Читать книгу The Prey - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 7

Blood drips from fingertips, splashing the floor. A mosaic of white hexagons, outlined in black, now splotched with red. Droplets, then a puddle, a pond, a lake.

Blood. Purpling. Coagulating before his eyes.

Darkness presses against the outer reaches of his periphery, narrowing his vision. The world grows dim.

He reaches out a hand against the blood-smeared wall. Fingers squealing on tiles. Tries to call for help but the words get strangled in his throat. He collapses to the floor.

Eyes land on a knife, its razor edge trimmed in red. Blood. His blood.

Darkness closing in. The world reduced to a pinprick. Fatigue washes over him like a summer storm.

My final moments, he realizes. All come down to this.

He does not hear the door swing open, the swift stomping of feet. The ripping of fabric. The improvised tourniquet. Being lifted and carried, swept out the door, leaving behind a world of black and white and red.