Chapter Twenty-Six
The curtain was falling, but I played on.
I made it only three flights down before puking. It came out of nowhere, and I doubled over on the stairs. The scent of what had been in my stomach filled the stairwell. Almost an improvement.
Concussion.
A deep breath. I pushed on.
The hell of it was that after puking, my head seemed to clear a little. It was still filled with thunderous pain with each step I took, and the blood was now trickling down my shoulders and into my shirt, but my vision was clearer, and my legs worked better.
I sprinted down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, pushing past the pain and anchoring myself to the texture of the gun in my hand, and using the handrail for guidance.
A sound from below. Rusty hinges, a door being pushed open.
I was
