The last splicer falls, its face torn to ribbons, and Jack lowers his shotgun. Blood drips from his fingertips- from clutching his gun so tightly, from wrapping his hands around necks. Blood soaks his shoes, makes his shirt stick to his skin. Some of it is his; some of it isn't.
He turns, amidst a sea of corpses, and sees him, lying there, his eyes open, unblinking. Everything stops.
His feet pound forward, stumbling over bodies he doesn't see. His toes squish through blood, shoes through flesh. He hurts, but he doesn't notice.
He is lying there, eyes open, unblinking.
Jack falls to his knees, blistered skin hitting the tiles through frayed fabric. He can't feel it. His hands rise, his shotgun falls with a clatter. Raw fingers against the body's head, lifting it up.
Unblinking.
Tears scorch their way down Jack's face. He doesn't feel them.
Screams have a mind of their own. They tear out of his mouth, skinning his throat, but he can't stop. Everything has stopped. Everything but this.
His tears fall and hit the floor like thunder, his heart thudding. His hands fumble before reaching the shotgun again. It burns to touch, it burns to look. But on he looks.
The barrel rises, presses against the bottom of his chin. It burns, but he likes it there, exactly where it should be.
His fingers pull, flesh against metal.
A spray of red.
Unblinking, at last he can stop crying.