Go, go, go.

Frank took the rear position behind Jones with Red slumped over her shoulders. They kept an aggressive pace despite the lack of light.

Gripping his knife, Frank split his time between checking their flank and trying not to trip over the debris scattered over the factory floor. He slammed his hip against one of the giant empty metal wells for paint when he lost his balance again. Damn head injury. The pain he could deal with, but not the vertigo.

His right shoulder throbbed, the bones grinding when he lifted his arm. He clutched the knife until the grip dug into his palm. Pain was something to hone his focus.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he scanned the area for a spot to hole up in, nodding at a series of pipes that fed into a large pumping station. "Over here."

Jones turned her whole body toward his voice and Frank gestured at the floor. "This has good cover with a line of sight toward the exit." She hesitated, her breathing labored from transporting her charge. "We've put enough distance between us and it. I wouldn't recommend stopping otherwise," Frank said.

She dropped the alien head, then kneeled and lowered Red to the floor. "There's a spearhead in his leg." She flicked her eyes toward Frank, nostrils flaring. "It has metal teeth."

He'd mentally prepared for a serious injury; the fact Jones had to carry Red was evidence enough. "Keep your eye out for the creature."

Frank crouched next to the man he'd once called a coward, narrowing his eyes at Red's constant muttering, realizing he was repeating something under his breath.

"He's been like that the whole time," Jones said, running a hand through her hair. She crouched beside him. "I'm going to take off his mask."

Good. She needed to feel useful; it would help her focus and give Frank time to do his evaluation.

Jones removed the helmet. Frank took in Red's bruised and battered face and the way his vacant eyes stared up at the ceiling as he muttered. Red curled and uncurled his fists by his sides while his cheat heaved, his leg wracked by tremors.

Frank patted down the lining of his jacket and found the small Maglite he kept in one of the pockets. Turning it on, he shone the light where the weapon protruded out of Red's calf, but it was hard to examine the extent of the injury with so much movement.

"You've got to keep still," Frank said, grabbing Red's ankle to hold the limb steady.

Red jerked his leg out of Frank's grasp, forcing Frank to stick the flashlight in his mouth so he could hold Red's thigh and ankle immobile. "Stop it," he mumbled, "you're going to make it worse."

"You have the worst bedside manner," Jones growled.

Frank laid the flashlight on the ground. "This isn't TV; this is triage."

But despite the obvious wound, something wasn't right. This was a man who'd beaten down ruthless criminals and took a pasting in return while remaining on his feet to fight some more.

Frank listened to Red's constant litany under his breath, at the rhythm and pattern of his repeated words, recognizing it for what it was: a focusing technique.

Reaching over, he laid a hand on Red's shoulder. "Tell me about the injury." When he didn't get a response, Frank gave Red's shoulder a shake, raising his voice. "Red! Push though the fucking pain and focus."

Red sucked in a breath, releasing the air in his lungs in several stuttering gasps. He turned his head in Frank's direction with the help of Jones, who sat behind him, supporting his neck with her hand. "It's…it's emitting some type of…nerve signal…."

Frank shone his flashlight at the weapon. "Nerve signal?"

"Yeah…p-pain signal radiating through the saphenous nerve…up the femoral nerve…into the…." Red groaned, panting.

"Holy shit," Jones cursed.

"How deep does the blade go?" Frank asked.

"T-to...the bone."

"Is it broken?"

"No. It chipped…" Red grunted. "…the fibula...God!"

Red started rolling onto his side, but Jones leaned over, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, keeping him in place. "You're going to be fine…you survived a building falling on top of you. You've got this." Jones glanced up at Frank, her lips twisted in a snarl. "You can start triage any time now."

The weapon had entered at an odd angle in the side of the leg, below the knee and above Red's boot. The Kevlar had probably saved him from an even more serious trauma, but the location of the injury was dangerous.

"He's got at least five pieces of metal in 'im. If I pull them out, it could tear blood vessels, or an artery."

"Do it," Red grunted.

"You could bleed out." Frank didn't experience regrets anymore; he'd forgotten how bad one felt. "We have to leave it in."

Red pounded a fist against the ground, growling. "Damn it, Frank. Yank this thing out of my goddamned leg!"

Emotion had no place in a trauma situation. Frank ignored him. "What's the status on the creature?"

Jones looked like she wanted to murder him, but Red blinked up at the ceiling. "I don't know…'s too far away."

That was enough distance then.

Frank nodded at Jones. "This isn't going to be fun. Maybe you could…?"

"Do what?"

Frank stared at her. "And you question my bedside manner?"

"God, I need a drink." Scooting over, Jones rested Red's head on her thigh, and then cleared her throat. "So, what was it like to be raised by nuns?"

