Taken (Erin Bowman)

alarm is still blaring and we skirt through the rows of screens, red light dancing over our faces. Up ahead, the hallway opens into the garage.
    And then there is a voice behind us. “Freeze.”
    Bo, Emma, and I do, but Bree reacts so instinctively I don’t have time to stop her. She spins on her heels, brings her rifle up to her chest. She aims and fires.
    But I hear two shots.
    And then I hear two bodies crumpling to the ground.

THIRTY-SIX
    THE BLOOD COMES SLOWLY AT first, soft and delicate, and then spreads over the fabric of her shirt like fire swallowing dry leaves. Bree lies on her back, eyes looking up at the ceiling, and draws short, panicked breaths. I drop beside her, not bothering to check if the threat has been eliminated.
    “Bree?”
    “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she gasps. Her hand finds mine and grips it tightly. The bullet has hit her upper arm, and as she lies there, panting violently, I realize how much she means to me. My chest starts pounding. I stand up quickly, my hands moving of their own accord. I aim my rifle down the hallway, but it is empty.
    There is a body lying on the concrete floor. Bo has gone into self-preservation mode at my side, rocking and tapping and humming his song about berries. Emma stoops to examine Bree, and I leave them, cautiously approaching the fallen Order member.
    He is young and his breathing rapid and shallow. Bree’s bullet hit him square in the chest.
    “You won’t . . . get out . . . of here . . . alive,” he pants.
    I look down at his chest, damp with blood. “Are you alone?” He keeps panting. I move my rifle before his eyes. “Answer me. Are you alone?”
    He nods, and then forces out more words. “You won’t . . . make it . . . back,” he gasps. “Frank . . . will kill . . . you all . . . All the Rebels.”
    I clench my teeth, push the rifle against his cheek. My finger reaches for the trigger.
    “Do it,” he begs. “Please.”
    I don’t.
    “Please?”
    I sling the rifle across my back and run the other way. I drop to my knees beside Emma. “Will she live?”
    “I don’t know,” she says. “It only hit her arm, but there’s a lot of blood. And she’s going into shock from the pain.”
    I scoop Bree into my arms and nudge Bo with my boot. “Come on, let’s go.”
    He keeps rocking back and forth, his hands covering his head, humming.
    “Bo, please,” Emma urges.
    He snaps from his panicked trance at Emma’s touch, and again we are moving. We duck into the garage and stay out of view, our backs pressed against the rear wall. The place is racing with activity. Vehicles maneuver about the troops, making their way toward the exit and the riot downtown.
    “Bree’s not going to be able to drive us,” I say to Bo. She has grown heavy in my arms, and her blood is sticky on my skin. I look at the various cars before us. “Which ones do you know how to operate?”
    “I don’t,” he says. “But how hard can it be? Your hands steer and your feet handle the stop and go. I’ll figure the rest out as I need to.”
    I’m skeptical but in no position to argue. We slink toward a deep green car. Bo pulls the back door open and I lay Bree across the bench seat. She shudders as I transfer her to the leather.
    Bo finds keys under the front seat and Emma and I climb into the back. I look at Bree. Her chest is still heaving.
    “Can you fix her?” I ask Emma. She looks so unsure it nearly breaks me. “Please, Emma. I need you to fix her.”
    The car lunges forward. No one stops us. We are just another vehicle heading to the riot. As we break into the now dark evening, Emma bends over Bree, and opens her bag.
    By the time the last ounce of light has been leeched from the night sky, we enter the woods.
    Bo’s driving is turbulent at best, and Emma fights the lurching and abrupt movements of the car as she works on Bree. She fishes out the bullet—a skill she must have learned during her time working in Union Central’s hospital—and makes a bloody mess of both Bree’s arm and the car seat in the process. Bree loses consciousness along the way, but Emma stitches her up, dresses the wound, and tells me she’s done the best she can. Bo takes us as far as possible, following a dirt road that weaves through the trees, which grow thicker and thicker, until we finally have to abandon our vehicle.
    I gather Bree in my arms, and lead the way, hiking in what I believe to be the right direction. I’m slow, carrying her like that,