Chapter 48

The building looms through the smoke. It looks like it's been shelled before. There's a rear entrance Clarke marked. If we can reach that, we might have a shot.

The sound is constant. It echoes off broken walls, spitting through windows, shaking every inch of my body. Dust rains from above as bullets shred through stone and wood alike. I don't even have time to count the bodies. They're everywhere. Southside rebels in the streets. On the rooftops. Swarming like a hive.

"We're nearly there," Styles murmurs, ducking into the side alley. "Watch the left windows."

The alley reeks of debris and rotting bins. Rubble crunches under my boots no matter how lightly I step. My heart won't stop hammering. Every shadow is a person. Every person is a shot.

From ahead, a flash. Movement.

Rebels.

We dive for cover behind a scorched oil barrel as bullets spit through the alley.

Benson returns fire, crouched low. 

Styles assesses fast.

"There's so fucking many of them, the only thing we have going for us is speed. The longer we hang about, the more they can close us in," he thinks out loud.

I nod, even though every nerve in my body screams not to.

"Now!"

I shift out from behind the oil drum as Styles barrels forward like a battering ram. He's fast, impossibly so, reaching the far side of the alley and taking out two rebels in a brutal sweep of gunfire. Benson clears another angle. I push forward, breaths coming fast and ragged.

Then, the alley explodes.

Smoke.

Shouting.

I drop, instinctively covering my head as a blast tears apart the bins behind me. My ears ring. Somewhere to the left, Styles yells something, but it's lost in the chaos.

I look around. I can't see Benson anywhere so I keep my eyes glued to him.

I can't lose him.

Before I can panic, he's moving again.

I begin to follow him when I see it.

A southside soldier.

Close. Too close.

He comes around the edge of the alley, rifle raised. Directly at Styles.

My hands move before my brain does.

Bang. Bang.

Two shots. Fast. Shaky. But they land.

The soldier drops like dead weight.

The silence that follows is only in my head. Everything else is still chaos, but in that sliver of time, Styles turns.

Our eyes lock.

His expression doesn't change. No praise. No shock. Just a curt nod, like he knew I would do it.

And then he moves again.

More enemies pour out. It's a blur of shouting, boots, weapons. The air is thick with dust and blood.

We're in a full-scale assault.

Styles fights them off like it's second nature. When a southside soldier springs out from behind a gas canister, I gasp. But in the time it takes me to breathe again, Styles has already slit his throat.

I keep my eyes glued to the back of his head, and choose to ignore the sounds around me and blood splattered over him.

And then it happens again.

Another explosion.

This time I don't hit the ground. I run. Eyes locked on him.

If I lose him, I'm done.

But fire splits the path between us. I stumble back as flames roar up the alley wall.

Through the smoke, I catch one last glimpse, Styles diving through the door, yelling something I can't hear.

"Shit," I whisper, spinning to find another way in.

I run.

A side entrance, half caved-in, reveals a warped metal door. It's ajar.

I slip inside.

Dark.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. A hallway that's narrow and burnt. I push forward, gun raised, footsteps light. I don't know where Styles or Benson are. I don't know how many rebels are inside. I just know Clarke and the hostages must be in here somewhere.

Glass crunches behind me.

I turn and just in time to see the rebel in the hallway raise his weapon.

I shoot.

He drops.

I don't look twice. I move.

The stairwell is just ahead, its metal rails twisted from heat. I creep up, step by step. Each footfall sounds like thunder.

At the first landing, a rebel lurches out of a doorway. I'm too slow to raise my gun, but not too slow to duck. He swings the butt of his rifle, but it hits the wall. I ram my shoulder into his chest and fire point-blank.

Blood sprays. He collapses.

I nearly fall with him, catching the rail to keep upright.

I swallow hard. Keep going.

I lock eyes with the next flight of stairs.

I just need to make it there.

There's a pillar slightly to the left. I run towards it, and lean my back against it, trying to make myself as small as possible. I begin to slide my way backwards around the pillar.

My blood runs cold as my back bumps into something, someone.

I raise my riffle and hover my finger over the trigger-

"Holton?"

"Styles!" I gasp.

Before I can process what I've done, my arms are wrapped around him. I'm overwhelmed by relief, one for his leadership, but mostly because he's not dead.

I pull back, taking him in. He's covered in dust, blood on his sleeve, eyes wild. But alive.

He reaches for me immediately, pulling me around the corner and into cover as another spray of bullets peppers the wall behind us.

"You're okay," he breathes, voice low but full of something more. I'm not sure whether he's telling me, or himself.

"Yeah, but I thought-" I start, but he cuts me off with a curt shake of his head.

"Later."

The stairwell is just behind him. One more flight.

He glances up, then back at me.

"I got Clarke on the comms. They're on the second floor. This is it," he says. "Hostages are up there. We go now, or we lose them."

"Well let's fucking go then," I reply.