t stir.

“Come on, don’t do this, you stubborn bastard.” My voice sounds small in the flickering chaos .

I glance up for something useful. Smoke thickens around us.

The barricade won’t hold much longer with how quickly the flames are eating right through it.

Orange light pulses through wall cracks, casting the bar in hellish firelight.

Shadows dance across overturned stools, shattered glass, and broken tables.

There’s nothing useful here, and we’re running out of time.

“Why did you have to go and get yourself blown up?” I hold my shirt collar over my mouth and squint as I search through the smoke around us.

Broken stools, scattered matches, nothing useful. Then I spot a barstool with wheels mostly intact. I drag it over and position it beside him.

“You’re too damn heavy.” I hook my arms under his and attempt to pull him up. “What do you even eat, bricks slathered in concrete gravy?”

He groans when I try to haul him up, and his head lolls toward me. He comes to enough to help me get him into the chair before blacking out again and becoming dead weight slumped against me.

“Move, move, move.” I push the rolling chair toward the exit and hope it stays in one piece long enough to get us out of here.

I have to steer with one hand while the other holds Mars’s arm in place to keep him upright.

His other boot drags on the ground, slowing us down, but there’s no time to readjust. I kick the back door open and we lurch into the alley right as the fire reaches the liquor shelves, sending another burst of flames and smoke chasing after us.

I slam the door shut, muffling the roar, and suck in a breath that tastes like ash and iron.

The stool breaks and Mars’s unconscious ass slumps against the brick wall. At least the alley is eerily quiet for once.

I crouch beside Mars. He’s unconscious but still breathing, and that’s what counts.

Sweat beads along his hairline. The bleeding has slowed, but the bruise on his temple is darkening.

I brush sweat from his hair with a sigh, then notice something that sparks hope.

Half-buried beside a trash bin sits a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor. Perfect.

Without wasting another moment, I grab the bottle and unscrew the cap, then glance down at my bare feet shoved into boots. No socks. Right, I already used them for molotov duty.

I look at Mars, then at his sock-filled boots. Then at his unconscious face.

“Sorry in advance.” I yank one boot off, shove it into his lap, and pull his sock free. It’s damp with sweat and the smell nearly makes me gag, but I shove it into the bottle, anyway. He would’ve done the same, I’m sure.

I’m wasting precious escape time doing this, but having another cocktail of the apocalypse on standby could save our lives.

“You better live, you stubborn bastard, or I swear I’m stealing your other sock out of spite.” I press two fingers to his wrist and check his pulse again. Slower than before, but it’s not slipping. He should be fine. If he ever wakes up, that is. Of course he’s taking a nap while I do all the work.

For the first time since the fire started, I pause to simply breathe.

My lungs still ache from smoke and my legs tremble from adrenaline, but I’m still standing and alive, and that’s something.

I glance at my unconscious savior and feel intense guilt that I got him into this mess.

Sure, he came looking for me, followed me all around this damn city, and then blew himself up, but I still feel some guilt.

He’s already saved my life more than once, and I still only know his name.

Well, his name, and the fact he’s pure muscle.

If he was a twig, then maybe I could try carrying his ass out of this city.

He’s not, so I need to find another way to transport him.

While I left him on the rooftop, I can’t bring myself to leave him behind now .

I rise with the molotov gripped tight, prepared to fight our way out of this rotter-infested city with a single liquor bottle and a lighter, until I look up and freeze.

A man stands ten feet from the alley mouth.

He’s tall and lean, dressed in dark gray cargo pants and a tattered black hoodie hanging open over a dark tank top.

Platinum blond hair falls in messy waves over his forehead and shoulders.

His skin is pale enough to look almost frostbitten, but it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

They’re icy blue like winter storm clouds.

“Holy shit, are all of you mystery men so beautiful?”

My gaze drops to the pistol in his hand that’s aimed right at me.

Time holds still as seconds stretch between us, thick as the smoke clinging to my skin. The man’s gaze shifts over my shoulder and he pulls the trigger. I flinch as the crack rings out and echoes off the brick walls.

I whirl around me to see a rotter crumpled behind me, collapsed with its skull pierced clean between the eyes. I hadn’t even realized it was that close. Didn’t think anything was behind me.

When I turn back, the stranger holsters his pistol like it’s nothing. He doesn’t speak as he walks toward us, each step silent and measured, an odd contrast to the growing flames behind me and billowing smoke around us.

He crouches beside Mars and checks his pulse before peeling open his eyelids. His fingers are thin, quick, and precise, like someone trained for triage or trained to kill. Maybe both. Who the fuck are these guys?

“He’s alive,” he says, his voice clipped and emotionless.

I nod and tighten my grip on the bottle.

After taking the boot from Mars’s lap and shoving it back into his bare foot, the man slides Mars’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him onto his back in one fluid motion. He’s slim, strong, and moves like a shadow.

“We need to move,” he says .

“You think?” I say.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, and doesn’t smile. He turns and starts jogging down the alley with Mars slumped against his back like he weighs nothing.

I follow. Not because I trust him, but because right now, I don’t have much choice.

And because, whether I like it or not, these men might die without me.