TWENTY-SEVEN—ALL ALONE
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THE SIGHT OF my parents left me temporarily frozen, but when I saw Sam at the window out of the corner of my eye and gesturing me to run inside, I felt my feet lose their seemingly magnetic attraction with the ground. Shots fired as I hauled ass to the side of my house, fumbling with the doorknob as I tried to let myself in. 

I should have gotten this thing fixed, I scolded myself internally as I jiggled it, waiting for the click that would let me know the door was no longer stuck like it always seemed to be. It felt like forever that I was standing there, cursing under my breath at every bullet that rang out around the yard, sounding impossibly close and too loud to be legal. 

I itched to look back and find Bucky, to see if he was okay, but then the door gave way, and I darted inside, feeling a bullet rip through the air where my head was right as I turned around and slammed the door closed. Inhaling a sharp breath, I put a hand to my chest and felt my pounding heartbeat, an unbearable twinge of fear chasing its way from my head all the way to my heart, squeezing the vital organ for all it was worth. Holy shit. It was actually happening. They'd finally come for Bucky.

"Sam?" I called out, deciding it wasn't the most dangerous thing to do in this situation, as he would probably end up being put in the line of fire by his own doing at some point anyway. It was the military man in him. But as I crept through the house on the lookout for my next-closest ally, he was nowhere to be found. The kitchen was empty. The living room was just as we'd left it, blankets strewn everywhere from a late night of watching movies. 

My heart hiccuped at the sight. Even if we managed to keep him out of the hands of the CIA, this would never be over for Bucky. God, I barely knew anything about this man's past; he refused to tell me about his lost arm, why Steve was no longer going by his famous moniker or anything else that involved delving into his memories. But it did nothing to change anything that I'd said to him in the woods only minutes ago. 

If Sam wasn't in here, that meant he was already outside. My thoughts were validated as I saw a man thrown against the window, his nose cracking from the impact, sending blood gushing out of the wound and splattering against the glass. Sam looked in at me, only for a second, with wide eyes that clearly said, stay there. Then he grabbed the stranger by the back of his black jacket and slammed him against the glass one last time for good measure; his forehead split open this time. 

Stay here? I repeated, shaking my head in disbelief. Fat chance, Wilson. I started rummaging around the kitchen, looking for something, anything to use against these sons of bitches who were going to take my—my what? What was Bucky to me? My boyfriend? No, that sounded too childish. Lover? Ew, too intimate. 

Focus, Elda, I slapped myself internally. I hurried down the hallway, trying—and failing—to ignore the pained grunts that sounded all too familiar. I burst into Cade's room(well, Bucky's), threw open the closet door, and felt around for a wooden handle. 

"Aha," I mumbled triumphantly, pulling out a thick wooden baseball bat from Cade's high school seasons. "Thanks, big brother."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep breath. "You're probably going to die for this," I told myself, but the words seemed distant and failed to sink in. So I just took my bat and ran for the front door. 

As soon as I felt the cool air on my face, I wanted to go right back inside. 

The gunshots were less sporadic than before; they were probably running out of ammo. Amateurs, you'd think the CIA would bring plenty of ammunition for collecting a "dangerous weapon." 

Shrugging, I stepped off the porch, pretending not to notice the three unconscious bodies laying on the ground, blood seeping from their various wounds. 

Unable to look away, I shivered, but then grumbled, "That's gonna be a bitch to clean up, Sam."

No one but my parents had noticed that I was there, so I took that advantage and slunk forward, loading the bat above my head. 

"Elda! Go back inside! It's not safe, my girl!" My father, who I'd rarely seen distraught with fear, was running for me as fast as he could, the concern obvious on his face. "You'll be safe, I promise, just go inside!" He waved his hands forward, trying to usher me back indoors. As tempting as it was, I found Bucky, stumbling his way backward, inching his way closer to me and Sam, who was throwing punches left and right, taking on about four adversaries at the same time. I began to feel rather stupid with my baseball bat. 

But I heard Bucky let out a shocked grunt as he was bombarded with three more strange CIA agents, his right arm held behind his back as the others pounded on him, punching his gut faster than he could brace himself, but I guess that was the point, wasn't it?

My grip tightened around the handle, and I raced toward the back of one of the agents, ignoring the distressed wail that fell from my mother's lips as she watched me run towards my fate. The baseball bat was held above my head, a warcry erupting from my lips, and I brought down my weapon of choice, effectively hitting the man on his head. 

