None of the horrific images that had haunted him all night could’ve prepared him for what it felt like to find her. She lay on her side on the ground, curled up and covered in blood. “No,” he bellowed, the sound ripping through him like a knife. He flung himself on the ground next to her and grabbed her hand. Her stomach was stained a deep red. He raised the edge of her shirt and saw a deep wound in her abdomen.
“Sasha—I’m here. You’re safe now. I’m going to get you back home, okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyelids fluttered as she slipped in and out of consciousness. He picked her up carefully. Her head lolled to one side, bouncing as he ran back up the hill and toward the main entrance to Mount Weather.
Wells moved as quickly as he could, panting and ignoring the painful stitch in his side—and the risk of attack by Rhodes’s men, who were certainly still in the vicinity. Come and get me, Wells wanted to scream. Come and try to hurt me so I can rip you to shreds.
Several meters out, he heard someone call his name. A troupe of Earthborns materialized from the woods around him. They had been on their way out to find Sasha.
“She’s alive,” Wells said to them, his voice desperate and strained. “But we need to get her back inside, fast.”
The Earthborns formed a circle around him, jogging at his side with their weapons raised. They approached the rock face that concealed the heavy front door to the bunker. One of them flung it open, and Wells rushed inside.
Max stood just on the other side of the door. His face lit up with hope when he first saw Wells, then crumpled when his eyes fell on his daughter.
“No,” Max whispered, reaching out for the wall to steady himself. “No, Sasha.” He staggered forward and placed his hands on either side of her face. “Sasha, sweetheart…”
“She’s going to be okay,” Wells said. “We just need to get her to Clarke.”
One of the Earthborn women sprinted ahead while Max helped Wells carry Sasha down the stairs. He felt as if he was moving through a dream or watching from above as he carried Sasha along the corridor. Light and sound seemed far away, at the end of a long tunnel. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be one of Wells’s nightmares. In just a moment, he’d sense Sasha smiling over him, her long hair tickling him awake as she whispered good morning into his ear.
“The old hospital’s just around the corner,” Max said, panting as they ran.
They turned a corner, and Max shoved the door open, holding it as Wells rushed inside and laid Sasha down on an operating table. While Max ran to turn on the lights, Wells gripped her hand. It was cold. Frantic, he lifted her eyelids—something he’d watched Clarke do a hundred times in the last few weeks. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her breathing was shallow and rough.
“Sasha,” Wells pleaded. “Sasha, please. Stay with us. Sasha—can you hear me?”
She gave a slight, weak nod, and Wells felt something inside his chest crack open, flooding his body with relief. “Oh, thank god.”
Max ran over and grabbed hold of her other hand. “Just hang in there. Help is coming. Just hold on.”
“We need to keep her conscious,” Wells said, turning to the door, as if his eyes had the power to pull Clarke there faster. “Keep her talking.”
“What happened?” Max asked, pushing her hair back from her pale, sweat-covered brow.
Sasha opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Max leaned over and put his ear close to her lips. A moment later, he looked up at Wells. “Snipers,” he said grimly. Sasha tried to speak again. This time they could both hear her.
“I was at the storeroom. I never saw them coming.” Her voice was ragged.
Clarke sprinted into the room, her blond hair streaming behind her. A moment later, Bellamy ran in after her. Clarke crossed to the bed in two steps, reached for Sasha’s wrist and checked her pulse. She didn’t say anything, but Wells could read it in Clarke’s eyes. He knew it was bad. Clarke lifted Sasha’s shirt and exposed the deep wound in her gut.
“She’s been shot,” Clarke said. “And she’s lost a lot of blood.” Max clenched his teeth but said nothing. Clarke spun around and began pulling open drawers, riffling through them. She pulled out a vial and a syringe and quickly filled it. She injected the clear liquid into Sasha’s arm. Sasha’s whole body relaxed instantly, and her breathing evened out. Clarke examined Sasha’s abdomen more closely. Wells loosened his grip on Sasha’s hand. Max stood silently, his head hanging.
“She’s comfortable now,” Clarke said slowly as she turned to Max and Wells.
“So what’s next?” Wells asked. “Are you going to try to remove the bullet? Or did it go all the way through?”
Clarke said nothing. She just stared at him, her eyes filling with tears.
“Let’s go, Clarke,” he snapped. “What’s the plan? What do you need to fix her?”
“Wells…” She walked over from the other side of the table and placed her hand on his arm. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I can’t just—”
Wells jerked away, out of Clarke’s grasp. “Then get more blood. Take mine.” He rolled up his sleeve and placed his elbow on the table. “What are you waiting for? Go get a needle or whatever you need.”
Clarke shut her eyes for a moment, then turned to Max. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “Without life support equipment, Sasha wouldn’t last more than a few minutes if I tried to operate on her. I think it’s better… this way. She’s resting comfortably, and you’ll be able to spend some time together before…”
Max stared at her. Stared through her, really, his eyes wide and blank, as if his brain had cut the feed to protect him from the horror playing out in front of him. But then his expression shifted, and he locked eyes with Clarke. “Okay,” he said, his voice so quiet, Wells might’ve just imagined it.
He leaned over to face Sasha, still holding her hand while he smoothed back her hair. “Sasha… can you hear me? I love you so much. More than anything.”
“I… love… you,” Sasha breathed, her eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Max’s voice cracked as he choked back a sob. “My brave girl.”