He awoke to searing pain in his legs.
"Not dead yet," someone barked.
"Nearly," someone else said.
"Will be soon," a third voice added.
Not dead yet. Airthe registered the words. He was not dead yet.
His legs burned.
"He's lost too much already," someone said.
"Maybe he'll make it."
"Doubtful."
The church became dark. Airthe realized someone had extinguished a torch. His legs hurt in a peculiar way. The church swam in his vision. The smell of burned skin saturated the air.
"He's not dead," someone said.
"Nearly."
"Maybe not."
Airthe felt the cool metal of a gun beside him. It wasn't a gun he could use in defense: a small handgun. He drew it close. The motion went unnoticed.
Booted feet made sounds that echoed in the empty church.
Laughter echoed.
"He's not dead yet."
"It's just a matter of time."
"Are you sure he'll die?"
Airthe realized he did not want to die. He had no legs. The air smelled like burned flesh; his burned flesh. He did not want to die. The simple desire for life sprung from somewhere deep within. Airthe wanted life, even if he had no reason.
"Can we shoot him?"
"Just to be sure?"
"How much blood did he lose?"
Airthe held himself still. He tried to reason how much blood was in a human body. How much of that could he afford to lose? How much had he lost? The stickiness around him suddenly had meaning.
"He's breathing."
"He can't be breathing."
"No look, he is -"
The gun Nirax had left Airthe was warm in his hands.
"He's alive."
"Shoot him!"
Gunshots rang. No one screamed.
Then quiet reigned.
Airthe pushed himself upright and raised the gun to his mouth. The barrel burned his lips.
Alive.
There is no use for weapons beyond the ending of life; who wants to die? Who wants to die? Who wants... You there. Die.
No comments:
Post a Comment