I'd originally thought that he'd crumble under the force, but it seemed I was weaker than I made myself out to be as he turned around, a wolf-like snarl growing on his face as he spotted me. 

"Look what we have here," he smirked, and clutched the front of my shirt, picking me up much too easily and tossing me away like a weightless ragdoll. There was something so wrong about this.

I landed hard, the breath knocked out of my lungs, and my bat had rolled away out of my reach. As the stranger came to stand over me, the chaos taking place around us silenced, and he reached into his jacket pocket to grab something. 

Probably a gun. I groaned, partially in pain and partially in frustration. Elda, you've hit a new record for your dumbass-ery. 

But no, it wasn't a gun. It was a small syringe, filled with a bubbly orange liquid, the sunshine glinting off the needle. Shit.

He leaned over me, his actions too slow, my muscles not responding—why couldn't I move?—as he held the syringe up to the crook of my elbow. I felt the pinch of the needle as it entered my skin, my body still not moving, why won't you move, dammit—

And then a bigger pinch as the needle jerked sideways, the man falling off of me. His eyes lost focus. Blood splashed onto my face, and as I gasped for breath, I tasted the metallic substance on my tongue, realizing I'd had my mouth open when he was shot. 

I sat up, yanked the needle out of my arm, and turned over to dry heave. I clawed at my tongue, spitting and coughing, doing anything to get the taste of the stranger's blood out of my mouth, oh my god, there's so much blood, there's too much, I'm drowning—

"I told you to stay inside!" Reality crashing back into me like a freight train, I blocked out the sun to see Sam standing over me, a gun in his hand, still pointed at the dead man whose legs were still entangled with mine. Shoving him off, I quickly got to my feet, and surveyed the scene. It seemed like there were hundreds of them. And three of us. I had no idea how we'd lasted this long, or maybe it had only been a few minutes, or one, or just twenty seconds, I couldn't tell. 

Must be some fugitive if they're using thirty guys to take down a one-armed ghost from the forties, I inquired, breathing shakily. 

Bucky threw off the two agents who were still attacking him, swiveling his legs out to deliver a final kick that would render them unconscious. Huffing, he whirled to face Sam with a dirty glare in his eyes. "You don't have the right to tell her what to do!" He stalked closer to us, momentarily unbothered as they prepared for another wave. "You broke her heart," he said in a dangerously low voice, hovering in Sam's headspace. 

"I'm trying to keep her safe," Sam shot back, "A word you don't seem to understand."

They stared at each other, long enough to give our enemies enough time to come up with a counterattack, and enough time to emit a long groan from me. 

"God, give it a rest. Will you two shut up?" I bent down to grab my baseball bat, nearly gagging at the sight of blood on the tip(I definitely don't have the guts to be in the military like Sam). "Seriously," I rested it on my shoulder, the other hand on my hip, "the testosterone out here is suffocating."

Bucky huffed and turned to face the coming onslaught of attackers, clad in their black getups complete with black shirts and motorcycle-style leather jackets covering the rest. Black pants bled into their black boots, bulky and clearly doing nothing to slow them down. 

"Your parents?" Bucky spoke through his teeth. 

I scoffed. "Yeah, they're the tattle-tales. And they're inside, cowering like they always do." I adjusted my bat and stepped forward, ready to kick some ass, when Bucky gasped, crumbling to his knees. 

A woman, dressed in the same attire as her accomplices, held Bucky's arm behind his back, twisting it so hard that he gritted his teeth to keep from letting out a pained scream. 

Her long brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, the strands hanging down over her shoulder as she leaned in and hissed, "It's time to go back where you belong, Soldier."

He bucked under her grip, trying to free himself, but it appeared that this woman, whoever she was, happened to be stronger. Bucky received another punch to the gut that sent him keeling over, the fight leaving him in a wave. 

I felt hands grasp my wrists, pulling them tightly behind my back, and though I fought it, stomping on the stranger's toes, jerking my head back to collide with his nose, I was wrestled to the ground on my stomach. He yanked my head up by my hair, his knee holding my wrists painfully in place as he forced me to watch what was about to happen to Bucky. 

Sam was held similarly to me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see my parents at the window, looking out at the scene through the bloodstained glass. I seethed at the sight and wriggled once more in a final attempt to escape, but froze as cold metal touched my temple.

"You weren't supposed to die today," the man snarled, shoving the barrel of the gun deeper into my head, "but I don't think the boss would consider it a real loss if I told him this little bitch was in the way."

Bucky jerked at the cruel name, growling, "Don't you touch her!" 

