Page 93 of Beyond Redemption

He laughed once. “No, and the other guys had to leave before she got here. And then Carlisis came. They knew who was down there and tried to get in. I… didn’t let them.”

“I see that,” I said, offering a proud grin. The dead men around us made the point for him.

“You can’t save everyone, Bodhi. But you saved Olive. You did good.”

“Yeah?” he said, wincing as I pressed.

Before I could answer, his eyes rolled up behind his eyelids, and he slumped to the side.

“Bodhi!” I yelled, easing him to the ground.

“Don’t you do it,” I growled. “Medic! Medic, bunker entrance!” I looked down at him, driving the heel of my hand into his wound to slow the blood from pouring from his wound. “Stay with me, damn it!”

I checked his pulse. Weak, but still there. I glanced around and called for a medic again, pressing so hard his body shifted under my weight.

“Liis?” Thomas said from behind me, kneeling next to me as he scanned our surroundings.

“He’s hit,” I said, emotion fracturing my words.

“The medics are busy at the breach,” he said. “Don’t let up on the pressure. They’ll get here soon.”

“He doesn’t have a lot of time. We have to get him to the infirmary. Now,” I insisted.

Thomas stood, glanced around, and then blew out a breath, nodding. “Step aside.”

I stood, moving out of his way as he positioned himself to offset Bodhi’s weight. Thomas lifted him with a grunt, Bodhi’s lanky arms and legs hanging loose and unresponsive as we ran to find help.

I refused to think too much about Olive in that moment, fearing the intrusive thoughts that would inevitably break through. I’d seen what the belief of losing Olive had done to the people who loved her. I couldn’t let myself imagine Bodhi’s death hollowing her out the same way.

Chapter Eighteen

Thomas

By the time we reached the infirmary and handed Bodhi over, he was pulled straight into triage, voices calling for blood and surgical prep as they worked to stabilize him on the move.

We sat in a waiting room just outside one of the surgical suites, and even that felt like an absurd understatement. Infirmary sounded too basic for what this place was. The room was compact, yet everything in it was immaculate and clutter free. The walls were clean and bright without being harsh. The chairs were more comfortable than anything I’d ever sat in at a hospital, built for bodies that had been through hell and needed somewhere to land. Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, machines hummed in a rhythm that had already imprinted in my ears.

Trenton and Taylor had just arrived after retrieving Camille, Falyn, and Olive from the bunker, leaving the younger children behind with the rest of the family. Only those who’d stayed in the bunker during the fight looked like they belonged in a room this clean. The rest of us stood out, still wearing the carnage from outside in the form of dried blood on our skin and clothes.

Falyn kept Olive close at her side, one arm wrapped around her shoulders while Trenton rested a steady hand on Olive’s knee. I tried not to look their way too often, not wanting Olive to feel exposed in her pain. Instead, I caught her in brief glances without turning my head. She was staring at the floor, everypang of guilt, every worry playing out behind her eyes but not in her expression.

After initial explanations and updates, conversation faded into silence. We listened for the doors, for footsteps, for anything that meant someone was coming back with good news, but no one could deny that fear was competing with the hope we were trying to hold on to—and winning.

The compound itself had settled into an eerie quiet that only came after prolonged violence. There were still muted sounds of engines running in the yard, men shouting priorities for clearing debris, repairs, and casualty recovery. Tarps were dragged across concrete, metal struck metal in short, dull bursts as weapons were cleared, sorted, and set aside. The battle had ended, but the work it left behind had only begun.

Taylor sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his shirt cut at the shoulder where someone had patched him up in the hall. Camille was hugging her middle, staring at nothing in front of her, the same position she’d been in since the surgeon told us to wait. Liis was next to me, her ponytail loose and disheveled. She’d attempted to wash the blood from her arms and face at the restroom sink, but dust and specks of sand still clung to her hairline.

I pulled her to my side and squeezed, pressing my throbbing temple against her hair. “You smell like a campfire,” I whispered into her ear.

She breathed out a near-silent laugh. “Camping would’ve been preferable.”

“You good, babe?” I asked. “You haven’t said much.”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “This was different from anything we’ve done before. We’ve conducted raids. We respond when someone pulls a gun. But this? This was war. Even with our training, it’s not something we’ll walk away from unaffected—the civilians even less.” She glanced around at the exhausted,dirty, shell-shocked faces in the room. “Everyone who was topside will need a debrief after this. Your brothers are going to think they can just shake it off and move on. They can’t. We’ll need to provide resources to help them process everything they just saw and experienced. This is more death and violence than any of us have seen in our lifetimes.”

“We’ll get each of them someone to talk to, and I’ll keep on them to take advantage of it, remind them it could bleed into their lives if they don’t.”

Liis’s voice softened, so low I almost didn’t catch it. “Including Olive, especially Olive. Look at her. She’s drowning in guilt.”