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Grayson
For a moment, we’re airborne, our bodies weightless as the truck launches over another fucking rise in the road. A moment later, we slam back onto the blood-soaked floor of the truck, and I instantly start compressions on our Prez again, who I fear may be too far gone to come back to us.
“How fucking long?!” I roar, not taking my eyes off Rocco’s lifeless face as I pump his chest, and Tex cradles his head to keep him steady.
“One more set of traffic lights!” Titch yells from the front, where he sits jammed between Munroe and Doug.
“He has to live,” Slasher mutters as he watches on, his voice almost robotic like he’s talking to himself.
“I need another shirt. This one is soaked through as well.” Stretch panics as he holds the blood drenched fabric of his shirt to Rocco’s pelvis which won’t stop fucking bleeding.
Slasher stumbles as the truck swerves, wrestling his cut off as he rights himself before he drags his shirt off too, tossing it to Stretch who immediately presses it on top of the other two blood-soaked shirts trying to stop the life from draining out of our Prez.
I count compressions, trying to focus on that as the lifeless look on Rocco’s face doesn’t change.
Don’t fucking die on me.
“Hold on!” Munroe calls from the front before we go airborne again.
“Fuck.” Tex hisses trying to keep Rocco’s head in his grip, and we all jerk with the hard thud from the truck meeting the road again before we’re almost thrown sideways as we round a fucking corner.
“Come on, Rocco. Stay with us.” Tex taps Rocco’s cheek as I start compressions again, and my fucking eyes blur, filling with fucking tears.
This can’t be happening. We can’t lose our Prez.Ican’t lose him.
“Hold on again!” Munroe calls once more, and we brace the best we can as the truck comes to a screeching halt.
So many things happen at once then.
Slasher throws the rear doors open, launching out with his gun raised, ready to shoot any fucker who gets in the way of getting our Prez the help he needs.
Titch climbs through from the front cabin to help us slide our lifeless Prez across the floor of the truck toward the doors, right as Munroe comes into view holding his gun to the head of a fucking man while he pulls on the wrist of a woman, both wearing hospital scrubs.
“Help him!” he roars, and the woman whimpers as the man nods.
“Y-yes. Of course.” He agrees before calling over his shoulder. “We need a gurney, stat!”
Others wearing hospital scrubs dart toward us, despite the guns we threaten them with, and as I continue compressions at the back of the truck bed, the male with the gun to his head disregards it and leaps up to join me.
“I can take over.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t stop. He-he…”
The man clutches my shoulder in a firm grip of support and dips his head to get in my line of sight.
“You are the Cruz Kings, right?”
I nod sharply, and his face softens.
“Then your guns aren’t needed here. We areyourpeople, and we’ll do everything we can to save your man.”
“King.” I snap, still pumping Rocco’s chest. “He’s our king.”
The man’s eyes go wide, as if realizing just who he promised to keep alive.
“This is Rocco?” he asks, and I nod as the gurney arrives at the end of the truck.
“This is our Prez.”
