Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"They're taking you to surgery soon," she tells my unconscious body. "They're going to fix this."
I want to tell her I'm right here. That I can hear her. But my mouth won't move.
A doctor enters, flipping through a chart. "The infection's aggressive," she says. "Resistant to the antibiotics. We're seeing serious signs of sepsis."
"What does that mean?" Savannah asks, her voice small.
"It means we need to remove the infected tissue immediately. Clean out the wound site. Start a broader spectrum antibiotic."
"The brand," Savannah says. "You're cutting out his brand."
"We can't cut the entire brand out—it's too extensive…” I stop listening as the doctor keeps talking. Explaining to Savannah what they’re about to do to me.
I notice Mercy then, tucked into the corner chair, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears streaming silently down her face. She's watching me like she's memorizing my face, like she's already saying goodbye.
Fuck. How long have I been here? How did we get from the compound to—wherever this is?
The room feels crowded now. Too many people hovering over my body, preparing it for surgery. Preparing me. A nurse checks the monitors again, frowning at whatever she sees.
"BP's dropping," she says.
"Let's move," the doctor responds.
Through the open door, I see a figure standing in the hallway. Brick. His face is granite, eyes cold. He watches for a moment, then turns and walks away without speaking to anyone.
In his place, Diesel appears, taking up position outside the door like a sentinel. His massive frame nearly fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Anyone wanting to enter would have to go through him first.
This place—this sterile, beeping, antiseptic-soaked room—is Badlands territory now. Diesel's stance makes that clear to everyone passing by.
Savannah leans over my body as the nurses prepare to move me. Her tears fall onto my face, but the body below doesn't react.
"Please," she whispers. "Please come back to me."
Something breaks inside me at the sound of her voice. The desperation. The fear. I've put that there. Me and my fucking brand. Me and my loyalty to the outlaw family I need and love.
Me and my demons.
I focus everything I have on moving. Just a finger. Just one fucking finger to tell her I'm here. I'm listening. I'm coming back.
And somehow, across whatever divide separates my floating consciousness from that broken body, I feel my fingers twitch against hers.
Savannah gasps. "He moved! His hand moved!"
The nurse closest to her looks skeptical but checks the monitors. "Heart rate's increasing."
I push harder, focusing on turning my head toward Savannah's voice. The effort feels like trying to move a mountain with my bare hands, but slowly, my head shifts on the pillow.
"Doctor!" the nurse calls. "We've got increased brain activity."
Savannah's crying harder now, but different tears. Hope tears. "Legion? Can you hear me?"
I try to open my eyes, but that's still beyond me. Everything hurts now. The floating sensation is gone, replaced by fire in my veins and a crushing pressure in my chest. But I keep fighting. Keep pushing back toward her.
I made a promise. On the backside of twenty-three. On the near side too.
I promised Mercy I'd never leave again.
I promised Savannah, I'd get it right this time.
I even promised myself, seventeen years ago in that silo, that I'd become worthy of her. That was before the demons. Before Badlands. Before prison, and silence, and all the blood on my hands.
I'm not worthy. Never have been. But I'm still here. Still fighting. And that has to count for something.
They're moving me now, transferring my body to a gurney. The ceiling tiles slide past overhead as they wheel me out of the room. Diesel's frowning face appears above me, his eyes unreadable as I pass.
I slip back into darkness, but this time, it's different.
This time, I'm not running from it.
This time I'm comin' back.
CHAPTER 4
I wake to white. Just white. My eyes burn from the brightness, and for a moment I think I'm back in The Pit where every once in a while, just for kicks, they'd keep the lights on twenty-four seven.
But this ceiling has tiles. Neat little squares with pinprick holes.
Hospital ceiling.
The room comes into focus slowly—monitors with green lines pulsing, an IV stand with clear bags hanging, chairs sitting empty against the wall. Sunlight cuts through half-closed blinds, hitting the floor at an angle that tells me it's late afternoon. Wrong time of day from what I remember. Wrong quality of light altogether.
My body feels hollowed out, like someone scooped everything important from inside me and left just enough to keep breathing. Thick bandages wrap my chest where the brand sits. I can feel the heaviness of surgical dressing, the pull of tape against my skin.
My hand reaches for my phone without thinking, muscle memory from another life. Not there. Nothing's there. Just thin hospital sheets and the plastic rail of a bed that isn't mine.