Damage Done

bellum

8.0
war

"Zaire," he rasped, coughing as the blood caught in his throat, sending red droplets flying, "Zaire."

Gravel crunched beneath heavy black boots as the footsteps approached him. Rocks with razor blade edges poked into his cheek as he lay motionless, eyes fixed on the blood-splattered soles of the wearer's boots. There was silence, and then the sound of a gun being cocked as the demon drew in ragged breaths, pointing the gun at his head.

Santiago felt as if his body had been dipped in liquid fire and now every inch of his flesh, his bones and his blood were crying out to him. Pleading him to lie still and let the bullet come, let it take the pain away. And he desperately wanted to. Take the easy route out and never have to feel, never have to hurt again. But it wasn't his time yet. The war wasn't over.

The trigger pulled and Santiago rolled, blood dripping down his chin and the adrenaline pumping through his veins making the metal cylinder in his arm no more painful than a scratch. The demon took a step back, surprise flitting behind his eyes. And that one second, that infinitesimally small fraction of a second was all Santiago needed.

He dove, his body colliding with the demon's and they hit the ground hard, tiny slivers of glass opening new wounds on Santiago's body. The demon flailed desperately and another shot fired, opening a hole somewhere in the ceiling. Elbows and knees drove deep into him but Santiago had the bastard pinned. He drew his arm back, fingers curling into a fist and let the punches fall, one after another. The sickening crack of bone splintering and the pained sobs from below didn't stop him. He let the blood rain until finally, one last hit sent the demon into a state of unconsciousness.

Breaths scraping up and down his raw throat, Santiago fumbled for the gun, prying it free from the demon's tight grasp. He pressed the silver-lined barrel against it's head, whispered a silent prayer, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered his face as the demon exhaled it's last breath, disappearing back to whatever hell it came from. Grunting, Santiago rolled back onto the floor, his breaths coming in pants as he tried to steady his heart rate.

"Christ," a hoarse voice spoke from the doorway, "looks like someone drank their violence juice this morning."

Santiago looked up to see Zaire leaning against the door frame, looking half dead on his feet. There was a hole in his leg that he was weakly holding, trying to staunch the flow of blood that just kept coming. From the way he was swaying on his feet, Santiago knew he needed immediate medical attention, lest he die of blood loss. Santiago almost didn't want to get up. But he dragged himself to his feet, tearing off a strip of his tee-shirt. His medical knowledge was limited to tying up tee-shirt strips and applying pressure to stop the bleeding, but Zaire's situation seemed a little past what Santiago could provide. He was sure that it was better than nothing though, and quickly tied a knot above the wound, pulling it as tightly as he could.

"Come on buddy, don't die on me now." he muttered, looping Zaire's arm around his shoulders and gripping his waist to hold him upright.

Bodies littered the hallways and bones crunched as they ran overtop of fingers, the hands they were connected to, and everything else in-between. Every time Zaire stumbled, Santiago thought: this is it. This is where we go down. But his friend always managed to drag himself back onto his feet and they continued on.

Somehow, they managed to make their way out of the building, leaving them only a block away from safety. Zaire was already slowing, his feet dragging on the gravel pavement as Santiago pulled him along, refusing to let either one of them slow for even a second.