“I’m losing him! Pull over, dammit.”
Tires
squealed as the vehicle braked to a stop. Why were they so worried about
keeping him alive? Not that he didn’t want to live. He did. But he was no one
to these people. Just a random stranger bleeding out in some dude’s SUV, who
was going to shit kittens over it, apparently.
Mark giggled, and a sudden burst of liquid bubbled from his lips. Ugh. That tasted metallic-like
and gross. So why didn’t he feel whatever was trickling down his chin?
Where was his chin? He couldn’t feel it. Or his lips. Or much of anything else.
I’m
dying. I don’t what to fucking die, and not in the fucking back of some stupid
fucking SUV that some fucking asshole is going to have fucking kittens over because
I’m fucking bleeding all over it. They
were going
to harvest his organs for the black market, weren’t they? That had to be it and
made as sense as anything else.
