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Steve stopped mid-step, jumping back as if someone had pushed him. A puzzled look formed on his face as a dissonant exclamation expelled quietly from his lips. It was barely discernible. He looked down, seeing a bullet hole in the center of his chest that was dripping blood. His expression morphed into alarming excruciation as he looked around desperately for his attacker. His vision blurred, and all he could see was the vague outlines of a sporadic cluster of people. He fell to his knees, his legs no longer supporting his weight. His eyesight got hazier by the second. The miasma began at his vision’s outer edges, gradually closing in on the center. The expeditiously intensifying pain overwhelmed him, infecting every fibre of his being. He slumped forward, slipping into unending blackness before his body hit the ground.
John and Michael sprinted back to the warehouse, a hail of hot metal assaulting them in a fiery rain of death. The shots nearly shredded them with perforations as Steve lifelessly slumped to the ground behind them. Michael grunted vehemently as a bullet grazed his right thigh. It cut through his pants. He felt the burning, stinging sensation of it dragging across his skin, shearing it and spurting blood. In spite of the invasive agony, he remained a half step behind John, ignoring his impulses. They closed the door together when they reached the warehouse. Running into the nearest room, they slumped against the wall opposite the main entrance.
As the criminals snapped into action, they had noticed Steve remaining still in their peripheral vision. They hadn’t seen him get shot, but they knew what happened.
“Fuck!” Michael exclaimed in fury and defeat, slamming the butt of his Ruger SR-762 on the floor. “They fucking killed Steve! How the fuck are we supposed to make it out of here?” He asked John almost rhetorically, without hope.
He had to yell to be heard over the din of gunfire. The walls around them splintered as they were pumped full of bullets.
“Shit! Fuck man, I don’t know,” John swore. “There are a ton of those motherfuckers out there, and we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah, I think if we go back out there, we’re signing our own death sentences,” Michael said with conviction.
He ripped a large piece of fabric off of his torn pants, wrapping it tightly around his leg to cover his wound.
“So let’s stay in here, and let them come to us,” suggested John. “Unless they wanna take the time to wait it out and let us starve to death, they’ll probably just send everyone in here to massacre us.”
“That’s true,” Michael agreed pensively. “Hopefully we can survive until our backup gets here.”
“Let’s go,” John suggested. “They stopped firing now. They should be coming any second.”
They jumped to their feet, quickly and efficiently searching the warehouse for the best vantage point.