REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

xxi.

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xxi. REST IN PEACE

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PARRISH GROANED OUT in pain.

He peered down and saw that a strange smoke-like substance was seeping out of his wounds. From what he deduced, the man with the bright glowing talons have given him a wound that quite literally burned through his body. He couldn't remember much about the incident—only being conscious long enough to feel the searing pain radiate through him before he blacked out. And now, even though he was awake, he felt extremely weak. As if the man was slowly sucking the life right out of him.

    Jordan, with his hands, was able to push himself against one of the metal cabinets. The deputy jacket and shirt was torn open; the pieces of sheered fabric fell around him tinged with blood. He clenched his teeth, breathing heavily as he ran his fingers across the slick blood pouring out of the wound onto his stomach. He forced himself to keep his eyes open—each breath sending a new wave of agony surging through his chest.

    Fiery spasms were sent out along his arms and down his spine. He could feel his lungs painfully inflating; fire coaxing his insides. The heat was so real it was hard to believe that he was actually feeling it. The heat grew—rose and peaked and rose again. There was hot and dry air in his lungs, scraping in rough bubbles up and down his throat. He wanted to raise his arms and claw his chest open and release the horribly dry air in his lungs—anything to get rid of the pain in his chest.

    Jordan shook his head, pushing the pain away. He had to stay awake. He needed to stay awake. He needed to find and warn Scott before the man with the talons found him first. He wasn't entirely sure why the man was in such a desperate search for Scott, but whatever it was, it certainly couldn't have been good.

    Wincing, Jordan finally mustered up enough strength to reach for his radio. "Dispatch. Office—" he cut himself short; crying out in pain as the heat in his chest spread, "—Officer down."

    In any normal situation, he would have heard the response of another deputy's voice—saying that the paramedics were on their way. But instead, all he heard was this strange whirring static. As if the radio had gone down or if someone was blocking out the signal. And if Jordan hadn't been aware of the abnormalities in this world—it might have shocked him.

    Jordan found himself suddenly going over everything in his head as the simple task of breathing become increasingly harder. Mistake by mistake. Frame by frame. He should've been more cautious. It's late now. He'd sat there for almost an hour, probably, but who knows?

    Scott.

    Scott McCall.

    Jordan, you need to focus on Scott.

    He nodded to himself, gathering his thoughts. He needed to keep himself in check—keep himself from straying off course. But as his mind become clearer, his body was growing weaker. The burning in his chest seemed to move throughout his entire body, but it no longer caused any pain, it almost felt as though he were growing immune to the pain. And before he even had tome to dwell on the thought, a new wave of agony engulfed his entire body once again, his head throbbed with the pounding of his heart as black spots began to obscure his vision. The warm wetness continued to pour down his abdomen. He could feel it soaking the waistband of his pants, hear it dripping on the concrete below.

    The smell of it suddenly twisting his stomach.

    His vision was blurred, but he was acutely aware of what was going on around him. With his body sitting in the rubble, he managed to look up. His eyes were clouded over and his body felt like fire again; the heat gravitating toward the spot on his body that held the most pain. But as he sheepishly glanced around, his eyes locked on one thing in particular.