Clenching his jaw, Frank undid the laces of Red's boot and removed it, the motion causing Red to bite down on a yell. Fingers clawing the floor, he started talking to Jones in raspy clips. "It…was…noisy."

Frank rotated Red's lower leg so he could inspect where the metal shaft protruded and trace the intricate part where it must have slotted into the spear. There was a row of tiny blue LED lights, which meant there was something providing a source of power.

"Did you ever sneak out or bring girls back or what?" Jones asked, continuing with the distraction.

Red made a low growl in the back of his throat, his entire body coiled tight, but he kept his leg straight except for the occasional twitch. Frank was impressed with his self-control.

"Sister Sarah…was like a bloodhound…wh-when it came to that stuff…."

Frank traced the sides of the metal shaft, over two indented spots that felt too designed not to have a use. The creature had stunned Frank and shot a snare net at Jones. Maybe the spear inflicted pain because it was meant to incapacitate, not kill.

"….s-sometimes the church basement…was the only spot I could focus…."

Taking a breath, Frank pressed what he thought were two release points, all five teeth retracting in response.

Red gasped, his body jerking in reaction, then after a moment he all but melted back against the floor. Taking a quivering breath, Red groaned, his head lolling to the side. "It...stopped."

"Thank God," Jones mumbled.

Maybe. The spearhead was still inside.

Frank took out a pocketknife and started cutting through the micro-thin layer of Kevlar around the injury, gritting his teeth at how long it took. An ER was out of the question and he needed to keep any hemorrhaging down to a minimum.

Searching his coat, he pulled out the soft, leather belt and wrapped it around Red's leg right below the knee, keeping it tight but not cutting off the circulation.

After tying the tourniquet he looked over Jones. "Can you find something to stop the bleeding once I remove this?"

"Sure, I'll just run to the local pharmacy."

But she didn't waste any time getting up and searching the waste that littered the floor. Jones was piss and vinegar with the attitude, but she was a serious force to be reckoned with. Frank could respect that.

He heard Red sucked in a breath and Frank watched him prop himself up on his elbows, his gaze off by a mile. "Frank…."

"Save your breath."

"Promise me…."

"The only thing I'm promising you is it's gonna hurt like hell when I pull this thing out of your leg. It'll be a driving, constant pain, and it's going to take every ounce of focus to ignore it and get back on your feet and help us kill that piece of shit. You got it?"

Red's answer was to glare in his direction. Frank shook his head at the sheer stubbornness. Exhaling, he took a moment to breathe, the adrenaline rush from the situation fading into his own throbbing joints. His vision swam and he squeezed his eyes closed against the dizziness.

"Frank–"

"Whatever it is, save it." He didn't want to hear Red ask about his wellbeing or listen to an altruistic request. "I didn't know about that building collapse when it happened. I was busy with other things." Frank should have put certain newspaper headlines together earlier. "Don't you do that again, you hear me? People need you in that stupid mask."

"Now I know you have a head injury."

Frank rolled his eyes, but Red was like a dog with bone. "Something's changed with you…hasn't it?"

"You don't know me, Red. And you don't want to."

"When you came to my place earlier…," Red swallowed hard, his voice thinner. "You could have told me…everything…."

Frank was surprised by the sudden wave of guilt that washed over him. Regret had no place in his life anymore, but it was damn relentless enemy.

He watched Red's arms give out as he settled back against the floor, his breathing deep and raspy. Red had a rare type of fortitude; Frank would make sure he and Jones made it out of here alive.

Speaking of, he looked over as she hurried over, dumping a set of rags on the floor. "This is all I could find."

They weren't sanitary, but they'd have to do. He looked over at her and gestured at their comrade. "Your job is to keep him from punching me."

"Only for today."

He snorted; that was the second time in a day she'd almost made him laugh.

Frank waited until Jones started talking to Red again before he gripped the end of the spearhead. Red's whole body tensed in anticipation; Frank wanted to tell him that only made it worse, but he pulled the damn thing out instead.

Red choked back a scream while Frank balled up the first rag and used it as a compression bandage, then he wrapped the other rag around the large wound, to keep it in place. As he repeated the process with the other punctures holes and removed the tourniquet, he started formulating an exit strategy without weapons and with an injured member.

The factory was stripped of anything useful. Graffiti covered the walls and broken windows allowed dim moonlight through. Frank looked up at the systems of pipes, engines that powered the pumps, and masses of coils and wires.

Spotting several buckets on the floor, he scanned the labels, their words blurring before arranging themselves again. There was a can of rust remover tossed in the corner; he snagged it while he searched for anything else useful.

Looking around, he found a bucket and started filling it with random nails, screws, and broken pieces of debris. It was muscle memory, finding the right tools and combinations.

Oxidizer and flammables.

His right arm refused to work properly, forcing him to carry everything with his left one, the grinding sensation in his shoulder becoming more noticeable.

