18
I stare at his bloodied hands in a stupefied daze until I realize the blood is coming from his damaged knuckles.
Was he fighting for his life?
No. As I examine the door he’s standing next to, I note the bloody prints on it—prints that match Thomas’s knuckles.
He hurt his hands trying to enter this locked room.
I check the door that was torn off its hinges. Thomas’s blood is smeared across the back, and there are also boot prints. Thomas was likely locked inside this room and broke out, and now he’s trying to get into the other room.
I think I know what’s happening, but I want to be sure.
I make my way back to the battlefield, this time running as if a rabid tiger is chasing me.
I use a stick to pry the shotgun out of George’s arms; I don’t want to accidentally pull him into the
