Torrie & Kevin
Despite the pain, Torrie snorted and tried to crane her head to look at him, but aborted the gesture with a hiss when it moved her clavicle wrong. “Sol’s going to fucking know that I did this to myself,” she responded as they kept moving. “He won’t come after you.” They were getting closer to the truck. That was a good sign.
If she hadn’t had most of her weight leaned on KC, she doubted that she would have made it on her jelly legs, but she did. There was a rush of soldiers around them once they were spotted about ten feet out from the bumper, and there was one that took action and asked a lot of questions, but it was all a drone to her. She couldn’t pick out one word from another.
“Hospital,” she said, interrupting the litany. “My arm’s all fucked up.” Another soldier stepped up to examine her left side. “And quarantine.” The soldier (a medic more likely) seemed to stutter and change direction, looking for a bite. “Not me, you fucker. Him.” she gestured with her good hand towards Kevin.
With that statement they seemed to pick up their pace, if that was possible, and started to move Torrie towards one vehicle while they gestured Kevin to another. She held her ground only long enough to give Kevin a serious look.
“I -- thanks,” she said, too exhausted to form a better sentence. Too afraid that if she said anything else she’d ramble about how much she fucking needed him to be okay. She could tell him later.