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River was really beginning to hate bombs.
He had just enough time to think no one would believe him as he sprinted away from it, the ticking deafening in the small building. River almost made it, too. He almost made it, the story of his fucking life. But what was the saying? Almost only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.
And apparently bombs.
River wasn’t sure how long he was out, waking with a painful gasp followed by a fitful, painful cough. He had blacked out when the walls started to come down, and the pain coursing through him had River wishing he was still unconscious. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, willing the room to stop spinning.
River coughed again as the dust in the air coated his lungs. He coughed a third time, painful and wet sounding and forced his eyes open. The air was polluted with a thick layer of debris. He looked around desperately before pressing the heel of his palm to an eye as the pain in his head ratcheted up a level at the sudden movement.
“Help!” River shouted before devolving into a coughing fit.
He wasn’t sure who he was shouting for. He was alone in the building as far as he knew. River’s ears were ringing, and his head spun as he pushed himself up on trembling arms. He needed to try and reach his phone, hope it wasn’t shattered, hope he had service. He tried to wipe at his eyes to clear his vision, but the room was dark, and the only light was seeping through the cracks between the piles of debris.
Reaching for his phone, River shifted, and pain shot through his leg. One look told River he was fucked more than usual. If he made it out of here—Louisa was going to kill him. He braved himself and chanced a look down; his right leg was pinned beneath a slab of concrete in a way that made bile rise in his throat.
“Shit…” he whispered; the pain shot up from his ankle to his hip, a sharp, burning agony that made him nauseous.
Dust filled his lungs as he tried to pull himself free, the weight of the rubble pressing down on him like a vice. Every movement sent another wave of pain through his leg. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind—he was trapped.
With a trembling hand, he managed to pull his phone from his pocket, but its screen was too cracked for him to do anything to see if he had any service or functions available. River threw the phone in frustration.
Time stretched painfully as River lay there, chest heaving with each laboured breath. His vision blurred in and out, the pounding in his leg making it hard to focus on anything but the overwhelming pain. The air was thick with the stench of dirt and what he hoped wasn’t smoke, and his skin felt raw where debris had scratched and cut his arms and face.
The dust that clung to the air had settled some, but panic was starting to fill River’s lungs in it’s place. He struggled to move the debris covering his leg but they only shifted, coming to rest again on a different spot on his leg. The pain whitened the edges of his vision, and River struggled to keep from passing out.
His breath came in strange grasps, and the pain in his side made it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the dust.
Or maybe it was the increasing internal terror that this was where River Cartwright died.
He shouldn’t be surprised that the last thing he would do was set off a bomb.
He was River Cartwright, after all—this was his legacy.
Now, he was going to die in a collapsed building with no one coming to save him, trapped like an animal with no way out. Louisa would have come for him. Louisa would have found him but Louisa wasn’t here. She didn’t know where he could be.
There was a loud groaning from the building as debris shifted, and River instinctually covered his head, waiting for the building to collapse completely. When it didn’t happen, River chanced a glance around the room further.
He was already getting tired, and despite the agony of his lower leg, he found himself lying down when he couldn’t keep himself upright.
“I’m sorry, Grandad,” he whispered to the empty room.
Would his grandfather grieve him? Would he remember? What would they tell him at the home? Would Lamb break the news? God, River hoped not. Grandad didn’t deserve that.
Would his mother bother to come to the funeral? Did he want her to?
River knew with a certainty that he shouldn’t sleep. He knew if he slept he might never wake up, but his eyes were so heavy and maybe his leg would hurt less if he was asleep. Maybe the pressure in his side, the heaviness behind his eyes would stop, even for a bit.
He could just close his eyes.
Just for a bit.
Except Louisa’s voice kept pulling him back from the cliff of unconsciousness like she was holding him herself from falling to the abyss below.
“River!” she shouted and River struggled to open his eyes, his subconscious knowing he couldn’t let her down.
He couldn’t let Louisa lose someone else.
“River!” he heard again, but his eyes were open this time.
Was it real? Was Louisa really here? Had she come for him? River tried to shout back, but all that came out was a groan and another cough.
“River!”
That was definitely Louisa.
“Here!” River managed, the sound coarse and painful even to his own ears. “I’m here!”
The effort to yell zapped any energy he had left. Any adrenaline fled with his last yell as if his body knew people were here now, he could succumb to whatever bliss awaited him in unconsciousness. River dug his nails into his palms, trying to stay awake. Help was here but he didn’t know if they knew exactly where he was within the mess of the crumbling building.
He tried to yell again, but his voice abandoned him.
His strenght followed suit, his body slumping to the side. River’s eyes slid closed and he pulled them open as best he could.
He had to stay awake.
Just a bit longer.
Just until they found him. Then he could rest.
Just not yet.
Wake the fuck up, River, he told himself trying to reach a hand to slap himself but it lifted inches before thumping back to the debris-covered floor. His hand connected with something solid but movable, a piece of broken concrete or cement. It took all his strength but he lifted the piece of cement in his hand and into the floor. The sound echoed in the room.
“River? Is that you?” Louisa yelled, her voice seemingly coming from every direction.
With a struggle, he repeated the motion again.
And again.
And again.
His hand felt wet from something he couldn’t find, but he lifted the cement again.
A slice of blinding light slapped him in the face, replaced by Louisa’s concerned face.
She had found him.
“River!”
Louisa had found him.
“He’s in here,” she shouted to someone over her shoulder as she worked to move more debris out of the way. “Fuck, River, hold on. Help’s coming.”
Help’s coming.
He could sleep now.