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Tom gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, summoning all his strength to extract the glass shard embedded in his side. The duration of his unconsciousness remained uncertain, but the pounding ache behind his eyes indicated a likely concussion.
His vision swayed as he forced his eyes open, trying to ignore the disorienting world around him. He was in dire straits—no backup, a fallen teammate, and his side wound gushing blood like an open hydrant.
Struggling to regulate his erratic breathing, his lungs gasped for oxygen. Shock loomed, the blood loss conjuring dark spots in his fading vision.
"Aaaaaahhh…" he cried out when his trembling hand pressed against the wound, causing it to throb in sync with his rabbit-paced heartbeat. He feared he wouldn't survive this ordeal, a chilling thought that stung like a slap to his cold face, exposed to the biting wind that numbed his fingers.
His touch could no longer detect the torrent of blood streaming through his fingers, but his eyes bore witness. The crimson liquid cascaded from the vertical gash down his body, tracing a path to the ground. He groaned in agony, his thoughts involuntarily shifting to Kathy's ocean-blue eyes, forever imprinted on the back of his eyelids when her life had ceased.
Exhaustion washed over him. They had ventured out for supplies, driven by desperation. Their camp was starving, newcomers including a pregnant woman and her frail husband. Despite everyone's sacrifices, there was never enough to go around.
Kathy, haunted by the loss of her baby brother just days ago, couldn't bear to see another child's life snuffed out before it began. So they went against Charles' objections, raiding the supply storage. Tom had been foolishly optimistic, thinking they could both survive this mission. They couldn't. And now, Kathy was dead, their location possibly compromised, and the entire camp needed relocation.
His anger surged, directed at himself and the collar that restricted his actions. The guards had spotted them because of it and had shot Kathy. She had sacrificed herself to buy him time, urging him not to let her death be in vain.
Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away, only to discover his hand smeared with blood. He laughed bitterly, acknowledging the tragic irony. His mother had been right to cast him out as an abomination, too much and never enough, unworthy of salvation. He had bungled everything, as usual, and now, Kathy was gone. Soon, he would join her, another life extinguished in a mass grave of innocents.
Wiping away his tears, he saw his hand stained red, an outcome of the blood on his side. He coughed, surprised he hadn't noticed before. The world around him faded, voices echoing in the distance, his ears as heavy as cotton balls.
His stomach churned strangely, and he took a slow, deep breath, releasing it in a piercing scream. Desperate to move, his legs refused to respond, and the throbbing in his head escalated to a relentless pounding. His eyes drooped, shadows danced, and darkness fell like a curtain.
His breathing slowed, his side ached, but he couldn't decipher why. Sleep beckoned, but he had a daunting to-do list for tomorrow—a supply transfer for Charles. Yes, he must get some rest; there was much to accomplish.