Oh, God, Bill,” Deanna cried and pressed her hands against the gunshot wound in his abdomen, eerily reminiscent of the nightmare she’d had that morning. She tried to stem the flow of blood, but it just kept on seeping from between her fingers. Staining them with what looked like black oil in the light from the lantern Miranda had brought over. “S’okay,” he said and raised his hand, feebly covering hers. Even in the dim light from the lantern, his face was a ghostly white, almost as if death had already claimed him. She bent over him, whispered a kiss across his lips. “You can’t leave me. Not now, damn it.” He patted her hand and tried to speak, but all that came out was a rough breath as he struggled for air. This wasn’t happening, she thought and rose up again, pressed tighter against the wound. But when Miranda lit up a few sconces along the walls of the space, Deanna noted the splotch of blood on the ground beneath him. Watched as it grew into a large pool as the seconds passed by.
