Origins of Blood (RE)
Chapter 60: A Life for a Life (4)

Chapter 60: A Life for a Life (4)

Now I can run. Now that he’s gone.

I want to hate myself for this. I want to be the man who stood there and pulled him free, who risked everything in a noble sacrifice. But I’m not. I’m just a student, a doctor—an unarmed man with no training for this.

I want to live.

If I’d moved a moment sooner, if I’d just reacted instead of freezing, maybe I could have taken him with me. But I was afraid. I am afraid.

The fear of dying crawls over my skin, nestles under my ribs, whispers that survival is the only virtue worth having.

I run.

And I hate myself for it.

But I keep running.

Others run with me, just as selfish, just as desperate. A herd of survivors pretending not to see the ones falling underfoot. I feel something give under my boot, a wet crack—an arm, maybe. I don’t look down.

I just keep going.

But his face haunts me.

It’s my father’s face.

I’m running from that, too.

And even while my legs pound and my lungs burn, I remember other things. Home. Family. My mother, humming over a pot in our kitchen, asking if I want another portion of her lumpy but heartfelt stew. My sister hitting me on the arm, grinning with mischief. My father scolding me for missing a grade I should have aced.

I want that back.

I want to sit at that old table and eat an uncaring dinner with them.

I want to live.

Gunshots crack.

I don’t even realize how far I’ve come until the world hardens beneath my feet. Concrete replaces mud. The bunker entrance yawns ahead—angled walls sinking deep into the ground, the blue light of the dying sun dimming under the roof.

The air cools instantly.

I can see vividly for a second, though my glasses are gone, lost somewhere behind me.

I turn back.

And the light disappears.

I blink. Something bizarre crosses my mind—a memory of spaghetti-eis, ice cream shaped like pasta, the cold strawberry sauce.

I’m a fool.

I thought I could be a hero just a few weeks ago. I signed on for medical triage, thinking I’d save lives here at this fallback site. For a while, I did. A few injuries, some deaths, but manageable. We all pretended it was safe.

Now I stand at the bunker threshold thinking about ice cream.

My eyes catch movement overhead.

The sky splits open again.

Another chunk of the heavens breaks free—this one bigger than the last, jagged and dark like a mountain crumbling in slow motion. It accelerates as it falls, cutting off the last of the sun, plunging us into shadow.

I see it just before it hits.

An orange.

Ork, some call them.

Over two meters tall, broad as two men, muscles bulging under scarred hide. He’s roaring.

The stone comes down right on his head.

And on the heads of others. Our people. Limbs rip free as the slab strikes, blood and mud spraying.

The soldiers beside me open fire wildly.

Another soldier grabs me by the coat and hurls me deeper into the bunker.

The impact above sends a pressure wave roaring through the entrance.

I’m thrown onto my back, skidding over concrete, ears ringing so hard I’m sure they’re bleeding.

I don’t hear the gunshots anymore.

I don’t hear anything.

Just the thunder of my own heart as the shockwave sucks the air out of my lungs.

Dust chokes me. My eyes water until tears stream into my mouth, turning the grit to mud on my tongue.

I lie there, staring at the bunker ceiling.

I don’t move.

I should move.

I should get up and help someone.

But I can’t.

I see his face again. The old man in the mud.

He could have been my father. He probably is someone’s father.

Because that’s what he was, even without a hospital bed, even without a chart.

A wry smile twists my lips.

It’s not amusement.

It’s self-disgust, raw and poisonous.

I can’t hear anything but the blood in my head.

Seconds pass.

Dozens of them.

Finally, someone moves.

A young woman steps in front of the bunker light, casting her shadow over me like the sun did in better times. She’s breathing heavily but evenly. She stares down at me, checking if I’m alive, eyes scanning mine with the cold precision of someone who’s seen too many corpses today.

She says nothing.

She just turns and walks away.

I cough, spitting out dust. My forehead drips sweat. My ears throb with phantom sound, like the ocean in a seashell.

It hurts.

But I’m alive.

That thought, the only one that makes sense, the only one that cuts through the chaos, settles in my mind.

I live.