His voice hushed as he breathed out a gentle, "Ah, I see. The White Wolf's fallen in love!"

I would have melted at the words, but considering our current situation, I felt it was a tad inappropriate. 

"Elda," Bucky's voice was quiet, his eyes sad as he met mine. "This is it."

It was suddenly hard to swallow. "No it's not. It can't be. We've made it this long, we can keep going, you just have to—you can't stop, Buck, you're not done..."

He shook his head, mumbling something that I couldn't quite hear. Meeting my eyes, he opened his mouth to say something else, but then three syringes were pressed into his arms, the carriers having appeared when I wasn't paying attention. They squeezed the nozzle, pushing the orange liquid into his body. 

"No—" Sam shouted but he was silenced with a hard slap by the woman who was holding Bucky still.

The reaction was almost immediate. Bucky's eyes fluttered, his body sinking to the ground and his muscles losing their tension. His lips lost their shape; any evidence of him about to say something to me was lost. 

As he was carried away, I let a sob crash through my body, and I tipped my head down to touch my forehead to the ground. I wanted it all to go away, to let the grass calm me down so I could go back inside and see Bucky with his kind eyes, his signature smirk, welcoming me home. 

The hands holding me released my wrists, and although I could see myself getting up and killing every one of them so I could get Bucky back, I just lay there, shoulders shaking with grief. 

The gun was pushed into my temple one last time as the voice of the man who held it hissed, "Don't give us a reason to come back and take you, too." Then the cold metal was gone, and the only sounds were the crunch of the gravel underneath his boots, then the consecutive roaring of the engines of their vehicles when they rolled down the driveway, taking Bucky with them. 

"Elda," a soft voice roused me from the darkness in front of my eyelids. "Elda, get up." It was Sam.

"Get off of me," I growled, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees, carefully standing up. "Where are they taking him?"

Sam shrugged, clutching his ribs. "I don't know." He looked down at the ground and murmured, "It was too easy. We've evaded them before, and when they come here it's like we were teenagers in our first street fight." He sighed, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why didn't they take me?"

The tears dried on my cheeks as I looked out along the driveway, trying to turn back time and keep Bucky all to myself. "I don't know," I choked out and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. 

He leaned down and picked up the baseball bat that had rolled over to hit his foot in the final brawl. "Here," he said, handing it to me. "You were damn good, El."

Snatching it from him, I scoffed. "Not good enough."

"Elda..." Sam trailed off, looking out at the setting sun. "I know it all seems hopeless and everything, but—"

"Oh please," I rolled my eyes, "you don't have to treat me like a broken toy. This isn't the end, I'm not giving up, I—"

"Elda."

"What?"

"I have to go." His voice was low.

My mouth opened to shoot back at him, but then it closed. "What?" I finally stammered out.

"Steve was in contact with an old friend before he was taken in. She's going to come find you here, and you two will come and find me, and then you can—"

I shoved him backward. "I'm sorry, what? You're leaving me here?"

"Elda, I—"

A groan sounded from somewhere off to my right, and when I saw it was one of the fallen CIA agents that was coming to, I pointed my bat at him and spit, "Get the fuck out of here," venom dripping from the words. He quickly obliged, getting up and stumbling out in the direction of the road.

When I turned back to talk to Sam, he was already walking away. "It's the only way, Elda. I'm sorry," he called over his shoulder, then picked up the pace and ran to the woods. In a minute, I heard the sound of a car engine starting, the sound fading as he drove away. 

"Yeah, run away, Sam!" I screamed. "Just like the piece of shit you are, leaving your best friend to fend for herself, when you know, you know that I'm just as involved in this shit as you are!" My throat was hoarse as I yelled a final, "You can go fuck off!"

I struggled to breathe in, raking air into my lungs. The woods were silent, and it seemed that all the other CIA agents had been taken in when they left, no one left behind but that one unlucky bastard who'd gotten a few choice words from me. 

The yard was empty save for splattered blood on the ground, and—oh yeah, that guy Sam killed with the window was still slumped against the paneling on the porch. 

I curled in on myself, dropping the bat on the ground and feeling my shoulders shake with grief. They took Bucky, Sam ran off, and the only living people around me were the two people I'd learned to hate the most. There was no one. I was all alone. 

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jesus christ, this chapter is almost 2900 words, i'm a legend if i do say so myself. i'm so excited to be done with this story, it's my pride and joy!

vote and comment, what do you think is going to happen? only one more chapter left!

also, happy new year! here's to good books and a whole lot of writing!

published on: jan. 1, 2019