I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.
* * * Chapter 12.2 * * *
"What are you?"
She looked up from her wounded friend, a wry smile plastered on her face. "I like how you said what and not who."
"That would be nice to know too." The businessman approached her with fear in his bearing, obviously unsure of how to address the girl who had taken on a whole group of robbers single-handedly.
"Neither of those are important right now." She finished wrapping the linen strips around Timothy's thigh and winced when she saw blood already seeping through. "He needs help."
"We can't leave now," the bus driver said, getting closer to his passengers. "The goons outside ripped the engine to shreds while their friends robbed us, and the 'visionaries are crawling all over this place. If they catch us wandering around at night, we're doomed."
"This is one lousy bus trip," the college-aged girl said from her seat, the place she'd been since the robbery.
"I warned y'all it could happen," the driver snapped.
"So you want to wait until morning before going anywhere?" the former soldier said, not moving her eyes from her wounded friend.
"I don't see how we have any other choice. It's almost midnight, and this isn't a well-populated area. Staying here until the sun comes up is our safest bet."
"Timothy needs help now."
The businessman got closer. "Is he your brother or something?"
"Close enough. I'm all he has left—most of his family's dead, and I don't know where the rest of them are."
"The nearest hospital is in Truckee," the driver said. "Seventeen miles away."
The girl frowned, slid one arm under Timothy's knees and the other under his neck, and stood. "That's nothing."
"Sweetie, are you not listening?" the older woman said. "It's not safe!"
"I've dealt with worse."
"Clearly," the other young girl muttered. "You're a soldier, aren't you? Your eyes are green . . . are you with Krane?"
"No, I'm not with Krane."
"Then who?"
"Currently I'm not with anyone."
"But you have been."
"No comment."
The other girl scowled. "You don't seem safe."
"Then you shouldn't mind me leaving this bus."
"I don't."
The driver took a step closer. "Is there any way we can talk you out of this, uh . . .?"
She glowered. "I'm not giving a name."
He frowned. "Look, kid, I've got a first aid kit in the back. If you give me a second—"
"He has a bullet in his leg." She didn't shout, but her voice echoed back with authority. "I've seen enough of those to know that no damned first aid kit is going to help." She didn't like to swear—she recoiled every time one of her soldier buddies did so. But she felt so passionate.
She hadn't felt passion for a long time.
No one else on the bus said anything. She walked out past them, the child's head lolling over her arm. She could feel the drenched linen against her hand—the bullet, fired at such high velocity, had gone through the flesh like water. She stomached the nausea and stepped out, leaving the other passengers behind. Let them stay. Let them be cowards.
She walked through the door into the strangely warm night air. The mountains loomed above her on the dimly lit road. Cars roared by to her left as she trampled over the underbrush.
It was at this moment that she missed her speed the most.
Out of habit, she tried to slip into it, only to utterly fail. For the best, she reminded herself. Her speed might be gone, but so was their ability to find her. She had freedom, and she valued that more than anything.
To the cars rolling down the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway at 11:00 at night, she must've looked a peculiar sight. A twenty-or-so girl with a twelve-or-so boy in her arms, marching along the side of the road with fierce determination. They looked pitiful, and she knew it. All the cars rolling by knew it as well.
No one stopped. It's a time of war, they said in their heads. Hitchhikers can only mean danger.
Funny that in the entire story, B is the only one whose swear doesn't get censored in one way or another. Obviously I don't swear, nor do I encourage others to do so, but language is my forte, and I must make use of all of it.