The pain hit me like a second explosion.
I screamed. A raw, guttural cry tore from my throat as I clutched the mangled stump where my left arm had once been. Blood poured in thick, hot rivers, soaking through my sleeve and down my side. My knees buckled. The world swayed.
"No," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Not here. Not now."
I dropped to one knee and yanked off my coat with trembling fingers. It was coarse and thick—old wool—and all I had. I wadded it up and pressed it hard against the wound, my vision speckling with white as fresh agony lanced through me.
"Come on," I whispered, staggering forward. "Move."
My boots slid across the rubble-strewn road. Firelight flickered against the crumbling buildings. Screams and sirens echoed like a funeral chorus. My breaths came shallow, wet with copper. I couldn't afford to pass out. Not yet.
