“FUCK!” I heard Thresh shout, sounding pained.
That shook me back to reality. “Thresh! You okay?” I hauled myself to the doorway again.
Thresh was on the ground just around the corner of the Humvee, leaning against the side of the vehicle. I couldn’t quite see him without leaving the vehicle, and I’d been told not to do that under any circumstances. But Thresh was hurt. I couldn’t just sit here. I inched further out the door. Craned my head around the corner.
Thresh was a bloody mess, cradling his left arm against his body, grimacing, heels digging in the dirt. I wasn’t sure where else he was hit besides his arm, but just that looked bad enough. I saw bits of white bone, gristle, gore. His M-4 was on the ground beside him.
“Thresh? Can you climb in here with me?”
He swiveled his head to glare at me. “I’ll be fine. Just—gimme a second.”
I hopped out of the truck and crouched behind the door. “You’re hurt. You need to get in there. Let me help you.”
More impacts thudded into the dirt, into the side of the Humvee. The engine roaring was louder now, closer, about to crest the verge. I scrambled out of cover and threw myself to the dirt beside Thresh, behind the Humvee.
“You’re not supposed to leave the Humvee,” Thresh said through clenched teeth.
I ignored him, because he was right. Tossed his M-4 by the strap over my shoulder, grabbed his uninjured shoulder under the armpit. “Come on. Get in there, you big idiot. Move.”
“I need to cover Nick. That’s his Wrangler coming up the hill. He needs cover.” Thresh lumbered to his feet, released his hurt arm, reached for the rifle on my shoulder with his bloody good hand. “And you need to get back in the damn truck.”
Fuck, that wound was nasty. It looked like the bullet had broken his forearm and then that same round or another one had torn through his bicep.
“I’ll get in if you do,” I said. “You can’t shoot with that wound.”
He yanked the rifle from me, shouldered the strap, grabbed me around the middle, and tossed me bodily into the back of the Humvee. He was handling the M-4 with just his right hand. And then, with a grimace, uncurled his left arm from against his chest, and tried to grab the front grip of the assault rifle. But he couldn’t do it.
Yet, despite this, he popped off a round. The rifle bucked up, almost out of his grip, eliciting a curse from him.
“Fucking goddammit, Thresh!” I shouted.
But then the Wrangler dove over the ridge, front tires going airborne and then burying in the sand, hauling the rest of the vehicle over the hill. The Wrangler, once black, was now brown with dirt and sand, and bullet holes punctured it in dozens of places. It had huge wheels and a lift kit, no doors, no roof. Meant for off-roading. The windshield was spider webbed, shattered in places. I couldn’t quite see Nick through the shattered glass.
Even as the Wrangler heaved up over the crest, I heard multiple other engines roar in the distance, smaller, thinner sounds, dirt bikes probably. Thresh was still trying to fire with one hand, and making a horrible mess of it, bracing the gun against the edge of the door, reaching for it with his bloody left hand, cupping the grip just long enough to pop off a shot or two before the kick sent what had to be excruciating agony through his injured arm.
The Wrangler didn’t manage the jump over the crest very well, going airborne, slamming down, and then tipping forward, taking its weight on the front left wheel, bottoming that corner out against the ground. Pitching forward. I heard Nick’s voice and then heard a thin, high, female shriek.
And then the Wrangler rolled. I saw it happen in slow motion, the way it just sort of…toppled forward and to one side, wheels still spinning.
Duke was out from behind cover, firing while running toward the Wrangler; Puck not far behind him.
It looked from what I could see that Nick was pinned under the Wrangler, the vehicle tipped onto its side, driver’s side down, the open cab facing us; I couldn’t see the little girl, but I heard her voice, crying hysterically.
Thresh was trying to reload.
He looked pained, not physically so much as emotionally wrecked by the knowledge that he was hurt and unable to help fast enough. I watched through the door, feeling helpless, as Puck hid behind the rolled-over Wrangler and laid down covering fire over the top while Duke tried to wrestle Nick free, tried to lift the Wrangler enough to free whatever was caught.
“THRESH!” Duke shouted, “I NEED YOU!”
I thought, stupidly, of that scene inThe Princess Bridewhere Inigo is trying to get through the locked door so he could follow the Six-Fingered Man, and Fezzik comes lumbering up to smash it down with one kick—FEZZIK, I NEED YOU!
Thresh shouldered his M-4 and left cover, running faster than any man his size had a right to run. Crouched beside Duke, he placed both hands—the idiot,bothhands—on the frame of the Wrangler at the bottom, between the vehicle and the sand. Then he shouted, a guttural, rage-filled roar.
And…
Helifted. The Wrangler left the ground, and Duke’s hands flashed, slicing something, and then he was hauling Nick free. Or trying to. Puck was firing nonstop, reloading.
And I was just sitting there.
