Chapter 53: Slice
3:38 A.M.
How could Coose be down, shot in his left side with blood pouring out of his wound? Carelessness, that’s how. His naked body lay on the living room floor, covered in his own dark red blood that smelled bittersweet. His pupils were wide and his mouth was ajar. For a second or two I believed he could help me get out of that ugly situation by blowing the two FBI agents away, surviving that monstrous moment with me, but he was useless, a product of his own actions, and so very weak, unlike myself.
Since Coose was down, I was prompted to use the only weapon I knew: my Swiss Army knife that had murdered dozens of young men on the eastern coast. Every Bill, Michael, and Teddy. Every Scott, David, and Mark. They had all tasted the pocket knife’s blade while battling