But this was just a routine, a pattern to use and focus on. Frank ran into the side of a pump and stared at it, wondering what he was doing for a split second. Right. He had to kill that beast.

His feet did something where he walked too far to the right before he compensated to move in a straight line. He almost headed in the opposite direction before he remembered two people were waiting on him.

Frank spotted a sink, the emergency eyewash station within range of Jones and Red, their voices audible in the emptiness of the factory. He went toward it, searching for…there. Bleach. He stared at the bottle.

"…don't argue with me, Matt. I'm carrying your dumb ass out of here. End of story."

"It's not that–"

"Then what is it? Because I don't see the problem. We escape and call in the Army or whomever to blow this place up."

Frank began filling the bucket of metal pieces with the rust remover first. Oxidizer and flammables.

"We need to find Cuchillo and Detective–"

"Look, they're probably long gone or…."

"If they're dead then where are the bodies?" Red huffed for breath. "Look, the creature captured us, maybe it–"

"It let us escape because we fought back and killed one. We're probably the only people who put up a good fight and it got turned on that we weren't so easy to slaughter."

Frank blinked at the bleach bottle again wondering if it two parts of three parts per unit. He poured most of the bottle when he noticed the broom on the floor.

"Hey, Matt…you with me?" Jones asked.

"'M fine."

"Yeah? White plaster has more color than you." Her voice sounded strained. "We really should go."

"We need to wait on Frank."

Tape. Frank found the remains of a roll beside the sink and put it in his pocket.

"I still haven't figured out the thing with you and Castle." Jones sighed. "Did he kidnap you once or something? Do you have Stockholm syndrome?"

"He's…it's complicated."

"Everything about you is complicated."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"Seriously. If he's not back in the next–"

"He's over there mixing up something to make a bomb…I think."

Frank couldn't help the chuckle that escaped under his breath. One day he'd figure out how Red did that. "She's right," he said, bringing over his stuff. "We're just skulls to mount on the wall."

Frank glanced over at Red, who sat propped against one of the paint wells, his bad leg resting on Jones's leather jacket. His hair was soaked through with sweat, but he seemed more alert, his breathing a forced series of exhales and inhales.

Frank took the broom handle and broke it over his knee then stared at the size. "Good enough."

He slid both pieces across the floor toward Red then tossed the roll of electrical tape at Jones who caught it and gave him an incredulous look. "To splint his leg," he told her.

"I'm carrying him."

"Yeah, but if we run into trouble, he needs to be somewhat mobile."

Jones pinched her lips and sighed. "Did you really make a bomb out of cleaners and paint stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Riiight." Jones looked down at his collection. "You know that's not going to be easy to haul around?"

"You two are going; I'm staying here to cover your flank."

"No way. I'm not doing that again." Jones stalked over and got into Frank's face. "Even if your favorite hobby is homicide, I'm not leaving you behind so you can play martyr."

"I ain't no martyr," Frank scoffed. "It's tactics. You two retreat while I go on the offense."

"With what?" Red asked.

Frank tapped the bucket with his boot. "With this."

"A diluted mix of household chemicals?"

A spike of heat shot through Frank's chest. "What do you think they make IEDs out of?"

Red pushed himself into a higher sitting position with a pained grunt. "Where's your detonator?"

Frank stared down at what he collected; how could he have forgotten something so fundamental? And how did Red know anything about explosives? He grit his teeth. "This is my call."

"No, it's not," Red said.

"I got us into this and I'm getting us out!"

"You have a head injury, or isn't that obvious by now?" Red swallowed. "I guess that makes you human."

Frank took a step toward Red, his blood roaring in his ears.

Jones stepped over, blocking his path.

"When we get out of here, I'll let you two arm-wrestle or try to beat each other senseless, but right now, we need you to focus. Because it's going to take all three of us to get out of this alive, okay?"

The roar dulled into a throb inside his skull. Frank counted to three and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He locked eyes with Jones, his voice even. "Stay on me and listen to my orders."

"Fine."

Frank nodded at Red. "The same goes for you."

"Got it."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Frank needed to think of another plan. "Okay. Get ready to move."

"I'll finish the splint." Jones bumped into Frank's shoulder, hissing in his ear. "And will you stop all the damn gesturing? He can't see it."

Frank was rarely caught off guard, but the reminder gave him pause, and he closed his eyes, trying to ground himself.

One batch, two batch….

The paint factory was a swirl of scents: acetone and rubber, salt, plastics, every compound used to create colors. The titanium dioxide was especially fun.

But underneath the acidity in the air was the scent of organic matter, the secretion from alien skin. Matt hadn't experienced this type of sensory overflow in a while, odors competing with millions of over-stimulated nerve fibers: a spider web of pain signals that continued to shoot up his leg, into his hip and back.

It made him want to put weight on the limb, to balance out one pain for the other.

