Hatchetfield.

a little to the left

He's aiming the shotgun for only a second, the barrel cold against his chin, fingers twitching their way towards the trigger, before Paul lunges for it. They grapple together for a moment, desperation increasing with each passing second, until Bill feels the metal slip out of his hands.

"No," Paul shouts, and it echoes in the silent hallway. He spares the shotgun a glance, then throws it to the ground. "No, no, no."

It crashes on the tiles, skittering across the floor past the girls and into the corner of the hallway. Alice gives it a curious look, and distantly Bill feels his stomach start to churn.

"Bill," Paul says, stepping in front of him. (Blocking his view of Alice.) His hands grip Bill's arms tightly, the only thing keeping him upright. "Look at me. You're my best friend." His voice trembles, slightly.

Bill meets his eyes. They're wide, scared. Behind him, he can see the girls, see Alice. All of them moving as one, circling around behind Paul. He's lost sight of the shotgun.

"I'm not gonna let you die," Paul says, and for a moment Bill almost believes him, and -

The gun goes off. Paul's fingers tighten on Bill's arms, cutting off circulation. For a moment, Bill can't breathe, and he looks down, searching himself for any sign of a wound, a bullet in his lungs. But there's nothing, he's fine, but the gun went off and -

Paul coughs, loud and violent. Blood spatters over Bill's shirt, drips past his lips. His eyes are still wide, but the fear is gone, replaced with dull surprise. "Oh," he manages, his voice a ragged whisper. "Oh, god."

And Bill can't, won't, refuses to process this. "Paul - ?"

Paul staggers, crumples forward, and Bill goes down under his weight. His back hits the tile floor at an unforgiving angle, made worse by Paul's dead weight pinning him to the ground. His friend is half sprawled on top of him, still holding onto Bill's sleeves, but his fingers are looser. The back of his shirt is ripped, and the red stain seeping through the white fabric is small, but unmistakable.

"Paul," he says, shouts, scrambling to sit up. His ears are starting to ring, from the shot or the shock or both. Paul slides off of him, but only partly; his legs are still weighing down Bill's. He's still stirring, still wheezing against the tile floor, but - not for long, Bill knows. A broken hourglass, losing seconds with each drop of blood from the shot in his back.

Holy shit, there's a bullet in his back.

Bill grabs Paul's shoulders, then freezes. He doesn't know what to do - roll him on his side? Sit him up? Fireman carry him out the window? Gunshots were never a topic in the yearly office first aid seminar.

(This year, he remembers, he and Paul spent the entire time making faces at each other across the room. Because who would need to know CPR or the Heimlich, when the hospital was right downtown and nothing interesting ever happened at the office anyway?)

(Maybe Melissa had covered gunshot wounds. Bill sure as hell wouldn't know. Not that he could do anything about it now.)

While Bill hesitates, Paul hacks another glob of blood onto the floor. "...Shit," he breathes. "Bill, just - forget me, okay, you gotta get out of here."

"I'm not gonna leave you to die!" He hefts Paul upwards, wrapping his arms around him in what might pass as a hug in other circumstances. But Paul's not trying to escape the physical touch like normal; instead, his head pitches forward to knock against Bill's shoulder. His hands are already slick with blood. Bill feels like throwing up.

"He's already dead," drone the girls, and Bill jerks his head up. Alice is staring at him, eyes narrowed, shotgun raised. Her devilish smile is mirrored by Deb and Grace.

"No," Bill whispers, because that's all he can say.

"You have defied us - "

"Twice," Alice says.

"Thrice," Deb and Grace chorus.

There's a pause. The only sound Bill can hear is his own ragged breathing.

They try again. He's pretty sure Grace says "once", this time around.

"Seriously?" the three of them demand, glaring at each other. "Counting is not that hard!"

"Alice," Bill tries. His voice is too quiet, too shaky. Paul's blood is staining his shirt, his hands. "Alice, please, I - I know you're in there..." He shifts, holding Paul tighter, trying to stand.

Alice cocks the gun again and shoots. Before Bill can even flinch, the wall behind him explodes, showering him in cheap drywall. He hits the ground again, and his back is screaming bloody murder and Paul is wheezing in pain and -

He's going to die here. They're both going to die here.

And maybe he already knew that. But with the gunshot ringing in his ears as his daughter glowers down at him, it feels much more certain.

"This human weapon is useless," the girls say, tossing the shotgun to the side. "Too quick a death for you."

"Alice, please," he begs. She's not looking at him. "Listen to me, okay, I know you can hear me - "

"Bill," Paul spits out, struggling to push himself upward. Blood hits Bill's tie, red and thick and terrifying. "You gotta... fuckin' run." His voice is choked, heavy.

"Not without Alice," Bill breathes, watching as the girls move closer. He can't stand up - not without hurting Paul, not without letting yet another person die.

You just want Grace Chastity to be your daughter!

Oh, Bill, you're a riot.

You're my best friend.

"Your daughter is dead," the girls say. They're smiling, now, striding closer. Moving to some unheard rhythm, some song that Bill isn't a part of. "Your apotheosis is inevitable. You will give up control, and become one with us."

And for a moment, Bill wants it. More than anything.

Because what's his life worth, without his friends? Without his daughter? Stuck in the panic room forever, with nothing but cheap beer and shotguns to distract himself from Alice and her empty gaze, from Charlotte and her gory insides, from Paul and his bloody sacrifice? Trading insults with Ted and Emma and the professor, wasting into nothing while hell rages around them?

Surely, he thinks, almost hysterically, surely a fucking musical would be better than that.

"Run." Paul's voice is faint, the word barely audible as his eyes flutter shut. The back of his shirt is a dark, dark red. Bill can't tell if he's breathing anymore.

The girls close in, with raising fists and murder in their eyes. Paul is still, deathly still in his arms. And between the furious blue glow of her eyes, the stiff march of her movements, he can still see his daughter smiling at him.

Bill takes one last second to burn that sight of Alice in his mind, and then he shuts his eyes.

Yeah, he decides. A musical sounds nice.