"I think I can walk," he said into Jessica's hair.

"It doesn't matter what you think," she shot back.

But there were no comments or ribbing about basically giving him a piggyback ride. Her digs were blunt, a way to call him on his bullshit, but she was never cruel.

It didn't bruise his ego that she had to carry him, but he chastised himself for getting injured. He didn't hear the click of the weapon in time to move out of the way. He'd been sloppy.

He focused on the oil and lambskin of Jessica's leather jacket and not on the blood coagulating in only three of the five puncture holes, the larger wound slowly seeping into the makeshift bandage despite the added pressure from his suit.

He could smell the faint trace of Jessica's blood over his own, could feel her move the hand holding his good leg against her hip to wipe the palm over her jeans.

"We should really bandage your–"

"Later," she replied.

"Jess…."

"Shut up, kettle."

Matt clamped his jaw closed.

"Status?" Frank asked. Every two minutes like clockwork.

"Nothing."

"Where do you think that thing is?" Jessica asked.

Anywhere. But Matt knew better than to say it out loud. "Frank shot it several times. I could hear the sound of its bullet wounds."

"Eww," Jessica muttered. "But seriously, how is it still alive?"

"Maybe it takes more than projectiles to damage it. Or it heals faster?" Matt speculated, taking a deep breath to combat the constant throb to his leg. "The one I killed…its wounds were cauterized."

"So, it can treat itself." Frank wobbled on his feet before using a wall for support.

Matt didn't dare suggest taking a rest break; it took days to heal from a concussion. Frank's heartbeat was a steady thump, the fracture to the clavicle was clean, but the more Frank moved his arm, the more stress he put on the bone, displacing it by centimeters at a time. He insisted on carrying his bucket of death, but at least it had a lid. Anything was better than the decapitated head. Matt was glad they left it behind.

The structure of the building shifted from a factory floor into the more confined space of a hallway. A smell hit Matt hard, heavy copper and human proteins. He dug his fingers into Jessica's shoulders. "Wait…."

Jessica stopped; Frank tensed in response, squeezing his knife handle. "What?"

"Blood," Matt told him.

"Stay behind me," Frank ordered. His footfalls echoed on the cement floor.

Matt adjusted his hold around Jessica's shoulders. "I really think–"

"I'm not putting you down. If you put too much weight on your leg you'll break it." She adjusted his weight across her back. "Do you really want to add more weeks to your recovery?"

"I'm willing to risk a walking cast for a full one if it meant we're both alive."

Her trapezius muscles tightened, her pulse rate jumped twenty beats per minute.

Matt heard Frank's boots as they walked across a pool of blood. "I think our gang-bangers from earlier were here."

"Jesus, there's nowhere to step," Jessica said.

"We need to keep moving." Frank switched hands that carried the bucket. "This leads to a warehouse which means it's a way out."

"You psychic now?" Jessica asked.

"No, but I can read an emergency escape map." Frank cleared his throat. "It's hanging on the east wall."

Matt quirked an eyebrow at the added clarification meant for his benefit.

He licked dry lips recognizing signs of blood loss, not yet life threatening, just a slow lethargy from a decrease of oxygen-carrying, red blood cells.

A shift in air pressure meant they were nearing the warehouse; there was a major drop in temperature and wind from broken windows or roof.

Frank pushed open a set of double-doors; it was like releasing the floodgates to decay and death.

Matt closed his eyes, breathing in coconut soap and sweat, relishing in fresh skin instead of rot. She squeezed his legs.

Frank's boots thudded as his gait slowed. Jessica's body heat spiked. She sucked in a stuttered breath. "I'm kind of glad you can't see this, Murdock…."

Matt swallowed. "How bad?"

"Worse than you can imagine," Frank said.

Matt let go of Jessica's back and she cursed under her breath. He was careful, keeping one hand on her shoulder, placing most of his weight on his good leg. His head swam and he remained still until his equilibrium returned.

A low-level hum vibrated through the floor, the faint beep of electronics, and the two racing heartbeats. His body thrummed on a new burst of adrenaline. "There are two people left alive."

Frank walked over and stopped a few feet away. "Huh. Guess we know what they were using to make those metal spikes. There's a whole pile of rebar in the corner. And this…"

He picked up something from the floor and handed Matt a piece o while Frank grabbed one of the pieces of rebar.

Matt accepted the makeshift cane. He nodded at his companions. "This way."

Jessica grabbed him by the shoulder. "You do realize what's probably waiting for us?"

Matt draped an arm around her shoulders and used th as a crutch. "Yeah."

Frank picked up another piece of rebar and held it out for Jessica.

"Fine." Pulling out her flask, Jessica took the last gulp remaining at the bottom. Then she took the spike from Frank. "Let's kill this fucker and save whoever is left."

tbc...